"You're going to Gotham."
Damian blinked down at her in surprise.
Talia took the opportunity of his distraction to kick up at her son, forcing him to move and lose his centre of gravity. A hand around his ankle was all it took for him to find himself on the floor as his mother sprang to her feet. She ran towards her blade – discarded earlier by Damian when he had gained the upper-hand in their bout – and snatched it up just in time to block a barrage of swipes from her son who had regained his footing.
"Why am I going to Gotham?" he asked, whilst aiming a vicious stab at her shoulder.
"The artifact is there," she said, struggling to sound as though she were not out of breath. Besting her son had never been exactly easy, but now that he was seventeen, taller than her and gaining muscle mass it was near impossible. Not for the first time, she resented the physical advantages human men possessed over their female counterparts, but she squashed those thoughts quickly; there was nothing to be gained in such bitter musings. And just because she was weaker didn't mean that she was destined to lose; she just had to be quicker, smarter, more agile. The trouble was, she had taught all this to her son.
She kicked out again. As she had planned, he moved one of his arms to block her foot, but at the last minute she extended her leg rather than continuing its upward motion. She had been aiming for his shin but she must have given herself away somehow because Damian had raised his leg just in time for Talia's to slide under his hovering foot. She had a moment of grim acceptance, knowing what was to come next.
As predicted, Damian brought his raised foot down onto his mother's Tibia with as much force as he could muster. Inevitably, her lower-leg bones shattered. The whole incident was over in a couple of seconds.
Talia grinned ruefully to herself as her son helped her onto her one good leg, offering himself as a crutch for support. It had always been her goal to train the perfect killing machine, the pinnacle of human weaponry. She should be glad that he was thwarting her in almost every fight they had these days, but her own pride was resenting it. Odd.
"I thought," Damian began. But then he seemed to hesitate.
Talia frowned; she knew that hesitation. It was another habit that he seemed to have learnt from his mother. In the early days, before Damian had even been a thought and she was wide-eyed and innocent, full of idiotic ideas of 'love' and 'romance', she had expressed her reservations about her father's plans against her beloved with the same manner of hesitant longing. She had tried her best, had risked and received her father's ire by protecting the defender of Gotham and what did she get in return? Her beloved's contempt, his distance, and his determination to thwart her attempts to help him. She would still have the Batman, but she now knew now that it would take trickery and deceit and perhaps a little mind-alteration. Either way, that wide-eyed foolishness of her youth was a regret, one that her father would never let her forget, and she would be damned if she allowed Damian to fall into the same trap!
"You thought what exactly?" Talia asked, trying to make her tone as icy as possible. She would not have her son falling apart every time he thought about her. She had never wanted him infatuated with the girl in the first place. If it hadn't been for her father's meddling, Damian would have been perfect by now, but no; he was still moping around like a wounded puppy all because of that bitch.
Raven.
Talia hated the name. The name of the spoilt brat who had ruined their lives.
She had swaggered into their lives, thrown temper tantrums, killed good and loyal soldiers, and seduced her son!
Talia partly blamed herself; if the Batman had one weakness – other than his foolish code – it was women. Even to this day, Talia was having to actually compete with that gutter-trash Kyle for his affections. All because Catwoman strutted around in a skin-tight, leather fetish costume, whispering seductive filth into his ears. It seemed that, like his father, the words of an attractive woman by-passed Damian's brain entirely and travelled straight to his crotch.
But then, as if turning Damian into a lovesick fool hadn't been enough, the girl had left, leaving him heart broken.
If Talia ever saw that whore again, she was going to slaughter her. She didn't care who her daddy was, she was a dead girl. No one treated her son in such a manner!
"I thought grandfather lost trace of the artifact two years ago." He said, eventually. At least there wasn't a tremor in his voice as she had been fearing.
"He had," Talia replied calmly, as Damian helped her hobble down the corridor. "But the magician seems to have brought it back to this dimension and given it into the care of your father."
Damian's muscles tensed at the mention of his sire.
"Why give it to him?" he growled.
Inwardly, Talia smirked. It was always a relief to hear Damian talk of his father with such hatred; she had always feared that the Batman's soft heartedness might have – despite her best efforts – been passed down to their child. But no; Damian was an al Ghul through and through.
"We don't know," she said truthfully. Who knew why the chain-smoking fool had given such a magical treasure to the Batman instead of handing it over to one of the Justice League's magical members; didn't Dr Fate have a fabled tower impenetrable to all physical attack?
Whatever the reason, it was on Earth, and therefore within the reach of the League of Assassins.
Though why they were still hunting them was a question Ra's al Ghul had never answered satisfactorily. Talia personally didn't see the point; apparently none of them would work without the devil-child and most of them could not even be reached without the use of her magics. But her father seemed to hold out hope that she would someday return to them. Maybe he was hoping that the girl had fallen for Damian just as much as he had fallen for her, and that she would be unable to stay parted from him for long. Well, it had been almost two years; how much longer was Ra's willing to cling to his fantasy?
"It's good that I'm going," Damian said, more to himself than to her, as they passed the silent guards and entered the Lazarus chamber. "It's time I faced him."
"Be careful Damian," Talia said softly. "Try not to get hurt."
He stared at her, his handsome face eerie in the green glow of the Lazarus Pit.
"Not to worry, mother," He assured her, as he assisted her until she was waist-deep in the healing waters. "I never do."
xxx
The din of the marketplace assaulted Raven's senses. It was always a shock to her when she had to travel into civilisation for necessities. The crush of people; the shouting of the vendors selling their wares; the crying of tired children; the roar of engines. It was almost more than she could bear after the silence and solitude of her other-dimensional hide-away.
She came to a stop in front of a stall where a silver skinned, pink haired man with six arms was presiding over a display of fruits and vegetables. The small sign swinging from one of the wooden poles that propped up the awning proclaimed that they were grown on the moon of Beeshanel. This meant absolutely nothing to Raven who had never been to this planet before.
Her habit of moving from place to place was in the hopes that no one would recognise her – her father's influence was inter-dimensional and Universal – or, that if she was discovered, she would have moved on before her pursuers had time to decide how to act.
At least she didn't have to worry about her father finding her location directly any more. The first thing Raven had done after leaving Earth was to find an empty planet in another dimension, there she had spent almost a year meditating until she had reached a state where she felt almost nothing again. Just like the monks of Azarath had wanted.
Without emotions, her ties to her father were basically severed; his Hell magic unable to exist in the vacuum of her empty soul.
She was so incredibly lonely. But at least the Universe was safe.
Speaking in the alien's native tongue, Raven ordered the foodstuffs she wanted, handing over some of the money she had pick-pocketed as she had moved through the marketplace. If she had allowed herself to feel anything, perhaps a pang of guilt would have made itself know. But she had only stolen a little from each person and had made sure she had only taken from those with richer clothing and more arrogant dispositions.
Walking through the bazaar with her purchases bobbing along besides her, in an anti-gravity net that she held by a string, Raven came across a stall that sold weapons.
She paused for a moment, looking at the knives and swords on display. Odd how almost every civilisation came up with similar primitive weaponry. Her gaze was captured by one blade in particular. Its handle was made from some form of shimmering stone-like material; bold, geometric patterns had been carved into it; and the blade that protruded from its end was deep green with a golden thread running along each edge. It would have suited Damian perfectly.
Without warning, a pang of grief and longing stabbed through Raven's emotional defences as an image of her former teacher swam into her mind.
Heart racing, Raven closed her eyes and tried concentrating on her breathing, tried thinking of nothing else.
In and out.
What did he look like now? She wondered.
In and out.
He must be reaching maturity, his body settling into the form it will have forever.
In and out.
Did he miss her?
Raven's eyes snapped open. It was no good; a familiar fluttering in her heart warned her that she was beginning to lose control of her emotions. She needed to meditate. Now!
Eyes darting about, Raven soon found a shadowed alleyway leading off the thoroughfare. She practically ran towards it, bumping into others and calling out nonsensical apologies. Once she was encased in the shadows, she summoned a portal and hurried through into the empty realm she had come to call home.
It must have had a name once; the vast sprawling cities of ruins were a testament to that, but Raven had never managed to find any written words whenever her curiosity or boredom took her to venturing through the deserted, dusty streets. Sometimes she wondered why there was no literature, but perhaps the inhabitants had no need for written language. Perhaps they had only communicated through sound or touch or smell, perhaps they were all telepaths. Whoever they had been, they were long gone, they and whatever other forms of life they might have shared their planet with. It was a dead world.
Which was perfect for Raven.
Tethering the floating net that contained her food to a nearby rock, Raven sat down cross-legged, as she had been doing since she was old enough to remember. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she began the process of once more purging emotions from her mind.
xxx
Wayne Manor stood in the Palisades. It's grand façade, a reminder of times long past, faced Gotham city. To some, it was a symbol of how the rich elite controlled the lives of Gotham's citizens without having to live on its streets. To others, it represented an ideal; of the prosperous city that Gotham once was, and could be again with enough work. To Damian al Ghul, Ibn al Xu'ffasch, it was the ancestral home he had never set foot in.
Until tonight.
At exactly ten minutes past eleven o'clock, two figures clad in dark clothes, their faces covered, slipped in through the window of a hardly used room of Wayne Manor.
After taking a moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the moonless gloom, Damian glanced at his mother who used hand signals to tell him to get moving. She would remain in the manor, just in case he required backup. But this was his mission.
Stepping out lightly into the hallway after checking for pressure-sensitive pads underfoot or cameras hidden in the dark. He made his way cautiously towards the farthest end of the corridor.
He had no idea where his prize was, so he was going to have to use the brute-force approach; investigate every room in turn until he found it. Luckily, the artefact was sufficiently large enough for him not to have to worry about looking in draws and wall safes.
Damian moved through the manor quickly, swiftly and efficiently searching every room that he came across. He had to pause in his search occasionally when the sole servant, carrying out his duties, wandered close to his position.
Alfred Pennyworth, butler to the Wayne family for forty-seven years, the only member of staff to remain at the manor after the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne, Damian's paternal grandparents.
The young assassin's eyes followed the old man's back as he walked beneath the corner where Damian had secreted himself. As soon as he heard Pennyworth's footsteps fade into the distance, Damian dropped to the floor without a sound.
Walking back the way the servant had just come, Damian found himself in a large, museum-like room, filled with historical treasures. The young man climbed to a vantage point on-top of one of the glass cabinets and gazed around. It appeared to be a private exhibit of ancient battle armour from various nations around the world. Damian spied a samurai from the 13th century; the main components of a Persian Immortal's uniform; and even the distinctive chain mail of a Mongol Keshik. In the middle of the room, a suit of armour holding a sword had pride of place, the Wayne family 'W' on its chest plate was just about visible in the dim light. Given the opportunity, Damian would have spent hours in this room, pouring over the relics of human-ingenuity geared towards war. But he had a mission, and the artefact wasn't here.
Moving swiftly on, he found himself in a room flooded with moonlight streaming in from the numerous large windows lining one wall. Bookcases lined the other three, which were split into two levels, a narrow landing giving access to the upper rows of shelves. There were intervals between the bookcases to accommodate sofas, large paintings, and a grandfather clock.
Inevitably, Damian found his eyes wondering to the last item, the clock that hid the entrance to the Batcave. His mother had told him about it in detail, including the time he had to set it to in order to gain access to the elevator in the wall behind it.
He was so tempted to…
No, he had a mission.
But it would only take a moment. There was no danger; Bruce Wayne and his menagerie of adopted brats were safely out of the way, attending a charity concert in the city or patrolling the streets in skin tight leather.
He had to find the artefact.
It might be in the Batcave. After all, it was a powerfully magical object, and Batman knew that. So why would he display it in Wayne Manor, when he could keep it locked securely in his inner sanctum?
This indecision stopped him for only an instant; he was a highly trained assassin, every decision had to made quickly, consequences be damned.
The son of Batman strode over to the loudly ticking clock, swung its glass door open and moved the hands. Instantly, the floor on which the grandfather clock stood moved forwards and to the side, and the wall that was previously covered split in two. Damian stepped into the one-man space and pressed the button. As the doors slid smoothly closed, Damian knew that the clock was moving back into place, its hands once again showing the correct time.
He barely felt any movement as he descended and, after only a few seconds, the doors opened again to reveal a completely new scene which was obscured for a moment as a cloud of bats twittered past him. They flew away to reveal the entirety of the enormous cavern. Damian, hesitant for the first time in his life, stepped out onto the metal balcony and gazed around the Batcave.
If the manor contained a museum dedicated to past warfare, then this was a museum dedicated to the specialised warfare carried out by an individual against a city of madmen. A giant coin dominated one corner of the room, while an enormous model of a Tyrannosaurus-Rex stood in another. At the centre of the cave, the fabled Batmobile sat, waiting to be called into action. A single strip of metal lead from its platform into the dark shadows where there existed, just out of sight, a waterfall covering the opening to the outside world. The thunderous roar of the water was muffled to the extent that, if he hadn't previously been told of its existence, Damian wouldn't have even suspected it was there. He wondered how his father had dampened the sound…
The assassin shook his head violently. He was allowing himself to be distracted. He didn't have time for this.
Wearily, for he was sure the Batcave had more security than the manor above, Damian made his way past the cabinets displaying the ridiculous costumes of Batman and the various Robins. He even stopped in front of one, staring in disbelief at the bright yellow cape and short, green pants.
As he looked at the comparison of his own dark ensemble against the painfully bright display, he caught sight of a reflection in the glass. Spinning around, he peered over the banister to see a squat metal table next to a mass of computer screens. On top of it, stood a statue.
If he were not trained better, Damian's heart would have been racing as he dropped down onto the lower level to confirm that it was the object he was looking for. The ancient stone had been carved to form the likeness of a sitting beast; its knees drawn up to its chest. It looked mostly human, with the feet, chest and torso of a man, and human arms and hands clutching its knees. The head however was like nothing from this world. The face was too long for a normal human face, but close enough that the distortion was disturbing; it had two sets of eyes, growing smaller as they extended upwards; two pairs of horns, one of them short and almost blunt looking, the other looking like a tangle of sharp, deadly thorns; and a pair of large, pointed ears protruding from each side of the head.
It was a disconcerting figure. For a moment, Damian could not put his finger on just why it sent an instinctive shiver down his spine; but then he realised. This statue was thousands of years old, and yet it looked as freshly carved and undamaged as if it had been finished yesterday.
Breathing evenly, he checked his watch. The agreed rendezvous back in the upstairs room was scheduled for ten minutes time. They had agreed upon using a designated time and place for his reunion with his mother, as they were sure that the Batman would have made it impossible for any kind of radio signal, apart from those on his own specific frequency, to penetrate the grounds; and if not, he would definitely have security systems to detect their use.
Examining the artefact and its surroundings, Damian saw no obvious security risks. Taking a deep breath, he went against every instinct in his body, and picked up the statue.
It was surprisingly light, and Damian was able, despite its awkward shape, to tuck it under his arm before hurrying back to the elevator.
Back in the manor, the young assassin started making his way swiftly back towards the rendezvous point. He was just flitting past the historic armour, when he caught a small movement in the shadows near the ceiling of the room.
Well, as he had asserted before, he would have been disappointed if his father hadn't presented him with a challenge. Pretending that he hadn't noticed the slipup, Damian hurried forward towards the main entrance hall. He had deliberately avoided it on his initial journey through the building; it was large and open and had many nooks and crannies in which to hide surveillance equipment. It was also the first place your average home invader would blunder into, so it probably had the most security. But its spaciousness was exactly what the young man needed, now that he was preparing for a fight rather than avoiding detection.
Acting as though he was making for the front door, and without looking back, Damian threw a shuriken behind him. Spinning around, he was just in time to see a figure fall from where it had been hiding above the entrance to the museum room. It wasn't the Batman. His build and costume marked him as the youngest of his father's pets; Tim Drake.
Calmly and deliberately, Damian placed the statue on the ground next to him, and drew out his sword.
One by one, three figured emerged out of the shadows to stand by their fallen companion, who stood himself, pulling the throwing star from where it had embedded in his shoulder.
"You're a member of the League of Assassins." Stated the Batman simply.
Damian didn't reply; there was no need, it hadn't been a question. Instead, he took the opportunity to scrutinise his father.
The man was tall and broad. He was all muscle, yet had ensured that his body was toned and relatively slim.
His mother had chosen well; his father had a good build for an assassin, and one compatible with hers. Damian was pleased to know the basic frame he would grow into; though he suspected that he would be less broad-shouldered than his father, he hoped he would gain the height.
"Why is the League stealing that statue?" asked Nightwing. He was directing the query more to the Batman than to Damian. "I thought it was magic, so what does Ra's want with it?"
Damian was surprised that he had to stop himself from berating the man for using his grandfather's name with such a lack of respect. The fact that he was finally face to face with the one who had, however unwittingly, helped create him must be affecting him more than he had thought it would. His mother was right; he had to be even more careful than usual.
"They're probably stealing it for someone else," shrugged the Red Hood. "We should be asking him about the buyer."
"Is it just me," interjected Red Robin, who hadn't taken his eyes off Damian since he had fallen. "Or is he a little short for an Assassin?"
Nightwing and Red Hood turned their attention back onto Damian.
"You're right," laughed Todd. "He's just a kid! What's the deal little buddy?" he asked mockingly. "Is this your big initiation? Well, you're not doing too well, are you?"
Damian merely waited silently. Patience was an asset to an assassin, one of the earliest things you were taught. Damian remembered when he was three years old, he had been sat in a room with a plate of fruit just out of reach, every time he had moved or asked his mother for a piece, she had slid the plate further away from him. Eventually, he gave up asking and finally, after hours of his stomach growling with hunger, his mother had rewarded him with the food. He refused to let the idiotic second Robin goad him into reacting.
"Whoever you are, you've been trained well," sighed Nightwing, and there was definitely pity in his voice. "I'm just sorry that the League got their hands on you in the first place."
It was the pity that infuriated him more than anything; how dare this circus-scum pity him, the grandson of Ra's al Ghul, heir to the Demon's Head, and rightful heir of the Batman!
But he simply breathed through the anger; he would not make his move until a good opportunity presented itself.
"Why? You and Starfire thinking of adopting?" mocked Red Hood. "'Cause he's a prime candidate. I can see it now: Nightwing, Kori and baby Assassin make three."
Red Robin chuckled. "Imagine that guy," he pointed at Damian. "In a high-chair and bib, while Kori tries to feed him Glorrk!"
At this, the two junior Robin's appeared to dissolve into floods of laughter. It was a good tactic, if crude; if he were a lesser man, he would be infuriated at being clearly mocked. When it became clear that he was not going to react, the two men – who had been on alert the entire time – stopped their feigned mirth.
"Ahhhh! I can't stand this fucking staring contest," yelled Todd after minutes of silence. "Just give us the fucking magic statue!" He pulled a gun from his belt and went to aim it at Damian.
The young Assassin saw it as though in slow motion. Red Hood drawing his gun from its holster; Nightwing, realising what his brother was about to do, turning to berate him; Red Robin breaking eye contact in order to see what the commotion was.
He wouldn't get a better opportunity than this.
In an instant, he was charging forwards, several throwing knives preceding him across the hall. They were well trained, he had to give them that, as all three former Robins and Batman threw themselves out of the paths of the missiles. Of course, this left them scattered, and Damian flew towards Todd first, flashing the blade of his katana towards his throat.
For some unfathomable reason, Jason Todd, when deciding upon his Red Hood ensemble, had decided upon a helmet and a leather jacket. This left his neck completely exposed to attack. A weakness Damian was not too proud to exploit; during a real fight there was no fair play, no moral code. When your aim was to end someone's life, it didn't matter how you got there.
Todd's hand grabbed Damian's thrusting wrist and he had just started to speak when Damian dropped the sword, caught it with his other hand, and stabbed him in the belly. He had been aiming for his stomach, but Red Hood had reflexively moved to the side, so Damian ended up sinking the blade into his side, just under his ribcage.
Damian swiftly tore the blade out at an angle, inflicting more damage on its exit.
Jason Todd grunted profanities as he sank to the floor, clutching his wound. Damian was just able to kick his gun away before he had to defend himself from a combined attack from the rest of the team.
It was well coordinated; his father aimed a punch at his face, Tim Drake swept his leg out towards his shins, and Dick Grayson swung his Escrima Sticks at his chest and hips. But there were three of them, and even a well-executed multi-person attack was never completely in sync. Drake's attack would hit last, so Damian allowed himself to drop into a crouch below the lowest baton, and altered the kicking leg's trajectory upwards slightly. Red Robin's momentum carried his metal capped boot into the softly padded elbow of Nightwing's left arm. Damian rolled away.
Springing back to his feet, he was expecting to see the three remaining fighters crowded around the injured Nightwing, but his father wasn't there.
A small gust of air was the only warning he got before a fist slammed into his cheek with such force that he was sent flying across the room.
Years of combat and training had drilled certain movements into Damian's subconscious. Even though his head was ringing, and he was unable to form a single coherent thought, his body had him on his feet and facing his enemies before he had stopped sliding across the floor. It was for this reason also, that he was able to fend off the subsequent attack from the Dark Knight. His wits quickly returned however, and he began trading blows with the older man, rather than avoiding them.
His father was a seasoned fighter, at the peak of his strength, with decades more experience than himself. Damian was under no delusions who would eventually win in this fight of pure hand-to-hand combat. He needed to get to his sword, but it was meters away and Nightwing was running towards it, left arm dangling uselessly by his side.
Once again, his grandfather's wisdom reminded him to assess his position in the room and the states of his other opponents. Red Hood was still on the ground, clutching at his side, but he was steadily pulling himself towards his gun; Nightwing was almost at Damian's katana now; and Batman was currently right in front of him, attempting to knock him out. That only left Red Robin, and if he were as well taught as Damian thought, then…
The Assassin ducked. He received a glancing blow to his shoulder from Batman's knee, but successfully avoided the foot that had been aiming for his back. So, instead of swinging from the ceiling and kicking his intended target, Tim Drake found himself, once again, slamming his foot into a comrade.
Damian didn't wait to watch as Red Robin, who had released his hold on the grappling gun in shock, sent both himself and his mentor tumbling across the floor. Instead, he sprinted right at Nightwing, kicking and punching at the acrobat.
He had to admit that he was impressed with how the older combatant handled himself, especially with one arm out of commission. He was even able to land a couple of blows on Damian, before Damian sprang onto Nightwing's outstretched good-arm and delivered a quick, decisive kick to his face.
Grayson stumbled back, and Damian bent down to retrieve his weapon.
He straightened into a ready stance. His opponents, mostly bloody and bruised, were standing – or, in Red Hood's case, kneeling – in place, regarding him with fresh eyes.
"Shit, but that brat's got some moves," choked out Jason Todd.
"The League must be very proud of you," called out Dick Grayson, his voice oddly distorted by the blood gushing from his nose. "I haven't fought one of your members so skilled. Well, apart from Ra's or one of his family."
There was a pause as all member's of his father's menagerie stiffened slightly.
"What's your name?" asked Tim Drake slowly.
"His name is Damian al Ghul," came his mother's voice. Shocked, Damian briefly glanced to his side to see her standing at the head of the great staircase. Did she come when he missed his allotted rendezvous or had she heard the commotion? Either way, Damian would bet his reputation that she had enjoyed watching the fight. "Or to give him the name my father bestowed upon him, Ibn al Xu'ffasch, 'son of the bat'".
xxx
Dun dun duuuuunnnnn
Family drama time!
This is where I'm departing slightly/a lot from the DCAMU. Red Hood and Red Robin were not in those films but I couldn't resist having them here. Also, I have Dr Fate as a current member of the Justice League whereas in the movies he's out of commission (see Suicide Squad: Hell to Pay).
Just to clarify, in one of the earlier chapters I went into detail about how the Lazarus Pits work. This is purely my own invention; the movies (which, to my knowledge, is the only forum in which Trigon is the creator of the Pits) don't go into any detail about it at all, but I like to know lore damn it, and if it doesn't exist, I have to create it myself!
As usual, I would appreciate it if you took the time to let me know what you thought via comments.
Hope you enjoyed this chapter,
LP
xxx