"How was your walk, Master Damian?" Alfred asked me in the morning.
We were sitting at breakfast. It was 9:00 AM; Father had returned literally a few minutes ago and immediately crashed.
"Productive, though there was an unpleasant moment—some muggers or maniacs attacked," I grumbled.
"Unfortunately, the city does indeed have plenty of such elements," the butler nodded. "Will you be hanging over the abyss again today?"
"Mhm," I mumbled, working my jaw.
Soon, the meal was over, and we each went about our business. As Alfred suggested, I took to hanging over the abyss. I stayed there until Father woke up, then had a meal in the family circle. I had just sat down at the computer in the Batcave when a new player entered the scene.
A black-haired nineteen-year-old guy in casual clothes appeared in the alcove carved out for the computer and, predictably, noticed me.
"And who are you? The new Robin?" the guy asked good-naturedly.
I spun around to face him, back to the desk, put on a serious face, and slowly looked him over from head to toe. Remarkably, it was hard to recognize him as Nightwing. Even knowing where to look—the lower half of the face—the images didn't quite align. Does he use makeup to alter his features, or how does that even work? Or was this Zatanna's handiwork?
Under my judging gaze—completely modeled after my grandfather's—the guy actually straightened up and squared his shoulders, a clearly practiced reaction to being scrutinized. Bats must have looked at him like that often.
"Computer, unauthorized personnel in the cave; initiate self-destruct protocol," I stated calmly.
The guy's face dropped in shock, but the joke was ruined by the voice of the AI—a very limited AI, I should add.
"Self-destruct request denied; access codes were not provided," the machine replied emotionlessly.
"What the hell are you doing?" Nightwing exclaimed indignantly. "What self-destruct? And why does this computer even have a directive like that?"
"Because Batman," I offered as an ironclad argument.
"Fair point," the black-haired youth agreed instantly, without a doubt. "So, who are you? I'm Dick Grayson, Batman's former apprentice."
I climbed down from the chair, made an even more serious face, squared my shoulders, and stepped almost flush against Dick. With a note of triumph, I introduced myself.
"My name is Damian, son of Talia, grandson of Ra's al Ghul, heir to the League of Shadows..."
The guy turned serious in an instant. All the cheer vanished from his eyes; his body tensed, and in the next heartbeat, I had to arch my back, drop into a bridge, and spring away from the lunging youth.
"How did you get in here?" the guy frowned, stepping into a boxing stance and closing the distance.
"Are you insane?" I growled. "Why are you leading with your fists instead of your head again?"
"I'll catch you, show you to Batman, and let him decide what to do with you."
I could feel my ego take a painful jab. Like a finger under the ribs—annoying, stinging, irritating. Naturally, it began to rage, wanting to burst out and tear the opponent to pieces. Basically, his patronizing tone and lack of respect pissed me off. Thinks I'm just a kid, does he? Well then, I need to show him where he's wrong and why.
Infusing my body with chakra, I lunged forward, swaying left then right like a pendulum to dodge a classic 1-2 to the head. In one fluid motion, I slipped under a kick and ended up at his side. A chakra-enhanced fist slammed into his conditioned torso and, despite his muscles, pierced his defense. Another strike to the stomach, one to the kidney, followed by a low-kick to Dick's right leg. My strike was nothing like that of a twelve-year-old. The guy doubled over from the gut shot, and his thigh instantly went numb, forcing him down onto his right knee.
Yesterday, he was in armor that protected him perfectly from my hits; today, "naked," he immediately faltered against my superior speed and overpowered strikes. My dad could read my movements and suppress me with pure mastery; Dick lacked that experience—and he certainly hadn't expected this kind of strength from me.
"Kha..." Dick spat and performed an awkward roll to reset the distance. "Damn."
"Never underestimate an opponent, Dick, no matter how much like a child they look."
"Do you have kettlebells for fists?"
"In a sense. Are you calm now? Use your head; you'll stay in one piece longer."
The guy didn't listen. He lunged again and nearly caught me with a feint, but his fist, which was about to meet my forehead, was caught in Bruce's palm. He had appeared almost invisibly; I only sensed him at the very last second, but Dick hadn't sensed him at all.
"Calm down, Dick," Father said calmly, even kindly.
"Bruce," Dick immediately relaxed, nodding in greeting and pulling himself together. "Is he really Ra's al Ghul's grandson?"
"Yes, and my son," Bruce nodded.
"Your son? What? By Talia? How does that even...?" Questions poured out of the bewildered youth.
"Easy now," Father placed a hand on his apprentice's shoulder and explained how I came to be—both in the world and in Gotham.
"So that was him yesterday? On the roof?" Dick Grayson asked.
"Yes, and if you used your head more often, we wouldn't have had to fight," I hurried to interject.
"I have a very strained relationship with the League of Shadows. Ra's al Ghul has too much blood on his hands."
"Yeah, Grandfather is quite the bastard," I nodded, leaving no room for doubt.
"Fine, sorry. Maybe I overreacted a bit," Dick raised his hands in surrender.
I pointedly looked at my hands with admiration, turning them this way and that, and declared even more enthusiastically:
"Behold the life-giving power of my hands! They cure stupidity! That means I need to hit as many people as possible so there won't be any idiots left! This is it—my Metagene!" I raised my hands to the cave ceiling.
Dick stared at me like I was an idiot. Catching myself, I looked thoughtfully at my fist. I mean, what if? I've never hit myself; maybe that's why I haven't leveled up to a god at 12 yet.
"Is he always like this?" Dick whispered quietly.
"At times," Bruce replied tersely.
"Alright, since yesterday is settled, I'll go help Alfred," Dick said and left. He didn't want to spend time with me; probably took offense.
"I thought you weren't eager to go running on rooftops?" Father asked me.
"I'm still not," I shrugged. "But I found League of Shadows traitors in Gotham. I checked in on one yesterday and planted a bug so he'd lead me to the others."
"You think they're connected?"
"They should be connected to Deathstroke. My main goal is to find him."
"You want revenge? You said he didn't concern you."
"I wasn't particularly moved by Grandfather's death," I clarified. "But for the fact that this one-eyed Terminator so brazenly invaded my home... he will pay."
"No killing," Father said firmly.
"There are things far worse."
Bruce bored into me with his gaze for a second.
"...I do not approve of your dedication to vengeance."
"It's not vengeance; it's the League of Shadows' response," I replied. "If Deathstroke isn't punished now, every bottom-feeder will think they can just drop by Nanda Parbat for tea."
"Hmm." Bruce decided not to pursue the conversation and went back to his workbench.
Yeah, he has another room in the cave hidden behind the Batwing platform. A full-fledged workshop with a ton of equipment. A lathe, 3D printer—the works. You could start your own nut-and-bolt production there. Only thing missing is a forge for the full set.
Near evening, when the sun was dipping toward the horizon, I was staring at the computer monitor. Ubu hadn't left his penthouse all day, and there were no signs he'd be leaving tonight. Most disappointing was the data from his phone; the Batcomputer had cracked all the passwords, but there was nothing regarding Deathstroke. Just info on a certain Dr. Langstrom and mentions of the Gotham Coliseum, which had been abandoned for four years. There was also contact with another traitor, whose address I still needed to check.
The information was sparse. Even after an internet search for Dr. Langstrom, it was impossible to tell what he specialized in. The data was thin and didn't make much sense to me, so when the clock struck midnight, I dressed in my League of Shadows gear and, after warning Alfred about my "walk," left the mansion.
A minute later, the communicator in my ear crackled with a grim, raspy baritone.
"Damian, have you left the mansion?"
"Yeah, was I not supposed to?"
"..." A second of silence. I could practically see a white chibi with a halo and a red chibi with horns and a tail appearing on Batman's shoulders, arguing briefly about whether to let me go. Then the raspy baritone returned. "Very well. Be careful."
"Indubitably—as Alfred would say." All I was missing was a salute.
Again, the dark night city, barely lit by the crescent moon, which kept hiding behind the clouds. A small figure ran across the roofs—leisurely, fluidly, skillfully—walking along vertical decorative elements that would make any parkourist jealous. That was until a coquettish female voice called out to Damian from one of the roofs.
"League of Shadows assassins are getting smaller and smaller these days."
Damian, his face hidden by a cloth mask and hood, turned toward the voice. He saw a female silhouette at the edge of the roof. A black leather suit, meticulously hugging every curve and covering every inch of her body; a belt with a whip; a hood-helmet with cat ears and yellow goggles—glossy and almost entirely reflective.
"Is the Cat out for a stroll?" Damian asked with a smirk. His voice was slightly lower than usual, with a different timbre, but still clearly a child's. "I don't recall anyone wealthy living in this neighborhood."
"Patrolling my territory," the woman replied lazily. "So, what are we doing here, kitten?"
"You should know that curiosity killed the cat."
"Pfft," the woman in the skin-tight leather suit waved it off. "She just wasn't agile enough. So, what are you doing here all alone? Did the League of Shadows elders leave you behind?"
"Burning with a desire to adopt a stray kitten? Sorry, but Mom told me not to listen to adult ladies and never to go where they invite me. She said I was too cute a tot and people would definitely want to spoil me. I don't want to be spoiled—whatever that means."
The woman paused and licked her lips, clearly imagining the kidnapping of a small boy.
"I'd chat longer—maybe even let you treat me to some milk—but duty calls. Evil won't commit itself," Damian waved a hand and took his first step.
"Hey, now." The whip seemed to jump into the woman's hands. A short whistle echoed across the roof, followed by a sharp crack. "I haven't let you go yet, you little rascal."
"She's too self-assured," Damian noted mentally. "I should remind her of the value of a calm and full life—purely for her own good."
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