Chapter Text
When Damian Wayne was barely a month old, his mother took him away from the League of Assassins in the middle of the night.
She traveled in the cargo block of planes and carried him under the darkness of night. She ran through forests and slept in run-down motels and spent most of her days blocking the blanket in her arms from the blistering sun above.
She arrived in Gotham City a few weeks later, where she slipped under a waterfall on the cliffside next to Wayne Manor and carried her sleeping baby into the Batcave.
She handed him to a startled Bruce Wayne and a young Dick Grayson and she told them everything.
Dick had only been Robin a few years, and yet, he was absolutely taken with the little kid. The boy was young and cute and adorable and so willing to put up with all of Dick's jokes. When they weren't in school, he and Barbara would lounge at the manor, babysitting the kid for most of the day.
Dick was the one who taught him how to walk, early in the morning when the boy had stared wide eyed at a backflip of his. Barbara was the one who heard his first word, midway through lunch, when she had told him when Bruce would be home.
Bruce was exhausted with the double life. Vigilante work and socialite life always collided and gave him no time. No opening. And yet, he always found time for Dick and Damian. He would clear out his schedule if needed, no matter what.
He cradled Damian to sleep, humming lullabies he honestly was impressed with himself for remembering. He watched movies with Dick, old films he knew by name alone. And she sat down for dinner with the two of them.
"And then Ms. Gladwell got soo angry at Charlie because he was 'being disrespectful' and it's, like, not even his fault." Dick talked with his mouth full, kicking his legs underneath the dining table.
"No," Bruce agreed. "Definitely not."
"I know!" Dick rolled his eyes, taking another bite of the salad. "Can you believe it, Damian?"
The two-year-old stared wide-eyed at him, shaking his head. Bruce had a sneaking suspicion that Damian worshipped the ground Dick walked on. Dick had confided in Bruce that he had more than a 'sneaking suspicion' Dick was confident that Damian worshipped the ground he walked on. And Dick ate up every second of it.
"Right! So, I went up to Ms. Gladwell because Charlie's like my best friend in English on Mondays, and I told her that was totally uncalled for. And you know what she said to me?"
Dick asked this to Damian again. And again, the boy shook his head. A wobbly, giddy little smile on his face.
"She said I was 'out of line!' I mean, who the hell-"
"No cursing," Bruce reminded.
"Who the fuck says that?"
"No- no...one," Damian struggled out.
"Nobody!" Dick agreed. "So I obviously told her off. Using words, I will..." he looked over at Bruce. "Not repeat here."
Damian laughed. And Dick beamed.
"Okay," Dick said, kissing Damian's hair. "We gotta do patrol now."
Damian looked up, the superhero toys in his hands tilting as he frowned at Dick. "No!" He said.
"We have to, Dami," Dick said.
"We'll be back later tonight," Bruce said. "Like we always are."
"Ookay," Damian said. "Do super! Super super cool."
"Super heroes are super cool!" Dick said, cooing. "We'll be back soon, okay?"
The kid was enchanted with the idea of superheroes. And that made everything so much easier. He never worried about them, never thought too hard about the very real dangers of the job. He idolized them.
That, also, was probably because of the family's influence, Dick supposed. They took great effort to downplay injuries and keep him from the Batcave. There was definitely a strong concentrated effort to keep Damian in the dark. They hid anything that showed the true reality of vigilante life.
They made the decision early on to keep Damian as far away from vigilante life as possible. He was never to be told of the League of Assassins; he was to be kept safe, to live his life as normally as possible. Until he decided otherwise.
They were going to tell him everything eventually. Once he was old enough. Give him a choice between normalcy and vigilantism. A choice some of them never got to have.
And Damian was happy.
And then Dick had to leave. He moved to Bludhaven. He said his goodbyes and promised Damian he'd visit often. And he fulfilled that promise, always bringing gifts and hugs with him. But there was an emptiness in the space he left behind.
Damian would ask for him, and he wouldn't be there. Damian would play alone when Bruce was busy with work and Alfred was busy with chores.
And, in the solitude of the manor, Jason Todd appeared.
He was plucky and ambitious and ready to take on the world, with a wide, crooked smile. He cocked a brow at Damian at first, he had heard of the Wayne child from the media but really not much else.
"You spend your days fucking with criminals and shit and you have a kid?"
"No cursing," Bruce reminded. "And yes, his name is Damian."
"I know his name," Jason grumbled. "I've seen the tabloid covers before."
"Okay," Bruce said. "Be nice to him."
"Hi!" The five-year-old chirped.
Jason Todd was new. He was different.
He spent his days finding reasons to skip school, helping Alfred out with chores, and teaching Damian 'life lessons.' Damian didn't understand how being able to pickpocket a random passerby or shoplift would be helpful but he had a lot of fun learning nonetheless.
Bruce was less than happy with it. He claimed Jason was a 'bad influence' but Jason had taught Damian how stick his tongue out at someone and at that point it was a losing battle.
Damian adored Jason. He would follow the older boy around, asking him to play or help. And just like with Dick, Jason had to go on patrol and train, and Damian reacted just as sorrow-striken.
Jason adored Damian just as much- though, he'd probably never say so outloud. He read Damian bed stories and raced him through the gardens. Damian never won, but the kid appreciated Jason never going easy on him.
"I wanna be Robin," Jason decided picking up the action figure.
"That's no fair," Damian pouted, giving the most childish version of dagger-eyes Jason had ever seen. "You're always Robin!"
"No," Jason said. "You're always Robin."
"No, I mean-" Damian gave a big sigh. "You're always Robin in real life. So that's why I get to be Robin here. Look, you can be Batman, okay?" He said this in a patronizing tone, as if Jason was the child between the two of them, and Jason had to cover his mouth to hide a snicker.
"Okay, okay," he agreed. "I'll play Batman." He took the other action figure into his hands before pausing. "But who'll play Superman?"
Damian gaped at him for a moment, the delimma very real. Before he leaned back and called out as loud as he could (and he was very good at being loud), "Daaaaaaaaaaad!"
The day after that, after living in Wayne Manor for a little over two years, Jason Todd died.
And no one told Damian.
It wasn't that they meant to keep it from him. Damian just didn't understand death and it was so much easier to just shift uncomfortably and say, "Jason's not here right now" when Damian asked then explain the concept of life disappearing.
Bruce changed the subject, Dick looked at Bruce to explain, and Barbara simply refused to acknowledge it.
And Damian eventually learned to stop asking. He came to his own conclusions. On a word-spanning trip with boat or a magical quest to find a secret treasure. Though, sometimes, on the dark nights when Damian's mind wandered, he imaged Jason trapped in a cage, unable to reach home. Unable to make it back.
Maybe Jason was like those characters in sitcoms. The ones that came, stayed for a few seasons, told some of the funniest jokes, and then had to leave. Maybe that's what people did. Maybe that's just how life worked.
Enter Tim Drake. And, for that matter, Stephanie Brown.
Damian didn't care much for Tim, the boy an interloper in a situation he did not belong. Which, was a shame, because Tim really wanted Damian to like him.
Tim had done a lot of stalking. He knew everything there was to know about the family he was going to enter. And he knew that Damian was a key part of it. The boy's opinion of him was important.
And, Tim also just cared about what the kid thought about him. He wanted Damian to like him.
So, with the help of Steph, took to trying to win him over. He tried playing video games and doing puzzles and helping him with school work. And with his persistence he was able to get the kid to warm up to him.
Steph took being an older sister in stride. She teased him and put makeup on him and made crazy shapes with his hair. Damian was, surprisingly, up for everything. Perhaps too much so. All her outrageous lies were fully believed and they were a pain to correct.
"Dad, do you know that grass is green because its a mix of the blue of the sky and the yellow of the sun?"
"Steph," Bruce reprimanded. "Don't lie to Damian."
Steph took a bite of the meal in front of her, grinning. "I only told him the better version of this world."
"Mhm!" Damian agreed. "Dad's no fun."
Dick laughed at that, ruffling Damian's hair. He looked at Steph, "Did you teach him that?"
"I did, actually," Tim said, giving a nervous smile as Steph snorted.
Tim never had a younger brother before, but he tried his best. And his best turned out to be better than he thought. He really cared about Damian deeply and despite their wobbily start, Damian cared just as much about Tim. Though he would never really know how that Damian loved him just as much until it was too late.
When Jason Todd came back to life, Talia hid his existence from Ra's. She didn't tell anyone about the comatose boy in her arms. She revived him in the Lazarus Pit and sent him on his way as fast as she could.
When he returned to Gotham, he was furious. Furious that the Joker hadn't been killed, furious that Tim had taken the Robin mantle, furious that no one had told Damian he was dead.
He was angry at a lot of things, and he was hurt about a lot of other things, but most of all, (perhaps the greatest secret, Jason Todd would never tell) he was homesick.
They were in the middle of a family dinner.
Tim was throwing carrots at Damian, the boy attempting his best to catch them in his mouth. While Steph, Barbara and Dick talked about celebrity gossip, ducking away from stray carrots thrown in their direction. Bruce was sitting at the front of the table, watching them, almost smiling.
The doorbell rang.
"I'll get it!" Damian said excitedly, leaping off his chair and running through the house. Alfred watched him go, giving a small huff of laughter.
There was silence for a moment before a delighted noise of surprise rang through the manor.
"Jason! You're back!"
Dick choked on his food. And in an instant, everyone was out of their seats. Standing, staring at the entryway in anticipation. It could be a magical threat. A shapeshifting entity. Hell, it could be Clayface.
Tim nearly ran forward to go get Damian but stopped before he could move a muscle.
Because who walked into their dining room but Jason Todd, complete with a white streak in his hair and the Red Hood mask hanging off his belt. Damian was held in his arms, hugging onto his neck, talking his ear off at fifty miles per minute.
Bruce's face paled. "Are you...?"
"Yeah. So, we need to talk," Jason said, raising an eyebrow.
In a different universe, their first meeting was filled with violence and blood and screams. In this one, it was held on a couch. Damian asleep on Jason's lap as they argued in hushed voices.
They had a DNA test going in the background, although, this man was too authentic not be real. Too angry and bitter to be a trap. But at the same time, he was back and he was alive and that was all that really mattered.
"You didn't tell the brat I was dead," Jason said. "What the actual fuck, B? What if I didn't come back?"
"I was going to," Bruce said, a weak argument considering it had been two years. "Eventually."
"And the Joker?!" Jason asked as Alfred returned the blood sample to Bruce along with the results. It confirmed all their fears and hopes. "Why the fuck isn't he dead?!"
Bruce sighed. "I don't kill, Jason. You know this. Killing the Joker wouldn't bring you back."
"Besides," Tim said. "You know that-"
"Can it," Jason snapped. "I don't have time to hear some wanna-be's opinions."
"Jason!" Dick reprimanded, but Jason just rolled his eyes. That voice wouldn't work on him anymore.
They talked long into the night. Whispered arguments went back and forth until an agreement was reached. The treaty would become tentative at first, but eventually, Jason would be integrated into the family again. Eventually, he would return to the manor of his own will and not out of a desire to do the minimum reqruiments for keeping the family together.
Eventually, he'd have a home in the manor again.
No matter how much anger and sorrow that was buried in his heart.
Then, there was Cassandra Cain.
She taught Damian sign language and dancing. Long, giddy hours in ballrooms learning pirroutes and how to communicate through fingers alone.
In return, Damian tried to teach her to read. He never learned why she didn't know how to read, or where she had come from, but he knew she struggled and he wanted to help.
And somehow- and no one knew how- he was always able to make her laugh.
Talia still visited Damian scarcely, whenever she was able to steal time. She told him stories of things Damian could only imagine. She told him myths and legends, and fables and anything else he asked about. But never Damian's grandparents, they were the only subject she wouldn't broach.
Damian loved his mother. He loved it when she visited and when she held him and when she told him promises that neither knew she wouldn't be able to keep.
Damian could be happy. Everyone was thinking it.
All heroes had pain from vigilante life. They had broken pasts and ragged scars. They lost people and hurt themselves and had to struggle and strain to survive.
But Damian? He could have a real life. He could go to school, get a job, and never have to worry about the Batsignal shining in the darkened sky every night.
He wouldn't have to know the hardships.
Damian Wayne had a chance.
He had a choice.
And today was his tenth birthday.
He wanted to be Robin. That was what he wanted. He asked for it all the time. Wide-eyed and bright with hope that made everyone shrink away, faces falling.
He had no idea why they were so uncomfortable with him becoming what they were. Tim was planning on giving up the mantle soon, wasn't he?
Cass had tried to explain to him, softly in halted breaths, that they didn't want him to be Robin. They wanted him to be a child. They wanted him to be safe. She ran a hand through his hair and told him they wanted him to be happy.
"But they are happy," Damian had argued. "Dick and Jay and Tim and Steph were Robin and they're all happy."
"Happy now," Cass had said. "Not always happy."
Cass was the only one who thought Damian was ready for a proper explanation, a dwelling on past pains.
But before she could say any more, Dick walked into the room, picking Damian up and spinning him in a giddy circle. "We're playing card games, you two wanna join?"
Dick loved being Robin. He loved all of the Robins. It would kill him to see Damian make that choice for his life. Damian was already part of the family. He didn't need to pick the path of hardship and anger and pain. Dick already couldn't protect his siblings now, he hated to think of what he wouldn't be able to protect if Damian became Robin.
"Yes," Cass said. She gave Damian one final, sad look.
Damian didn't understand her, but he gave up asking for it. He played the card games, dancing between Jason's team and Tim's. He opened the birthday party presents- sketchbooks and animal trivia and handheld video games- and there wasn't a single Robin badge in sight. And Damian didn't complain. He thought about his and Cass's conversation, and he didn't even mention it.
Though he wanted to. He had dreamed of being Robin of finally being able to join them on patrol since as long as he could remember.
And he felt frustrated. Pushed out for reasons he couldn't understand.
But he didn't let it show. He dragged them into the move room, ecstatic and bouncing up and down. He chose a movie about talking animals and Steph didn't even tease him one bit.
He sat next to Tim, watching the movie with rapid fascination. Tim kissed the crown of Damian's head when the boy leaned against him, drifting off to sleep. They finished the movie anyway, even though Damian was out like a light before it had even reached the climax.
Then, Bruce leaned down, picked the boy up, and carried him off to bed.
He tucked the boy in, giving him a small kiss on the forehead and a fleeting "Goodnight," as he left the room.
And the night moved on.
When Damian woke up, in a cold sweat the way nightmares always woke him up, it was nearly midnight. He walked out into an empty manor. An empty, empty manor. His father and his siblings weren't in their rooms, and Alfred was nowhere in sight.
And Damian saw an opportunity.
He tiptoed to the Library- not the one Jason frequented, the one next to his dad's study- and found the book he was looking for.
Damian wasn't stupid. He considered himself observant. He had tried to grab this book in the library a year ago, but Cass and Babs had hurried to stop him. They had pulled him away, giving him excuses that didn't make sense.
Damian didn't care about the book. An old, worn-down copy of Catcher in the Rye. He just had a suspicion that there was more to it than it seemed. Maybe because, unlike all the other books in the library, it was the only one without dust, despite its age.
Pulling the book caused a series of clickings and contraptions to happen, as the bookshelf pushed forward before sliding out. And a passageway was revealed.
Walking down the steep steps, Damian traveled through the tunnel. Torches lit up the sides, illuminating it in a deep golden glow.
He sucked in a breath when he reached the bottom of the staircase.
Damian was looking at what was known as the Batcave. But he didn't know that. All he saw was a cavern, multiple contraptions, and statues all filling the space. A large computer, broadcasting comms and security cameras all over Gotham. Barbara and Alfred sitting before it, pieces in their ear as they talked calmly.
"Robin, do you report?" Alfred asked
"Copy Agent A." The voice came from the computer, determined and ready.
"We need you in crime alley. There's a group of League Assassins there."
"League Assassins?" Someone who sounded like Dick asked.
"We think they're a distraction, Nightwing," Barbara said. "Keep an eye out for any other attacks that might be happening. Orphan?"
"Copy."
"We need you in crime alley too."
All Damian saw was a secret, something giant and powerful and cool and scary. So scary. He watched a brutal fight break out in one of the survielence tapes between one of the 'assassin' guys and Robin.
It looked much more violent and vicious than anything Damian had seen before. Anything in the shows or the books or the stories his family had told him. They never said it would be like that. It would be so...
It made bile form in Damian's throat. Everything was just so large and terrifying and scary. Damian didn't understand anything.
This wasn't how he had imagined it at all.
Damian turned on his heel and hurried up the stairs, hoping to get back to the library before they noticed him.
And they didn't notice him, but he just kept running.
He ran through the manor and out the side door. Down the large stairs and into the city's outskirts. He was gasping for air, but he didn't stop. He hurried into the city, watching as, above him, the Batsignal danced in the sky.
Damian knew, but he never knew.
He stumbled around, realizing how little people there were, how many shadows were dancing around him, how many criminals must be lurking, ready to attack Damian? How many times did his family come back with black swolen eyes and Damian was too accustomed to it not to comment?
Damian had so many thoughts, so many questions, so much fear, that he didn't notice the assassin creeping up behind him.
Why would he? He had no training, no preparedness. He had nothing.
He didn't realize they were there until one of them pressed a cloth against his mouth, and Damian gave a muffled scream. But his struggle dulled after a moment of thrashing, going limp in their hold.
Damian regained consciousness sometime later, and as he blinked his eyes open, panic and fear bloomed in his chest.
"Where am I?" Damian asked frantically. He looked around wildly, straining against the ropes tying his wrists together. He was in the middle of some sort of base, people hiding in the shadows, lining the walls, and perched on the platforms.
In front of him was a man sitting on a throne, looking down at Damian as if he was the scum of the earth.
Damian felt tears begin to form, and in a minute or two, he began to sob. A full-on sob. Tears were streaming down his face. He was a frightened, wailing kid who could barely get the question, “Who are you?" out of his mouth.
"I am Ra's Al Ghul,” the man on the throne said, his voice booming. "I am your grandfather."
"My grandfather is dead," Damian said, sniffing.
Ra's rolled his eyes. "Not Thomas Wayne, boy." He stood up. "Your father has hidden you from me for much too long. I've come back to claim what is rightfully my flesh and blood." He wrenched Damian forward, pulling the boy toward him, digging his nails into Damian's shoulders as he held him above the ground. "You are an Al Ghul."
"Al Ghul?" Damian asked.
"An Al Ghul. And this crying is unbefitting." He dropped Damian to the ground, letting the boy crumble to the floor. Damian didn't stop crying; he just began doing it even harder. "From this day forward, you are no longer a Wayne, do you understand?"
“My da... dad will... he's gonna... save me," Damian choked out. Everything hurt. Everything hurt.
Ra's laughed. "The detective isn't coming for you. No one is coming for you. The only person you have is me." He kicked Damian's side, and the boy curled in on himself even more. "Do you understand?"
Damian whimpered.
Ra's sighed. He reached down, grabbing Damian's wrist and twisting it. That earned him a scream. "Do you understand?!" Ra's yelled. And Damian knew he needed to answer.
"Yes," Damian whispered.
"Good." Ra's drew back, looking to the guards. "Take him to his room. His training will begin immediately."
The guards obeyed, forcing the boy to his feet and tugging him out of the room. Ra's returned to his throne, the endless possibilities swarming in his mind.
How nice would it be for him to turn one of the detective's sons into a weapon against him?
Life was... difficult for Damian. His body- untrained, childlike, normal- was considered a failure. His abilities- limited, human, frail- were considered unworthy.
And they put him through hell training every day, training where failure to meet their demands put Damian through hell. It was hell to train and it was hell not to train.
He was told he should consider the Waynes dead to him.
But he didn't.
He lied to survive, of course. He learned to keep his back straight and his gaze dull. He followed the orders, knowing that a single act of disobedience would earn him torture.
The first time he tried to resist an order, he was backhanded across the face. The second time he did it- not even refusing, just trying to ask a question- his arm was broken. And he still had to continue his practice without a change in performance.
When Ra's asked him if he cared about his family anymore, he told him no. He told him no over and over and over.
Because when he said yes- just once when he was angry at these people and this 'grandfather' and everything that they had put him through- he was locked in solitary confinement for a week.
But, for the first year of his stay there, when he said he didn't care about his family, he didn't mean it. He stayed away every night, hoping this would be the day his father would come to save him. He didn't even care about Robin anymore. He didn't want to become that. He wanted normalcy. He wanted his old life back.
Damian found a rabbit hidden in the halls, shivering and frail-looking. "Hello," he whispered to the rabbit, petting it to calm the creature.
Damian felt a kinship with the rabbit. They were both afraid. Both lost.
The rabbit rubbed its face, burrowing into Damian's warmth. He walked back to his room- a small, cramped cell without windows or lights or anything except a mattress- and placed his new rabbit on his bed.
"I think I'm gonna name you Tim," he said, staring into the rabbit's eyes.
For a month, that rabbit was the only thing keeping him afloat. The only thing that pierced through the pain and darkness.
When Damian cried himself to sleep- on most nights- he would hold the rabbit close, sobbing into its fur.
Three months in, he was sent to kill an adult. The man was drugged, incoherent. He was tied to a chair. The gun was already pointed at his forehead.
All Damian needed to do was pull the trigger.
Damian didn't even say no. He just stepped back, pleading, "Please don't-" before his teacher walked up, taking a knife and stabbing it into his arm.
When Damian showed any sign of feeling the pain, she twisted it. He ended up screaming.
Then, he was directed toward the gun again. If he closed his eyes, which he did three times, or his hands shook, that happened five times, he had a finger broken. He had eight fingers broken by the time he was able to shoot the gun steadily.
The man died on impact.
For his failure to immediately comply with orders, he was forced to eat the rabbit for dinner.
Damian spent the first year slowly losing hope and slowly learning more. He learned how to kill. Lethally, silently, viciously. He learned how to use a variety of weapons and how to push his body to the extreme. He went through all sorts of training. Endurance training, torture training, survival training, obedience training.
At first, he resisted; he refused. But that just brought on more punishment. More pain.
So he gave in. He followed the orders, and he completed the training. He made friends with a girl named Mara.
They ate lunch together, they worked together at practice, they shared jokes and stories in their brief, fleeting breaks. She was the only one he would consider a friend.
Which is why, when they were pitted against each other in a fight to the death, Damian refused to kill her.
His instructor laughed. "You refuse?" He asked. "There is no such thing as refusal. We give you an order you follow the order. Kill her."
"No," Damian said, voice shaky. "I won't."
He had both arms broken for that. And he was pushed back into the arena directly after. That time, Damian begrudgingly began to fight her. It was grueling, painful, and difficult. Fighting with two broken arms meant almost a sure victory for Mara.
And she knew that.
She moved to kill, grinning at the idea of her becoming a victor.
Damian felt anger burn his chest. He would put his life on the line to save her, and she was laughing? Relishing in the fact that he was stumbling over himself?
A small scream formed in his throat, and he moved from defensive to offensive. If she was gonna act like that, then he would repay her. He would win. He knew he could win. He wasn't going to die for a girl who didn't care about him.
Still, when he pressed the dagger against her heart, he didn't want to kill her. He didn't want to end her life. He knew her. She was his friend.
But he knew what he had to do to survive.
His body collapsed once it was done.
It was over. Mara was dead. He was her killer. He had survived. Survived. Survived. Survived.
He was forced to his feet and brought to his grandfather's throne room. Ra's looked down at Damian, and he smiled. Damian knew that Ra's smile meant less hurt, so he gave a forced, pained smile back.
"Damian," Ra's said. He placed a hand on Damian's head.
That was the closest thing to a comforting touch Damian had been given in the past seven months. And despite himself, despite the pain in his heart, despite the blood on his hands and the tears still streaking down his cheek, he leaned into it.
Damian gave up sketching on the walls of his room with chalk. He loved drawing, he did, but he no longer gained any joy from it.
He scrubbed off the pictures he had drawn. They were mostly of Dick.
He was thrown over and over into trials and arenas where weakness would earn him nothing. He struggled through everything. Too 'weak-willed' and 'simple-minded' to win any of the competitions. To do more than the bare minimum of surviving.
A little after the end of his first year, he gave in.
It was part of a test. He was thrown into the forest with nothing but the clothes on his back. He had to survive for three days straight and then make it back to the League base.
He was two days in, bleeding from too many wounds to count, stomach filled with dirtied water and berries he would soon throw up. And he started to cry before remembering that crying was shameful and forced the tears back.
Looking up, he realized with startling certainty that he could not wait for his family. That they would not come. That he was alone and he might always be alone.
Things changed after that. He lost his hesitancy. He threw himself into training and fought with every strength he had in him.
He adapted.
This was his new reality. His new world. His new life. And Damian had to embrace it.
He wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hands. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming. He spent his nights training over and over, trying to hone himself to perfection. His muscles gave out and his wounds bled, but he didn't stop.
Because Damian was going to survive this. Even if he had to kill the child inside of him to do it.
He learned the art of the slaughter. Every fight in the arena was finished within minutes, with a bloodied corpse in Damian's hand. He killed with a startling efficiency. With an unprovoked ruthlessness
At first, his own violence scared him. But he learned not to care. He spent enough days forcing himself to kill someone that it eventually felt natural. As if he were born to do just that.
Damian wasn't allowed to talk normally. He had to speak professionally with the highest formality. He had to use words that were elegant and articulate. He had to be perfect and pristine, rigid in his stance and poised in his words. He struggled at first to learn the League Dialect while changing his own English wording. But he managed. Anything to survive. He would do anything to survive this.
Somewhere down the line, he forgot. He forgot what it felt like not to be sent through training. Forgot what it felt like not to train until his muscles gave out.
He forgot what it felt like to be loved.
So when Grandfather berated him for failing and sent him through more punishments, Damian was able to convince himself that was what love was. That every inch of pain and insult and cruelty was Grandfather's way of saying he loved Damian.
Damian learned to relish in the pain and cruelty.
His mother returned from her missions halfway through his second year in the League. She was horrified to find him. She begged Grandfather to send him back.
Grandfather replied coldly, telling her to assist with Damian's training.
His mother refused. She placed her hands on Damian's shoulders and hid him behind her back. She stared Grandfather down and told him, "No. He is my son. You will not hurt him anymore."
Damian had never heard someone defy Grandfather before and not suffer any punishment. And yet, his mother was still standing. She was not immediately forced to the ground for disobedience.
Grandfather just laughed and beckoned Damian forward.
Damian obeyed. He had been here long enough to know a thing or two about obeying.
His mother stared at him with sad, devastated eyes.
The two argued for a little longer. And it was fascinating. Damian had never met someone who could avoid Grandfather's wrath. But his mother was a force unseen before.
Eventually, though, Grandfather won. His mother gave Damian a pleading look as the guards forced her away.
Unlike others who spoke back, no harm came to her.
Instead, his grandfather's anger was taken out on Damian. He was faced with more rage, more punishments, more scars. He was thrown into more and more brutal punishments, coming back more mauled and damaged each time.
His mother gave in. She couldn't save him, but she wanted to help him. That was what she would tell him years upon years later.
Damian learned a lot about Batman. He learned the man didn't allow killing, and that Damian's actions made him a monster in his own father's eyes. For just trying to survive.
So when Ra's told him of how they kept Damian in the dark because he was unworthy, because they knew he was a disgrace, because they secretly hated him all along, Damian was all too eager to believe. When Ra's told him that and the only reason his father did not kill him when he was born- strangle him and butcher him and slice him open like a carcass- was because Ra's stopped him, Damian listened.
At first, he rejected it. But, as time went on, and it was repeated to him more and more, he began to warm up to it. Began to cling to every word.
He didn't want it to be true, and then he needed it to be true.
Ra's changed the narrative. He made it so that when Damian stopped believing in his own father, he could fill that role in Damian's heart. He could be the one Damian worshipped.
When Damian failed a mission, Ra's would frown and give Damian cruel, sharp eyes. He would say, "I wish I had let your father kill you when you were younger. You have not yet proven to me that you deserve to live."
Damian shrank at the words. He was always a burden. Once his Grandfather had put time into saving. And he had to make the man's deed worth it. He had to prove he was worthy of being alive. Prove he wasn't a mistake and a failure and a washed-up coward. Prove he could be useful.
He was trained on simulations of each of the Bats. He spent hours reviewing footage of them fighting, committing their moves to memory. Months were spent practicing killing them, on honing his skills to be unbeatable. He read all their files, committing their backstories to memory. He learned so many things they had kept him in the dark about. So many secrets- half t,rue half false- that they never told him.
He was a weapon, sharpened like a dagger. His goal, his purpose, was to kill the Waynes.
When Damian was two and a half years into the league, long disillusioned with Batman, his first real mission- out on his own- was a minor assassination.
His teacher was overseeing this mission, making sure he worked well with the men under him. It was the teacher who saw through his sword-fighting lessons. The one that made sure every mistake was punished with burns instead of cuts.
Everything went perfectly. Except when he was asked to kill the target's child.
He did it, of course. But he hesitated.
That hesitation earned him a deep scar. One trailing all the way down his back. It dug so deep into his flesh that it fractured his spine, and he needed a replacement.
The surgery was a pain so vivid, so unlike any he had held before.
But it was comforting. And through the agony, Damian found clarity. He deserved the hurt. He needed it. It would make him stronger. Better. Someone more deserving of Grandfather's affection.
He was given a day of rest after it was completed before he was forced out of the hospital wing and back to his room. He was already itching to fight again, even if his spine still hurt when he moved it.
When he arrived in his quarters, he found his mother, hands outstretched and open. Her hands were outstretched. "Let's go," she said to him. "Back to your father."
Damian a year ago would have taken the opportunity in a heartbeat. Now he just laughed. He found it ridiculous how willing she was to betray the demon head. To betray their leader, their god.
He refused to leave and she refused to go without him. And so they stayed.
He continued on more and more missions, rising in the ranks as he completed them.
He was doing more than surviving now. He was thriving. Soon, he was completing orders from the demon head himself. And he was used to it. Expected it even. Expected orders and expected to follow them, and expected punishments should he fail.
Damian was primed to kill Batman- the detective- and his allies. He was designed with that singular idea in mind.
He knew that was his ultimate mission.
But, afterward, he would need a new purpose. So he set his sights on the heir to the demon head. He would never be the demon head, of course. His grandfather was immortal. But Damian could be his right-hand man. His most loyal follower.
Three years in, killing was his favorite part of the missions. They made everything so much more efficient. Without killing, it was always dreadfully boring. And he enjoyed it, in a way.
Not the act of killing itself, but the look Grandfather gave him when he did.
Damian would call it pride.
Grandfather looked at him with pride as he beckoned Damian forward. He looked at him with what Damian would hope was pride when he grabbed Damian's hair to pull the boy's face closer to his. Damian convinced himself it was pride when he grinned with razor-sharp teeth and said, "Out of all the weapons I could create to destroy the detective, you are by far the best. I can already imagine his horror when he sees his very own son, trained to fight against him. Loyal to me and me alone."
Grandfather pulled Damian's hair back, letting him fall to the ground. His hair hurt from being tugged, and his cheeks hurt from punishments early, but all he could think about was love.
Besides, the idea of his father being faced with the son he couldn't kill, coming back for revenge, excited Damian too.
He was prepared to see his Grandfather's vision through.
By his fourth year, he was considered one of the most feared assassins in the League. He led his own missions, had his name whispered by underlings, and was revered throughout.
The heir to the demon head.
He was known to be deadly, obedient, efficient, powerful. The men working under him followed his instructions as if they were given by Ra's himself.
Damian would give his life for his Grandfather. He would bleed if he told Damian to bleed. Kill if he told Damian to kill. He would do anything. Anything at all.
So, when he entered Grandfather's throne room, back straight and posture perfect, he was prepared to give him the world.
When Grandfather's lips parted, and he told Damian that his next mission was to oversee a weapons trade in Gotham, Damian almost talked back. He almost asked about the Waynes. When do I get to kill them? When will I be good enough for you to let me slice their throats and stab their hearts as righteous punishment for what they did to you? What they did to me?
But Damian knew better than to question Grandfather. The man's word was law and whatever he had planned was miles better than whatever Damian wanted. Grandfather was always right.
"If the Bats interfere, you are allowed to capture them, Grandson. But do not kill them. You are not deserving of it yet."
"Yes, Grandfather," Damian said. He was disappointed, of course.
To kill the Bats... that was his purpose after all. But Damian would do anything to make Grandfather happy. He would do anything to make his father wish he had killed Damian when given the chance.