Damian watched as the Row girl gained territory, how she made father smile again and decided he should stop watching, even though he knew that would never happen.
Mother would never allow him to put the video footage aside, it was a part of his unspoken punishment.
And Damian would never turn away from that or anything else mother threw his way.
So he sat there, day in and day out, blocking whatever it was that the images were supposed to tell him; he stopped watching as soon as father purposely drove the batmobile over a lamppost, days after Damian's death.
Ironically enough, the surveillance room was a safe haven, the only place in all of mother's bases where he was certain there wouldn't be an attack. The clone would use his meager power within the League to arrange for Damian to be assaulted sporadically, there wasn't any pattern to it so Damian had to remain in constant alert even during what should be his sleeping hours.
However, mother didn't want him distracted while being punished, so Damian used that time to meditate, rest his mind with the best substitute for sleep he could manage. Sometimes, on the off chance he'd catch a glimpse of the life that went on without him, Damian wondered if it had meant anything at all.
"Come, beloved." mother called from the door, adjusting her gloves "The time for nostalgia is over."
Mother called them training sessions, a moment when Damian was supposed to work on achieving her standards of perfection. The clone took it for what it really was, a chance to remind Damian of his position in the new order.
Even in extreme disadvantage – the clone was armed with a wooden sword, Damian had his feet bound together by a 1.5 feet long chain – Damian waited for an opening, even if they were virtually non-existent. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of missing an attack. Every time the clone would get a hit in, it felt like being run over by a freight train; Damian pretended it didn't hurt, laughing his way through the beating. It drove mother insane.
He had to take comfort in the little things.
Damian refrained from talking most of the time, mother took it as a sign of obedience, the clone as a sign of disrespect; Damian didn't care either way, he simply wanted silence, his own at least if he couldn't get anyone else to shut up.
They moved around constantly, as a security measure mother said; Damian called it a useless measure, done simply to keep him from running away, but why would he? Mother had made it fairly clear that his staying was the only thing keeping Leviathan out of Gotham, where everyone believed him to be dead. He was tired of his parent's war, if he had to be a hostage or a casualty for it to be over, so be it.
After all, Damian's punishment was not only unspoken but self-imposed. He allowed himself to be overpowered, pierced by a sword. A moment of weakness that would never be forgiven.
He still remembered opening his eyes for the first time after everything and seeing the blurry image of mother standing over him. He couldn't breathe, the raw pain in his chest made him look down to check if the blade was still there.
"Welcome back, beloved." Mother said through a light smile as she brushed her fingers through his hair and he tried not to choke on pain and betrayal.
He tried to sit up, yet his legs were dead weight. For a horrifying moment, he wondered if he was paralyzed; mother's touch, her scraping nails on his calf terrified him even more: he could feel it, he could not move away from her.
Damian didn't say anything, just swallowed hard and worked on breathing through the agony of the situation and on his aching chest. His position was insane, legs entangled, back twisted, almost as if somebody dropped him there. Considering who was in the service of the League, it wasn't such an absurd possibility. Mother smiled, serene.
"I imagine you have already noticed the situation of your legs." she continued with the light scraping of nails "It is not permanent, as you probably guessed. Here," her free hand touched the base of his spine; the skin there was so sensitive Damian bit his lips "can you feel it? The implant was done before you awoke, to minimize the pain."
Damian gathered all his strength just to roll his eyes at mother's attitude. Minimize the pain… After being beaten, shot with both bullets and arrows and killed, now she worries about pain.
"Walking is not a right, it is a privilege you have yet to regain."
Those first days Damian could only grab onto the sheets and work on not groaning. Not being able to change position was almost as bad as the feeling of his chest splitting open. He didn't remember the pit, but figured he'd been dipped only time enough to be revived and for the wound to close, not heal completely.
It was the same recovery of a poorly performed surgery.
As the days went by he learned to live with it, Damian was nothing if not adaptable, and his focus changed. His fingers stopped gripping the sheets and began to feel his surroundings. The room was bare, only his metal framed bed, a door and a window.
Every morning servants would come to clean him and help him use a bedpan. It would be humiliating enough without mother standing by the door watching every step of the procedure.
Slowly, with great effort, he began shifting his position into a more comfortable setting of his choice. His fingers kept tracing the metal frame of the bed, and with his increasing mobility, he found what he was looking for.
No one noticed his broken nails, no one cared that the bed began making a creaky noise, no one imagined he managed to take one of the screws out of the bedframe.
After the last servant left for the night, Damian began to work. The point wasn't sharp enough, the angle wasn't quite right, and it took him way too long to cut through the skin, but the implant was out.
Damian wiped sweat from his forehead and breathed in deeply, calming down his heart as he stared at that little piece of technology for a moment before closing his hand around it and throwing the bloody sheets covering his legs on the floor.
He throws both legs over the edge and stands. And goes down instantly. It takes a lot of him to get back the control of his legs and when he finally stands, his clothes are soaked through with sweat that mixes with blood on the back.
He made it to a village with a whole lot of people eager to help the 10 year old with a hole in his back. When the second old lady offered him assistance, Damian knew the escape was doomed to fail. The news of his arrival was spreading too fast.
Mother threw him in a dark room for two weeks, his only way to count the passing time was when a servant girl brought him his one meal for the day.
Now his days were filled with different supervised activities, the usual were watching Gotham's video footage and training with the clone. Between their stays in mystical forbidden cities, the constant absurd time zone changes and the fact that he was never allowed out of mother's bases, Damian had no idea how much time had gone by since he died. That is not exactly true, he was beginning to feel the differences in his voice, his growing body, but that didn't mean anything in the outside world.
Mirrors and clocks being off limits didn't help matters at all, Damian only ever saw his reflection on water and to completely screw with his internal clock, mother would fight him in odd days – he guessed around once a month – and the clone would always make sure she'd win.
"Happy birthday, beloved" she'd say "You lose."
He heard that enough to be around 55 years old and it was pretty much the only time mother ever spoke to him directly during day hours. Not that he was complaining about that last part, especially since what began happening at night.
She watches him. Every night, he showers before sleep and every night when he leaves the bathroom or stall – depending on where they're stationed – mother's there, by his door.
There are never any words, just mother's eyes following him as he changes and settles into bed. At first he wondered if she was making sure he had no concealed weapons or plans to escape; which was a stupid concept because unless he swallowed a knife, there wasn't anywhere he could have hidden any weapons. And the only plan Damian had was to murder the clone as soon as he managed to get his hands on the alleged concealed weapon he didn't have. Anything else… Well. What was the point, really?
None of that seemed to matter, because mother kept coming.
Damian had no intention of asking what was going on through her head, he knew she'd tell him sooner or later; mother was never as good at keeping quiet as he was.
In fact Damian had been entirely silent since their return to Nanda Parbat – about over a week ago he guessed – and the clone took it upon himself to talk for the both of them.
"You believe silence will lead you back to mother's warm embrace?" the clone whispered close to Damian's ear, after immobilizing him on the floor on his stomach and kneeling on his back "That will only lead you to a silent death."
Even with gravel digging into his cheek, Damian had to roll his eyes. He often wondered if his family never got tired of the villain speeches. He did.
"Enough." mother called and the clone let Damian go, cutting the rope that bound his hands together behind his back "Damian has to catch up with his father's activities in Gotham. You" she nodded at the clone "Come with me."
Damian stood, feeling the crunch of tiny pebbles in his mouth from when his face met the ground. He felt mother's eyes on him as he walked to the surveillance room.
He sat on the appointed chair with a bored huff and got ready for hours of footage that never really told him anything. Damian stretched, feeling all of the hits he took and the scratches on his skill pull, but nothing hurt enough to be a bother. It rarely did.
"Little darling…" Damian said in a singsong, barely above a whisper and hummed the next part "Here comes the hmm…" he didn't know the words, could barely remember the voice that sang it, but the rhythm was burnt in his brain.
He blamed Grayson and his love for his own voice.
As if the fragment of the song summoned him, Grayson breezed by with a stylish double flip, showing off as usual, and Damian allowed himself a moment to appreciate the fact that Nightwing was working with Batman. He couldn't help but to feel mellow watching father and his so called brother on the rooftops.
Yet, feeling mellow got old fast and soon Damian was sighing and trying to remember when Grayson sang that god-awful song in the first place. Damian had a hard time remembering a lot of things from before the pit, still the song plagued him.
And that's when he saw it, a flash of yellow to the left of the screen that shouldn't have been there. He leaned forward, to the edge of his seat and refused to blink.
There it was again, now not only a flash of yellow, but… Robin.
The three of them landed in the middle of a robbery and the girl dressed as Robin finished off a couple of robbers and tied them up. A little to the left, father – Batman – smiled at the girl-Robin and Nightwing ruffled her hair playfully before grapples were shot and they vanished momentarily from sight.
Damian felt faint, tunnel vision had him falling back against the chair even if his eyes never wavered from the screen. The more he watched the clearer it became that he had been replaced. The girl – Harper fucking Row – wore his uniform, down to the boots; the only update was the lack of the hood. Father never liked the hood.
Because that was Row, wasn't it? An improved Robin, an update from Damian. Chosen, not imposed by circumstances. Batman needs a Robin. How could they replace him so soon?
Damian paced around the small room. If they could replace him so easily, had his efforts meant nothing? Had his sacrifice been just a joke? Was he that disposable?
He found himself moving towards the only screen he hadn't spared a glance since after mother told him what it would show.
There was no one on the Wayne family graveyard, as expected, but the tombstones were in clear view. His grandparents' graves were covered in fresh flowers, Damian's obtuse monument had dead leafs. There was nothing written on it, not his name, the date of his birth and death – had father even known his date of birth? Probably not. – not even an epitaph.
Even Todd got a "A good soldier", Damian had never existed.
He turned back in time to see Robin smiling at Nightwing and wanted to put his fist through the small screen. So he did.
The short circuiting wiring burned his knuckles and the broken glass got stuck to his fingers. Damian barely felt a thing.
The night met mother standing by the door again when Damian left the shower. He clenches his fingers into fists and drops the towel from his head to the ground. He's wearing loose lounge pants, but his chest is bare and he feels a chill when a light breeze comes through the open door, but Damian refuses to move.
He shoots a glance at mother and turns his eyes to the wall before him. This might've been a peace offering, but he wouldn't grovel.
Fortunately, mother gets it. She approaches slowly, walking around him, sliding her fingers across his back and chest, from shoulder to shoulder.
"I just saw what was left of my security monitor. You did leave me wondering how long it would take for you to show some reaction." she paused beside him, taking his wounded hand into both of hers "I tried to warn you."
Damian doesn't stray his eyes from his chosen spot on the wall; mother doesn't need to be prompted to talk.
She pulls him by the hand and makes him sit down at the edge of the bed.
"If you only could see yourself." her hand caresses the cheek the clone had shoved in the gravel earlier. The touch feels like sandpaper "Perfect. So much better than your father could ever dream of being and yet you keep shying away from fate, attached to forgotten loyalties…" she slides behind him, and the next time she speaks, her lips brush the naked skin of his shoulder "They lulled you in with a sense of belonging. They lied. I never did, even when in anger, I have always been truthful. I hope you understand that now."
They are silent for the next few minutes, but mother fingers and lips still roam Damian's skin feathery light, but unmistakably there.
Damian wonders if this is was mother's way of showing him fondness. In their time as partners, Grayson often told him that Damian should be more docile, show some affection, but this… Feels wrong.
But it seemed to fit the norm, Grayson always showed his affection with unwanted touches. Not this kind, still Damian wanted to have nothing to do with any of it. His stomach turned when mother's hot breath reached his ear.
But this was a peace offering, so he closed his eyes with a frown and endured. It could've been far worse than nails trailing their way down his stomach and teeth scratching his ear lobe.
It didn't last long, soon mother stood, letting her fingers drag through his scalp. "You remind me of him. Your father. You have his eyes." her smile was unsettling "And now I have another chance to have his eyes watching over me, don't I?" mother leaned forward and placed a kiss on the corner of Damian's lips "We could have the world, you and I. Together."
As soon as the first light filtered through the window, Damian woke up. The clone wasn't even inside the bedroom and Damian already knew he was coming. How the loud fucking thing was permitted in a League full of ninjas was a mystery.
The door was thrown open and the clone barged in ripping Damian out of bed by the neck.
"You will not get in the way, do you hear me, brother?" the clone sneered and banged Damian's head against the wall "Mother is mine."
Damian didn't want mother, he did not want the world either – he wanted his own plans, he wanted out – yet both were right there within reach and still he was treated like scum by the freak. He felt a sudden urge to elbow the clone on the throat. So he did.
It was immensely liberating to let go.
He didn't think about it, simply let his body move in the way it was meant to. It was almost an out of body experience, Damian felt almost like he was watching himself breaking the clones ribs instead of doing the beating.
Of course the clone tried to fight back, but the freak had grown accustomed with uneven odds, he had never known what Damian was truly capable of.
Damian was barely panting when he grabbed the sword from the clone's waist, touching the blade to its owner's throat.
"Now you will now me." Damian whispered and began to push the sword slowly. He wanted – needed – the clone to feel it.
"Damian!" mother called "You have won. Let him up." the skin broke and a growing trickle of blood began to poor "Damian." mother's voice chimed in closer now.
Damian's gaze lifted a moment before he got up, fluidly "Yes, mother."
Mother smiled "We will have words later. You" she nodded at the clone "Come with me." one last glance at Damian and she turned on her heel to leave.
Still watching mother's retreating form, Damian slashed with the sword. The sound of the clone's scream was the first music he'd heard outside his head since he died.
"Now we match," he told the clone – who clutched at the gaping wound on his chest – through a sharp smile touching the faded scar on the middle of his own chest "brother."
No, he didn't want the world and he didn't want mother; he wanted to paint his name in blood through the streets of Gotham.
Maybe then father would remember him.
A/N.: For the record, I really like Talia and have no excuse for constantly writing her so fucked in the head.
Well, actually I can (and will if I keep writing this) explain why she got that way, it doesn't justify, but you know... Character development and all that jazz. For a nicer Talia experience, read Mistake and The youngest.
I also wrote a different (better) version of Damian's death, it's similar, but fixing all the crap I hated in the original, with the exception that Damian still dies... If anyone's interested, I'll post it here later
Thanks for reading, reviews are highly appreciated!