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Damian leaned into a sharp, ninety-degree bow, just as Mother had taught him to.
“Greetings, Father. I am Damian al Ghul, son of Talia al Ghul, heir to the League of Assassins, and blood descendant of the Wayne family. I have come to take my place beside you and grow worthy of my title as Ibn al Xu'ffasch, Son of the Bat. I shall not disappoint you.”
He straightened up and leveled Father – Bruce Wayne, The Batman – with a blank look. He would not jeopardize this opportunity with any show of weakness. The man in question returned his gaze with a silent, scrutinizing stare, his only emotional tell being the slight furrow between his brows. Silence hung heavily on the manor’s doorstep, and Damian resolutely ignored the uncertainty creeping below his skin the longer it stretched on.
“Well, I can’t say I was expecting that!” The quiet was shattered by an incessant, chirping voice from over Father’s shoulder, and a tall, black-haired man popped into view. A brilliant grin lit up his face as Damian’s eyes flickered over to him. “Oh my god, B, he looks just like you! Damian, right? Can I call you Dami? Welcome to the family, little dude!”
Ugh. Richard “Dick” Grayson – the first Robin. Current moniker: Nightwing, operating out of Bludhaven. Orphaned in a circus accident and adopted by Father as a youth. Day job in law enforcement. Acrobatics-centric fighting style. High threat level.
“Don’t worry, Dami, I’m sure you’ll fit right in! My name’s–”
“I know who you are, Grayson,” Damian spat with a scowl. “And do not dare attempt to bestow upon me such insufferable diminutives. I am neither little nor a ‘dude’, and I shall consider any further disrespect an attack on my character and respond in kind.”
Damian touched his hip blade, leveling Dick with a steely glare. His scowl deepened as the subject of his ire exchanged a sidelong glance with Father, conversing in weighted silence. Already attempting to sabotage Damian’s position as Father’s rightful heir, no doubt. No matter. Damian would prove himself invaluable in due time and remove this interloper from his path.
At last, Father cast his gaze back towards Damian, piercing blue eyes pinched with something unreadable. After a stilted moment of hesitation, he turned to the side, gesturing towards the inside of the manor. He spoke with a rumbling, deep timbre.
“Why don’t we take this discussion to the dinner table? You can meet the rest of the family and share a bit about your…endeavors thus far.”
An excellent idea, as expected of Father. And Damian must have made a worthy impression to be accepted into the fold of the family so swiftly. Now, he simply had to prove himself more competent than Father’s false progeny and seize the mantle of Robin for himself.
Damian strode forward into the homestead, a satisfied pride etched into his posture. Yes, Mother would be pleased. Damian had everything marvelously under control.
---
Two days later, Damian was sulking atop a chandelier in one of the ballrooms, lamenting the shattered pieces of his plan as he furiously sharpened an already-whetted dagger.
The dinner had been disastrous. Every recollection of his many achievements and successful exterminations in the League of Assassins had been met with either tense silence, poorly concealed fury, or pity, rather than praise. Grayson in particular was insufferable with his waterworks, and did not cease his use of that egregious nickname no matter the threat issued.
Father had stopped speaking entirely after cracking a wine glass in response to a tale regarding Damian’s most difficult and momentous mark. He was clearly dissatisfied with the results of Damian’s training – something that would need to be corrected immediately.
Even worse was meeting Timothy Drake: the current Robin. He had held himself with an irritable air of knowingness the whole night, peeling apart Damian’s every demeanor with calculated eyes; It was like being in Grandfather’s presence all over again. It made him feel small. Damian hated it. He even had the audacity to laugh when Damian announced his intentions to seize the Robin mantle. His challenge – blatantly mocked! The miscreant was lucky Damian chose to respect Father’s communal dining time instead of disposing of him posthaste.
But the worst of it all was Damian’s failure to grasp the new rules of this abode. Things made sense back in Nanda Parbat. There was hierarchy, order, respect, work. Here, the rules seemed to be a jumbled mess of intuition and whim, and actions that were perfectly acceptable in the League were ill-received, while actions that would have earned Damian brutal punishment in the League were easily condoned. Even the simplest activities and gestures had Damian second-guessing himself, and being on edge at all times was beginning to fray at his nerves.
For one, he could not comprehend the level of disrespect afforded to Father by his adopted spawn. Nicknames, open teasing, clinging physical contact, and such casual address – if Damian had ever engaged in the same practice with Mother or, God forbid, Grandfather, he would have been flayed. And deserved it.
And Damian had never felt so jarringly out of place while dining. Everyone had given him sidelong glances as he ate. Drake had openly stared. The seasoned rice and vegetable dish – perfectly typical to eat by hand – left Damian feeling like a circus act, and he quickly mimicked the others’ use of cutlery. And when Grayson did use his hand to grab a roll, he used his left hand. The unclean one. Damian had nearly ripped into him about being a disrespectful, unhygienic mongrel until Father did the same thing just moments later. Damian held his tongue.
His musings were interrupted by a vexing, sing-song voice from the halls.
“Damiaaaan, where are yoooou?” Grayson’s head popped through the doorway of the ballroom and immediately clocked Damian’s position on the chandelier. Curse the vigilante’s trained perception. “Dami! There you are! I should probably tell you off about the chandelier business, but I did the same things when I was young. Do you need any help getting down?”
“Tt. Cease your chattering, Grayson. I am perfectly capable of returning to the ground,” Damian replied with a scowl. To demonstrate his point, Damian swung down the arm of the chandelier and let go, flipping twice for flourish before landing neatly on the floor.
Drake apparated in the doorway like a scourge. “It’s kind of wild to see an eight-year-old do that. That was normal for you, Dick?” Ugh. Damian should have stayed on the chandelier.
“I am nine years of age. Remove yourself from my presence, Drake.”
“Uh, what did I do to piss you off so bad? You’ve been staring literal daggers at me since dinner the other night, and the hate is kind of unwarranted, in my opinion,” Drake scoffed. “Also, the last name thing is kind of wack. You can call me Tim, y’know.”
“I need not justify myself to you, cretin,” Damian sniffed, turning his nose up at the boy.
“Okay, dude. What the fuck is your problem–”
“Anyways!” Grayson interjected with a clap. “Dami! We were wondering if you wanted to come explore the city with us? Maybe get some ice cream? I promise it’ll be fun! You’ve been cooped up in the manor since you got here which must be getting boring no matter how big the place is. Whaddya think?” He beamed at Damian, eyes beseechingly hopeful.
He was commendably persistent. The past two days had been fraught with Grayson’s attempts at roping Damian into “brotherly bonding” activities, no matter the number of rejections thrown his way; Damian had no interest in fraternizing with his rivals. He was just about to declare as such when he noticed Drake’s reluctant slouch and pinched expression. Hm. An unwilling hostage to Grayson’s bonding obsession, no doubt. It was about time Damian scouted out the city he would soon be operating in alongside Father. If he could ruin the interloper’s day while he was at it, then that was simply a favorable consequence of his necessary preparations.
“Very well. I shall accompany you on your outing.”
Grayson blinked once, twice, before letting out an eager gasp. “Really? Yes! I knew you’d open up eventually, little D! Family-bonding time, let’s go guys!”
Damian relished Drake’s sigh of defeat.
---
It was ridiculously easy to slip away from the others once they were in the city. Damian trailed behind Grayson as the man prattled on about Gotham’s best sights before side-stepping into a passing alleyway. Silently, he swung up onto a fire escape, moving up a floor before crouching in the shadows of the building, near invisible in the League robes and cloak he had refused to part with. Grayson’s voice began to fade off as he and Drake walked further away.
“– And sure, Gotham’s not the safest place to live, but it sort of grows on you, y’know? Like a fungus. Or mold. I say that affectionately. Look, things don’t get too crazy if you stick to the main streets during the day, so just don’t wander off, okay, Dami? Damian? Oh, shit.”
A pause. “We parked five minutes ago and already lost him. B is going to kill us.”
“Uh, more like kill you, Mr. Responsible Adult. And I, for one, am not surprised in the slightest.”
“Stop smiling, Timmy, this is not funny–!”
Their bickering trailed off into nothingness as Damian scaled up the building and roof-hopped deeper into the city.
Damian didn’t know what he was expecting out of Gotham, but it wasn’t what the next few hours had to offer. He stuck to the rooftops, peering down alleys and streets as he mentally mapped out the city and some of its more prominent landmarks. There seemed to be an altercation happening around each bend despite the daylight: drug deals, fistfights, thefts. Dirty needles littered every inch of spare ground, and the air was thick with the unpleasant odor of sewage – vaporized sludge so visceral he almost gagged on it. And the noise. Gotham screamed its struggling vivaciousness directly into Damian’s ear canals as if offended by the mere prospect of tranquility. What with the wailing sirens, screeching traffic and jackhammers, and the consistent punctuation of gunshots ringing through the air, he was beginning to suspect the city had never known peace.
Damian slipped down into an alley and slumped against a wall, a dull ache pulsing beneath his temple. He looked up at the darkening sky – grayed and empty of stars, the little lights smothered by a blanket of smog – and thought of the nights in Nanda Parbat. The skies were never dark in the desert. Each evening, the cosmos would spill out in dazzling brushstrokes, painting a black canvas in swathes of deep violet and cobalt blue, speckled with millions of bright flecks that shone just as bright as the pale white of the moon. Damian used to lie beneath it and just watch, for hours on end when his dreams were stained crimson, tracing constellations and galaxies and basking in the odd comfort of being a pinprick in the universe. It was beautiful and alive and mystical compared to this husk of a dead sky.
A sudden longing tightened in his chest, and he wished he was back home. Home, where the rules made sense and he knew his duties. Where every new turn wasn’t foreign, and the buildings weren’t a sprawling maze, and the air was fresh and clear, and he could hear his own thoughts instead of all these blaring noises, and there weren’t so many people that they merged into an amorphous, rippling mass along each road. Where the clothes weren’t weird and the weather wasn’t so dreary and foggy and damp.
Damian scrubbed his eyes furiously, a grimace twisting his lips.
What right did he have to fight alongside Father when he couldn’t even handle existing in a new location for a mere few days? Pathetic. Even Drake would prove more competent than him at this rate. And Damian would not be disposed of before his training even began–.
He tensed as a set of heavy footsteps tromped closer, crushing his turmoil into a little ball to handle later. Damian rose to his feet, turning and pinning the stranger with a searing glare.
“Hey, kid!” The older man barked, an arrogant sneer twisting his visage. “Yer lookin’ mighty young tah be out this late. Where’s your mommy and daddy at?”
Damian scoffed, crossing his arms. “Your impertinence astounds me. I am perfectly of age to do as I please, and I have no interest in discussing the matter with a crude vagrant.”
The man’s countenance darkened. “Whatever, brat. Cough up whatchya got an’ I’ll let ya off alive. An’ don’t go tryna shortchange me, ‘cause I can see that pretty blade on yer back. Don’t matter if it’s a prop ‘cause someone’ll buy a fake that nice.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed as the man pulled out a knife, strolling closer.
“Do you often spend your days preying upon youths in the back alleyways to acquire wealth? Such behavior is pathetic. Typical of a weakling.” Damian slid his hand to the back of his belt, resting it over the hilt of a sizeable dagger.
The man’s lip ticked into a snarl. “Shut yer trap,” he leered. “Or I might just snatch ya up and toss ya to the auctioneers. Kid like you’d go for a pretty penny on the market.” He paused, a crooked smirk crawling onto his face. “Now, ain’t that an idea? Shoulda stayed inside, kid.”
And then there was a hand stretching towards his face, and Damian moved. In a blitz of cold fury, he ducked forward, drawing his blade and slamming the pommel up into his opponent’s jaw. The man shouted a curse, stumbling back as he swiped at the air blindly with his knife. Damian easily sidestepped it, smashing his boot heel into the side of the other man’s knee and sending him crumbling to the ground with a strangled whimper. He kicked the man in the head for good measure before brandishing his own blade above him.
Scum like this was a waste of air, particularly one willing to target those deemed children – it would be a grave disservice to the city to allow such vermin to carry on breathing. Regardless, the man had already forfeited his life when he drew a blade against Damian. An eye for an eye; blood for blood. He swung his dagger down at the man’s throat to finish the job.
A heavy mass slammed against his back as a steely grip wrapped around his wrist, halting his movement. Another appendage swiftly constrained his free arm and pinned him against his assailant’s front. Damian thrashed against the grapple, slamming his head back into what felt like a wall of steel as he attempted to break free from the limbs shackling him. How had they snuck up on him? A run-of-the-mill thug could never disguise their presence well enough to –
“Damian.”
He froze at the sound of Father’s gravelly voice, tone laced with a stinging edge of disapproval. The grapple released, and Damian spun around to see Father outfitted in full Batman regalia, towering over him with an etched frown. Grayson must have alerted him when Damian disappeared – an outcome not unanticipated – but why did he seem so upset?
“Father.” Damian hesitated, considering the facts. “I apologize for leaving your purview without informing you of my plans.”
“Damian. You were about to kill that man.” That was the problem? Damian frowned.
“Yes. He attempted to take my belongings while wielding a weapon. He also claimed connection to the trade of human trafficking. I thought it best to remove such a stain from existence immediately, as he would only continue to contribute to the cesspool of rot infecting this city if I left him be.”
Father’s mouth twitched down. “No, Damian. Neither you nor I have the right to play judge, jury, and executioner. Every man deserves a fair trial here, and every life has value. We do not kill.”
“But Father, his life is worthless! He is so willing to commit such atrocities on a whim – why bother risking–?”
“No, Damian.”
Irritation slithered under his skin. “But Father, he challenged me with a weapon! It is only fair that an attempt on my life be returned in kind, else–”
“No, Damian.”
Damian gritted his teeth. “Father, why are you defending such scum? Is it not your mission to protect Gotham and its inhabitants? Surely it would be much more effective to permanently remove the decay so that–”
“Damian, NO!” Damian flinched back at the raised tone. Father scrutinized him, expression pinched with frustration. He spoke firmly. “I don’t know the full extent of your indoctrination with the League, but things are different here. There are rules. At the very least, I need you to make an effort to understand them.”
The bitterness from earlier rushed back, sour and viscous on his tongue as he glowered. “Understand them?” Damian spat out. “I have done nothing but attempt that since the moment I arrived! I cannot comprehend how to even begin navigating the convoluted web of expectations and regulations set in place here!”
The words were bubbling over now, every single moment of confusion and loss from the past few days slamming back into him with vengeance. His face burned. “Everything about this place is backwards! I cannot eat correctly, I cannot dress correctly, I cannot grasp the customs of interaction! There is no respect, and no order within the family. How things function is beyond me, and yet they carry on unfaltering, so it seems I am the only fool unable to piece the picture together!” Damian’s voice had grown to a shout, heat stinging the corners of his eyes as everything he’d kept squashed in his chest tumbled out, unbidden.
“This city is a maze, and there are no stars, and it is loud and terrible and rotten and I despise it all! And now you claim that killing is beneath us? I am an assassin. I have killed tens already, and I do not want every life to have value because that means that Mother was lying and my hands will never be clean enough to prove to you that I am worthy of being your son!”
Damian heaved a breath, silence ringing through the alley in the aftermath of his outburst. Warmth trickled down his face, and he turned away from Father’s shell-shocked face to hide the evidence in his sleeve, shame flaring up in his cheeks at the display of weakness. A rustle of clothing had him cringing away even further.
“Damian.” Damian stared at the ground. “Damian, please look at me.” There was something gentle in his tone that tugged at Damian’s gut. He glanced up reluctantly and almost startled. Father was crouched right in front of him, cowl off and bright blue eyes staring directly into his own. His gaze was pensive and weighted.
“I’m sorry.”
Damian eyed him with bafflement. What could he possibly have to apologize for? Damian was the one who lost control of his emotions and spoke with such horrible discourtesy. Who shouted in Father’s face. His confusion must have bled through, as Father gave him a soft smile and began to clarify.
“I hadn’t realized just how big of a shock this would all be for you. So far from home and having grown up with a completely different lifestyle – of course it would be hard to adapt. And at such a young age as well. I’m sorry I haven’t been there to help you adjust, and that I didn’t notice you were struggling. It must have been quite scary, coming here all alone.”
Damian sniffled. “I am above fear.”
A chuckle rumbled out in response. “You don’t need to be. It’s a perfectly natural emotion to feel. I’m afraid every night that Dick and Tim are on patrol, because nothing’s scarier than the risk of losing them forever. And I want you to know that I value you just the same.”
“How can you value me as much as Grayson and Drake when I have yet to surpass them?” Damian mumbled, turning over the concept in his mind to try and make sense of it.
“You’re family. That type of love is unconditional – there’s no need to compete with your brothers for it. And they’ll love you just as much as I do too, if you’ll let them.”
Father reached out slowly, telegraphing his movements. A hand settled on his head, delicately ruffling through his hair. It felt nice. “You don’t have to earn your way to affection, son. I’m sorry I made you think otherwise.”
Something warm and tingly kindled in the pit of Damian’s chest, and he ducked his head to hide a small smile.
Maybe things would be okay after all.