Chapter Text
Damian al Ghul was ruthless, efficient, powerful. He’s the son of Talia al Ghul and heir to the League of Assassins. His life is spent training, lending every ounce of his willpower to the might of his grandfather. He follows every order with a cunning zeal, striving to make his family proud with every swing of his katana.
He’s been trained by the best of the best — he’s become the best.
His final test today will name him so. If he beats his mother, he will finally be given the mission his grandfather has talked about since he was young — his chance to prove himself and cement his place in his lineage.
He stands in the sparring circle, katana in his steady hands, taking calming breaths as he prepares for the most important fight in his life. He can’t fail, he repeats in his head over and over again, yet that somehow makes his breathing choppier.
He has failed before, as much as he loathes to remember. Every failure has earned him a lesson, a punishment that taught him the error of his ways or reinforced his training. He can’t let this be another lesson. He had failed his mother years ago in a test like this, and it cost him six more years of rigorous training.
He takes a final breath and turns toward his mother, staring into the face of her hardened gaze. He loved his mother, and he knows she loves him back, but he can’t help but feel a deep shame whenever he’s around her. He needs to be more for her. He needs to be the best. To prove he’s as proficient as she wants him to be. His eyes meet his reflection in the glint of her swords, almost like an inner voice reminding him what will happen if he fails again.
There’s no countdown, no clear start to the spar, before his mother pushes on her foot and reaches him in an instant. Their swords clash, and they begin the dance that he’s become so accustomed to — trading blows, blocking metal with metal, and the calm focus he swiftly settles into.
He doesn’t let himself make any movement that doesn’t have a purpose, every strike follows through and every step gets him closer to his goal. He finds a small opening and lunges with a quick jab of his sword, but his mother pivots and the momentum meets air. He watches his mother’s mouth twitch downward, and he begins doubling his advances.
His mother isn’t holding back, she never does. Each swing is brunt and ruthless. He blocks her attack and quickly pivots to parry his own, changing his direction at the final moment to catch her unaware. His mother is too quick, of course, and nicks him in the shoulder with her blade.
Continuing on, he fights through the sting of pain, not stopping for a second. He doesn’t have the luxury to stop and whine. His eyes stay on his mother’s figure, anticipating and planning for every move.
He finally catches her with three advances back-to-back, leaving her open for a final blow. He slashes the calf of her leg, and sweeps his foot to knock her off balance. She falls and he stands over her, steadying his katana at her throat.
He holds his breath as she looks up at him with a soft glint in her eyes. “Congratulations, my son,” she says, allowing Damian to fill his lungs back up, relief coursing through his veins. His mother stands, unbothered by the wound he gave her, and wraps him up in a hug. He relishes the affection. This is more a reward than the mission he will be given. Knowing that his mother is proud is everything he needs.
His grandfather is everything he expects from Damian — ruthless, cunning, efficient. He succeeds at everything he does, never fails a mission or loses a fight, unlike Damian. Damian knows he still has a lot to learn before he takes over his throne.
He often stands in his grandfather’s throne room when he’s done something wrong, when he’s failed and needs a lesson. A reminder that his failures are a direct reflection of the future of the League of Assassins. This time, however, is a good day — he’s receiving his first real mission as heir of the Demon’s Head.
He bows as he enters, “Grandfather.”
Ra’s mouth twitches in a smile that still fills Damian with unease despite the joyous occasion, scared for a second his gift will be taken back, that something worse will replace it. “Your mother believes you’re ready for your first mission,” he states, eyes locking onto Damian’s, almost like a test of wills. “Are you?”
He holds the piercing green gaze. “Yes, sir. I’m ready. I won’t let you down,” he promises, intending to do anything to prove it. That’s what's expected of him. He won’t let his family down.
He’s not sure whether Ra’s believes his devotion, he always seems to be looking for any break in his loyalty, but he smiles. “Very well. It’s about time you uphold your legacy.” Guilt courses through him at the reminder that he still hasn’t earned anything yet, he’s still not enough. That would soon change. “Your mission is to cleanse Gotham City of the filth littered in its streets. Kill those who claim to protect it and prepare it for my arrival. You have three months. Impress me, my heir.”
Damian hopes to convey the sincerity he feels as he agrees. “Of course, sir. I won’t let you down,” he vows. He can’t. This is his one chance to prove himself to be worthy of everything he’s been given.
He can’t mess up.
He leaves the throne room, sharp eyes following him out. He’s heard of Gotham City before, of course, his education was extensive. He was taught the crime and dirt that muddies it — dirt that’s about to be cleaned.
He’s heard of The Batman, the veil of darkness that reigns over the city. His grandfather has spoken of his destruction, the harm he’s done to Gotham and its citizens, and the tyrannical hold he has over the inner workings of the city.
He knows Batman must be defeated for him to free Gotham and present it for his family. He’s glad his grandfather has trusted him with such an important task.
Other than The Dark Knight, he doesn’t know what else lurks in the shadows. He’s heard his grandfather talk of Batman’s associates, but information on them is sparse. He’ll have to do more research when he gets there. Observe whatever heroes and rogues he’ll have to deal with before he can cleanse the streets.
He immediately begins instructing his servants to pack whatever he may need. He assumes he’ll be there for a few months at most. He’s been preparing his whole life for this — to carry-out work for the League — he won’t mess this up.
His mother seems hesitant about his mission, a strange emotion coating her face when he mentions Gotham. She must not think he’s ready. He doesn’t yet know what awaits him, but he knows he’ll be able to handle it, he has to be able to handle it. He’ll prove to his mother that he can.
Leaving his mother behind is hard, as always. He rarely leaves the League’s compounds, and when he does it’s never for long. His mother is almost always present, always reachable, but this time he’ll be alone.
It could be months before he sees her again, which stokes the anxious fire in his heart. His hesitance to leave her is a weakness, he knows, but he can’t help but hold their hug a little longer anyway.
His mother lets go first, pulling away to hold his face in her hands. “Be safe, my son. Remember who you are,” she says.
He nods. “Of course, mother.” He knows who he is, he always has. He’s Damian al Ghul, son of Talia al Ghul and heir to the League of Assassins. Nothing would make him forget his goal, his purpose. “I’ll make you proud,” he promises as he turns towards the plane set to take him toward his first mission.
His family does not make empty threats or promises, he will succeed in his mission. He’ll cement his place in his family, and prove himself.
Nothing will stray him from his path.
Thanks to the fortune of the League of Assassins, his trip to Gotham and his subsequent arrangements have already been handled. He can’t attract attention, so he’s forced to fly commercials instead of on his family’s many aerial transportations.
He can barely contain his emotions, despite that being something he usually excels at. Far too many people impede his space and act like they’ve never been around another person before. He imagines himself slicing them with his katana to prevent himself from doing so in real life.
He arrives there in the city in less than a day, already exhausted from being surrounded by such ineptitude. The Gotham airport doesn’t help. It’s nicer than he would have imagined, but still crowded and dirty.
Trying to shove down his disgust, he starts his assessment. He can’t attack prematurely, he needs to be smart about his approach. He gets his luggage, which is more of a formality, and steps out into the city. The important stuff — his weapons, disguises, gadgets, and anything else he might need — are already stored in his lodgings.
His studies did not do the filth of Gotham justice. There’s a sense of disgust as he walks through the streets, filled with dirty citizens that smell of smoke and alcohol. Littered trash fills every sidewalk, even though there’s trash cans all over. Worst of all, it smells horrid.
It’s a cesspit, he concludes.
But that will all be fixed eventually. Gotham will become a utopia, protected by the League. He’ll lift this rotten city out of the mud with his own bare hands. It will become a monument of his and, by extension, his family’s success.
He has been arranged to stay at one of the nicer apartments in the city. It’s still nothing like what he’s used to, but he’ll make do. He’s glad he doesn’t have to stay in some of the apartments he passed along the way, with cracked walls, chipping paint, and rodents chewing on the garbage outside. The comparison of what he could be living in makes his reality less unpleasant, if only slightly.
His apartment is still far too small, and with no servants sent with him to tend to his needs. How do people live like this? He begins unpacking his luggage with a scowl.
No matter, a good assassin must endure awful conditions for their mission. His grandfather wouldn’t shudder in fear at the grime and destitution, so he shouldn't either. His grandfather wouldn’t need servants to make his meals and keep his space clean, so he shouldn’t either. He’s been through far worse.
He tries to remember that the people living here are the people he has vowed to save. He shouldn’t judge them, it’s not their fault the city is rotting. Although they could at least try to keep themselves clean and not smelling like farm animals.
As it turns out, there are no actual heroes in Gotham, just vigilantes. Batman and his sidekick Robin are the main threats in the city, although Robin has not been active in a few years. Some conspire that there have been multiple children parading as Robin, and that they change names once they outgrow the role.
Nightwing, Red Hood, Spoiler, Black Bat, Red Robin, and Signal are Batman’s closest associates. They often patrol together, in pairs. They’re the shadows on the streets, hunting villains and attacking low-life criminals. They’re the reason the city is such a mess.
He follows them from afar at first, wary that rumors of the man having echolocation are true, although, luckily, he seems to go by unnoticed.
He watches for a week, cataloging everything they do and everyone they talk to. They seem well connected within the city, with contacts in street gangs, drug pushers, and even in the police. Damian has to concur that they’re efficient, yet the city they claim to protect stays rotting.
His first impression doesn’t align with how his grandfather has spoken of the vigilantes. He said these self-proclaimed heroes are the cause for all this destruction. That despite their acts of saving, they are letting the rot fester, doing nothing to stop the growing infestation. That’s not what he sees though.
Instead, he quickly notices how attached the citizens are to their vigilantes. Children on the streets flock to them, even the one who towers over them and carries guns, even the ones shrouded in darkness.
They don’t seem like the hardened villains he had imagined, but he’s sure they just keep it hidden. They’re very different from the emotionless League members he’s used to, he’ll have to get used to reading them.
He knows his grandfather must be right about the evil in Gotham’s vigilantes, but he does question it when Batman crouches behind a dumpster to lure out a shaking little girl, offering her a lollipop from his belt with a soft, calming voice.
It oddly reminds him of his mother.
His mother plagues his thoughts a lot. He underestimated how much he would miss her. Many times during his first week, he’s thought to tell her something, only to remember that she’s thousands of miles away. But he tries not to dwell on it, the faster he finishes his mission, the faster he can get home.
His time during the day is spent researching the rest of the city. He mostly wanders, mapping everything he sees and hears. It’s surprisingly boring, people talk about mundane stories, work related things, stupid stuff. He thought his first mission would be more exciting.
He’s tried to be patient throughout his first week in Gotham, but the anticipation slowly eats at him. He needs to do something soon, for his own sanity, and to sate the itch of Ra’s shadow lurking behind him.
He can’t just come and conquer the city, he has to build a following and show citizens that he and the League know best, then he can get rid of Batman and his followers.
He starts small, killing a few rogues here and there, ones whose absence won’t be noticed by the big bats and birds. A couple of Joker’s goons, a few members of Black Mask’s False Facers when they attacked the city, then a few more when he escaped from Arkham Asylum almost immediately after being admitted. His bafflement with the vigilantes only grows at the uselessness of the prison that supposedly houses the most dangerous villains, which it does, for only a few days until they decide to break out.
His first major kill came from annoyance. He was waiting in the shadows as a comical villain dressed in blue and red, wielding weapons made out of ketchup and mustard bottles, made a ruckus outside a grocery store. He scoffed when people screamed and ran, it wasn’t like condiments could cause serious harm. Although most people merely avoided the man, acting like it was another regular day, and for them, maybe it was.
He decided to step out of the shadows, both figuratively and literally, and save Gotham from the incessant babbling of puns.
The man had moved inside the grocery store, shooting anyone he could with his condiments. He perked up when he noticed Damian, dressed in all black with a full face covering. It’s similar to the costumes of the League of Shadows, but slightly more attuned to Damian’s tastes.
“Who’s this? A new bat? Well this is saucy,” he says, lifting up his invention. “I had hoped to ketchup with the big bad bat, but I guess he’s too busy for me. Now who am I a-dressing?”
Damian doesn’t sully himself to respond, opting to throw a dagger through the man’s throat to finally get him to shut up. The knife meets flesh and a shocked gurgle is the grand finale to his performance.
No one knows what to make of his actions. News outlets are either confused or condemnful of the death of Condiment King. The next day, people seem more wary, quieter as they accept the end of one of their long-standing nuisances.
Some people believe the bats did it, most think it was the work of some other villain or gang. The bats, as always, make no public comment about the incident, always staying in the shadows.
He’s not exactly proud of his unplanned insurrection, which truly doesn’t have any effect on the city’s environment, but it’s only step one of many. He’ll have to get more organized, more focused, in the future.
He takes the next day off to avoid suspicion, just in case.
One of his small joys he’s found is the stray animals on the streets. It’s saddening to see how emaciated and fearful they are, but with his help it’s an easy fix. He’s already gotten into a routine of feeding and helping any strays he comes across before heading out for the night. They already seem to be warming up to him.
An abundance of them reside in Crime Alley. They tend to be the most skittish and aggressive as well. Mizi in particular, a small, brown tabby runs at the sight of anything moving, hissing and biting all the while. It’s obvious she was once a house cat, as the collar displaying her name suggests. It always takes a while, and a whole lot of patience, to coax her out of her hiding spots, but he is more than willing if it means she gets a meal.
He likes to think of Gotham this way — like lost sheep the League must herd. It’s hard when he passes a man covered in dirt, high on drugs, muttering to himself to remember that he’s here to save them. It’s not like he knows better, that’s why Damian’s here, that’s what the League is for.
Today, Mizi comes out almost immediately after he sits down and even lets him put out his hand for her to smell, hesitantly sniffing and scanning for danger. He opens up a can of cat food and lightly nudges it her way, relieved when she starts eating.
A shadow from the entrance to the alleyway moves in the corner of his vision and he tenses, careful not to make any sudden movements to scare Mizi away. Two men enter the small area, moving with a relaxed, arrogant confidence; like they own the place.
“Hey, kid. Lost your cat?” One asks with a taunting smile. His jagged, husk voice causes Mizi to disappear into the building, only half the can of food eaten. He’s fairly bulky, unlike the other one, and looks like he knows how to throw a punch. Damian wonders if he knows how to take one too.
“Why so quiet, kid? Cat got your tongue?” The shorter one jokes, causing them both to titter like children.
Damian slowly stands and dusts himself off, not dignifying them with a response. He doesn’t let them open their mouths again before he’s slamming his foot into the ribs of the smaller man. He coughs in surprise, doubling over in pain. The taller man gawks for a second before scowling down at Damian. “We’re going to take more than your money for that, fucker,” he growls. He raises his fist, but it’s the easiest dodge Damian has done in his life. He’d heard the streets of Gotham were dangerous, but he’s yet to encounter anyone threatening that actually knows how to throw a decent punch.
Suddenly, a figure jumps down from the rooftop, metallic red helmet covering his face, and a leather jacket overtop a red bat symbol. Damian barely has time to prepare for another assault when the vigilante slams the butt of his gun into the taller assailant’s face.
Damian stands puzzled as the man fights off his attackers with another kick to the chest.
Recovered and scared off, the smaller one grabs his partner and runs from the alley, sending fearful looks back. Damian keeps his gaze on the vigilante in front of him, waiting for his next move.
“That was impressive,” Red Hood says, turning toward him, watching thoughtfully. “You okay?” Damian feels like he’s already been found out, that he already knows who Damian really is, but he gets a grip of his paranoia and forces himself to relax.
To him, Damian is just a regular citizen. He nods in response, then he casts his eyes around for Mizi, but she must be long gone. He picks up the abandoned cat food.
“You looking for a cat?” The vigilante asks, staring unnervingly at him. The helmet makes him difficult to read. It’s quite annoying, but he doesn’t think the man sees him as a threat.
“I was,” Damian replies. “They scared her off before she could finish.”
The Red Hood nods, looking around the alley slightly, then back at him. “Well, it seems like she’s gone now. You should get back home, it’s getting late,” he says in a way that’s not stern but is clearly an order.
Damian nods, “Of course,” he says, agreeing easily, if only to get the vigilante to leave. He assumed that would be the end of the conversation, but Red Hood continues.
“Are you new here?” He asks, looking him up and down like he’s trying to figure him out.
“I am. I just moved here,” he replies, choosing to stick to the truth. There’s no way he would fit in as a local anyway.
“Huh,” the man wonders softly. “You moved to Gotham?” He asks like it’s an absurd thing to do, which it probably is, Damian can’t imagine anyone willingly living here. He only nods, not wanting to give away any information that can be used against him.
Red Hood seems like he wants to know more, but he doesn't push. “How about I walk you home then, so you don’t get lost,” he offers.
Damian almost scoffs. Either Red Hood thinks he’s an idiot, or this is a badly disguised plan to learn more about him. There’s no way he’s letting any of the vigilantes know where he lives. “I’ll manage, thank you,” he says, turning around to leave.
The vigilante hesitates, but eventually nods. “Stay safe, kid.”