Chapter Text
The night in Gotham was a living organism, a slumbering predator that breathed through the neon glow and the whispers of the alleyways. In the heart of this darkness, two small shadows moved with a supernatural determination. Amaranthine and Naph, driven by a burning, personal sense of justice, had decided tonight was the night to settle scores.
The logic was simple and unquestionable in their minds: the Wayne Family was theirs. The kidnapping of Dick, Jason's death years ago, the constant attacks on Uncle Bruce... these were offenses that echoed deeply within them, a personal affront that demanded blood.
Even though they were born on Earth, the Zaunite blood running through their veins—that fierce, territorial, and relentless instinct to protect their family—cried out for vengeance. Vengeance was not an option; it was a rule.
Astonishingly, they escaped the house without a single magical alarm sounding. Perhaps because the house, accustomed to their unique magical signature, saw them as natural extensions of itself, or because, on that night, Fate itself decided to aid them. The two exchanged a smile and mentally gave thanks: ‘Thank you, cousin.’
Moving across rooftops and through alleys—Naph with his miniaturized warhammer in his pocket dimension, Amaranthine with her closed pink umbrella held firmly in her hand—they arrived at an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district, a place that reeked of oil, despair, and madness.
Inside, the Joker's lair was teeming. Henchmen of all kinds gathered weapons, laughed loudly, and breathed the tainted air of hysteria that their leader emanated. Everyone was distracted in the center of the warehouse, busy with preparations for a grand spectacle.
The twins exchanged a glance, and a swift, knowing smile appeared on their faces. After all, every hero had a triumphant entrance, didn't they? If even the most pathetic villains had their drama, why shouldn't they, with all their power and style, have theirs?
That was when Amaranthine went into action. With a fluid motion, she raised her umbrella. An inaudible click, and a sphere of bright, crimson energy bloomed at its tip. She calmly aimed at the warehouse wall.
A single laser beam, thin and precise, sliced through concrete and reinforced metal as if they were butter. In an instant, a perfect, smoldering crescent moon was carved into the wall, the edge of the metal still incandescent. A cloud of dust and debris exploded inward, making the henchmen cough, scream, and stagger back.
Through the glorious opening, the two small figures advanced, dark silhouettes against the silvery moonlight that now invaded the lair.
— Good evening! — Amaranthine's voice echoed, sweetly polite, yet cutting through the chaos like a blade. — We apologize for the interruption and the mess. — She gave a small, impeccable bow. — But we are looking for a clown with questionable taste and unfunny jokes who calls himself 'the Joker'. Could someone be so kind as to point us in his direction?
The confusion that set in was as thick as the dust. All the henchmen, who had initially pointed their weapons at the smoldering opening, stood frozen. When the dust settled enough to reveal… two children. Small ones. Dressed not in hero costumes, but in impeccable Sailor Moon outfits—the girl a perfect replica of the protagonist, and the boy in the sailor-suited version of Sailor Uranus.
The scene was so surreal that, even by Gotham's twisted standards, some of the henchmen lowered their weapons, bewildered. Others were left literally gaping, unable to process what their eyes were seeing.
The Joker, who had been observing everything from his stage with a growing, sick interest, stepped forward, his smile stretching into a macabre grin.
— Well, well, look what the cat dragged in! — his voice was a shrill, animated singsong — Two new little birdies! No, no... that's not Batman's style. Too... colorful. Too frilly.
He completely ignored the confused henchmen, his predatory attention wholly focused on the two children, like a cat watching two particularly exotic canaries.
— Two little dolls! — he exclaimed, as if he had unraveled a great mystery. — Didn't know Baby-Doll was back in business! Did she get tired of being a grown woman? And now with helpers! How cute! Did you come for a slumber party? Bring your stuffed animals to play?
Naph smiled. It wasn't the carefree smile of a child, but a smile full of teeth and a icy mockery that was frighteningly mature for his youthful face.
— We don't work for her, you second-rate clown.
Amaranthine raised her chin, an absolute coldness replacing her previous animated determination. With a calm, deliberate gesture, she clicked a button on the handle. The rosebud-shaped umbrella opened with a soft whoosh, becoming a full rose, and she rested it on her shoulder like a shield. The sphere of red light at its tip pulsed with a rhythmic, threatening glow.
— How weak — the Joker yawned, examining his nails with exaggerated boredom. — I've heard better insults in kindergarten. — His eyes darted between them, a spark of sickly curiosity igniting in their depths. — If you're not Baby-Doll's... then whose are you?
It was the wrong question.
Amaranthine raised her chin, an absolute coldness replacing her previous animated determination. With a calm, deliberate gesture, she clicked a button on the handle. The rosebud-shaped umbrella opened with a soft whoosh, its petals of magical fabric unfurling into a perfect, imposing rose. She rested it on her shoulder like a shield. The sphere of red light at its tip pulsed with a slow, threatening rhythm.
— Good — she said, and her voice, once sweet, was now clear and sharp as glass — We came on our own. We don't like it when fools hurt our friends. So we came for revenge.
The declaration, coming from that tiny, costumed, and masked figure, was so absurdly ridiculous that the Joker burst into laughter. It wasn't a chuckle, but a convulsion of pure ecstasy, a sound that tore through the warehouse air and made even his most hardened henchmen flinch. Revenge? From those brats who barely looked out of diapers? It was the funniest joke he'd heard in years. He doubled over, holding his stomach. He'd already broken one Robin. These two were nothing.
— I DOUBT IT! — he squealed between fits of laughter, wiping away a tear of pure joy. — But who knows! Maybe I'll get a Joker Jr. and a Harley Jr. — The idea seemed to electrify him. — Imagine Batman's face!
He gestured with a dismissive wave of his hand, a casual command to his henchmen.
— Get them. Bring me my new toys. Intact. More or less.
But the Joker's final words were the trigger. He had touched a deep, dark nerve. The mention of what he did to Tim and Jason, and the implicit threat to Uncle Bruce, were the last straw. The fury burning inside them—a seething mix of unconditional family loyalty and the relentless heritage of Zaun—exploded.
Amaranthine's eyes shone with a silvery light.
— Repulsion.
The word was not a shout, but a command laden with pure power. It did not come from a learned incantation, but from her own will, channeled and amplified by the wand in her other hand.
The effect was instantaneous and absolutely catastrophic.
The world simply exploded.
A wave of invisible force, solid as a mountain and more relentless than a tsunami, erupted in a perfect circle. Everything within ten meters of them—crates, barrels, weapons, henchmen—was swept from the floor and hurled backward with immense force. Bodies collided with walls with wet, decisive cracks; metal twisted. The silence that followed the roar was more terrifying than the noise itself.
When the dust settled, Amaranthine and Naph stood at the epicenter, untouched, enveloped by the protective aura of the umbrella, which now glowed with a steady amber light. The Joker, thrown against the wall behind his makeshift throne, rose with an ungainly movement. His smile was no longer one of amusement. It was something sharper, more interested. It was the look of a predator that had finally found prey worth its while.
— Well, well — he whispered, his eyes wide and fixed on the children, a spark of renewed madness in them. — This... is new.
— Sis, not so strong — Naph said, his tone lightly chiding like an older brother's (by a minute and a half). — Forgot the rule? No killing. Just breaking.
Amaranthine rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips with dramatic flair.
— But I wasn't even close to killing anyone! — she protested, pointing at the scattered, groaning bodies. — Look, they're all still alive!
— I know — Naph retorted, with the infinite patience of someone born already knowing his sister's tricks. — The rule is clear: at most, compound fractures and mild head trauma. Mild.
— Okay, okay, you buzzkill — Amaranthine stuck out her tongue, but a playful little smile danced on her lips, betraying her amusement.
— Well, now it's my turn — Naph announced, turning to the Joker with the solemnity of a gladiator entering the arena.
The clown, who was struggling to his feet while holding his ribs, hadn't expected these "anime dolls" to be so... efficient. His smile was now a thin, calculating line, his eyes darting between them, analyzing, recalculating. The cheap fun had given way to a perverse curiosity.
That's when Naph grabbed his hammer. With a single thought, the object transformed, growing from a small keychain into its monstrous, imposing battle size. The hammer's head, studded with runes, was larger than his own body, which he wielded with a physics-defying ease.
— Usually, in the cartoons — Naph commented, his voice now laced with a chilling coldness — there'd be that boring scene where the hero tries to get the villain to surrender. But where's the fun in that? — He took aim at the Joker, who was trying to recompose himself. — Nice recovery. You're gonna need it.
Before the villain could utter another joke, Naph acted. He swung the hammer with a whoosh that sucked the air from the room and sent the Joker flying into the wall as if he were a ragdoll. The wet, resonant CRACK of ribs, clavicle, and femur shattering echoed through the warehouse as his body collided with the bricks. He slid to the floor, an unconscious, unrecognizable heap of torn purple suit.
— Score! — Amaranthine yelled, jumping with excitement. She ran over to the Joker's body, stopping a few meters away and inspecting it with the tip of her scepter. — A total of... 207 bone fractures? That's 207 points! Nice one, Naph.
Naph flashed his best champion's smile at his sister, pride overflowing. But the smile froze on his face when he saw her expression transform. Amaranthine's face was pale, her eyes wide, fixed on something behind him.
He heard then what she had heard first: the clear, familiar, and terrifyingly rhythmic sound of firm footsteps on concrete. A sound that meant only one thing.
Naph turned slowly, his heart pounding in his throat, and whispered to the tall, stern figure standing behind him:
— Hi, Dad…
A silent, icy fury consumed Jayce. It was the specific rage of a father who had discovered his two six-year-old children had vanished to go on a hunt in Gotham. When he followed their magical trail—bright and unmistakable as a beacon to his senses—and found the scene of destruction, his anger collided head-on with a wave of... profound, forbidden, visceral satisfaction.
But he was a father. And fathers, no matter how justified the vengeance, could not condone violence carried out by six-year-olds. Looking at his own perpetual nephews and their clearly dysfunctional family dynamics, he knew he had to draw a line.
They had reduced the Joker to a bloody, unconscious pulp, with every single bone broken.
Jayce could, and should, level his most severe glare. But deep down, in the darkest, most protective part of his being, he could not deny: he had wanted to do something infinitely worse to that clown for a very long time. The vivid image of smearing the clown into a stain on the asphalt with a single swing of his own hammer flashed through his mind in a tempting, sinful instant.
— You should both be in bed — his voice was low, controlled, and cut through the warehouse's heavy air like a blade. — Or am I mistaken?
The two didn't even try to defend themselves. Their teary eyes and trembling pouts—weapons that could disarm Papa Viktor in seconds—had absolutely no effect on Father Jayce.