Damian

Damian awoke as he did every day: before the sun, while the world had yet to pull itself from the cloak of night. His attendant dressed him silently, smoothing the blacks and grays over his small form. He glared down at the starchy fabric as it scratched his skin. He felt weighed down by the tones, like he was swallowed by the early morning itself. He supposed that was the point. He choked down his breakfast with a sour expression.

After performing his morning training routine, he wandered about the fortress. His morning tutor had strongly implied that he should be spending his downtime in practice or lessons, but Damian had chosen to ignore his suggestion in favor of a newer, more interesting subject.

The prisoner, if she was to be believed, had somehow gotten the upper hand on a fight with his grandfather. Obviously, considering her imprisonment, she had not maintained that advantage, but the idea that she was strong enough to be in that situation could only mean that she was a great warrior, herself. He caught whispers around the island, typically traded before he entered a room and was noticed.

The Tigress infiltrated the Light for months, working to undermine their operations under their noses.

The Tigress led raids on and destroyed seven outposts after the Reach left.

You don't see the Tigress until she's upon you.

The Tigress. The Tigress.

The Tigress works with the Bat.

Damian swallowed.

Perhaps his tutor was right – he should be spending his downtime more productively.

He made his way up to her plush cell, through labyrinthine passageways and staircases he could walk blinded, and indicated to the guards to let him enter. They did so, of course; he was their superior, after all. He strode into the room, expecting to be met once again with the sight of the woman up and about, all quick words and judging eyes, but instead entered a still silence.

The woman had yet to rise from the bed, a concept that thoroughly confused Damian. Did she expect to sleep the whole morning away? The sun had already risen over the horizon; by all accounts she should be awake and active. He huffed and made his way to the bed anyway, hopping lightly on top of the blankets to size-up the prisoner.

For such as great warrior, she was mighty unassuming. Her muscles were soft, unlike the corded strength he saw in the Shadows day in and day out. Her middle was growing thick, as well. She had not been prisoner long enough for that to happen. When had she stopped training?

She shifted in her sleep, curling around herself with a soft sound. He peered closer. Were those… tears? Damian sat back in disbelief. Adults did not cry, Grandfather had said so himself. Tears were a sign of weakness, and absolutely not befitting the heir to the organization, much less a proper soldier.

Damian almost jumped when the prisoner bolted upright, a soft cry escaping her lips. A gasped sob followed it immediately, and then a choked-back gag. Without even acknowledging the boy at the end of her bed, she leapt up and made a mad dash for the bathroom. Damian scrunched his nose in disgust at the noises and decided not to investigate as she vomited her sick into the toilet.

Eventually, she emerged again, looking haggard and wiping evidence of her tears from her cheeks. "Damian, was it? What do you want?"

He ignored her question. "You are poor entertainment."

"Sorry to disappoint you," she muttered as she slid back under her sheets. "Wasn't aware I had an audience, so maybe that'd your fault. Come back later, maybe I'll juggle some oranges like a circus clown." He narrowed his eyes at her sarcasm.

"Here I thought you were supposed to be some great warrior. Seeing as you were just crying like a child, I must have been lied to," Damian sniped, swinging his legs off the side of the mattress. The prisoner covered her face with her pillow and groaned softly into the covered goose down, the complaint of It's too early for this hardly muffled. She sat up slowly again, wincing at some slight pain, and rubbed a hand against her red eyes.

"Listen, kid," her voice was groggy with sleep, and she cleared her throat before starting again. Damian folded his arms across his chest. "I've forgotten more about fighting then you'll ever learn," he snorted. Doubtful, "but even the greatest warriors can't train away their emotions. Ignore them, maybe, but erase them entirely? It's part of being human."

I've seen it done, he thought of the drills and trials of his Grandfather's assassins. Grandfather told me it can happen! He opened his mouth to say as much, but the woman darted forward and clapped a hand over his lips. How dare-! "I don't give a sh– crap what your so-called 'destiny' is or what you are heir to or what whoever told you, you're still just a spoiled little kid." His bright eyes glared at her in indignation, but he felt his lips turn into pout under her palm. Judging by the softening of her gaze, she felt them, too. "Now, why exactly are you in my room before I've even woken up?" She dropped her hand, and, when Damian did not offer up an explanation, he felt her kick him softly from beneath the covers. "Speak, kiddo."

"It's not like you have anything better to do than to entertain me," Damian grumbled sulkily and cast his gaze out the window. Only the blue sky and a few gulls were visible from his position, but he still found a tightness in his chest as he watched the birds dip in and out of his sight. He drew his legs back onto the bed, and he laid his head on his knees. Her analyzing gaze prickled his skin, and he knew his true intentions were bubbling up his throat, waiting to be given voice. He mumbled them, quietly enough that he half-hoped she would not hear. "Some Shadows said that you know my father."

Her severe look relaxed, and he curled closer to his knees at the idea that anyone would look at him with anything close to pity. "I know him very well," she offered. After a moment, she continued, "and your brothers, too."

Damian sat up more eagerly that he would ever admit to and quickly moved to sit against the headboard beside her. He never knew his family to be larger than Mother, Grandfather, and the empty place he hoped his father to one day occupy. "Tell me about them!" he demanded, earnest excitement coloring his commandment in a manner he knew would be looked down upon by his grandfather. The woman smirked at him, though he could not tell if it was in amusement or superiority.

He decided, for once, that it didn't matter, and he didn't care.

"Magic word?" He stared blankly at her. He didn't know any magic. "When you are someone to do something for you, you have to do so politely," she admonished, and Damian felt an embarrassed flush rise in his cheeks.

"I am the grandson of Ra's Al–" he stopped himself when the woman next to him gave an unimpressed look. He drew his knees up to his chest again and glanced at the stoic Shadow sitting by the door. The Shadow was to watch the prisoner, yes, but he doubted that reports on him wouldn't make it to his grandfather, too. His eyes returned to the prisoner, wide and pleading. "Please?" he whispered, only loud enough for her to hear. She grinned, and he startled when she stroked a hand through his hair before reveling in the comfort of the feeling.

"Your father has a large heart, though he'd never admit to it. He's helped a lot of people and doesn't hesitate to give them the family they deserve, though the first would be your eldest brother, who now goes by the name of Nightwing. He started off, however, as the first Robin, and he began fighting alongside your dad when he was only a little older than you are now," she continued to speak, and he leaned against her shoulder as she continued to card her fingers through his hair.

It felt good, and he listened intently as she fleshed out the figures of his unknown family. His heart sank at the knowledge that he would never meet the second Robin, and he made a mental note to remember the name of the man who took his brother before he ever knew him. Joker. What an absurd name for someone so dangerous.

When she finished, he looked at her quizzically. "What is a robin, anyway?"

"It's a type of bird." His eyes flashed out the window, catching on the bright white figures of the seagulls riding the breeze.

"A bird…" He absently heard her agreeing hum.

They sat in silence for a while, until a knock broke the silence and Aqil was let in with the prisoner's breakfast. She rose from the bed to greet him, but Damian stayed put. As far as underlings went, Aqil was alright, but Damian had no need for him at the moment. He watched Aqil hand over a cup, which the woman made a face at before downing and immediately reaching for a bottle of water. "What was that?" He asked the woman as she took a pull from the drink.

"Vitamins," Aqil responded succinctly, but Damian rolled his eyes. Didn't ask you, he mentally grumbled, but didn't want the glare he knew he'd receive from the woman. "Master Damian, you should begin your regimen for the day. I believe your grandfather is waiting for you in the Great Courtyard."

Damian huffed and crossed his arms. He didn't want to go to lessons – he didn't know why he felt like he had to remain here, with this woman he didn't even know the name of. Was it because she had answers to questions he didn't even know how to voice?

"Tell you what, kid," he glanced up to her. A smile played around her lips, like she knew something he didn't. "You can come back and visit me later, and I can tell you more about the little birds."

"Really?" He wished his voice had not come out so hopeful, but he was. Hopeful, that is.

"It's not like I'm going anywhere," she laughed at her own joke, and he had to suppress his own smile in return. He jumped off the bed and made his way to the door until she called after him. "Bye, Damian."

"Goodbye," he grumbled, and made his way to where he knew his grandfather would be. The corridors to the courtyard were empty and cool, a contrast to the humid heat he knew to be waiting for him outside.

He squinted his eyes against the beating rays of the sun as he entered the Great Courtyard. Dozens of Shadows sparred against one another, each clad in the weighty black fatigues identical to the soldier next to them.

Damian's mind flitted to the brightly colored suits the prisoner described and wondered how light those reds and yellows would feel against his skin.