Chapter Text
If you were to create a timeline of Damian’s life, you would find one recurring factor.
Misfortune.
He had been born into a family whose legacy outweighed him from the start, something far too large for him to carry in such a small, unready form. What followed was less a series of challenges and more something quieter, more lasting—trauma, though he rarely lets himself name it as such.
Putting such a grave label on the series of actions that ruined him gives it too much power. He doesn’t want to be known as traumatised, doesn’t want to be seen as pitiful or fragile, someone who had no control over anything that has happened to him.
After under his father’s roof, he found no real sense of place. It was a life removed from his mother and everything she had tried to teach him, and the distance lingered in ways he couldn’t quite reconcile. For a brief interval, there had been something like stability—something almost resembling comfort—but it proved temporary. The two people he had come to rely on were taken from him at once, without warning or reprieve.
He doesn’t dwell on it. It feels unnecessary, perhaps even indulgent. Especially when it comes to Alfred. That loss, more than the others, is simple to account for.
It was his doing.
And over time, contact with the rest of his family faded, worn down by quiet, unresolved disagreements about his career.
Okay, that’s being dramatic. It’s not as if he has been kicked out. He hasn’t. And it’s not as if he never talks to them, with a family as nosy as him no contact is practically impossible.
He’s simply pursuing education five hours away. And bottling up unresolved feelings.
He can’t remember the last time he saw any of them face-to-face, nor can he remember a conversation longer than twenty minutes. The deep rooted chagrin from Drake’s departure from vigilantism still stung. And the ourobious nature of his past arguments with Father fatigued any conversation he shared with the man now.
Yet still with the support and resources of his Father, he’s attending Harvard. The flamboyant colours of the Robin left behind, most likely shelved away in a corner of the BatCave. And surprisingly, not replaced.
Well, he supposes he did get replaced in a way. Cassandra took up his role, not as Robin, but as a confidant and partner of Batman. Which she’d been excelling. No wonder considering Cassandra’s skill and those twos’ compatibility.
He, of course, isn’t angry. He had no right from the moment he left behind that symbol. Nor does he have any room to be angry, not with the exhaustive nature of medical training and not with the distance he has placed between himself and his family, physically and metaphorically.
The Massachusetts skylines sparkled with the artificial lighting of the neighbouring apartments. The soft chimes of “All I Did Was Dream of You” echoed from his small speaker, placed near the sink, as he washed the dishes.
He twisted the faucet shut just as the pressure cooker let out its sharp, familiar whistle. Wiping his hands absentmindedly, he made his way over to the stove and turned off the heat. A soft cloud of steam greeted him as he lifted the lid, warm and comforting. He gave the congee a gentle stir, the spoon gliding through its soft, velvety texture. Scooping a small portion into a dish, he couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his lips at the sight of it—simple, soft, and just right.
He’d been feeling a bit under the weather recently. The surge of his exam periods, with the long interning and shadowing hours, had worn him down. And it didn’t help that sickness was making its rounds. He would’ve seen himself above it, had he been any younger. Yet at the age of twenty he couldn’t care enough to keep the pretenses of being invulnerable. That’s the job of the other Superson, not him.
For now, all he cared enough about was eating his dinner and playing this game that had enraptured all of his attention. He’d finally gotten some off time after some hectic weeks after all.
A Walk Through My Flower Path is an otome game set in a charming historical fantasy world, following the main character Jonathan Kent, a humble commoner, who’s actually the long lost prince of the Empire, who suddenly discovers they’re a saint during a rather turbulent time for the Empire.
And of course, when a precious saint appears, it’s only natural for them to be fussed over and protected, no? Naturally, the protagonist is whisked away to live with the Empire’s one and only Grand Duchy, the Wayne Family—clearly, the developers were clearly having a little fun taking inspiration from somewhere familiar.
As the narrative unfolds, the crisis facing the Empire gradually reveals itself. What initially appears to be a simple deterioration of the land—a corruption that could be cleansed through the saint’s power—proves far more insidious and complex. Alongside navigating the political and supernatural challenges of the Empire, players have the opportunity to cultivate relationships with an extensive cast of characters, forming bonds that range from platonic to familial, or, if they choose, romantic.
The game’s appeal lies in part in this flexibility: romance is never mandatory. Some of the most compelling routes focus entirely on platonic or familial relationships, such as those with the Wayne patriarch or the Emperor, whose age place them firmly beyond the scope of romantic entanglement. Though some players did call for a romance option for them. Which the game obviously can’t add as the Emperor is Jon’s father and the Wayne patriarch is practically his uncle, plus far older than him to pass off as just a simple “older love interest”.
The art is beautiful, the character dynamics are charming, and the lore is compelling—but what truly captured Damian’s attention was the minor villain who shared his first name. This character’s repeated, often gruesome deaths were largely responsible for the game’s 19+ rating. Unlike the main antagonist, whose fate can often be negotiated, the minor villain seems destined to perish, regardless of choices or routes. Damian found it almost absurd: how could this character die more often than the final boss?
The fandom had noticed too. Damian earned the affectionate nickname “the Hamster,” a nod to how easily he meets his end. There were even blogs devoted entirely to strategies for keeping him alive. Naturally, Damian was determined to achieve an ending in which the minor villain survived. He never backs down from a challenge, especially ones that involve pretty art and a good plotline.
So he wanted to finish his dinner a little faster than usual, eager to dive into his latest playthrough: a platonic route with Richard Wayne, the eldest of the family. Rumour had it that this route offered the highest chance of survival, and Damian was ready to put it to the test.
He moved through the kitchen with a low, absent hum, stopping in front of the shelf that held his ceramics. It had been loose for days now—shifted just enough to notice after Alfred had climbed up there one too many times. He’d meant to fix it. He just hadn’t gotten around to it.
A kettle full of ginger tea sat behind him, forgotten for the moment, meant to ease the faint scratch in his throat.
Right, do you remember when he spoke about misfortune?
It was difficult to say what, exactly, led to it. Perhaps it was the dull haze of being unwell, or the way his thoughts had wandered too far ahead of him, or perhaps it was simply the universe carrying a vendetta against him. When he reached for a light blue mug, the shelf shifted—just enough. Porcelain slipped, then gave way all at once.
He reacted on instinct, stepping back to avoid them, but his foot caught on a bar stool left just out of place. The stumble was small, almost unremarkable, until it wasn’t.
He fell backward. The back of his head met the hard edge of the counter with a sharp, decisive impact.
For a second, there was no real pain—just the sound of porcelain breaking against the floor, distant and uneven. Then it came, dull and spreading, accompanied by a pressure that didn’t feel right. His vision faltered, blurring at the edges, dark spots gathering and lingering where they shouldn’t.
Something warm began to pool beneath his head.
He didn’t try to get up. The thought came, faint and delayed, but it didn’t carry through. The room felt unsteady, as if it were tilting away from him, sound thinning, light dimming. The noise faded after, then the sense of where he was, then the need to do anything at all.
By the time his eyes closed, it wasn’t a decision so much as the absence of one.
And that was how Damian Wayne, son of Batman and Talia Al Ghul, grandson of a demon, heir to the League of Assassins, died a meaningless, purely accidental death.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
When Damian woke, he fully expected the harsh glare of hospital fluorescents. Instead, he was met with the ornate drapery of a canopy bed and a ceiling so lavishly painted that, for a fleeting moment, he half-wondered if he had somehow been returned to the League.
He didn’t get long to ponder it. Pain hit him like Richard’s escrima sticks, sharp and unrelenting, and for a moment he genuinely wondered if an entire herd of elephants had stampeded over him. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and curling into a tight, defensive ball.
His head throbbed as if nineteen boomboxes had been crammed inside it, each one pounding out a different rhythm of agony. A sour twist coiled in his stomach, making even the thought of moving unbearable. The lights felt unbearably bright, the silk sheets uncomfortably warm, and even the air itself seemed thick and heavy with some invisible toxin—remarkable, considering he’d survived Gotham.
“-mian.”
“--out of it.”
“Fever—”
Voices floated around him, soft and distant, scraping his skull with every syllable. He let out a weak, whiny sound, eyes squeezed shut, clutching the sheets like a lifeline. Silence fell for a heartbeat, letting him almost… drift.
Then hands lifted him, firm but careful. He whimpered again, weakly, barely able to resist. A cold thing pressed to his lips, poking at his mouth. With only the tiniest flicker of energy, he opened it.
“Ugh—” The bitter taste hit, and he jerked his head away, futilely. It didn’t matter; the vile spoonful was already down his throat.
The arms lowered him back onto the bed, and a soft sigh slipped from him before he even realized it. Compared to the warmth of the arms that held him, the sheets pressed cool and soft against his skin, like drifting into a cloud of ice, and for a moment the world outside that warmth felt impossibly far away. Pain and thought both thinned, like fog burning off in sunlight, leaving only the vague pull of curiosity—someone was there, but who?
He willed his eyes open, it was a strenuous task, especially when his eyes felt like they were filled with lead. His vision was incredibly blurry, only making out two figures who spoke amongst themselves and a fluorescent blue screen that made his eyes hurt. He turned his head, wanting to avoid the beam of neon lights, facing the two figures. One was sitting at the edge of the bed beside him, the other was standing a small distance away from the first figure.
“Who…?” He mumbled, blinking his eyes to rid himself of the haze of built up tears. Physiological tears without a doubt, he doesn’t think he’s aware enough to cry out of emotions.
The two figures turned to him instantly, the man next to him stiffened at the sight of him yet quickly recovered.
“Master Damian,” A familiar voice…one he hadn’t heard in years spoke. Wow, he truly had died, to hear Alfred’s voice so clearly again… “Have you awoken?”
“Alfred…” He mumbled as he closed his eyes again, partially because the tears rimming his eyes could no longer be excused as physiological tears. Seriously...just his voice creates such a reaction...well it had been a while since he'd heard it. He's not hallucinating Alfred anymore after all. Hard to hear the voice of a dead man otherwise, especially when you avoid any photos and videos like the plague. “Am I dead?” He mumbled, much more for confirmation rather than a doubt.
“Dead?” A gruff voice sounded next to him, is that...Father’s voice? “No, you’re sick. Are you in that much pain?”
Damian’s brows furrowed, is someone playing a prank on him? That would be rather cruel. Alfred was a topic that remains untouched within his family and close associates.
“Isn’t funny.” Damian mumbled.
“What isn’t funny?”
“This.”
“Why would it be funny?”
The questions were making his head hurt. Seriously, is it that hard to remember the death of such a close loved one? Whoever this was, clearly it wouldn’t be Father nor Alfred considering one of them is long gone and the other wouldn’t even entertain the idea of such childish cruelty.
“You tw’ w’ld never be here.” He mumbled, burying his head in the pillow beneath him. His eyes felt even heavier from before. “Leave m’ alone, this is…mean.”
The voice beside him softened.
Damian noticed little else. His mind, tangled in haze and exhaustion, slipped entirely away as sleep claimed him.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The next time Damian awoke, he was far more…lucid. Even though his head still felt like it was being taken apart by an army of boomboxes and his limbs still felt like they had been used as a chew toy for Titus, at least he was awake enough to actually notice his surroundings beyond a pretty ceiling and a canopy bed.
Damian sat up with a groan, clutching his head with his hand. The contact did nothing to soothe it but at least it grounded him in some way. He could feel his skin beneath the pads of his fingers, the silk of the bedsheets beneath the palm that rested upon it. This was real…or perhaps it was just an incredibly realistic illusion.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let his eyes wander across the room, taking in its quiet elegance. Soft light streamed through the tall windows, filtering through heavy, lace-trimmed curtains that framed the view outside. The canopy above the bed hung like a delicate curtain, its fabric pooling gently, lending the space a hushed grace.
The walls, covered in faded wallpaper patterned with delicate florals, held the weight of years, while an ornate, gold-framed mirror leaned against one wall, its surface catching the light with a muted glow. Nearby, a carved wooden chair stood by the window, its worn upholstery hinting at countless afternoons spent in silent contemplation.
The air was thick with stillness, carrying the faint scent of aged wood and something floral—perhaps lavender or dusted rose—and wrapped him in a calm that felt both comforting and strangely distant, it’s truly a scent Alfred would enjoy.
A groan tore from him as he pressed his face into his hands, fingers digging into his temples. It wasn’t even pride that stung—it was sheer, utter bafflement. What a ridiculous end. What a waste. To claw him back from death’s grip once, only for him to lose it all to something so trivial…
What about everything else? His work? His future? He had just dragged himself through a week of relentless exams, barely sleeping, barely breathing—and for what? Nothing. Completely pointless. He’d finally earned a break. Two weeks. Two weeks of silence. No expectations. No obligations. He hadn’t made a single plan, even when his Father had texted him asking if he could come down for his break.
And now—
Would anyone even find him? Or would his body sit there, undiscovered, until the smell forced someone to check? Would it be a neighbour, irritated and disgusted, who found what was left of him?
His stomach twisted.
What about his family?
He hadn’t even said goodbye. He’d ignored his father’s invitation—dismissed it, really—for something as trivial as stubbornness. He’d had the chance, and he’d wasted it.
Tears burned at the edges of his vision.
Pathetic.
Crying over his own mistakes, his own arrogance. Even worse—crying as an adult who should have known better. No one else to blame. No excuses to hide behind. He had made every choice that led him there. The misplaced stool. The broken shelf he never fixed. The call he never returned.
All of it— it was all his fault.
And now here he was, sprawled in a bed far too luxurious for someone like him, in some unknown place, some other world or timeline—crying like a child over time he would never get back.
If anyone understood the value of time, it should have been him. He had already died once at ten years old.
And yet—
A broken sound slipped past his lips.
“Sob—”
He bowed his head, hand clamping over his mouth in a futile attempt to muffle it, shoulders trembling as the quiet, miserable sound of his own grief filled the stillness around him.
He cried—quietly at first, then helplessly, then without any restraint at all. The sound of it filled the room, uneven and broken, until his eyes burned red and swollen, until his nose clogged and every breath came in sharp, stuttering gasps between sobs.
It only stopped when there was nothing left in him but exhaustion.
Damian dragged a hand across his face, smearing away tears in a clumsy, half-hearted attempt to compose himself. It was pathetic, ineffective—but necessary.
Enough.
He couldn’t afford to sit there wallowing. He needed to figure out where he was. And, preferably, confirm that he had actually died—because if all of that had been over something as trivial as being kidnapped, he might very well drown himself out of sheer humiliation.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he pushed himself upright, unsteady and weak. Each step felt off as he made his way toward the balcony, his balance wavering. With trembling hands, he shoved the doors open.
Cool air rushed in at once, threading through his hair, brushing against his overheated skin. The marble beneath his bare feet was freezing, shockingly so, but he barely registered it.
He stepped forward, gripping the railing—
—and stilled.
A sea of hyacinths stretched endlessly before him.
His breath caught.
Familiar. Not just familiar—known. Intimately. There was no way he could forget a view like this, not after playing through it again and again and again—
“No way…”
He spun on his heel, nearly stumbling in his haste as he rushed back inside. His gaze darted across the room, searching—anything, everything—proof.
It came in the form of a scabbard resting neatly on the bedside table.
Damian grabbed it, clutching it close as his eyes locked onto the emblem engraved into its surface.
A bat.
Not the Bat. Not Gotham’s symbol—but close enough to make his chest tighten. This one was sharper, more intricate, edged in silver, its wings shaped like something real rather than stylized.
Recognition hit him all at once.
“This…this is—”
A Walk Through My Flower Path.
The voice—Alfred’s voice—had called him Master Damian.
Master Damian.
The one who died at the slightest inconvenience. The fragile, useless noble—
A sharp ding cut through the air.
Damian flinched, looking up just as a burst of blue light flooded his vision. He squinted, raising a hand instinctively as his eyes struggled to adjust—
—and slowly, a glowing screen took shape in front of him, hovering in the air.
[ SYSTEM NOTICE ]
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE DAMIAN “HAMSTER” WAYNE, THE MINOR VILLAIN IN THE GAME, A WALK THROUGH MY FLOWER PATH! MOST PEOPLE HATE YOU!
SURVIVE AS THE MINOR VILLAIN BY INCREASING YOUR STATS TO A+ AND INCREASING YOUR FAVOURABILITY WITH THE MAIN LEADS!
CATEGORY: MAIN
DIFFICULTY: SSS+
DEADLINE: BEFORE THE SECOND ARC BEGINS
STATUS: INITIALIZED
SYSTEM RESPONSE: ACTIVE
CLICK FOR MORE INFO
…
What the fuck?!
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Okay, good news. He didn’t cry over nothing.
Bad news, he’s stuck inside the game he last played as the very character that died so many times that it motivated thousands of people to try and keep him alive, as if he were a Tamagotchi.
Damian sat on the bed once more, his knees pressed against his chest as he glared at the blue screen as if he had supervision. Which again was the other SuperSon’s job.
Damian sighed, alright time to be proactive. No more moping around. He reached out his finger, pressing on the “click for more info” button.
A series of texts presented itself in front of him.
[ SYSTEM NOTICE ]
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'VE DISCOVERED YOUR SETTING! YOU ARE DAMIAN “HAMSTER” WAYNE, THE MINOR VILLAIN IN THE GAME, A WALK THROUGH MY FLOWER PATH!
MOST PEOPLE HATE YOU! SURVIVE AS THE MINOR VILLAIN BY INCREASING YOUR STATS TO A+ AND INCREASING YOUR FAVOURABILITY WITH THE MAIN LEADS!
LUCK: -10
LOOKS: 10+
PERSONALITY: -10
MONEY: 5
SKILL: 8
OVERALL RANKING: E-
AMOUNT OF COINS: 1000
CATEGORY: MAIN
DIFFICULTY: SSS+
DEADLINE: BEFORE THE SECOND ARC BEGINS
STATUS: INITIALIZED
SYSTEM RESPONSE: ACTIVE
…
Seriously, was this screen taunting him? Most people hate him? Thanks for the hint, Sherlock. And survive? Not by running away like a normal person but directly interacting with the said people who hate him.
Also do those stats truly amount fo E-? He feels that’s rather unfair, he should be a D at the minimum.
IF YOU HAVE ANY COMPLAINTS, I CAN REACH OUT TO THE ADMINISTRATORS
“Forget it,” He mumbled. Damian flopped down on the bed with a sigh, spreading his limbs out like a starfish. Fuck his life, genuinely and seriously. With all his heart, fuck his life.
He let a hand glide down his face.
“Damian Wayne,” He mumbled his own name, it felt odd to address another with a name that belonged to him. “Damian Wayne, oh you fucker.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
What type of person was Damian Wayne in A Walk Through My Flower Path? A total scumbag, rotten to the absolute core, and Damian’s saying this.
Despite his popularity due to his circumstances, if you look at the character as his core, he’s nothing but a douchebag created to torment the main character. Damian Wayne, from his first appearance of his endless lasts, did nothing but be a jackass as to those around him.
Damian Wayne, the youngest of the Wayne Family and by far the most entitled member. The first time you introduce yourself to him, he trips you down the stairs and says you lost your balance. Granted, not many believe him, yet without proof nothing can be done.
And it only gets worse from there on. His misdeeds ranged from pranks such as leaving a dead animal in Jon’s room, dumping a bucket of cold water on him, to far more criminal initiatives like trying to sell Jon to traffickers or poison him.
Though perhaps it doesn’t really matter, considering no matter how small or big his misdeeds may be, he always dies one way or the other. Perhaps simply by catching one of the main characters on an off day and triggering a series of unfortunate events to genuinely having to be put down due to the danger he poses to those around him.
Either way, this was not good for him. He may not be as insidious as the game Damian but he’s no saint either. He’s incredibly sure his personality would not be palatable enough to curry favour. Grown or not, he doesn’t like lowering himself to gain approval of people who clearly don’t like him. Especially game characters who are nothing more than 2D drawings to him.
And don’t even get him started on his abysmal stats, the only thing he has going for him is his wealth and his looks. And he’s pretty sure the majority of the wealth stat is purely because he was born into the Grand Duchy and not because he garnered that wealth on his own.
Is it too late for a shelf to fall upon him again?
[ SYSTEM NOTICE ]
YOU ARE NOT ABLE TO SUSTAIN LETHAL DAMAGE AT YOUR OWN HANDS DURING THE PERIOD OF THIS QUEST!
Way to ruin the mood, jackass.
Before he could make any more complaints a knock resounded through the room.
“Come in.” Damian said, lifting himself into a sitting position.
The door opened silently to reveal…a tall balding man, with an elegant moustache, and those kind eyes that always seemed to understand him so well. He sucked in a breath, his eyes widening.
The butler in the game did not look like this?
Damian blinked as the blue screen popped up next to the butler.
NAME: ALFRED PENNYWORTH
OCCUPATION: HEAD BUTLER OF THE WAYNE GRAND DUKEDOM
DESCRIPTION: ALFRED PENNYWORTH IS THE BUTLER OF THE WAYNE GRAND DUCHY, ALTHOUGH HE HOLDS A MUCH CLOSER RELATIONSHIP WITH THE WAYNE FAMILY, AKIN TO A GRANDFATHER.
Head butler of the Grand Dukedom? Damian’s eyes flickered back to Alfred’s stature. His eyes wander up towards the small sky blue circle hovering over Alfred’s head. Damian was incredibly familiar with those, those were the favourability counters. The closer it was to red, the more a character hated you, the closer it was to blue, the more a character liked you.
If you reached 100% with a character, the circle would turn into a dazzling cold.
“Master Damian,” The butler approached him, although his expression was stoic his eyes held a concerned warmth. “Are you feeling better?”
Damian opened his mouth, yet a heavy feeling in his throat prevented any noise from coming out. He simply sat there for a brief second, gawking like a stupid goldfish, before lowering his gaze.
He straightened his back in a pitiful attempt of adhering to his etiquette lessons. He opened his mouth, ready to respond that he’s fine.
Yet instead—
“I don’t see why you’re worth telling,” he sneered, looking up at the old man with sharp contempt. “Get out. Now.”
Damian’s body immediately stiffened. What the fuck, he did NOT mean to say that? The text on the blue screen beside Alfred flickered, then shifted.
DUE TO YOUR LOW PERSONALITY STAT, EVERYTHING YOU SAY WILL ATTEMPT TO INCUR AS MUCH HATRED AS POSSIBLE!
Damian went pale. You cannot be serious.
TO INCREASE THE POSSIBILITY OF YOU ACCOMPLISHING THE TASK, YOU CAN INVEST COINS INTO YOUR STATS TO INCREASE THEM!
‘Then increase it. Increase the personality stat—now!’ His expression crumpled despite his efforts to hold it together. How the hell was he supposed to make anyone like him if every word out of his mouth came out like poison? He hadn’t spoken like that in years. At least not on purpose.
He watched as Alfred’s expression twisted, not from hurt but from some form of disappointment.
That was worse. It hit somewhere deep in Damian’s chest, somewhere he didn’t think even existed anymore after disappointing his entire family time and time again.
ARE YOU SURE? POINTS CAN’T BE TAKEN AWAY
‘I don’t care!’ Wouldn’t it just be suicidal to not increase his personality points? Is the system trying to kill him?
“I see,” Alfred said, lowering his gaze before composing himself again. Above his head, the color of the hovering circle shifted—just slightly lighter. “If you’d like some time alone, then I shall take my leave.”
Fuck no!
INCREASING PERSONALITY STAT! 1 COIN REDEEMED, PERSONALITY STAT IS NOW -9
INCREASING PERSONALITY STAT! 50 COIN REDEEMED, PERSONALITY STAT IS NOW -8
‘Just go until it’s zero—stop the notifications!’ Damian snapped internally as the screen pulsed brighter, aggravating his growing headache.
UNDERSTOOD! 524 COINS REDEEMED, PERSONALITY STAT IS NOW AT 0! CONGRATULATIONS, YOU ARE NOW FREE OF THE "INCUR HATRED" EFFECT!
Damian didn't pay the notification any mind, he only had one goal. To damage control whatever the fuck he had said.
“Wait!” Damian called out, he watched as Alfred paused in his steps, turning around to look at the boy. “I—”
Damian froze.
What was he supposed to say? Sorry for yelling at you, I’m being controlled by a floating blue interface that says my personality is catastrophically terrible?
Right. That would go over well. He’d simply be sent to some sort of insane asylum, just a nice vacation. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. He probably looked like a gaping goldfish.
A slow breath escaped him.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Alfred did not respond immediately. Though he did raise a brow. In the same way he did many times whenever he found himself tired of Father’s antics, or his own as a matter of fact.
“You didn’t mean to?” Alfred asked, not entirely condescending, Damian could hear the hint of curiosity in the question.
“Yes. I apologize,” Damian said, forcing his voice into something steadier, something controlled. “My response was… uncouth.”
Alfred stared at him.
Damian felt it immediately—the quiet, meticulous scrutiny, like he was being dissected without a scalpel. He resisted the urge to shift under it, though every instinct told him to do exactly that. Alfred had always been like this. Seeing too much. Knowing too much.
It was deeply irritating.
“That’s… unlike you, Master Damian.”
His gaze flickered slightly, sharp and assessing—like he’d just spotted a wild animal behaving incorrectly.
Damian’s lips twitched upward.
“The uncouth response,” he said, attempting levity, “or the apology?”
The delivery came out flatter than a collapsed soufflé.
WARNING: PERSONALITY STAT TOO LOW FOR NATURAL CHARM CURRENT OUTPUT: FORCED NEUTRALITY SUGGESTION: INCREASE TO 10 OR ABOVE FOR LIKEABLE INTERACTIONS
Damian resisted the urge to physically recoil.
Are you fucking serious, he can’t even make jokes now? Forced neutrality? What did that even mean? Was he being filtered? Edited to sound like some poorly coded AI voice? That would explain it—why everything coming out of his mouth sounded vaguely wrong, like an imitation of a person rather than the real thing.
Alfred raised a brow once again and Damian looked away, clearing his throat. “…I’ll endeavor not to repeat it,” Damian added, the words feeling stiff the moment they left his mouth.
“I see,” Alfred said slowly. “That is… reassuring.”
He did not sound reassured.
Damian clicked his tongue internally. This was inefficient.
Fine.
Trial and error, then.
“…Thank you,” he tried again, more deliberately this time. “For your concern.” The words felt like they had been ironed flat before leaving his mouth.
He watched as Alfred’s brows knitted together, he looked utterly exasperated and confused. He knows that expression, that is exactly how he often felt when he handled child vigilantes in his youth, or technically even younger youth.
“…You are most welcome, Master Damian,” Alfred replied, though there was a faint pause before the words, as if he were navigating unfamiliar ground.
Good.
No—not good. Nothing about this was good.
He sounded like someone who had learned social interaction exclusively from outdated instruction manuals. Or worse—like he’d been raised in isolation and had just been released into society as an experiment.
But manageable, just barely. He had survived worse humiliations, after all everyone looked at him as if he were some sort of unkempt freak in the first high school he attended, granted they were most likely trained to behave as such by Mistress Harsh, though he had never been looked at like that by Alfred.
He straightened slightly, gaze sharpening as it flicked once more to the faintly shifting color above Alfred’s head, turning a slightly darker than before.
“You can leave now,” Damian said, pulling the covers over himself and turning onto his side, presenting Alfred with his back. “I’d like to rest.”
“Very well, Young Master. Do call me if you require anything.”
“I will, thanks,” Damian muttered into the pillow.
Behind him, Alfred paused.
Damian didn’t need to turn around to know he was being watched again, confusion likely written plainly across his face.He also didn’t need to see the color above his head to know it had probably flickered.
Honestly, at this point, he was just relieved he hadn’t accidentally insulted him again.
Small victories.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Okay, it was probably a shit idea to send away Alfred. Now he was hungry and irritable—not hangry, he refused to use that word under any circumstances—and stuck alone with a violently neon blue screen hovering in front of his face. He hadn’t eaten in—what? Hours? A full day? Longer?
And, minor detail, he had also died.
A spectacularly pathetic death, at that. Damian exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temple.He wondered, distantly, what his mother would think if she could see him now.
Her Alexander, reduced to this.
“…Alright,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his slightly-too-long hair, already irritated by the unfamiliar weight of it. “Let’s get this straight.”
He fixed the screen with a flat stare.
“I need to raise my stats to A+ by… raising my stats,” he said slowly, each word edged with disbelief. “Using coins. And I get those by increasing favourability with the main leads.”
YES!
Damian’s eye twitched.
“Do I have any other way of increasing my chances of survival?”
YOU CAN IMPROVE YOUR REPUTATION! AND COMPLETE SIDE AND HIDDEN QUESTS TO GAIN MORE COINS. SOME HIDDEN QUESTS GIVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO BRANCH OUT FROM THE CURRENT QUEST. CHOOSE CAREFULLY.
Damian raised a brow, his lips curling into a contemplative pout. Branch out? So there was a possibility of deviating from the main route. Although, there’s no guarantee he’ll run into such a quest. It was most likely dependent on chance encounters or obscure triggers.
So, his best option was still the main quest. He can’t put his faith into something so…variable. And unknown, there’s no guarantee this hidden quest will be easier than the one he’s given now.
His lips pressed into a thin line as his thoughts shifted, recalibrating.
Although his chances don’t seem so good, his quest matches with that of the main character, Jon Kent. Jon also had to raise favourability across the board. It would be more difficult for Damian, obviously he was starting from what was likely negative reputation but the principle remained the same.
And unlike Jon—
Damian knew everything.
Every character’s preferences. Their habits. Their breaking points. He knew which choices triggered which reactions, which events led to which endings. He had played through this game enough times to memorize entire dialogue trees.
Right. No point in being pessimistic. So what if he was Damian “Hamster” Wayne now? So what if he had died in the most humiliating, undignified way possible?
That didn’t erase who he was. He had a successful academic career in medicine, he’s incredibly qualified as a physician. He was still trained. Raised by Batman. Forged by the League of Assassins. Whether this body could match his previous physical abilities remained to be seen but his mind still held all the knowledge of his previous life.
He would find a way out. He always did, unless it was against an unsteady shelf crowded with mugs.
“These types of missions usually come with rewards,” he said. “What do I get?”
Survival didn’t count. Survival was the bare minimum. That was his effort, not some benevolent system’s generosity.
IT’S A SURPRISE!
Damian blinked. Once. Twice. Yet the text remained painfully unchanged. Despite having tempered his rage many years ago, he suddenly felt the urge to throw a dagger at the hideous screen in front of him.
“…Is this thing deliberately trying to provoke me?”
Before he could pursue that line of thought further and find an actual way to harm that stupid screen, his stomach let out a loud, deeply undignified growl. Damian groaned, folding slightly as he pressed an arm over his abdomen.
It felt like his stomach was attempting to digest itself out of sheer spite.
Fantastic.
Yes, he had been trained to endure hunger. Yes, he could function under worse conditions. That did not mean he enjoyed it.
And, more importantly—
He had no idea if this body had the same tolerance.
“…Right,” he muttered, exhaling through his nose.
Priorities: Food first. Planning afterwards.
He pushed himself upright, already moving toward the door.
He could strategize, optimize, and dismantle this entire ridiculous system—
After he ate something.