"Bruce. Bruce." Tim was chasing the man through the hallways of the manor, steering him towards the cave. None of them had expected Bruce home so early, so to see him was an icy shock. Tim had noticed first, while Alfred and Leslie had been helping Damian stretch. Tim had watched them do so, looking on in wonder at the differences. The boy's back muscles were enormous, despite being told that they had been subject to atrophy due to lack of use and nutrients. Tim didn't think he could ever stop looking at Damian's wings - he supposed, in a way, he was supposed to find it odd that a human-esque creature could have such appendages grafted onto their backs. But every minute Tim spent with Damian and Leslie, was another minute he was hit the fact that the Winged had such a culture that Tim didn't think he could ever understand. He had even gotten up at the crack of dawn, watching as Damian and Leslie began to whistle. Whistle like birds, high and low respectively, and even more, Tim had heard the other Winged reply.

Damian had left that session with bright eyes, his skin a healthy bronze. Tim hadn't even noticed how dead the boy had looked in comparison to himself now. Today, Damian had worn a loose black t-shirt, with holes cut in the back for his wings, along with a pair of tight, dark jeans and army boots that were laced up perfectly. Leslie had encouraged Damian to keep his wings out, and Alfred had enforced it, letting Damian know as soon as they were alone. The boy didn't go to school. Bruce had first tried to insist on it, but Alfred had shot him down and opted instead to keep Damian home. Dick was always in Bludhaven, and hadn't visited since he got out of the hospital. Jason, for reasons that everyone pretended to not know but definitely did, was never home. Leslie today was wearing a long sleeve white shirt and a comfortable pair of leggings. Alfred was predictably in his butler's outfit, watching and learning as Leslie and Damian interacted. Today, they were focusing on muscle stretching. Tomorrow was going to be strength practice, and the day after Damian's first flight.

"Well, it would be if Bruce didn't catch them. As soon as Tim had noticed the Batmobile roar through the trees, quickly, and missed by the others, he had run for the Cave, shouting orders behind him. He had ducked through the forest they were in, to obscure the view of Damian and Leslie's wings, and had gone into the Manor, heading for the Cave. Bruce had tried to come out, to find Damian, but Tim had bothered him enough that the man was heading back down in an attempt to shake Tim off.

Also, Bruce was being a stubborn, pig-headed moron.

"I'm going after that Winged." Bruce said, turning the clock hands and opening the elevator, going in. Tim hurried in after him, glaring sheer daggers. He didn't look threatening, and he knew that. He was small. Lithe and short. Covered in muscle, yes, but lacking the sheer bulk and shoulder mass that Dick, Jason, and Bruce sported. But what Tim lacked in muscle mass, he made up for in sheer tone. He followed Bruce down into the Cave, eyebrow raised.

"You realize that that Winged saved me, right?" Tim snapped. "I've checked and rechecked - Winged typically aren't that small! I've analyzed his wing patterns too, he hasn't used them in such a long time, and because he's so small, he has to be a child!" Tim crossed his arms, zip-up hoodie providing the warmth Tim had missed from this man for so long. "Do you have any idea how disastrous it would be to hurt a child? You might as well put a revolving door on Arkham's cells!"

"They're not cells, they are containment facilities-"

"I don't see the difference, Bruce! You lock people up in there who haven't done anything - it isn't right!"

"At that, Bruce levelled Tim with a sharp look. "Not right?" the man turned away from the computer and stalked over to Tim, intimidating with his height and sheer bulk. The cowl around his face posed a sheer darkness, and Tim knew that he wasn't talking to Bruce. Bruce didn't really exist, after all. Bruce died the night his parents did. Bruce was a mask.

Batman was the man behind it.

"Not right." Bruce repeated. "Was it right when they killed my parents? Was it right when one dropped your father out of midair, was it right when the Joker killed Jason?!" Bruce's voice rose, and kept rising, the volume echoing throughout the cave. Echoing as if it were empty. "Was it right-"

"Drake." at the voice, both of their heads snapped towards the entrance to the Batcave. Damian stood there, blinking softly. His voice had deepened once more, taking on the prideful edge of hatred, one that Tim knew now was just a farce. His wings were gone, shoes off, and he looked small. So small. Tim felt his heart seize, and he almost wanted to cry and laugh at the same time - Damian was small, yet seemed to take up the entire space without moving a single muscle or growing a single inch. "Pennyworth requires assistance with carrying the baskets of laundry and has sent me for your aid."

Tim nodded once, and sent a dark look at Bruce as he left. The older man drew back slightly, concerned and feeling the familiar swell of territorial anger rise up in his chest as the boy's ice cold eyes darkened dangerously, leaving Bruce fixated on those orbs that swum with possessiveness, and a deadly threat. Tim turned away, following his younger brother out of the Cave. Bruce watched those elevator doors close with some sort of finality, and he felt his breath leave his body. Dark ocean orbs searched the floor for answers as he dissected the look in Tim's eyes. The boy had never looked deadlier, and Bruce wanted answers. Tim's eyes had narrowed in anger, the silent promise of a threat to his life looming in ice blue glaciers that had rooted Bruce to where he stood. Coldness had seeped off from his second youngest, his mouth the thin line of a blade. Bruce had thought that Tim was gentler, kinder than either of his previous Robins. But that was a side of the boy Bruce had not known existed. And why was Tim so interested in this topic now? Bruce had specifically taken the boy in after his father had died because Tim was hell-bent on revenge on the Winged. Bruce had known that the child would pursue them, with or without his guidance, and Bruce would be dammed if he allowed another child to end up just as broken as himself. At least with Bruce here, Bruce could try to heal him.

Bruce took long strides to the Batcomputer, spinning the chair and settling into it, feet planted firmly on the floor. He brought up Tim's search history, leafing through case files and crime scenes. He growled when that yielded nothing, requesting access to Tim's personal files. The files came, and Bruce scanned through them. Contacts, people's pictures, images of Gotham, and of Tim himself littered the files. Nothing conclusive.

His fingers flew across the keys as he began to hack, uncovering evidence that Tim believed to have left behind. Files seeped in, ones of molting and general wing structure, articles about the Winged themselves, all on their weaknesses. A different Word document came up, and Bruce paused, clicking on the file. It was a journal, full of Tim's neatly structured paragraphs. Bruce narrowed his eyes, blinking softly as he read.

"The Birdsong - something they sing in the morning to celebrate life. They believe the Earth and all its inhabitants are connected, and that they need to live like they will not the next day. They believe in providing for the future, for striving for success and to be better every day. Every day, he's trying something new, and setting new goals to complete. That's why their soul bonds are circles, to symbolize the connections between us all. The Winged, the humans, every living creature on this planet."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "Computer." he ordered. "Bring up the footage of the Cave and Manor between today and last week, and search for anything under BC-431.

The computer began scanning through hours upon hours of footage, until it paused on particular clip, of the sliding glass doors leading out to the back of the Manor. It was connected to mostly fields and foliage. Bruce leaned forward, chin in his hands as he studied it. The door creaked open gently, followed by a black head of hair. Bruce watched as his youngest peeked inside, turning his head and yelling something at someone outside of the mansion. Bruce's eyes scanned the footage, head tilted slightly to the right. What about this footage, this particular piece of surveillance, was odd? It was nice, however, to see Damian looking so-so… Bruce's eyes widened in thought. Damian looked… healthier. Cleaner. Happier. When he arrived, Bruce had merely assumed that his disposition and lack of a healthy tone were just things he was born with. Bruce had never had an outside reference of before. What changed?

Then something made Bruce's breath catch, in a quick, terrible burst of realization. As Damian inched forward, wings the colour of a threatening storm followed, a thick stripe of white down the middle. Mockingbird wings. Bruce fell back, shock filtering through his body. The numb sensation entered his chest as the computer continued droning on.

"The boy entered the Manor, swiping the keys to Dick's acrobatic training area off the small table by the door and making a hasty retreat right out of the sliding doors. The footage stopped, and Bruce's eyes fell to his keyboard. He could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart. In and out, the blood went through his body. His hands shook, vision fading in and out. His jaw began to shake, body hunching to be instinctively closer to the fetal position.

Blood rushed in and out.

Blood that had been spilled, torn out, ripped, blood that had come from two who had been slain… blood that burned at the sight of the wings across his son's back, blood that raged and cried for vengeance. His mind whispered. How could he have known? How could he have not?

The man, still shaking, still dazed, turned to get up, the chair spinning 180 degrees. He raised his head, coming face to face with the woman there. She tilted her own head, ethereal body made of clouds, always shifting and never stopping. The only physical thing about her was the mockingbird feather hanging from her right ear.

Bruce was immediately put on guard, the feeling of sheer power washing over him as the winds began to escalate, blowing into his face and her body into nothingness. Touch him. it murmured, almost seductively, and Bruce shivered. And you die.

"I'm not afraid of death." he murmured back, raising his head. He swore he could almost feel a smile in response. The wind brushed past him one last time before dissipating. One last message.

Your city is.

"Something's wrong." Damian said, glancing outside the window. He could feel anger, hatred, and sheer jealousy curling over him in waves that didn't belong to himself. Tim focused his gaze on Damian as the boy went to the window, pushing it open. The boy's eyes widened. "Call the Justice League." he murmured.

"What?"

"Call the League." Damian tore his eyes away, allowing his desperation to shock Tim into action. "Now!" he screamed. Tim took off for his communicator, and Damian turned back to the scene outside. A woman screamed as a building toppled, her body hidden under pounds of stone. Damian's eyes shifted to the Wayne building, set on fire, to the people running in the streets, crying out as the sheer oxygen was sucked out of their lungs and fed to the flames. He watched the smoke rise into the air, heard people desperately abandoning their cars in hope of rescue.

The Winged cried, the Wind spewed forth, and Gotham burned. Damian felt his cellphone ring cheerily in his pocket, and he brought the device to his mouth, swiping his thumb across the surface.

"Damian! I'm watching the news in Bludhaven, what the hell is happening? What's going on?" Dick's voice sounded and Damian didn't think he could hear him. Outside, an apartment building blew up from the inside, glass shattering and flames scorching. A body, still on fire, fell from the fifth story window and onto the grass outside, the vegetation quickly lighting up. Numbly, Damian stepped onto the ledge and looked down. He felt his Bond tug, felt Goliath respond to his numbness, felt the beast as he lifted up from the ground. Dick's nattering grew more persistent, and Damian allowed his arm to drop, fingers loosening the grip on the phone until it fell to the ground below, shattering beneath Alfred's English rose garden.

"Damian!" from somewhere in the house, Father roared. Damian turned as the man burst into his room, anger lighting every feature, and Damian closed his eyes. Damian allowed his wings to slide from their tattoos, eyes lighting up in a dangerous blue glow, a circle erupting beneath his feet. His power wasn't one used for fighting, but one used to aid. His vocal chords changed, allowing for a higher pitch. Growing stronger against the vibrations of his voice. He heard Father's breath catch and felt the man leap forwards at him.

Damian leaned forwards, curling his wings to a resting position as he dropped like a stone. He heard Father scream, felt his fingers brush the back of Damian's left hand. The boy spread his wings, curling the appendages between the Metacarpus and Ulna bones, perking his primary coverts. He came smoothly out of the dive, stretching the Radiale joint out once more, gliding from the momentum given to him. He flapped his wings once, flicking his primaries and secondaries, giving extra glide to the flap. He angled his body upwards, keeping his legs tight together, his hands fisted by his thighs. He allowed the third eyelid hidden behind his usual one to cover his eyes against the wind currents, protecting his eyes while continuing to remain within a safe range of visibility. The red and blue blur caught his eye, stopping in front of him.

Damian flew right by him, flapping once more to maintain his speed as he flew upwards. "Get everyone out of here!" he ordered, turning his head briefly. The air fought against the movement, slowing him. Damian grit his teeth and pushed forward, finding a friendly current and riding above it, taking some of the pressure off of his wings. His back ached terribly, but he had to move, and he had to move fast. He could feel the power radiating off of her as he came across her conscious form, settled above the clouds. He drew his body upright, allowing his wings to flap, secondaries steadying for balance while his primaries curled downwards.

They had been in pain, and they were her children. She was all they had. She was reacting as any mother would.

And Gotham was burning.