Here you go, this is how we got to the point in the first chapter.
Damian was going to strangle someone, if he had to listen to one more little old lady go on and on about how cute he was. Normally he didn't mind these functions. The upper crust of Gotham was one of the few places he was treated with the respect he was due outside of the League. The Gotham rich may not have been aware of the true nature of his great heritage, but they held the Wayne name in high enough regard that the effect was the same. That was under normal circumstances.
Today's benefit was for one of Gotham's retirement homes. Whoever was in charge had picked several residents deemed congenial enough to convince the wealthy to donate just a few extra dollars with their 'charm'. Of course, they couldn't focus their attention on the bleeding hearts who wanted to hear their sob stories. No, it seemed every single one of them had deemed it necessary to pull him into long detailed conversations about how he reminded them of their grandson who never visited or their son who'd died in some war or other. It was maddening.
Which is why, he was currently out in the garden looking for an area to hide. He'd already prepared arguments for at least half the members of the family on why telling him to return would make them a hypocrite, and he was currently coming up with a semi-persuasive one for Alfred. He might not need either. The garden was mostly abandoned, the weather was dreary and had been threatening rain all day. Most of the guests were hiding inside the hotel where it was warm, leaving Damian to wander the expertly maintained paths alone.
Well almost alone, as Damian rounded a rose bush he came upon a small gaggle of decidedly off individuals gathered around a topiary. Their clothing almost fit in with the kind worn by the guests inside. New, well tailored, and in style, the only thing that he could immediately point out as wrong was that every single one of them was still wrapped in their coats, hats, and scarves. Even then most would have just assumed the party was late to the benefit. Not yet having dropped their outdoor wear off in the coat check.
Damian was not just anybody, though. He was heir to the greatest detective known to man, and was quite a good one in his own right. Carefully, making sure to not slow his pace or give any outward signs of having noticed something was wrong, Damian continued his way down the path. Assuming they weren't just odd late comers, they were too well dressed to be ordinary lowlifes. Which meant organization, which meant plans they wouldn't jeopardize just because someone walked past them without paying them any attention. Especially someone of his size and age. Criminals had a horrible habit of thinking lesser of him. Most of the time it was annoying sometimes it was useful.
As he drew closer, he carefully studied the group without looking directly at them. He finally pinpointed what had been bothering him from a distance. Every single one of them was dressed in such a way as to obscure any identifying features. The lower half of their faces were covered by scarves and their coats did a good job covering the exact body types of most. A couple even had an odd uniform sheen to the hair visible under their hats, that might have signified cheap plastic wigs. He'd have to be much closer to be certain.
His suspicion was confirmed. He'd have to make his way back to Father and inform him of the incoming problem. If he was lucky, this would be an excuse to leave the function and the spend the rest of the night as Robin. He was much less likely to be missed than Father after all, and even if Batman insisted on being the one to round this group up, they weren't the hosts. It was one thing to abandon his son to entertain guests when they were at the manor. It was an entirely different thing to leave his son alone at a party hosted by a stranger. It would certainly make the gossip section, if they didn't leave together.
The group wasn't as good at playing non-chalant as he was. They openly watched him as he came closer and began to pass them by. Not that he wasn't watching them just as closely. He just did so from the corners of his eye. That's why he saw it when the closest of the group lunged for him. His response was automatic. The man's hand attempted to grasp at his clothes, while Damian grabbed the arm. He pulled then threw, redirecting the man to go stumbling past him. He felt rather than saw the next one to try and grab him. He jabbed his elbows into some decidedly tender spots to dissuade the attempt.
He turned in time to watch the second man crumple to the ground with a cry of pain. It was thrilling, like always. Taking down a bunch of fools who dared to think they could pose a challenge to him. It brought a smile to his face.
"What the fuck, since when is the Wayne brat some sorta of god damn Karate Kid!" one of the group, the farthest away from him, exclaimed. That brought him sharply down to earth. He had made a mistake. He was not Robin or even Damian Al'Ghul right now. He was Damian Wayne, and as both Father and Grayson had drilled into his head countless times, Damian Wayne could not be seen to be as skilled as he was. To do so could compromise everything. He still needed to escape, but he couldn't continue to throw these thugs around or there would be rumors. That meant he needed to make a run for it, now. If he got back inside quickly, the guards that surrounded Gotham's elite would intervene and this whole incident would be forgotten by morning. Attacks like this were so common they barely warranted a paragraph in the newspaper unless someone like Two Face was involved.
As the next two made their move, Damian dodged right and took off down the path towards the function. At least one of the group followed him. He could hear the crunching of heavy foot falls on the gravel path, eating up the distance between them. He only managed ten feet back the way he came, before he was tackled to the ground. He felt the sharp burn of torn palms as his hands slid roughly across the tiny rocks and a second later the same sensation across his cheek. The air went out of his lungs in a whoosh.
His arms were quickly yanked backwards and pinned. The grip was trained not fumbling. The man was a professional of some sort. It didn't occur to him that Damian Wayne would scream for help, until a piece of cloth was roughly shoved into his mouth.
"Quick, give me the damn drug, before someone comes to investigate." The man above him called back to his compatriots. His voice was low and rough. Definite lower class street accent. It looks like he was being kidnapped by some common Gotham thug. Fantastic, Drake would never let him live this down.
Someone jogged up on the opposite side from where his head was turned. His attempts to adjust so he could see the second man were quickly cut off by a hand in his hair and the sting of sharp rocks in his already cut cheek, as his face was ground into the path. His last thoughts, as the pinch of a needle in the back of his neck sent him into unconsciousness, were of how he was going to make these men pay for injuring him.
End Notes:
Next chapter continues from this point. I'll post it sometime early tomorrow after I'm done editing it. Late night editing leads to badly written things.