Chapter 4
It had been two solid hours.
Damian stood off to the side, arms folded, watching Stark wrestle with a mess of exposed wiring beneath one of the Benatar’s side panels. Occasionally, the man would mutter something to himself, then bark at his tools like they’d personally offended him. The sounds of metal tapping and the soft hum of the ship’s systems created a background rhythm—oddly calming, in a strange, disjointed way.
The entire time, Damian stayed quiet, observant. His eyes flicked not just to Stark, but to the ship, the layout, the exits. He didn’t trust this man—not yet. Maybe not ever.
At one point, a stray glint caught his eye. A narrow shard of metal and glass, maybe broken from the earlier impact that had grounded the ship. He crouched beside it, pretending to examine a loose panel near the wall. His fingers closed around the shard, sharp and thin, edges glinting dangerously in the low light. He tucked it into the inner lining of his jacket without hesitation. Just in case.
A weapon was a weapon.
Finally, outside, Tony wiped his hands on a rag that had definitely once been white and leaned back with a relieved sigh. “Alright, everything on my end looks good,” he said, tossing the rag aside.
He turned to Nebula, who had been standing at the ready the entire time, arms stiff at her sides.
Nebula didn’t move, but her eyes shifted, calculating. “Engines are primed. Navigation systems are fully operational. It’s ready.”
Tony looked to Damian, lifting a brow. “You ready, kid?”
Damian just nodded.
No smart remark. No posturing. He simply stepped forward, his movements fluid and purposeful, and walked up the short ramp into the Benatar. The shard weighed nothing in his pocket, but he felt better with it there. Just in case Stark got any ideas.
The interior hit him like a weighted breath. Dim lights glowed softly along the floor, guiding his steps through the narrow halls. Pipes and wires coiled like veins overhead, humming with quiet energy. The scent of metal, faint smoke, and whatever food someone had attempted to cook the other day still clung to the air. It was a mess—but it was a warm mess. Safe, in a weird way.
It was lived-in. Comfortably cluttered. Mismatched blankets were thrown over the backs of chairs in the common area; there were half-drunk mugs of something alien sitting in cupholders. Even the flickering control panels gave off a warm, pulsing light, like the ship was alive and listening.
The cockpit was spacious—not in size, but in feel. The front windshield stretched high and wide, revealing the endless sprawl of stars like a cathedral window. Beyond it, the void shimmered with faint light, starlight curling through the dark like distant fireflies. The pilot and co-pilot chairs were cushioned and worn, seams slightly fraying from use. Someone had scratched something into the console—deep, crude lines carved by someone impatient or strong or both. Damian’s eyes flicked to it despite himself. One word, etched in jagged, looping letters: GROOT.
He frowned.
What the hell was GROOT supposed to mean?
At first, he thought it might be an acronym—some kind of codename or secret designation. Maybe the ship was part of a covert ops unit, some black site program with a name like Global Reconnaissance Operations and Offense Team. He'd seen shadier.
His mind immediately jumped to League protocols, the cryptic naming systems the al Ghul files were full of. Something about the raw, careless way it was carved made it seem more ominous, like it had been left behind on purpose. A warning. A message.
He narrowed his eyes at it, but Tony and Nebula didn’t seem to react. Stark was flipping switches and muttering under his breath, and Nebula’s focus never shifted from the instruments.
Damian leaned back slightly in his seat, harness drawn tight across his chest. He’d figure it out eventually. Every puzzle had an answer—and if it didn’t, he’d force one.
Nebula slid into the pilot seat without a word, her hands moving with practiced, mechanical ease across the control panel. Every movement was tight and calculated, her expression unreadable. Tony flopped into the chair beside her, letting out a long breath as he strapped in, muttering something under his breath about seatbelts and lawsuits.
Damian took the seat behind them.
It was slightly elevated, like a quiet throne tucked just behind the command. He sat down slowly, feeling the subtle give of the padding beneath him—it was unexpectedly soft, as if someone had tried to make this corner of cold, foreign metal just a little more livable.
But comfort wasn’t what interested him.
From here, he could see everything.
Every flick of Nebula’s hands, every glance Stark shot toward the controls. The layout gave him a clean line of sight to both of them, as well as the front of the ship. He noted the angles, the space between seats, the fact that Tony’s back was partially turned toward him when strapped in. From this spot, he could move quickly if needed—if either of them tried anything. If Stark reached for something, or Nebula veered off course. The shard in his jacket felt a little heavier in that moment. Real. Ready.
He pulled the harness over his chest and clicked it into place. The sound was sharp and final.
The engines hummed deeper now. Alive. Vibrating softly beneath his boots, low and constant like a heartbeat. The ship lifted, and the stars tilted with it. The moment felt still, suspended.
Damian didn’t relax.
But he watched.
And from his seat, he had every advantage.
Damian sat still, gazing out the front window. The galaxy stretched before them—vast and strange and oddly beautiful. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he let his shoulders drop, just a little. The quiet buzz of the ship, the low voices of his companions, the gentle thrum underfoot…
It didn’t feel like a battlefield.
It felt like the calm before something bigger.
The engines rumbled deeper beneath them, a low, thrumming growl that vibrated through the floor of the Benatar. Then came the sound—a crackling shift in the air—as Nebula eased the ship off the ground and into the stars. Damian watched, chest rising and falling slowly, as the view through the windshield transformed.
They slipped free of gravity like a breath exhaled. The stars stretched and shifted. Planetary rings shimmered like broken glass. The void of space opened wide, and they sailed into it—not crashing or lurching, but gliding. Smooth. Steady.
Damian gripped the armrests of his seat, not out of fear, but reverence. It was quiet here. No honking cars, no Gotham sirens, no faint buzz of League warriors murmuring in dark corners. Just the ship, the stars, and the low purr of ancient alien tech beneath him.
It was the kind of silence he never got back home.
No League training. No shadowy corners. No blood-soaked rooftops.
Just space. Big, cold, endless… and weirdly peaceful.
They drifted far enough from the planetary cluster that the stars seemed to stabilize, no longer blurring past them at lightspeed. Nebula adjusted a few controls, then leaned back slightly in her seat.
“Auto-pilot engaged,” she said, voice clipped but calm. “We’re in stable drift. No hands needed.”
“How long to Earth?” Damian asked, finally pulling his eyes away from the stars.
Nebula didn’t glance back. “A few days, maybe weeks” she said. “We don’t have the fuel to keep skipping light-years. We’ll drift most of the way.”
Damian nodded once. A few days. That sounded almost… manageable.
Tony unbuckled his harness with a soft click and stood. “Alright, kid,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head, “we’re gonna go dig up some food and water before we start hallucinating space rats or something.”
Damian didn’t move, though his hands itched to reach for his weapon. He arched a brow at Tony. “You don’t tell me what to do.”
Tony just smirked and jerked his head toward the hallway. “Sure I don’t. C’mon.”
Damian rolled his eyes but stood anyway, silent as a shadow, following Tony as they headed toward the middle of the ship.
Tony led the way through the dim corridors of the Benatar, casting glances over his shoulder every few steps to make sure the kid was still following. Damian trailed behind, quiet and tense, but not dragging his feet. His eyes moved constantly, scanning the walls, ceiling, even the floor beneath them like the ship was some kind of hostile terrain.
The halls were narrow, but the ceiling curved high enough to give it a tunnel-like feel. Exposed wiring ran in smooth bundles along the walls. Light strips buzzed dimly overhead, casting a warm, golden glow. A few doors slid open as they passed—storage rooms, mechanical access ports, some bunk areas stacked with blankets and gear.
“So,” Tony said, casually kicking a loose cable out of the way, “you seriously have no idea how you got here?”
Damian’s arms stayed crossed as he walked. “No.”
Tony let that sit for a second. “Okay... mystery boy. Got it. What about where you're from?”
There was a beat of hesitation before Damian said, almost like it physically pained him to answer, “…Gotham.”
Tony frowned. “Where’s that?”
Damian froze mid-step, then turned his head slowly to look at him, expression full of restrained disbelief.
“How much of an imbecile are you?” he said. “It’s one of the biggest cities in the United States.”
Tony squinted at him. “Uh, no. That title goes to New York.”
Damian blinked. “What is that?”
Tony full-on stopped walking.
“You don’t know New York City? The Big Apple? Avengers Tower? Statue of Liberty? Pizza rats?”
Damian tilted his head slightly, unimpressed. “You’re making these things up.”
Tony stared at him for a moment, mouth slightly open. “I don’t know what weird underground bunker you were raised in, but if you’ve never heard of New York, then something is seriously broken in your brain.”
They walked deeper into the Benatar, fluorescent strips casting faint light along the metal walls. Damian followed a few paces behind, silent, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
Tony glanced over his shoulder. “So, just to circle back—you don’t know what New York City is.”
Damian didn’t answer at first. Then, flatly, “No.”
Tony stopped walking. “Okay. That’s not just a geography fail, that’s... worrying. And you said you’re from—what, ‘Gotham’?”
Damian gave him a sideways look. “Yes.”
Tony narrowed his eyes. “Where is that?”
“In the east coast” Damian said, like it should be obvious.
Tony blinked at him. “I’ve been to every major city in the U.S. I’ve funded half of them. Never heard of it. And New York is also in the east coast”
Damian scoffed. “Ttt”
His mind spun with the absurdity of it.
No Gotham?
He was used to the idea that not everyone understood the complexities of his world—he was after all, a child of two worlds. But this? This was different. This was a fundamental part of who he was. The city he'd grown up in, found his family, and fought for—he had a hard time imagining life without it.
Gotham was more than just a city. It was a dark, jagged mirror of his own soul. The twisted streets, the crumbling buildings, the desperate cries that echoed through the alleys—it all made sense to him. It was home. No matter how much he hated it sometimes, it was where he found his purpose, where his father had carved him into the weapon he was. It had been a constant presence in his life—unforgiving, but a reliable kind of chaos.
Tony crossed his arms. “If you’re about to tell me ‘Gotham’ is somewhere between Ohio and Narnia, we’ve got bigger problems.”
Damian gave a half-shrug, looking away. “Sounds like you’re the one with the problem.”
Tony started walking again. “So either you're from a very elaborate cult that fakes American cities, or... well, I don’t even know.”
They turned a corner, approaching the small storage kitchen nestled into the side of the ship. Tony popped open a storage unit and began digging through unfamiliar packaging.
“So,” he started again, glancing at Damian, “what were you doing before you showed up on Titan? You don’t look like you were in the middle of a fight. Or anything remotely useful.”
Damian’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed level. “I was having breakfast.”
Tony paused mid-rummage. “Like... cereal and orange juice kind of breakfast?”
Damian exhaled slowly, like he regretted even answering. “Tea. Toast. Grapefruit.”
Tony tilted his head. “Wow. Very civilized.”
“I blinked,” Damian continued, voice a touch quieter. “And then I was standing in red dirt. A battlefield.”
There was a beat of silence.
Tony turned back to the cabinet. “You said you’re from Gotham. But no New York. No Avengers. Never heard of me. Which, frankly, hurts.”
Damian’s arms were crossed again. “Should I have?”
“Usually, yeah. I'm kind of a big deal.”
Damian didn’t reply.
Tony gave him a look. “You really don’t know anything about the Avengers?”
Damian shook his head.
Tony stepped back from the cabinet, arms out. “Okay. Let’s try this. We were Earth’s front line. Super soldiers, gods, sorcerers. We fought alien invasions, rogue AI, giant green rage monsters. You know. The usual.”
Damian raised an eyebrow. “So... like the Justice League.”
Tony’s face blanked. “What’s that?”
“You don’t know the Justice League?” Damian asked, genuinely surprised for the first time.
“Nope.”
Damian’s brow furrowed. “Superman? Wonder Woman? The Flash? Batman?”
Tony leaned against the counter. “Okay, now it sounds like you’re just naming a D-list action figure lineup.”
“You’re joking,” Damian said, his voice low.
“I wish I was.”
Another silence.
Damian, still processing the strange fact that the Justice League didn’t exist in this universe, turned his attention back to Tony as they reached the storage area.
"So, what were you doing on Titan?" Damian asked, his voice sharp with curiosity, trying to change the subject. The gravity of the conversation was too much to process for now, and he needed to focus on something else, something more concrete.
Tony paused for a moment, giving Damian a sidelong glance. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—something like hesitation—but it was gone just as quickly.
"Right," Tony started, rubbing his hands together. "You’re probably wondering why the hell you're here, huh? Well, you're not the only one who’s had a bad day." He let out a dry laugh, though there was no humor in it.
Damian raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.
"Alright, so here's the rundown," Tony continued, looking serious now, as if he’d made a mental decision to just get through it. "There was this guy. Thanos. Big purple dude, big obsession with balancing the universe. The usual. He had this plan—to wipe out half the population on every planet. Just... half. For some twisted reason, he thought that was going to fix everything. He believed it would bring 'balance,' or whatever he called it."
Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly. Half the population? It sounded almost... impossible. And insane.
"Wait," Tony went on, his gaze distant as he spoke. "He managed to get his hands on these stones—Infinity Stones, they’re called. They let him do things no one could even dream of. He probably snapped his fingers, and—poof—half of everyone disappeared. Just like that. Gone."
Damian's jaw tightened as he absorbed the weight of Tony's words.
"You’re saying people just... vanished? Like that?" Damian’s voice was sharp, disbelief hanging in the air between them. How could anyone do something like that?
Tony nodded slowly, his face darkening with the memory. "Yeah. Just like that. We tried to stop him. But... well, clearly we didn’t. And now, you’re here. I’m guessing the whole vanishing thing might be how you ended up on Titan. You showed up right around when people started disappearing."
Damian mulled that over, his mind racing. Vanishing? The idea was utterly foreign to him. He couldn’t fathom something like that—couldn’t imagine how it was possible. But Tony’s explanation made some kind of strange sense, especially considering the moment he had appeared on the Benatar, right after people had started disappearing.
He glanced around the ship, as if expecting something to make it all clearer, but there was nothing. He turned back to Tony, still processing, his mind struggling to catch up with this bizarre turn of events.
"And you think... this—me being here—is somehow connected to that?" Damian asked slowly, his voice quieter than before. There was a hint of something in his tone—a reluctance to believe it, but also a flicker of understanding starting to take hold.
Tony shrugged, his expression unreadable for a moment. "I don’t know, kid. Could be a coincidence, could be something bigger. But it’s the only explanation I’ve got. If you showed up when people started vanishing, well, I can’t help but think there’s a link between the two."
Damian’s gaze flicked to the window again, the stars smeared across the glass like white fireflies frozen in ink. It was beautiful in a detached way, but his mind wasn’t focused on that. Not really. His thoughts churned—calculated—anchored on the name Tony had given him. Thanos.
This whole mess—the disappearances, the empty ship, this godforsaken planet—everything pointed to that one name. Thanos. A being with enough power to halve the universe like it was nothing more than a field of overgrown wheat.
And that was who had dragged Damian here? Or, at least, who had caused the ripple that yanked him out of Gotham mid-bite of his breakfast?
Damian’s jaw tensed.
Fine. Then that was the goal.
Find Thanos. Demand answers. Demand to be sent back.
By force if necessary, he was certain it was.
His lips curled into the barest hint of a smile—cold, confident, almost arrogant in its sharpness. He didn’t care how powerful this being was. No one was invincible. Everyone bled. And as far as he was concerned, anyone who tore him out of his home, his life, would be made to pay for it.
“Thanos,” he muttered, the name tasting like rust on his tongue. “And you’re telling me you couldn’t stop him?”
Tony was quiet for a long moment. His eyes were on the console again, his hand hovering over a switch he wasn’t flipping. Finally, he let out a breath—low, exhausted. “No. We couldn’t. Not in time, anyway.”
Damian turned back to the window, eyes narrowing at the emptiness of space. He tried to picture the kind of power it would take to erase half the population with a single act. Tried to imagine it—and failed. The League had trained him to kill, to lead, to infiltrate. But this…? This was beyond.
Still, it didn’t matter. Power was power. It could be stripped, redirected, dismantled. Everyone had a weakness.
“Guess I’ve seen my fair share of lunatics,” Damian muttered, mostly to himself. His hand flexed slightly, remembering the cool weight of the glass shard now tucked inside his pocket.
Tony gave him a sideways glance, like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or deeply concerned. “I’m sure you have.”
Damian didn’t look at him. His mind was already racing ahead.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked, his tone flat but probing. He wanted to know what kind of man Stark was—whether he could be trusted, or if he’d be another obstacle to plan around.
Tony huffed out a laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “Keep going, I guess. That’s all any of us can do now. You’re stuck with me, kid.”
Damian didn’t respond.
He’d play along—for now. Watch. Listen. Wait.
And then, when the moment came… he'd find Thanos.
And make him send him home.
The storage area was near the back of the Benatar, tucked behind a sliding door that wheezed open after a few confused button presses from Tony. The lights inside flickered on with a faint hum, casting a yellowish glow over the cramped space. The air was dry and stale, the scent of metal and old machinery clinging to everything.
Tony stepped in first, one hand running through his hair, his other already reaching for a nearby wall panel to bring up a dim overhead light. The room blinked to life with a pale glow—flickering strips along the ceiling cast long shadows over stacked crates and metal shelves. Damian followed in silently, his sharp eyes already scanning the room, assessing, calculating.
It was a decent-sized space, but sparse. Functional. Nothing wasted.
They split up without a word. Tony moved toward the cabinets on the right wall, prying open drawers and storage bins with short, practiced motions, while Damian drifted to the left, pulling open metal containers and checking their contents with quiet efficiency.
After a few minutes, it became clear just how little they had.
A handful of vacuum-sealed ration packs sat tucked in the corner of a shelf, the kind of high-density food designed for survival, not taste. Damian picked one up and turned it over in his gloved hands—no label, just a small green light and alien text he couldn’t read. He tucked it under his arm and kept moving.
Tony opened a final container near the back and exhaled slowly. “Well… we’re not starving. Yet.”
He stepped aside to let Damian see. Inside were several clear bottles of water—maybe a little over half a dozen. Clean, sealed, and faintly chilled from the ship’s ambient temperature. Damian counted them instinctively, his brow lowering.
“Four days,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “Maybe.”
Tony nodded, not looking away from the supplies. “If we stretch it. No refills, no rehydration unit. Guardians probably stocked this before their last run. Didn’t think they’d leave it behind.”
They worked their way through the rest of the room, checking each bin and corner, but it quickly became clear—there wasn’t much more. A few ration bars, a pack of dried fruit that had hardened into something closer to stone, and one packet of what Tony hoped was coffee.
Damian glanced around the room once more. That was it. Four days of water. Maybe five or six meals' worth of ration packs. No luxury. No backup plan.
Only what they had.
“Barely enough,” he muttered.
Tony leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Then we don’t waste a drop.”