Tim Drake

If looks could kill…

The boy in a sudden need of a haircut was certain that he would be six feet under the ground decorating the backyard of the Wayne Manor, with a fine mourning statue of a naked woman embracing the Warlocks & Warriors' Master that he was himself while carnations covered his full name.

Quite the picture, indeed, but fortunately for him, his sister was there to soften 'things' so nobody would get a bloodied nose again.

And that was the point of everything, right? Because if it were down for the unwearable demon that Damian was, Tim would be short of half a liter of his crimson liquid in the twinkling of an eye. And hear him well, that's not even an overdramatic reaction at all.

The kid beside him had a mean streak that happened to pop up around him more than often on a daily basis. A living hell inside their heavenly state if you asked Tim, though if to escape from such a thing he had to suffer the uneasiness that Cass brought when she stepped in in their affairs, well, who was Him to denial assistance?

Cassandra was the guardian angel of all the family -remember the sculpture mentioned above? It looked fairly like her in his head, though you should scratch the nudity part especially after what happened during the summer break.

She was awkward and distant. Never talked unless it was necessary. Tight-lipped like the marble image flooding his head and her presence…her presence was scary. The girl felt like someone from another world. Kind of divine sometimes but scary nonetheless. Every emotion a human could ever putt off she lacked, bestowing her with an aura that only Samara or Sadako could wear all alone. And for some odd reason she was able to appear in the right place at the right time as on cue to rescue him instead of exacerbating the 'damage', but why?

She saved everyone from Damian, but never Damian from others. It wasn't new that none of them were fond of each other but the reasons escaped from Tim's understanding… or not? Who was he kidding? He knew pretty well why she didn't 'like' Damian as much as the rest of the family: The kid was an annoying brat and thought his deeds were beyond measure. But they weren't. And the Titanic banner firmly attached to his head spoke volumes of his oncoming future.

Someone should stop him before the tragedy sail but then again, who was Him to meddle? To extinguish those ínfulas(*)? To rescue the kid from himself?

They all had their own tough lessons to learn and he was in no position to judge whether his younger brother was or wasn't ready for his. Neither that he cared anyway…

Tim sighed deeply, sunken hands vanishing below the soapy scum of the sink and then realized to his surprise that he was left alone.

Time passed too fast when his mind wandered. Way faster than he might've presumed, and with a missing towel to dry his hands he ran them through his rebel hair, fixing the locks from the top and combing them far away from his eyes.

"I need a haircut soon," he noted to himself, fishing for his phone to make the proper appointment with the barber when the alarm startled him.

"Conner!" The screen showed a pending task and he dialed his best friend's number, mumbling nervously, "C'mon, man. Pick up the phone."

Damian Wayne

Gordon Bennett—

"What's the damp squib of odor, Pennyworth?" A high-pitched voice raised from the entrance of the kitchen -perhaps too high for his likeness but cold and almost menacing as intended.

The younger heir and only biological son of billionaire Bruce Wayne, true to his devious nature, wrinkled his nose in disgust and frowned his mouth way up from its rightful place, mimicking his father's expression when something wasn't to their liking and rising all the attention required in the process.

A succeed. He noticed and smirked to himself while scanning the room in search of the source of such insult to the senses.

It was scandalous. The stench, almost poisonous, filled his lungs with a sour odor no man could name; made him want to cough but he endured it. He had to. Even though his beyond the average sense of smell wasn't of any help at the time.

"It is a healthy breakfast for every taste, Master Damian," the butler informed him, flipping what it looked like a plain pancake from the griddle while his eyes never left the task at hand.

It was far and wide acknowledged that the man's cookery skills weren't his best asset, yet nobody complained as soon as they could skip a meal or two.

Nobody… except for Damian.

He wasn't like his siblings. They feared damaging Pennyworth's pride but he was brave enough to express it in front of him and so he did, "What it might be healthy for peasants, may not be so for a trained palate as mine." His words earned what he could read as a vague symptom of tiredness in the butler's face.

Probably be due to his old age, he thought but didn't share out loud and stared back at him. Piercing green eyes stuck on brown ones until a wheezing laugh interrupted the eying contest.

Grayson and Todd, who were engaged in some kind of unofficial Greco-Roman wrestling performance, had stopped to add a layer of inane mirth to the background.

"Easy there, Dami," Grayson said awfully cheerful as he approached him.

All smiles and goofy moves make the older be a fool. He clicked his tongue, the familiar 'tsk' sound announcing an unpleasant retort when the elder brother patted Damian's head and shoved him down on a seat faster than he could dodge.

"You wouldn't want Alf's anger on your back, would you?" then reminded him, the stupid smirk still on his face and he so much wanted to wipe it off… but the other sturdy beast joined Grayson, adding a heavy hand on his shoulder and whispering, "Don't make it any difficult, brat."