Damian Wayne
Damian Wayne scratches Titus’s head, frowning at the Bat-Computer. Father is gone on a business trip to Lyon, so Richard is serving as Batman tonight—if only because Damian doesn’t quite fit into the Batsuit. Really, Father should just commission a new suit for Damian instead of sending Richard out on these missions. The poor man is getting too old for these things. Too slow.
“Master Damian,” says Pennyworth calmly, entering the Bat-Cave, “it is past your bedtime.”
Damian levels a glare at Father’s babysitter. “I am an adult, Pennyworth. I do not have a bedtime.”
Pennyworth raises an eyebrow. “Forgive me, I was not aware that the laws of this country had changed at your insistence. Surely, if you are an adult, you have a Driver’s license?”
Damian scowls at the sarcasm dripping off of Pennyworth’s voice. “Mother taught me how to drive at the age of three. I am licensed in thirteen countries.”
“Are any of those licenses for the United States?”
Damian pauses.
“Master Damian?”
“Three,” Damian admits.
Pennyworth gives him a disappointing look. It is very effective. Damian squirms. “Your fraudulent activities will be discussed at breakfast. For now, your bed awaits.”
Damian bristles. “I’m not leaving. Richard is inept on his own.”
When Damian disobeys Father, Father gets a tight, caged look on his face—a colder grimace, almost. Pennyworth merely tilts his head, face softening.
“Master Dick is in safe hands,” Pennyworth says, voice carefully neutral. “Both the Oracle and Red Robin are serving as his backups tonight.”
Damian frowns. “I am not worried about him.”
“I am.” Pennyworth rests a hand on his shoulder. Damian lets him. “It is a difficult thing to wait for our family to come back home. And yet, all we can do is trust that they will.”
Our family. Damian’s resolve doesn’t weaken, because Damian Wayne does not accept weakness of any sort. But he feels a strange lightness in his chest, as if Alfred Pennyworth’s words have turned his lungs into feathers; breathing is easier, somehow. This is strange. Damian will have to conduct a study on this phenomenon and publish it in a scientific paper. But for now—
“I am still not worried,” Damian says, sniffing, “but perhaps I could do with a cup of chamomile.”
“Of course, sir. Shall I add cinnamon?”
“That would be acceptable.”
Pennyworth does not smile, but his eyes gleam. “Indeed. I think I, myself, will enjoy a cup.”
—/—
Damian sits with Pennyworth in the uppermost kitchen, the homiest kitchen in the Wayne manor, containing ugly fuchsia curtains Pennyworth refuses to throw out for sentimentality reasons, scratches and coffee stains on the wooden table, and Father’s childhood drawings plastered on the walls. Of course, Father can’t hold a candle to Damian’s art—unlike Damian, he colors his art with the precision of a drunk clown. There’s no depth to his shadows, no real unifying themes throughout his work, except for…
“Has he always had an affinity for bats?”
Pennyworth sips his tea. “At first, Master Bruce was merely afraid of them. After his parents’ deaths, he worked hard on conquering his fears—eventually, he reached a point where he respected the animal. After that…” Pennyworth’s smile can only be described as rueful. “He might have taken it a touch far.”
“And the robin,” Damian says, thinking of his muted red, green, and yellow suit, “was from Richard’s family?”
Pennyworth nods. “From his mother.”
Damian nods. If not for his injuries after Scarecrow’s latest fear-gas attempt, Damian would be out on patrol tonight with Richard right now, dressed in the colors of Richard’s childhood. As it stands, even Damian cannot escape Pennyworth’s clutches—especially not with two broken ribs, a lacerated femur, and two gun-shot wounds in the abdomen. All the result of a particularly intense concoction of Scarecrow’s fear toxin. The toxin had forced him to relive his greatest nightmares, and well…
Damian’s hands tighten around his cup.
It hadn’t gone well.
“It is late, sir,” Pennyworth says delicately, eyeing Damian. “Even for me.”
“You are getting old, Pennyworth,” says Damian, eyes glazing over. He is remembering now …Blood on his hands, a katana by his crib…The reek of a dead man, the smell of rotted flesh. “Go to bed if you must.”
“And you, sir, are a still-severely injured boy.” Alfred’s tone is not gentle, nor is it condescending. “If you wish to be reunited with Master Richard, you need to rest.”
Damian finished his tea. “Fine,” he says curtly, snapping back to reality, to Gotham, to home. Is this his home? He is uncertain. He will think about this later. “But I have to pray Isa first.”
“There is a spare jai namaaz underneath the cutlery drawer,” Pennyworth says.
Damian blinks. “There is?”
Pennyworth gives him a measured look. “After Master Bruce told me of your existence, and of your time spent with your mother, I placed one in every room of this household. For your convenience.”
That feather-chest thing again. This time, even Damian’s head feels lighter; he wraps his hands firmly around his cup of tea to steady himself. This is Pennyworth, he reminds himself firmly. Pennyworth bakes Viennese twists in his sleep, speaks two more languages than Damian, and fights like a soldier. His competent, informed decision-making should not be unexpected, and yet…And yet, words elude Damian.
“Pray, Master Damian,” Alfred says finally, “and then, please, for the love of your God and mine, go to bed.”
—/—
Usually, when Damian prays, he feels at peace.
Tonight is different. After he finishes praying, rolling the jai namaaz carefully, he hears a slight click in his comm. Immediately, Damian is alert. Besides Pennyworth, Richard has been the staunchest advocate of Damian’s month of bed-rest. Something must have gone wrong if Richard is calling him.
Damian asks, “Batman? Where are you?”
Richard’s voice is wet. Raspy. “Call for reinforcements, Robin.”
Damian shoves the jai namaaz into the drawer, then starts sprinting toward the Bat-Cave. “Why? What is the matter? Where are you?”
“We need—Superman.” He coughs again, and the sound makes Damian more scared than he has ever been in his entire life, fear gas or not. “Justice League—we need… League. S—Send signal.”
Damian skids into the Bat-Cave. He’s running faster than he ever has in his life. His chest burns; his bones scream. Still, Damian slams his hand on the Computer, turning it on, and presses the League’s activator button. In seconds, the symbol of the Justice League of America flashes on the computer, which means the Computer is alerting all available League members within a hundred-mile radius to come to Gotham City.
“Batman, where are you? Where—”
When the comm dies, Damian almost screams.
“Master Damian,” Alfred says, appearing in the background. He is not scowling, but sounds cross. “Did I not tell you—”
“Richard is in trouble,” replies Damian, rushing to find his suit, his katanas. “He needs my help.”
“Surely, the Oracle would have alerted us—”
Just then, the Computer’s screen turns to an angry red. Code Red. Only the Oracle sends that message.
“There,” Damian says, jabbing his finger at the screen, “there it is. Is that good enough for you, Pennyworth?”
Pennyworth stares at him before nodding stiffly. “Shall I fetch your uniform, Master Damian?”
“I’ll take the Batcycle.”
Pennyworth is still frowning. And still staring at Damian, as if committing him to memory. “Your body needs healing, Master Damian. If you are so insistent to risk your life tonight, please contact Master Jason.”
“I haven’t talked to Todd in two months,” Damian snaps, wanting to scream at Pennyworth to hurry up. Something is wrong. “My uniform, Pennyworth—”
“If I am not mistaken, Master Jason frequents a bar near the epicenter of Shelton Industrial Park.” Pennyworth steps closer. There is a look in his eyes Damian cannot decipher. “Do not mistake this is as permission, Master Damian. I urge you to stay—you will be of no use to anyone with your injuries.”
Damian says stubbornly, “I am going, Pennyworth.”
Pennyworth sighs. “I knew you would say that.” He does not sound happy, exactly, or even fond, but perhaps…Proud? “Keep me on the line, Master Damian, and please, do not do anything foolhardy.”
Nodding, Damian says, again, “My uniform, Pennyworth.”
“In the Cave laundry room,” says Pennyworth. Then, before Damian can fetch it, Pennyworth places his hands on Damian’s shoulders. For whatever reason, Damian lets him. “I wish to invite you all to breakfast tomorrow; I have no desire to find an empty spot in my kitchen table, do you understand, Master Damian?”
“Understood,” Damian says.
—/—
In Gotham’s epicenter, all Damian can spot are crumbling skyscrapers, broken streets, and a falling sky. There is blood washing through the streets. An empty mask—perhaps a villian’s—lying next to a crushed streetlamp. He hears screaming. Wailing. A child’s broken gurgling. And so, with a sinking sort of despair so unlike anything he has felt before, Damian realizes that the world might be ending before his eyes.
No. It is not over yet.
He has faced the devil before and won. He is Damian Wayne. The son of Batman and Talia al-Ghul. Grandson of Ras al-Ghul, leader of the League of Assassins. At the age of two, Damian learned how to use katanas, learned how to slice the thin blades through a man’s skin—he is not an assassin anymore, but he is still fearless like one, and he will not be cowed. Not by anything. And especially not when Richard is out here somewhere, needing his help.
With a snap of his wrist, Damian uses his grappling hook to swing on top of Gotham’s largest skyscraper. Usually, the air up here is cold and the wind brutal. Tonight, there is nothing at all—no wind or cold — except for a thick, curling humidity: the kind that promises a thunderstorm.
The storm arrives the second Damian pushes himself onto the roof.
Instead of water droplets the heavens rain down shards of the night sky. Of stars.
Dead stars.
And then, there is a rip. A tear.
Damian looks into the tear and—
Something within his mind clicks. His soul settles. He knows what he has to do in the same way that he knows how to recite namaaz. It is fate — and above all else, Damian Wayne is a believer.
So, he does not fight the explosion that shoves him toward the hole in his universe. He flattens his arms to his side. He glides—he almost flies. But then, just as he crosses the boundary, something slams into him. Not something. Someone. Gold helmet, irritatingly hard armor. Damian curses—
But the irritating Fake Batman, Nova, whatever, merely grips Damian to himself. As if Damian is incompetent! As if he isn’t Robin!
Damian thrashes in the buffoon’s grip, but then he feels heat warm his face—but no, it is not heat. It is a thousand burning suns. His skin melts. His bones crack. Then, he is slammed onto the ground, and his body breaks in a way it has never broken before—burst blood vessels, crushed muscle, ground bone.
Richard, Damian thinks, before the world blackens entirely.
—/—
“Who is he, Nova?"
Damian Wayne. Son of—son of…
—/—
The smell of antiseptic. Fresh linen. A hint of prilocaine.
—/—
Father presses a wet bandage on Damian’s forehead. He does so silently and without complaint, which makes Damian squirm in shame. The Scarecrow toxin is fading from Damian’s blood, but his nightmares aren’t. “Hush,” Father murmurs. “Your Grandfather used to do this to me.”
“For what?” Damian mutters, miserable.
“Fevers. A bad case of the Chicken Pox. Is it helping?”
It’s not the wet cloth, but Father’s presence that grounds Damian—Father, who is not typically affectionate or warm, not that Damian needs it, but he usually tries his best. That’s what Richard keeps telling him. Damian is starting to believe it.
“Tell me a story,” Damian says. “About the Chicken Pox.”
“Well,” Father begins. “It got so bad, I was sent to the hospital…
—/—
“…Poor thing. Nurse, can you pass me the light?”
A cold hand on his face. Damian flinches, but can’t move his arms. The hand pulls at his—his eyelids. Pulling them open? Damian can’t tell. He can’t—he can’t tell.
“Do you think he’s—”
“I’m afraid so,” the voice belonging to the hand says. The voice is grim. “But it could be worse. He is alive. That’s more than—well, that’s more than most can say.”
Alive, Damian thinks and clings onto that word as if it is his jetsam.
—/—
“Open your mouth, darling.”
Damian’s voice is hoarse. “I…”
The voice waits.
“I—I’m trying.”
“You are doing very well.”
It sounds like something Pennyworth would say. “W—Where…a—am I?”
“New Jersey, darling.”
Why?
A cool hand on his face. “There was an explosion.” The woman’s voice is composed but not without compassion. “Your friends brought you here.”
Friends. Damian does not have friends. He only has acquaintances. And enemies. And teachers. And…and his family.
My family. Where are they?
—/—
“Mama,” Damian says.
Talia pulls him close and rests his head on her lap like she used to do when he was a toddler. He knows that. But today, Grandfather had ordered him to kill one of his dearest teachers, and something within Damian aches. Knowing this, Talia runs a hand through his hair, rubbing his back. “My son, will you be brave? Will you be brave for your Mother?”
Damian isn’t sure what to say to this.
“You must be brave. You must endure. Do it for me, Damian, for your Mother.”
“Yes,” Damian whispers, voice hoarse. “Yes, Mama.”
Talia gifts him with a kiss to the forehead.
—/—
“What’s your name?”
This voice is new. Not a woman’s voice—a girl’s. She sounds…young, but not too young. Bright but still a little tired. Damian responds, “Who are you?”
“Kamala Khan.”
Damian says nothing.
“Aren’t—aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”
“No,” Damian says evenly. And then: “I am in a hospital.”
“Um…yes. Yes, you are—”
Inhaling quickly, Damian decides it’s best not to keep salt on the wound. “The doctors think I’m blind.”
There is a deeper silence this time—one that stretches like the sands of the Sahara, vast and seemingly endless. Finally, Kamala responds, her voice a touch gentler, a little more social worker. “I’m sorry. We—I mean, the first responders—weren’t able to find you in time, Damian. But…But your vitals are good and there wasn’t any lasting organ damage.”
Damian takes another deep breath. This is…This is merely a slight detour in his plans; he can adjust for now. After he locates Richard—and Richard contacts Oracle—he can focus on regaining his sight. Medical technology, perhaps. Or even magic. I’m still Robin. I’m still the Son of Batman.
“Who are you?” Kamala asks again.
And so, once again, Damian Wayne introduces himself.
“I’m Robin,” Damian says. “I’m the Son of Batman and I’m going to save Gotham City.”