Warning: Major character death (occurs before the story). Slightly graphic description of injuries.
There is a man. Jason sees him sometimes, in the corner of his eye. Ever since coming to Wayne Manor, he's been there, lurking off to the side. His posture is always relaxed and casual. Occasionally he leans against a wall and sits on the arm of a chair. It depends, really, on where Jason is at that particular time.
At first, Jason thinks that his new house is haunted. He brings it up once with Bruce, who seems startled and immediately checks the manor's security. He finds nothing. Jason mentions it to Alfred, who looks at him as if he is imagining the remnant of a dream and assures him that there is no one there.
The pattern continues. No one else sees the man. When Jason meets Zatanna, he asks her about his mysterious follower; she checks but comes up with nothing. Magic does not seem able to detect him at all. He does not appear in cameras. Bruce and Alfred never notice him, even at moments it seems they should be looking right at him. Whenever Jason turns to try to catch a glimpse of him, he vanishes. But Jason knows he is there, watching him.
He never seems to do anything. He just stands there, just in the edge of Jason's vision, and watches him. It should be creepy and disturbing, yet it isn't. Nor does it feel particularly concerning or benevolent or really anything at all.
The situation simply is.
So Jason eventually comes to accept that there is a man who watches him that no one else can see and leaves it at that.
Eight months after coming to live with Bruce and two months since becoming Robin, Jason has long grown used to the figure shadowing him. He knows that the figure is probably nothing more than a figment of his mind. Nothing and no one has ever shown even one sign that they notice the man.
Sometimes, it even feels as if the man helps him in battle. His familiar shape can draw his eye, and he will glance his way and see danger hurtling toward him. Occasionally, a gut instinct prompts him to dodge an attack he wasn't even aware of. It's all nonsense, of course. The man likely doesn't even exist.
Jason still likes to imagine that there is a guardian angel hovering over his shoulder.
That doesn't keep him from butting heads with Bruce. He is an overprotective, overbearing mentor, does not seem to understand the concept of praise, and holds him back from his full potential, keeping him far away from the likes of Joker. Jason understands why, but he's not happy about it. He is not the predecessor he's never met, and he doesn't want to be sent back to the Cave every time an especially dangerous criminal, like Joker, appears.
They disagree on this matter, among many others.
It's not a particularly memorable night when Jason decides he's finally done. He is angry and fed up at being punished for doing something right. Jason had saved people on patrol that night. He had defeated the bad guy. But Bruce calls him reckless, claims he'd used too much force, then bans him from patrol for the next two nights and threatens to strip away the Robin mantle if it happens again. It is not the first time this has happened. Jason is determined that this will be the last. He is done with taking Bruce's stoic and authoritarian crap. He was never fully comfortable wearing the old uniform of a dead man anyway.
So he packs a bag and puts on warm clothes and starts down the stairs.
There is a man waiting at the bottom. Jason pauses, and stares at him. His features blur and shift before his eyes, and Jason's mind cannot hold onto any details. And yet he knows beyond a doubt that his expression is warm, kind, understanding. Something in his gut whispers that this is the one who watches him. Standing right in front of him, for the first time since he appeared.
Jason swallows. Shifts the bag hanging on his shoulder.
"Who are you?" he asks.
The man tips his head. Steps closer, crouches to bring them level with each other. Jason desperately tries to concentrate on even one detail of his face. He can't.
For the first time, the man speaks. His voice is soft and compassionate.
"He is a jerk sometimes. But he cares. He loves, deeply. He just has trouble showing it." Jason huffs, and something in his eyes twinkles in amusement. "He's afraid of history repeating, but in time, things will get better. Give him another chance, Jaybird, and I think you'll find that it's not so bad after all."
Jason scowls and scoffs and seethes, but in the end he does not leave. Alfred consoles him in his own way. Bruce acts like he always does, but Jason starts seeing the little gestures that indicate his true emotions.
A month later, when Bruce smiles softly and calls him "Jaylad" and awkwardly pats his shoulder with pride, Jason muses that maybe the man, whoever he is, had been right.
All Jason can feel is agony. Joker is cackling above him.
"A little louder, lamb chop," Joker urges, sweetly mocking. His hand grips Jason's hair as he leans down beside him. "I think you may have a collapsed lung; that always impedes the oratory."
Jason spits in his face.
Joker scowls, smashes his head to the ground, and pulls back. "Now, that was rude. Though really, the first boy blunder didn't have much better manners. Guess the Bat didn't teach them to either of you! I suppose it once again falls to me to teach you a lesson." He considers it for a moment, then grins. "Nah. I'm just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar."
Jason's world dissolves again into pain, the smack of metal against skin, and the feeling of bones breaking.
Finally, it stops. Joker is speaking but Jason can barely hear him through the haze of agony. There's cackling, high and crazed, and then the distinct sound of a door slamming shut.
Jason looks up. The warehouse is empty now. He groans, bending and shifting to bring his tied hands in front of him. He tries to force himself to his feet and stagger toward the door. It's only across the warehouse but feels countless miles away. His legs give out after only a couple steps. He grits his teeth and painstakingly crawls the rest of the way. A trail of blood is left in his wake.
When he reaches the doorway, lifting his hands is the hardest thing he's ever done. His fingers scrabble at the door handle. It refuses to turn. Locked.
Then, as if that isn't bad enough, Jason becomes aware of a high-pitched beeping.
He turns and looks, and there is a bomb, timer ticking down one second at a time: 10, 9, 8...
Horrible understanding and heavy despair wells up in his chest. Bruce didn't make it. This is the end. Just like the first, he's going to die here —
And then there is a man, standing over him, his features clearer than they've ever been. His eyes are a crisp blue, almost startlingly so. Jason tips his head back, stares at them, entranced, pain and impending death nearly forgotten. This is the first time he's seen him in such detail. The first time he's ever see the brilliant shade of his eyes. He must really be about to die, then.
Because if he can see clearly that there is a man shaking his head, once, with eyes sharp with denial, determination, Jason is closer to death than he is to life.
The lock clicks softly.
The sound is barely audible over his labored breathing; it breaks him out of his reverie. Jason twists to stare at it, wide-eyed, then back at the man. Only the man has vanished as if he was never there. Jason doesn't dwell on it; he lunges for the door. This time, it turns easily in his hand.
He throws himself out the door, adrenaline granting him just a little more strength, and has made it three feet out of the warehouse when the bomb goes off.
A sledgehammer slams into his back. Jason is hurled through the air, tumbling end-over-end, disoriented from his impromptu flight. Yet he does not feel the touch of horrendous burns along his back. When he smashes into the ground, the impact jars his injuries but nothing breaks.
There is something wrapping around him, he realizes, enfolding him in it embrace. It shields him from the blast, from the landing, absorbing them and letting nothing harm Jason. It feels almost like wings.
Yet when Jason twists around to look, there is nothing there. Only the fire raging in a furious blaze, red and orange and yellow weaving together with the slightest tint of blue.
Jason coughs violently, feeling blood dribble down his chin. He lies there in the cold snow, too exhausted to figure out how in the word he'd survived. The door had been locked. He knows it had been. And that close to the building, the explosion should've torn him to pieces. Not to mention the collision with the hard ground would've been enough to at least crack a few more bones. Yet here he is, in pain and definitely alive, with the only broken bones ones that Joker broke himself.
"Jason!"
Bruce slides to his knees beside him. "Jason!" he repeats, urgently.
Jason blinks up at his mentor and father-figure blearily. His mind is spinning and he's having trouble focusing on what Bruce is saying. Something about "got you" and "it's okay" and "out of here"?
Bruce heaves Jason into his arms. He curls into the familiar, armored chest as Bruce carries him away from the warehouse, away from where he almost met his death.
Jason glances back, just once, at the roaring fire. There is a man watching them leave. He is silhouetted by the flames. Blood drips from phantom wounds and splashes noiselessly on the ground.
There is a man observing him again. Tim can barely see him, but his countenance exudes concern. Which is fair, Tim supposes. The rain is cold against Tim's skin, even bundled up as he is. It crawls through his layers of clothing and seeps into his bones. Despite his best efforts, he's shivering. But as much discomfort he's in right now, he doesn't want to go back to his huge house, with its silent air and empty hallways and desolate rooms. Out here in the city, at least he doesn't feel as alone.
So Tim clutches his camera, wrapped securely in a waterproof bag, tighter and doggedly presses onward. The man walks with him, and when Tim pauses to get his bearings and decide on the best way to proceed, he leans casually against the alley wall. Like always, he never makes any move to interact with Tim or do anything other than stare at him.
He's been seeing the man lately, but he has no idea why. Tim dared to ask one of his nannies once, and she scoffed and called him stupid. He learned not to do it again. No point in making others think he's crazy. But his presence is comforting, in a way. So Tim lets the man follow him, afraid to go to the doctor and be given medication to make him go away. Even if Tim really is imagining him, at least he's not quite so alone anymore.
Robin — the second Robin; Tim isn't sure what happened to the first, only that he is no longer around — is three alleys down, subduing a gang of thugs. Tim deftly swarms up a wall, fingers and feet finding purchase in the rough stone, and perches precariously on one of the many stone gargoyles scattered about the city. His position puts him right above the fight. If it weren't for the rain, he would be snapping some pictures right now.
The brawl is dying down. Robin crows in victory as he unloads punches into his last enemy. The guy collapses, blood flowing freely from his nose. Robin rubs his hands together, surveying his downed attackers with glee.
And then someone is right behind him, creeping out from the shadows. He raises a gun and Tim's heart lurches.
"Robin!" Tim shouts.
Robin whirls around and sees the thug. The gun goes off with a bang, and Tim flinches hard at the explosive noise. The bullet narrowly misses Robin and burrows into the wall of the alley. He lunges for the thug, swinging in a heavy right hook. It's the right hook that helped Tim realize his secret identity; he once saw Jason Todd down a school bully with the same punch. The guy slumps to the ground with a groan.
Then Robin looks up. Right at Tim.
Tim gulps and shrinks back.
"What the — " Robin starts.
He gives one of the downed men a kick for good measure, muttering to himself, then jogs over and pulls out his grapple gun. A couple seconds later, he's yanking Tim off the gargoyle, and onto the rooftop.
"What's a shrimp like you doing up here?" Robin asks.
Tim swallows and opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Robin sighs.
"Okay then. Hold on," he says, and then his arm is around Tim's waist and he's grappling them both down to the ground. He sets Tim down at the mouth of the alley. One hand rises to his ear, and Robin says, seemingly to air, "Yes, B, they're all taken care of. Just got to tie them up. Oh, and I got a bit of a stupid-kid-with-a-death-wish situation here, so I'll be a few more minutes. Yes, I can — yeah, yeah, it's — B, really, I got — ugh, fine. Robin out." He gives Tim a once-over, then points at him authoritatively. "Stay here while I take care of these guys."
Tim nods mutely. His hands tighten around his bag. The moment Robin is turned away and distracted with restraining the men, Tim bolts.
He's not entirely sure why. It's not exactly a logical move. Robin has chased down stronger, wilier targets than a undersized thirteen-year-old, and where Robin is, Batman is never far behind. Tim definitely can't get away from Batman.
He's just... he's afraid that they'll find out what he's been taking pictures of. That they'll see his camera and take it away from him. Photography is one of the few things he has left, and he's terrified of losing it. He's... if his parents absence has taught him anything, it's that very little is permanent. His fear is stupid and photography fleeting, but he still clings to it anyway.
Tim glances over his shoulder, then ducks down a nearby alleyway
There is a man waiting just inside. Tim skids to a startled stop. It's him. His jaw drops and he stares dumbly. He didn't think — the man is actually right in front of him. Something stirs in his chest when he looks into the depths of benevolent blue. Something he'd lost hope on a long time ago.
The man leans down to his level, a gentle smile gracing his face. Tim would go so far as to call it loving, though he can't fathom why the man would be looking at him like that. No one ever has before. Even his own parents don't. Tim finds himself staring a face with more tenderness than his parents have ever shown him combined.
"You don't have to run. You can trust them. They won't abandon you, and they won't hate you. They might be concerned and angry, at first, but they'll care more than they'll want to admit, and they won't take away your camera. I know your family hasn't been there for you. That you feel like you have a life of loneliness ahead of you. But give it time, Timmy, and I think you'll find that it's not so bad after all."
Tim is doubtful, but he doesn't argue. He goes back to Robin and lets him and Batman bring him home. Neither asks what's in his bag, which he's thankful for. They say nothing about his living conditions.
The next day, Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd appear on his doorstep and life as he knows it gets turned on its head. At first, Tim feels mildly betrayed by the man.
A year later, when Bruce looks at him as a father looks at his son, and Jason teases him and ruffles his hair and calls him "brother," Tim realizes that perhaps the man, whoever he is, had been right.
Tim is alone on a rooftop, he has numerous broken ribs plus a probably-broken leg, blood is weeping from a few new bullet holes, a fresh wave of drones have their weapons trained on him, and he knows behind a shadow of a doubt that he is about to die.
Stephanie is pleading in his ear, begging him not to hang up, to stay with her. With a heavy sorrow, Tim pulls his comm unit off and speaks his final words to her.
"I love you, Steph," he says quietly. "Goodbye."
Stephanie screams over the comms as he lets the unit clatter to the rooftop. Tim raises his head and looks around at the army of drones surrounding him. Every weapon is trained on him.
"Okay," Tim breathes, and sad acceptance settles over him. "Okay."
Tim closes his eyes and waits for the end.
It doesn't come. Instead, Tim is suddenly shoved out of the way, hard. He sprawls across the rooftop with a grunt, stunned by the unexpected movement. By what seems like sheer luck, no more bones break, and while his ribs scream at him, they don't seem especially aggravated. Tim groans and rolls over, and then he sees that there is a man standing over him, his back to Tim, facing the drones. He glances over his shoulder at Tim. His lips are curled with a reassuring smile. Where Tim had been standing, smoke rises as the drones fire. Slowly, the hail of bullets ceases, as they realize their target is no longer where he was once.
They begin to turn in their direction. Tim tries to struggle to his feet, but he has no energy left. The man does not move. His blue eyes are shining. He looks calm and unworried. Even with his initial luck, Tim does not think he is going to survive this time.
Then Batman arrives.
Everything falls into chaos. Batman is a whirlwind of destruction, drones falling all around him. They crash to the rooftop in an uneven series of booms as Batman cuts a swathe through his mechanical enemies.
At some point, Batwoman joins the brawl, leaping into battle right alongside her male counterpart. Spoiler appears too, halfway through, and Tim's pretty sure he's delirious and imagining the whole thing now because how are all three here, except he's pretty sure he can't imagine anything if he's dead. And the grunts of his companions and the explosions as the drones blow up or crash to the ground and the texture of the concrete under his fingers and the smoky tinge to the air all feel very real to him.
Occasionally throughout the fight, a few drones aim at him. Miraculously, nothing hits. Tim decides he should get out of the battlefield while his luck still holds. When he tries to do so, however, agony blazes to life; he can't move more than a few inches before collapsing. He feels darkness tugging at his vision. The pain and exhaustion fill his very being, urging to him to give in.
And he's too tired to fight back.
Tim lets the black claim him. His eyes slide closed.
They open to a hospital room. There is a steady beeping to one side, and bandages are wrapped around his torso. His whole body aches. Tim is pretty sure he must be on a whole lot of pain medication to not be feeling on fire right now.
"Tim! You're awake!" someone says, and that's when Tim realizes there are other people in the room. A worried Jason pops into his field of view, a cheerful grin breaking over his face at the sight of Tim awake. Bruce appears behind Jason. Damian leans against the wall beyond them both, arms crossed.
"Tim!" Steph cheers from his other side, voice hoarse. When he turns his attention to her, he sees splotchy, tear-stained cheeks and red eyes. Tim opts to not comment on that, and instead reaches for her hand. She takes it immediately, her palm warm underneath his.
Damian clicks his tongue. "Tt. It is about time you awoke, Drake — Timothy," he corrects reluctantly when Jason frowns warningly. Damian sniffs contemptuously, though his eyes betray his true feelings. "Perhaps now Brown will cease her incessant prattling."
Steph shoots Damian a dirty look.
Bruce says nothing, but when he looks at Tim, he can see the concern and utter relief in his eyes. He gently squeezes Tim's shoulder, and that simple gesture says everything.
Tim gives him a tired smile.
Meanwhile, Steph has very quickly transitioned from relief to anger. She doesn't let go of him, though, even as she lays into him.
"We have a lot to talk about," Steph huffs, jabbing a finger at him. "Like you trying to sacrifice yourself. Without telling any of us beforehand. And nearly getting yourself killed like an absolute idiot. You're not getting away with that. We are so going to have words, Mister."
Tim grins crookedly. "Okay," he agrees.
Eventually, Bruce has to leave to tie up some loose ends, and Damian goes with him. Steph clutches Tim's hand like a lifeline, and Tim doesn't feel inclined to let go anytime soon. It takes barely an hour for Steph's fatigue to catch up to her. She falls asleep with her head resting on the bed, just beside the clasped hands. Jason just laughs and gives Tim a teasing but relieved smile. He leaves ten minutes later to find some food for himself, with a departing promise to bring a "boring, scientific, nerdy textbook" back for him.
Not even two minutes after Jason steps from the room, Tim looks up, feeling a new presence fill the room. There is a man at the foot of his bed. He smiles at Tim, warm and comforting, but there is a deep sorrow in his blue eyes. For a split second, his form flickers. Ghostly fire dances along his body. It leaves horrific burns behind.
There is a man spying on him. Damian can feel his eyes, can glimpse his indistinct form just barely in view. The knowledge that he's there yet being unable to do anything about it infuriates him. His fingers itch to impale his stalker with a knife or something equally sharp. He refrains from attempting to do so. He knows that there is little purpose to such an action.
The situation surely is related to Father's home, or perhaps Gotham. The man had not shown up until Damian himself arrived on Father's doorstep. Damian does not initially think anything is out of the ordinary, aside from Father's preference to keep Todd and Drake around. A completely unnecessary decision. Now Father has met Damian, what need has he for Shrike or Dragon? Robin will prove a greater ally than either of those fools.
Barely half a week passes before Damian realizes that Father's home has more to it than meets the eye.
The first time Damian sees the man, he seizes one of Father's batarangs and flings it at him. The moment he spins around and the projectile leaves his hand, the man's image dissipates. The batarang lodges into the cave wall. Damian scowls to mask his bewilderment. His aim had been true; he did not miss. And yet he did. And the man is nowhere to be seen.
He turns, fuming, and sees Father and Drake staring at him. They look utterly confused. Drake glances between Damian and the batarang. Father opens his mouth and Damian knows he is about to ask why.
Why? He does not know how to answer the question. Damian cannot determine what he should say, how to explain his sudden assault on empty air, for as much as he hates to admit it, he does not understand how it has happened. A lack of knowledge is nothing but weakness and incompetence in the League, and Damian refuses to be seen as less before Father. So he sticks his chin into the air and strides out of the cave with a haughty air.
He sees the man later, again and again, yet whenever Damian whirls to confront him, he meets naught but empty space.
Damian does not ever mention the man. While Todd and Drake are easily capable of being oblivious enough to not notice him, Father is most certainly not. If Father does not see him, then he must not be there. And if he is not there, then Damian is not about to tell Father he is hallucinating and thus be seen as anything less than the perfect son. He must maintain his image of skill and strength so that Father will come to understand that he is by far the superior son.
It is frustrating not to know the cause of this phenomenon, but the man causes no problems, no disruptions. So after two months, Damian has stopped attempting to demand answers from his shadow. That is not to say he has given up; his pride and honor will never allow such a thing. He simply... resolves to pursue the matter at an undetermined time in the future.
By the four-month mark, Damian is finding that he does not hate Gotham. Todd and Drake are quite irksome, but with Father, living there is... tolerable. The idea of returning to Mother and the League is slightly less appealing than it was originally.
And then Darkseid invades and Father does not return.
Damian is left with the aging servant and the two fools Father has taken in. He is... not lost, of course, but perhaps he is a bit uncertain as to where he goes next. Todd and Drake discuss Father's legacy and Todd agrees to hang up his Shrike costume to become Batman. Drake promises that Dragon will be there if the city needs him.
Damian demands he resume the duties of Robin. Those incompetents will never be able to protect Gotham on their own. Todd refuses, and this sets off the first of many arguments. Drake sides with Todd for the beginning few, but in subsequent ones, he seems to grow weary of the arguing and withdraws, absorbed in new research and new data.
It is hardly surprising. Damian has always known that Drake lacks the conviction and steadfastness of Father. And while Damian is not enthused on the idea of working with Todd, he came here to learn from Father, to learn from Batman. Incompetent as Todd is, he did learn directly from Father. Perhaps the occasional trick has rubbed off on him. It would be shameful to return to Mother with nothing to show for his time in Gotham.
The fights continue for a week before Damian concludes that whatever Todd can possibly teach him is too insignificant to waste his time upon. That night, Damian gathers his things and strides off, head held high. He is not running. He has simply deemed it pointless to remain in Father's home. He makes it two streets away. Then he comes to a wary halt.
There is a man in his way. Shadows play across his face, flickering with the streetlights, but he seems oddly familiar. Damian shifts his stance subtly, one hand reaching for his katana. He has no patience for this.
"Move," Damian orders coldly, menacingly. He unsheathes his weapon.
The man tilts his head to the side, and Damian abruptly registers just why he had tugged at his memory. This is the man who has been following him. Damian bristles and opens his mouth to demand long-awaited answers of him — but then the man moves forward, patience and affection written in his face. His vitriol dies in his throat.
"What do you want from me?" Damian snaps, but try as he might, there is no true bite to his words. "Why have you been following me?"
The man offers no verbal response. He kneels before him, and he places a kind hand upon Damian's shoulder. It leaves warm tingles that linger pleasantly for a long time. Damian's grip on his katana falters. His anger trickles away, leaving him feeling hollow inside. The man's mild voice, brimming with quiet faith, flows in to fill him instead.
"I know neither of them are your father. That you didn't intend or want to work under them. But they are good people, and you can learn a lot from him, more than you will from the League. Your mother raised you differently than they were, and you know how they train will not be how you used to train. It will not be easy. At times, you may even think that it is pointless to learn under him. But give it a try, Dami, and I think you'll find that it's not so bad after all."
Damian sneers and spits and snarls, but in the end he returns to Todd. And after another lengthy, heated argument, Todd very reluctantly agrees to try. Behind the new Batman, there is a man, smiling softly.
One and a half years later, when Todd does not refute an idle comment on how they look like family and Drake extends a hesitant olive branch and Batman and Robin stand watchful together over the city, Damian admits that possibly the man, whoever he is, had been right.
Shrike is out of the fight, collapsed and unconscious in the shattered remains of a glass case. Normally, Damian would mock Todd for allowing himself to be taken out so easily, but the Heretic is no ordinary enemy. As his adult version, every skill and talent Damian has is multiplied. He has his strength, his speed, his determination; more than that, he lacks his moral code. The Heretic had taken twin strikes to the chin and barely even reacted. He'd knocked out Shrike in seconds. And Damian —
Damian is afraid.
Shame stings him at such fear. Damian hides it behind snarls and threats because though Todd and Drake may tease him, he has learned they do not truly judge. The Heretic, however, will look at the emotion and see only weakness. And Damian cannot afford to be even a little bit weak, not in this fight for his life.
"Take me to my mother," Damian demands. "It's me she wants. I know you."
The Heretic looks at him, inscrutable, and says, "No. My brother. My twin. My rival." Without breaking his gaze, he reaches over and grasps the sword in the broken case. "Now you will know me."
And then he is swinging his newly-claimed weapon and Damian is moving to avoid getting decapitated. His strike breaks yet another glass case, exposing the spear within. Damian nimbly dodges the Heretic's next attack and yanks the spear out of the mannequin's hand. He flips backward and lands a few feet away from his enemy, standing up straight and planting the spear right beside him.
"Mother!" Damain shouts. "I know you're watching somewhere!" Desperation and pain leaks into his voice, and he cannot stop it this time. Surely this is not Mother's plan? "Stop! Please!"
They exchange another couple blows. Damian slides his hands down the spear shaft and grips it by the head to block a downward sword stroke. His muscles strain as he struggles to hold back the Heretic's strength. His foe's weight is bearing down on him, but he will not let himself be felled.
The Heretic kicks out suddenly, and Damian is sent tumbling backward. He crashes into one of the broken display cases, his back crunching against shattered glass. As he recovers his wits, he notices a loaded crossbow right beside him.
The Heretic is looming over someone else now. His back is to him. His guard has dropped, and he is not paying any attention to Damian.
He understands fully now; the Heretic is beyond him. If he wants to even have a chance of surviving, he is going to have to break one of Father's most important rules. I am sorry, Father. He hardens his resolve.
"I promised my father I wouldn't kill anyone ever again," Damian growls to himself, but it is better than being killed. "Tt."
The crossbow bolt slams into the Heretic's back, and Damian launches himself forward into a high kick. His foot hits the bolt dead-center and drives it all the way through. The Heretic drops his sword and snarls, reaching for Damian as he climbs onto his back. He feels more crossbow bolts, fired by the Heretic's allies, pierce his shoulder and arm, and Damian howls in pain. The Heretic slams his knee into his back and Damian stabs him with an arrowhead. The two of them exchange of series of quick blows, the younger weaving around the older's strikes. But Damian's hampered by his injuries.
The Heretic catches him by the throat, hauling him into the air with one hand. The fire consuming his sleeve licks at Damian's armor. Fingers close around his airway.
"Coward," Damian chokes out defiantly, and spits a globule of blood right at his enemy's face. The Heretic tightens his grip briefly, then hurls him with all his prodigious strength right at a wall.
Damian collides head-first with a Wayne Enterprises logo. He crumples to the floor with a muffled groan, vision blurring. The Heretic has reclaimed his sword and is approaching. His red visor burns a line across Damian's eyes as he looms above him. His arm is wreathed in flames, the fire consuming his cloth sleeve. There is no expression in his mask beyond cold apathy.
"...call him off at once..." Damian croaks weakly, staring up at his older self. "...Mother..."
Damian struggles to move, but the last blow has stunned him, and he is not fast enough. He has failed. The Heretic lifts his borrowed sword and takes one more step.
And he trips.
The Heretic recovers his balance almost instantly, but it is just enough time for Damian to roll out of the way. The sword stabs down where he had been a split-second before. He kicks out at his enemy's leg. The Heretic barely reacts and instead cracks him across the face with a heavy backhand. Damian is flipped over with the force of the blow. His head smacks into the hard floor, and he feels something in his jawbone fracture. Before he has a chance to get up, the Heretic has seized him by the hair and slammed his face back down to the floor.
Damian blacks out, agony washing over him in waves. He is only out for a moment before consciousness slowly starts crawling back. His fingers scrabble against the ground in an attempt to shove himself upright but they falter and fail. Damian's expects another blow to come crashing down, but surprisingly, none comes.
Forcing his pain aside, he pushes himself off the floor with trembling arms, breath coming in short, wheezing gasps. He kneels there on his hands and knees, doubled over and trying to muster the strength he needs to get up. His body is on fire and it feels like he can barely breathe or think through his muddled brain. He is completely exposed and vulnerable. Yet the attacks have ceased. Did Mother call him off?
Damian lifts his head to search for the Heretic. There is a man standing over him instead. Beyond him, the Heretic is slumped against the far wall, inexplicably defeated. Damian's eyes flick up questioningly to the man. He extends a hand in a silent offer. When Damian grasps it, broken bones shift under his grip. He pulls him to his feet, and for an instant, a spectral image replaces his calm appearance. His jaw is askew, shattered. Limbs are twisted and bent, snapped by unyielding, unforgiving metal.
"You know, Dragon," Jason grunts as he steps around a burning piece of furniture, "when you said you wanted to hang out, this was not what I was imagining. Third floor clear."
"Trust me, this wasn't what I meant," Tim replies dryly. He kicks down the last door in the hallway and sweeps the room, squinting to see through the smoke. It's empty, to his relief. "Fourth floor clear."
"Second floor clear," Damian reports. "That is everyone in the building."
"Great. Now everyone out — " Something abruptly crashes over the comms, and Damian and Tim both hear the clamor of another part of the building collapse. Jason releases a litany of curses.
"Shrike?" Damian calls, already moving to the staircase.
Jason swears profusely. "Part of the ceiling fell," he hisses through gritted teeth. "Landed on my leg." After several more colorful words, he continues, "Pretty sure my ankle's busted. Could use some help getting it off."
The staircase, thankfully, has not completely collapsed yet. Damian hurries up, maneuvering through the blaze as best he can. Tim, on the floor above Jason, peers down into a hole in the floor. The fire surges around the hole and the next floor down. Judging carefully, he leaps down onto the third floor, landing in a roll. Tim hurries over to where Jason is trapped just as Damian emerges from the staircase. It succumbs completely behind him.
"Ouch," Tim comments. "You look a little trapped, Shrike."
Jason glares at him. "Shut up and help."
The two join Jason in trying to lift the chunk of ceiling pinning his leg. The fire licks at them, painfully hot even through their gloves. With grunts of effort, they heave the ceiling off of him. Tim helps haul Jason to his feet, and he grimaces when he tries to stand.
"Ankle's definitely sprained. Maybe broken." He glances around and swears violently. "Exit's blocked."
The flames have spread even farther. The three are completely surrounded now, the building falling apart before their eyes.
"Well, that's not good," Tim says.
"Tt. Do you have any useful thoughts, Dragon?" Damian scoffs. He turns to Jason. "How do you propose we get out now?"
Jason grimaces and looks around. On the far wall, a window awaits. However, it's also blocked off by a wall of fire that is utterly impenetrable. That way would be suicide. Their uniforms would never be able to handle it. "We'll try going down. Flames are a little less dense below us. Maybe — "
"Uh, guys," Tim interrupts, and points.
They turn. They stare.
"How the f — "
"Is he doing that?"
Because the scorching inferno is inexplicably bending out of their way, leaving a clear shot to the window. And right beside the window, there is a man. His placid demeanor is a sharp contrast to the chaos raging around them. He leans back against the window edge and watches them steadily. Even through the smoke and ash, his blue eyes are piercingly sharp.
Damian inhales sharply, then promptly erupts into a coughing fit. "That's..." he manages before getting overwhelmed.
"You see him too?" Tim exclaims.
They exchange a wide-eyed look, sharing a stunned moment when they realize that each of them are not the only ones to see the man, that the others recognize him too. Jason is the first to shake off his shock.
"Go now, question later!" he orders.
He starts hobbling toward the exit, wincing every time pressure comes down on his ankle. The other two hurry forward and he throws his arms around their shoulders.
As they move, the already thick smoke grows heavier; it's becoming increasingly difficult to see anything. The flames are slowly inching forward, breaching their temporary safe route. The window briefly vanishes behind a swirl of smoke, and when it reappears, the man is gone. The only sign he was ever there is the ever-narrowing tunnel of fire.
"Where...?" Damian murmurs.
"Not important!" Tim shouts. "Hurry!"
They burst from the window just as the inferno closes in. Glass shatters outward and rains on the alleyway they fall into. They hit the ground hard but alive, instinctively moving into a tuck-and-roll. All three are coated in ash and coughing violently. Behind them, fire roars out of the broken window.
Jason's face is tight with pain. Damian's arm is dislocated from the impact, and he resets it with a grunt of pain. Tim pulls himself to his feet, only bruised from the fall but suffering from the worst burns. Wordlessly, they stagger toward the street, fishing in their belts for their grapple guns.
Then they pause.
There is a man at the mouth of the alley. His form is hidden in shadow, but when he steps forward, flickering light falls across his face. They gape at him, and his expression fills with light amusement. He openly gazes at them with the love and devotion they share for each other yet rarely show. They observe him back with speechless awe.
Then the man takes another step, and they gasp as one. Because suddenly the illusion fades and they see his grisly injuries. His hair is thick and unruly and matted with blood. Bruises bloom across his face, a broken jaw knocked out of alignment and never put back. Half-melted kevlar hides his torso, a distorted shape spread across his chest. Gashes, weeping red, slash back and forth all over his body. His legs bow crookedly, and he moves in a slumping, staggering gait.
Yet, the luster of his blue eyes remain bright and full of emotion. And through the blood and burns and broken bones, he speaks.
"Protect each other," he says, and there is tranquility in his voice.
The brothers glance at each other, silently. And then in unison, they look at their guardian angel and they nod and they say, "We will."
He smiles.
There is a man. He has brilliant blue eyes that are kind and caring. When he smiles, it is as if the sun itself is shining down upon you. His touch is gentle and reassuring, the love of a thousand lifetimes contained within it. His voice is warm and rumbling, promises of a future weaved throughout it. His very being whispers of his deep wells of love and compassion, of the man he'd been and the life he'd led.
There is a man. His body is marred with countless injuries. Blood soaks into a tattered uniform and trickles down his legs. He is burnt and disfigured. His bones are broken, shattered, crushed by a crowbar stained with death. Black and blue melds horrifically with bloody black and blue. Pain is etched in his every inch. Grim resignation lurks behind eyes nearly swollen shut.
There is a man. He did not escape. He will do whatever he can to ensure the others do.
Inspired in part by fireborb's comment:
"Reporter: how does a ghost hold a tangible object?
Dick: i have always believed that when theres a will, theres a way"
I'm not really sure how that turned into this, though...
Thoughts? Questions?