Chapter Text
You wake up in a dark alley, mud-matted hair and a backpack that seems to have been haphazardly thrown into a corner while you sit slumped on the wall.
The alleyway is dirty, and you hate dirty places, so you don't understand why you were sitting in a probably infected area, especially when you looked down at your clothes, wearing such nice-quality clothes. Even underneath the dust and grime, you could see the cute little patterns, and you truly mourned the clothes.
You got up, dusted yourself, grabbed the open backpack, closed all its chains and let muscle memory take over as your feet carried you to a dark, looming manor, which looked to be in the better parts of the city.
You're still a little stunned when the door opens and an old man, well-dressed and British, comes out of the door and exclaims at how dirty you look, hurriedly shoving you towards the bathroom with fresh clothes. He asks what happened, and you lie, saying that you tripped pretty badly while coming back, and then a car splashed you with mud. He raises an eyebrow but lets you go regardless.
You look at the you in the mirror. You look the same, but the house was not yours. You don't know the old man. This life was not ours, but still you cleaned up because you hated how matted your hair looked.
It was not until dinner that you figured out where you were.
By dinner, you were neat and clean, and you almost found your room. You don't actually see the old man until dinner actually when another one comes in and asks about your day.
The old man calls out to him as Master Bruce, and the other one calls the old man Alfred.
You almost gasp in horror. Were you in the DC universe? That one universe where people died continuously and got revived continuously? You didn't want to be here; you wanted to be safe back at your home, in the comfort of your bed and not in the gutter of all cities.
Even the dinner was not up to your tastes. It was too American. Too few seasonings; the food was odd perse, but you weren't a fussy eater and hoped someday you would find the courage to ask something else to be made.
You sneakily looked at Bruce Wayne, ie Batman, but he didn't look back at you. No one else joined you at the dinner table, so you hoped and deduced that it was before all of the others joined.
He didn't ask anything more, keeping the small talk to a minimum, which was fine by you because you needed at least three days to digest the fact that you were in Batman's house and were one of his children. You quickly finished the tasteless food and rushed upstairs, but you heard wisps of conversation about Alfred tucking you in before Bruce went out.
You locked yourself in your room, hoping it had a computer, and thankfully it did. You pulled up all articles related to Batman and then typed in the keyword 'Robin', but found nothing but birds, so you finally deduced that it was before Dick Grayson was even adopted.
You were the eldest child of the brood, and you wished it would be alright
The next morning finds you getting ready for school. Alfred drives you, asks whether you required anything, and you shook your head. You don't require anything as such.
You also find your approximate age as you sit with second graders. You also find that you were relatively popular, but you knew all of them chased you because you were famous. After all, your father was Bruce Wayne, the diamond spoon of Gotham.
Your classmates were fine. Your seatmate was even better. He told funny jokes and geeked about the Justice League, which only helped you to get more information about the world you were suddenly transported to. You're horrified because you can't remember why you were suddenly out in this world.
You try to get by.
You go back home again.
Alfred isn't there waiting for you when you return home, so you clean yourself up and lock yourself in your room.
You think of the events that transpired just about 12 hours before.
For the first three hours, you decide that you are dreaming. It is the only explanation that makes a shred of sense. You have been reincarnated before, technically speaking, or at least, you have the hazy, echoing memories of a life that isn't this one, but this is not how you expected the transition to feel. There was no dramatic flash of blinding light, no mysterious cosmic deity standing over you with a glowing scroll, no booming voice explaining the complex magic systems or rules of your new existence.
There was only a damp alley, mud tangled in your hair, a battered backpack resting at your feet, and an old British man who looked as though he had stepped directly out of a late-nineteenth-century period drama. An old British man who was, apparently, completely accustomed to finding filthy, bewildered children standing on his doorstep.
So, yes. A dream. Definitely a dream.
You are probably lying somewhere comfortable right now. Your bed, perhaps. Your actual bed, back in whatever small, mundane apartment you used to belong to. Maybe you fell asleep while reading a comic late at night. Maybe you have a raging fever. Maybe you ate something terribly questionable from the back of the fridge. Maybe your overworked brain has simply decided to punish you for staying up past 2:00 AM.
Whatever the reason, you are going to wake up eventually. You just need to sleep. That is the ultimate, bulletproof solution.
Sleep.
You return to your room after a profoundly silent dinner, close the heavy oak door behind you, and stare at the enormous bed dominating the far wall. It is, frankly, offensive. You have never seen a bed this large in your life; it looks capable of swallowing an entire small family.
You walk over to it cautiously, extend one finger, press your palm against the mattress, and sink slightly into the plush down. Your eyes narrow in immediate suspicion. This is dangerously comfortable for a hallucination.
You sit down on the edge. Nothing happens. You lie back, waiting for the fabric of reality to dissolve into dream-fuzz. Still nothing. You pull the heavy, cool silk blanket over your head. Nothing.
You close your eyes, count to ten, and open them again.
The vaulted, dark-wood ceiling is still there, illuminated only by the faint silver glow of the Gotham moon filtering through the high windows.
You let out a long, exhausted sigh. "Okay," you mutter to the empty room, sitting up. "Still dreaming. There is no reason to panic. Dreams can be remarkably detailed."
You have had realistic dreams before, after all. You once dreamed that you were three hours late for a final exam, sweating through your clothes as you sprinted down a hallway that never ended, only to wake up and realise it was a rainy Saturday morning. This is probably similar. Except considerably more elaborate. And significantly colder.
You get up and begin pacing the hardwood floor. The room is not just a bedroom; it’s practically an apartment. There is a hand-carved mahogany desk. Towering bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes. A massive walk-in wardrobe. A small, sleek flat-screen television. A high-end desktop computer. A private bathroom attached to the far corner, gleaming with polished marble.
You open the wardrobe doors. Clothes. Endless rows of actual, tangible clothes. Not blurred, dream-logic fabric, either. They have brand tags. Sizes. Distinct textures: cashmere, heavy wool, stiff denim, crisp Egyptian cotton.
You touch the sleeve of a dark sweater. Soft. You pull out a tailored navy blazer. Even softer. You stare at the label sewn into the collar.
"Why would my subconscious put this much effort into the thread count of a blazer?" you whisper. Your brain, apparently, possesses an exquisite taste in menswear that you never knew you had.
You slide the clothes back into place, but as you do, your gaze catches on a row of framed photographs resting on the mahogany desk. You hadn't really looked at them earlier; you had been too busy trying not to faint while a butler offered you tea.
You approach the desk cautiously, as if the picture frames might detonate.
The first photograph shows a woman. She is striking, with dark hair, high cheekbones, and a warm, luminous smile that radiates genuine kindness. She looks vaguely familiar, like a face you might have seen in a museum or an old magazine, though you cannot quite place her. Standing beside her, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, is Bruce Wayne.
You stare. He looks younger here. Much younger. His hair is thick and dark, his jawline sharp, but his eyes lack the hollow, haunted shadows you would expect. Still, he is unmistakably the man who sat at the end of that absurdly long dining table an hour ago.
Your stomach twists into a tight, cold knot. You reach out and pick up another frame.
It’s a group shot. Bruce. The beautiful woman. And a child.
You stare at the kid in the middle. Same dark hair. Same eyes. Same tiny, distinct mole resting just below the left cheekbone. You touch the glass over the child's face, your fingers trembling violently.
"Okay," you whisper, placing the frame back down with a sharp clack. "This is getting weird."
You pick up a third photograph. You are even younger in this one, maybe four or five years old. Bruce is holding you up on his shoulders, one arm secured around your legs, the other pointing off-camera toward something out of frame. And Bruce, the notoriously sullen, brooding dark knight, is laughing. He actually looks happy.
You stare at his expression for several long seconds. It is deeply unnatural. The Bruce Wayne you know from comic books, blockbuster movies, animated series, and endless internet debates is usually portrayed as a grim, paranoid mountain of muscle, perpetually one bad day away from retreating forever into a cave.
This Bruce is smiling at you.
You put the photograph face-down on the wood. "Nope."
You walk away, hands thrust deep into your pockets, deciding firmly not to think about it.
That resolve lasts for approximately twelve minutes.
Then, the memory of dinner comes crashing back. The crushing silence of the dining hall. Bruce Wayne staring at his plate, trying and failing to make casual conversation. Alfred gliding through the shadows with a silver tray, offering polite, encouraging smiles. Wayne Manor humming with an eerie, quiet isolation.
You sit down at the desk. Slowly, deliberate in your movements, you press the power button on the computer.
The screen lights up, casting a cool blue glow across your face. You stare at the desktop interface. Your heart begins to hammer against your ribs, a fast, syncopated rhythm. This is where the delusion shatters. This is where you prove that your mind is playing a trick on you. Because if this is some bizarre, feverish dream, the internet will inevitably devolve into gibberish. Dream text never stays still. Dream websites are rarely coherent.
You launch a browser. The search engine homepage loads flawlessly.
You type into the search bar: Gotham City
You hit enter.
The page refreshes instantly. You stare at the screen, the breath catching in your throat.
Gotham City. News headlines. Interactive maps. Current weather updates displaying a perpetual 80% chance of rain. Local business directories. Crime rate statistics that look terrifyingly exponential. Tourism boards desperate for visitors.
You click the first news article. You read three full paragraphs of crisp, grammatically correct prose about local harbour zoning laws. You click another link. Then another. Your mouth goes bone-dry.
Okay. That is unsettlingly thorough. But Gotham City is a massive, cultural pop-phenomenon. Maybe your brain is simply pulling from decades of background comic knowledge, constructing a hyper-detailed sandbox to trick you.
You clear the search bar and type: Bruce Wayne
You press enter. The results flood the screen.
BRUCE WAYNE: GOTHAM'S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR RETURNED FROM ABROAD
WAYNE ENTERPRISES ANNOUNCES NEW GREEN INITIATIVE
WAYNE FAMILY FOUNDATION EXPANDS GOTHAM YOUTH OUTREACH
There are hundreds of high-resolution photographs. You click on a gallery. Bruce at a charity polo match. Bruce standing alongside Wayne Enterprises board members in tailored suits. Bruce stepping out of a sleek black sports car outside a gala, flashing a million-dollar, playboy smile for a wave of flashing cameras.
You lean closer, your nose nearly touching the glass. "This could still be a dream," you say aloud, though your voice sounds weak, lacking any real conviction.
You open a fresh tab. You type: Batman
Your finger hovers over the Enter key. You hesitate, feeling an absurd, childish wave of dread wash over you. Then, you press it.
The results load. Your stomach drops through the floor.
There is no official website, of course. No public relations firm representing him. Instead, there are local police blotters, late-night forum threads, grainy photographic evidence, and low-quality video clips taken from rooftop security cameras. There are a thousand wild conspiracy theories, a thousand heated comment-section arguments debating whether he is a demon, a military experiment, or a vigilante urban myth.
You click on a top forum post. A high-contrast photograph fills the screen.
A tall, broad figure perched on the edge of a gargoyle, silhouetted against the smoggy Gotham skyline. Scalloped cape. Angular cowl. Pointed ears.
You stare. Your brain flatly refuses to process the image. You lean back, shoving your chair away from the desk. "No."
You close the tab instantly.
A second passes. You open the history and pull it right back up. The photograph is still there. The dark figure is still perched on the gargoyle.
You close it again, your breathing shallow. You open another article from the Gotham Gazette. Batman. Another blog. Batman. A criminal justice editorial. Batman.
Your fingers begin to tremble against the edge of the desk. "Okay. Okay. Calm down."
You sit very still, listening to the silence of the room. Nothing changes. The heavy, expensive furniture doesn't melt away. The photograph of you as a toddler doesn't fade into mist. The backpack you arrived with remains slumped against the side of the bed.
You reach slowly into your pocket and pull out your phone. The lock screen lights up with a default wallpaper. You check the date: October 14. You check the year. You stare at it until the numbers blur.
You open your contacts. There are dozens of names you have never seen before. "Sarah - Math," "Marcus (Do Not Call)," "Coach Miller."
You open your messaging app. The inbox is active. People are texting you. Not strangers, kids. Teenagers who apparently know you.
“Hey, are you coming to history tomorrow? Miller said he’s pop-quizzing us.”
“Did you finish the lit essay? I’m dying over here.”
“Look at this idiot.” (Attached: a photograph of a golden retriever wearing a ridiculously tiny yellow sweater.)
You stare at the messages. A horrifying, agonising realisation begins to crystallise in your mind.
These people have entire histories with you. They have shared memories, inside jokes, and grievances. But you don't remember them. You don't remember this school. You don't remember this massive, hollow house. You don't remember Alfred taking your coat. You don't remember Bruce looking at you with that strange, distant blend of affection and profound guilt.
You don't remember being a Wayne. But as far as the rest of the world is concerned, you always have been.
You place the phone gently on the desk, stand up, and walk into the bathroom. You flip on the overhead lights and stare at yourself in the mirror.
Same face. Same eyes. Same messy hair. You reach up and touch your cheek. The reflection copies you effortlessly, seamlessly.
You pinch your forearm. It hurts. You pinch it harder, twisting the skin until a sharp sting flares up your arm. Red marks bloom on your skin.
You glare at your reflection. "Could still be a very vivid, stress-induced hallucination."
Knock. Knock.
You nearly leap out of your skin, swinging around to face the bedroom door.
"Master Wayne?"
Alfred's polished, calm voice carries softly through the heavy wood.
You swallow hard, clearing the dry lump in your throat. "Yes?"
"Are you quite all right, sir?"
"Fine!" you answer, a little too quickly. "Just... fine."
There is a long, deliberate pause from the hallway. "You've been unusually quiet since returning from the Academy. Master Bruce was concerned you might be feeling unwell."
You look back at your reflection in the mirror, watching your own wide, panicked eyes. "Just tired, Alfred. Big day."
You almost snort to yourself. Big day indeed. So big that your transmigated.
Another pause. "Very well. I have left a glass of warm milk and some chamomile tea downstairs, should you require them. Goodnight."
"Thank you, Alfred. Goodnight."
You listen intently as his measured footsteps retreat down the long, carpeted corridor. Once the silence settles back over the wing, you bury your face in your hands and whisper into the empty bathroom:
"I am absolutely, utterly not okay."
You march back out to the computer, pulling the chair in close. It’s time for forensic research. You need to establish the baseline. You need to figure out where, and when, you are in the timeline.
You start typing names into the search bar, your fingers flying over the keys because you could not search properly yesterday. You were too tired, too scared and just fainted and worked like a robot.
Robin.
Search results: A type of bird. A few local businesses. No sidekick.
Dick Grayson.
Search results: Articles about the Flying Graysons performing with Haly’s Circus in Europe. No adoption papers. No tragedy.
Batgirl.
Search results: Nothing.
Barbara Gordon.
Search results: High school honour roll student in Gotham.
You pause, taking a deep breath. You test the broader universe.
Superman.
Search results: "The Flying Man of Metropolis." Articles, video footage, debate columns.
Wonder Woman.
Search results: Reports from Washington, D.C.
Justice League.
Search results: Recent news reports about an informal alliance between superhuman figures.
Your hands slowly drop from the keyboard. The heavy reality settles over your shoulders like an iron weight.
Superheroes are real. Batman is currently operating in the shadows of Gotham. The League is forming. And you are Bruce Wayne's child.
You sit there in the dim light of the monitor, brain whirring through every comic book plot, every animated series, every dark universe alternate line you can recall. Then, a single, critically important thought surfaces above the noise.
You open a new tab and type: Bruce Wayne children
You scroll past the socialite gossip articles. You read the family history.
No Dick Grayson. No Jason Todd. No Tim Drake. No Damian Wayne.
You search Dick again. Nothing. You search Jason Todd. No results pop up, and it shouldn't, because Jason Todd was irrelevant until Batman adopted him, but no connection to Wayne Manor.
You lean back into the leather chair, staring blankly at the bright screen as the final, crucial piece of the puzzle falls into place.
You are here first. You let it sink in.
You are here before Dick Grayson ever loses his parents. You are here before the tragic parade of traumatised orphans begins. You are here before the Batcave becomes a revolving door of capes, domino masks, colourful spandex, and violent rooftop arguments.
You look up at the ceiling. Then at the computer. Then back at the ceiling.
Against all odds, a tiny, fragile blossom of relief blooms in your chest.
You have time.
You have time to figure out the rules of this universe. You have time to adjust to having Bruce Wayne as a father figure. You have time to steer clear of the dark, violent underbelly of this city. Most importantly, you have time to establish a solid, unshakeable life plan.
You make a silent, binding vow right then and there:
You will not become a vigilante.
You don't care how cool the gadgets look. You don't care how many colourful psychopaths break out of Arkham Asylum. You don't care if a dramatic, brooding conversation happens right outside your bedroom window on a dark and stormy night.
You will go to school. You will get decent grades. You will go to college, somewhere very far away, like Metropolis or Central City. You will get a completely normal, boring desk job in accounting or corporate management. You will live a quiet, unextraordinary life.
You will not put on a cape. You will not learn twenty different forms of martial arts. You will not investigate suspicious noises in the dark. You will not, under any circumstances, go looking for secret passages, hidden elevators, or dark caves beneath the manor.
You will not become Robin. You will not become Nightwing. Or anything else, for that matter. You will not become anything with an animal-themed codename or a bulletproof Kevlar suit.
Satisfied with your new, bulletproof life strategy, you close the laptop. The screen goes dark.
You cross the room, crawl into the massive bed, pull the soft, heavy blanket up to your chin, and close your eyes. For the first time since waking up in that muddy alley, a sense of calm washes over you. You can handle this. You just have to play the role of a normal, uninteresting rich kid.
Then, from somewhere far below the floorboards, deep within the structural foundations of the mansion, you hear a faint, metallic clank.
It is followed by a low, heavy rumble, like a massive stone door sliding smoothly along iron tracks.
You freeze.
A second sound follows. The distinct, high-pitched whine of a powerful turbine engine spooling up, muffled by layers of solid bedrock.
You sit bolt upright in the dark. Your eyes slowly adjust to the shadows of the massive bedroom.
Your brain betrayingly recalls the layout of the manor floor plan you saw in the hallway earlier. You remember the study. You remember the grand clock standing against the wall. You remember Bruce excusing himself right after dinner, claiming he had "paperwork to finish," and disappearing into that exact room. You remember Alfred offhandedly mentioning that Master Bruce would be "out late dealing with personal matters."
You stare fixedly at your bedroom door.
"No," you say aloud to the empty room.
You force yourself to lie back down. You pull the blanket completely over your head, pressing the heavy down pillow over your ears.
You refuse to investigate. Whatever absurd, billionaire-vigilante nonsense is happening three floors beneath your feet is entirely none of your business. You are going to sleep. You are a normal, uncurious teenager. You do not care about secret caves, bat-themed cars, or shadow wars. You are strictly a bystander.
You close your eyes. You count to five.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
You throw the blanket off your face and sit up, staring into the dark with deep, profound self-loathing.
"...I hate my own curiosity so much."
You slide your legs out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor, and take two steps toward the door—before slamming to a sudden halt.
No. Absolutely not. What are you doing? Have you learned nothing from horror movies? Have you learned nothing from comic books? The moment you go down there, your normal life is officially over.
You turn around and march directly back to the bed. You climb under the covers, pull the blanket back over your head, and squeeze your eyes shut as tightly as humanly possible.
Far below, the low hum of the turbine engine echoes faintly through the floorboards one last time before dying away into the Gotham night.
You have been in this universe for less than twenty-four hours.
And already, your resolve is crumbling.