Chapter Text
The mask felt like a physical reminder of the identity he had carved out for himself once the cells of Nanda Parbat were nothing but a memory. He had chosen the name Respawn because it sounded like a threat—a promise that no matter how many times the al Ghuls treated him like a collection of spare parts or a biological backup drive, he would always return.
He had spent years fuelling his heart with pure, concentrated hatred for the “True Heir,” the perfect little miracle boy who was supposed to receive his organs like a gift. He had called that boy a parasite, a golden shadow and a breathing death sentence. But, somehow, the names meant nothing here, in the dark, with frozen dirt under his bare feet.
A brother Respawn had never asked for sleeping twenty feet away.
The original. The real one.
The reason Respawn existed at all.
Damian al Ghul.
Respawn rolled the name around in his skull like a loose tooth, prodding at the hatred that had lived there as long as he could remember. Every ache in his body had Damian’s name on it. Every scar. Every time they’d strapped him down and taken what they needed—for the heir, for the grandson, for the real one—he’d whispered that name like a curse.
Damian. Damian. Damian. He’d dreamed about killing him. He planned it, in the dark, when the pain was bad. He imagined wrapping his hands around that perfect throat and squeezing until the original stopped breathing.
Then Damian had blown a hole in his cell wall.
Respawn pulled his knees closer to his chest and watched the stars blur overhead. The fire had died hours ago. Damian was curled on his side across the clearing, small for nine, smaller than Respawn even though they were the same age. His face was slack with sleep. Peaceful. He didn’t look like a monster. He didn’t look like anything Respawn had imagined.
He just looked... young.
And crazy. Absolutely, certifiably crazy.
The first day, Respawn had been too busy running to notice, too busy bleeding, too busy trying to keep up with a child who moved through the mountains like he’d done this a hundred times before, too busy waiting for the betrayal, the trap, the moment Damian revealed this was all some elaborate game. But the trap never came.
Instead, Damian had stopped in a village at dawn, bought them both breakfast with gold coins he produced from nowhere, and spent twenty minutes explaining to a confused shopkeeper that his third eye had unlocked 93% of his brain capacity and would she like to buy a tomato that could cure arthritis?
Respawn had stood there with bread in his mouth, wondering if he’d finally snapped.
That was day one.
Day two, Damian had somehow acquired a dimensional pocket—don’t call it magic, imbecile, call it science you don’t understand yet—and filled it with gardening supplies. On the same day, he’d also produced a glitter bomb from his sleeve and detonated it in the face of a League scout, then laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
Respawn had not laughed because he’d been too busy dragging Damian away from the body, too busy calculating how much of a head start they had, too busy waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it hadn’t dropped.
By day three, Respawn had stopped waiting.
The hatred was still there. It lived in his bones, in the ache of places they’d cut him open, in the hollow where his name should have been. But it was... confused now. Muddled. You couldn’t hate someone properly when they spent the whole trip explaining why running away to Japan or Thailand was “cliché” and would “backfire eventually.” You couldn’t hate someone properly when they offered you half their blanket without being asked. You couldn’t hate someone properly when they were clearly, obviously, undeniably insane.
It would be embarrassing. Shameful.
Like kicking a puppy that thought it was a dragon.
Respawn pressed his forehead to his knees and closed his eyes. Somewhere across the clearing, Damian murmured something in his sleep. Probably about vegetables. Or the plot. Or the 97% brain capacity he kept claiming he’d achieved.
Respawn didn’t know anymore.
He just knew that tomorrow they’d keep moving. That in a week, maybe two, they’d reach whatever city Damian had decided was “safe.” That he’d still be here, following the crazy person who’d saved him, because going back meant the League and going forward meant... this.
Whatever this was.
What he knew was that his name was Respawn and his brother was insane.
Something cold and metallic thwacked against Respawn’s forehead. He flinched, catching a small, high-tech GPS device before it hit the dirt.
“Check the time, imbecile,” Damian stated, hovering over him like a shadow. “The ‘tomorrow’ you are so worried about is already three hours old. We have a long journey ahead to reach the safe zone. If you collapse from exhaustion, I will be forced to drag you, and that would be a very tedious cliché for the audience.”
Respawn stared at the device, then up at the boy who was supposed to be his mortal enemy. “I slept in a cage for years while the League harvested my skin. I can handle a long walk. I just... I do not see how you can be so calm when everything is this messed up.”
“I am calm because I have already seen the storyboard,” Damian replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. He narrowed his eyes, leaning in closer. “Wait. Are you attempting to sync your neural pathways to mine? Are you trying to reach the 97 percent mark?”
He sighed. “It is an ambitious goal for a spare, but I suppose I can allow you to shadow my mental exercises. Lie down and visualise the dimensional pocket. It is easier to unlock your brain when you are unconscious.”
“Visualising your delusions will not help me sleep,” Respawn replied, his voice a flat, icy blade. He did not move, staring at his half-brother with the wary gaze of a man trapped with a ticking bomb. “And if you are so concerned about my efficiency, perhaps you should stop hovering. Or is this the part where you finally decide to finish the job while I am unconscious? It would be easier to harvest my heart if I am not looking at you.”
Damian rolled his eyes so hard Respawn could practically hear it. “Tt. You are truly tedious when you are sleep-deprived. Use your limited brain capacity for once: why would I rescue a spare just to discard it before the first act is even finished? It is a waste of my resources.”
Before Respawn could retort, Damian lunged forward with a handful of the shared blanket. He shoved Respawn backward into the dirt and threw the heavy fabric over both of them.
Respawn stiffened, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was prepared for a strike, for a stranglehold, but instead, he felt the steady, radiating warmth of the boy leaning against his side. Damian smelled of sandalwood and rain.
He is warm, Respawn thought, his mind racing even as his body remained paralysed.
“Stop twitching,” Damian muttered into the dark.
Respawn he did not pull away. “I am not your pillow.”
“You are my brother,” Damian said, his voice already thick with the onset of sleep. He hooked an arm over Respawn’s chest, anchoring him down as if he were a prized possession. “It is a standard trope that brothers are meant to be available for combat practice, shared rations and... stationary support during rest cycles.”
Respawn snorted. “I am not your script-filler. And this feels like a downgrade. At least in the lab, I did not have to deal with you drooling on my shoulder.” He waited for a biting retort, for Damian to snap back about his 97 percent brain capacity, but silence followed.
Respawn turned his head slightly, realising that Damian was already out. The “True Heir” was fast asleep, his breathing deep and even, trusting a person who had been designed to hate him.
Damian was dangerous and clearly mentally compromised. The sight made something in Respawn’s chest feel tight and uncomfortable—disgust, surely. It had to be disgust. How could anyone be this vulnerable?
He is truly a danger to himself, Respawn thought.
And who else is going to keep him from getting killed by his own delusions?
Respawn hesitated, his pulse fluttering in his fingertips, before he slowly reached out. He pressed his hand against Damian’s cheek—the skin was soft, terrifyingly human. Damian did not stir. He did not grab Respawn’s wrist or strike out. He just stayed there, a sleeping lunatic. Respawn felt his own eyes growing heavy, his hand still resting on the face of the boy he was supposed to kill. He fell asleep wondering if insanity was contagious.