A/N: Events to loosely follow the Forever Evil arc (reading not required.) Universe is going to be a bit of a blend of pre/post 52 with some personal touches.

1. Inside the Demon's Tower

The tritely named Crime Syndicate was comprised entirely of infants. Infants who could not accept their own destruction and had moved on to wreak havoc on a world that was not their own. "You must intervene, Grandfather. The situation is out of hand. It is unnatural."

Damian Wayne's voice rang out from beside a window on the circumference of his grandfather's study. It rebounded off the high, stone ceiling and broke the silence that had started over five minutes ago, since his arrival at the very top of the Demon's Tower.

Ra's al Ghul did not bother lifting his head to look over at his grandson.

"It is not of your concern." He didn't have the time to be entertaining the child. There were pressing matters at hand, which so happened to do with what the boy was talking about. That didn't mean they would air the matter together. The Crime Syndicate, comprised of alternate and very twisted versions of Earth's own Justice League members had appeared not long ago, and instantly begun to wreak havoc on the world. "I would have thought you to have a graduated understanding of what natural is by now, Damian," Ra's continued, returning his focus to the scrawled documents before him.

Damian's silhouette diminished against the window, his shoulders tightening. He wouldn't have imagined the great Ra's al Ghul to stoop himself to goading. But then again, Damian had been in his Grandfather's 'care' for several months now. Even mountains slid eventually, as much as his grandfather preferred to pretend otherwise. Damian's hand twitched upward to rub a phantom pain in the center of his chest, before forcibly lowering it and turning to face the man behind the desk.

"If we allow the imposters to continue there will be no ashes left for you to shape, as you so like to do. The Superman imposter altered the Moon's orbit," Damian said, as he came to stand in the center of the room, his hands clasping together at the small of his back. He stood as tall as his 4'7" frame would allow, and kept his shoulders squared. "I request permission to return to Gotham."

The Demon studied him in silence from below his slanting brows. Damian did not tremble under the scrutiny, standing firmly like a soldier at parade rest.

"Gotham City is no longer your concern."

"It is more of my concern than ever. Father is… gone. It is my duty to protect the city. I am the Heir, as you have told me countless times in the past. You cannot deny this of me," Damian protested, his hands curling into fists.

"And your first course of action?" One of his lips drew upward; Ra's had thought the boy's obsession would have quelled by now. They had tried to guarantee this.

"To take back control of the streets from the filth, of course," Damian said, his posture relaxing slightly as he approached the ornate wooden desk his grandfather sat behind, and prepared to launch into his plan.

"So then it would not be to liberate your former partner?" Ra's asked coldly, and Damian froze just as he was about to reach the desk, his mouth slightly open. "I was informed of your duress over the broadcast," he said.

"Tt. Grayson was an imbecile to have been caught in the first place," Damian said. Images of Richard Grayson thrown by the feet of the Syndicate, bruised and beaten, lurched unbidden into his mind courtesy of the broadcast to which his grandfather referred. Damian clenched his jaw tightly, his eyes roaming the wall opposite as he struggled to recover while waiting for the impending lecture.

When it did not come, he turned his head slightly to glance at the Demon. The man had returned his attention to the ancient book open before him. Sensing his grandson's gaze, he arched his brows in dismissal though he did not look up as he spoke.

"The sentimentality is not becoming of you. Your emotions have yet to level as your body adjusts to its first time in the Lazarus Pit. You are not ready to return to the city," he said, and lifted his hand to indicate that it was time for Damian to leave.

Two small fists slammed down on the edge of the man's desk before swiping to the side, causing a number of items to scatter across the ground. The Demon did little more than lift his head to look at the snarling face of his formerly composed grandson.

"Sentimental, Grandfather? Perhaps it runs in my blood. Here I stand, when you have an army of my brothers cooking underground," he spat. The boy turned on his heel and stormed for the door, red blurring his vision. He waved his hand to ward off his grandfather's guards, in a motion achingly similar to the one the Demon had just performed. The men only adhered to the boy's desires only after checking with their Master; though they followed the fuming child down the hall at a distance.

Damian stalked through the stone corridor and down several spiraling stone stairways until he opened the door to his quarters and slammed it behind him. Once inside he took a deep breath and pressed his shoulder blades against the thick wooden panel. Letting it out slowly, his body slowly deflated and relaxed against the door. He reached out to the side with one hand and slid the lock into place.

The Tower was not a prison. This was something that he had been told upon his arrival; the quarters he had been provided were large. Stone, of course, like the entire tower and the rest of the compound. The furnishings were limited, but of high quality. The bed was covered in Egyptian Cotton bed cloths; 1000 thread count, of course, with a cervical roll to serve as a pillow. A chandelier hanging from the high ceiling was the main source of lighting, though there were several smaller lamps to fill the darker corners, like the one that had become his reading nooks. Prisoners didn't get reading nooks.

There was plenty of natural lighting. Most of the windows were large enough to squeeze through if it weren't for the bars that covered them all. They were decorative bars, forming intricate quatrefoil patterns that could be considered an aesthetic choice, but they were bars none the less. An arched doorway led to a bathing area, and a second led to the hall. Two guards were stationed at the door at all times. 'They are there for your safety, they are not servants,' he had been told, upon attempting to order one of them to be his sparring partner.

Damian had decided this was simply the House of al Ghul's very own Bastille.

But the good thing about giving a puzzle a name was that it led a clearer past to the solution. Call something a house and you know that there's an exit through a door; call it a prison, and you know you have to find a key.

Permission from Ra's to leave would have been useful, though it had been unexpected as well as unneeded. Adrenaline still pumping through Damian's body from the encounter with his grandfather, he slowly peeled himself off the door and looked down into his hand. An old, ornate key rested in his palm. It had likely once been gold-plated, though most of it had worn off by now. It was little more than a trinket now that most of the Tower's locks had been updated, mostly thanks to his Mother. But it paid to befriend the eyes and the ears of your home. This particular tip had come from the Cook, weeks before that broadcast had even aired. A skeleton key that was still able to open the older, forgotten passages.

Making his way over to the wardrobe along the far wall, Damian kneeled beside it and wedged his fingers behind some of the ornate paneling along the bottom. Pulling gently, he popped it free and revealed a dusty space about four inches tall between the floor and the first drawer. It was a fairly obvious hiding spot, but had so far gone undetected. He nudged aside a small box of pilfered and discarded keys; all useless. The one in his fist had to be the one. There was no time to search for more. Grayson had made sure of that.

Grayson. Damian felt a shiver roll up his spine, and wrote it off as a byproduct of kneeling on the stone floor.

"Idiot." Because of him, Damian's escape plan had been put on the fast track: he was hardly as prepared as he would have liked. Leaning over to fit his thin arm in under the wardrobe he grabbed the edge of a sack and dragged it out. Laying the key on the ground, he began to remove items one by one to inventory his stock. Three knives, of various shapes and sharpness. One empty water bladder. Approximately 30 feet of rope, if it could be called that- he had scavenged it from a drapery in the dining commons. He wasn't sure he could trust it all that much.

And that was it. Everything contained in this bag, plus his Lazarus-skewed wits, was all he had to make it out. It would be the most pathetic utility belt in the history of Bats.

It would have to do.

Visions of the broadcast popped into his mind, once again unbidden. He immediately disregarded the information about the Justice League being 'dead.' Damian knew without a shadow of doubt that this had to be false. Judging by how they had treated Nightwing on-screen, if they'd had the bodies of the league they would have been put on full display and most likely desecrated. They'd tossed out little tokens to their all-star audience as if it was enough to pacify; a piece of Superman's cape, Aquaman's all-powerful Trident. It was a show.

It had been more difficult to ignore the bruises and wounds so clear on Nightwing as the Wonder Woman imposter manhandled his body, pulled the mask from his face, and exposed his identity to the entire world. Half-conscious as the man had been, Damian couldn't ever remember seeing him look so… defeated. As his civilian persona, as Nightwing, or during his stint as Batman.

Damian hadn't even heard what they had said after that. Luckily (or not) for him, the footage had been looped. When the ringing of his ears had finally dissipated, he memorized the threats to heart.

Ultraman had said, on live broadcast, that he would hunt down and destroy everything that Richard Grayson held dear. But as far as everyone knew, Robin had been dead for months. They'd never see him coming.

"Hang on, Grayson," Damian whispered, as he began to gather the meager tools back up. "I'm coming."

A/N: Next time on Raise Hell- Damian makes it to Gotham! Or does he? Dun dun daa.

Let me know in the comments of any characters you would like to see make an appearance. If you're reading FE, anyone you wish was better represented for the rescue of Nightwing. There are some who I have already planned, but feel free to make suggestions. ;)

Thanks for reading.