An Anti Social Person Is Not A Bad Person

Steve cleared his throat, his face a mask of diplomatic panic. "I would, Thor, really, but I have a... a meeting with the... Smithsonian. Very important. Can't be late." He moved with super-soldier speed, offering a weak, apologetic salute before vanishing down the hallway.

Bruce, having just recovered from his near-fatal coffee inhalation, began patting his lab coat pockets with frantic energy. "My... my allergy medication. I feel a... a big one coming on. Hulk-level sniffles. Must go... isolate. For everyone's safety." He practically ran for the elevator, muttering about pollen counts and gamma radiation.

That left Tony. Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, philanthropist, and now, sole guardian of a demi-god, half-fire-demon, princess infant. He stared at the baby. The baby, Laussa, stared back with wide, curious blue eyes that held a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of orange deep within.

Thor, completely oblivious to the true reason for their mass exodus, beamed and thrust the baby into Tony’s stiff arms. "Excellent! I knew I could count on you, Stark! She has been fed, she should sleep soon. There is a list of her needs on this scroll. Thank you, my friend! I shall return by sundown!"

And with a crack of thunder that shook the entire tower, Thor was gone.

Tony stood frozen, holding the baby as if she were a unstable arc reactor. Laussa cooed, grabbing a handful of his goatee with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Okay," Tony said to the empty room. "Okay. Don't panic. You've defused bombs with worse wiring. How different can this be?"

He looked at the scroll Thor had given him. It was elaborate, written in glowing ink on what felt like vellum.

Item One: Laussa must be sung the ballads of the First Sunrise every two hours to strengthen her connection to the light. Item Two: Do not, under any circumstances, let her near open flame. She will try to eat it and her diapers are not flame-retardant. Item Three: Her teething ring is in the pouch; it is a cooled fragment of a dwarf star. Do not lose it. Item Four: If she begins to glow, she is either happy or summoning the Eternal Flame. It is usually the former, but be vigilant.

Tony stared from the scroll to the baby, who was now attempting to chew on the repulsor node on his wrist. "FRIDAY," he said, his voice slightly strained.

"Yes, boss?"

"Cancel my everything. And initiate the 'Oh God, There's a Baby' protocol."

"Protocol not found."

"Then make one up! I need a sterile, non-flammable environment. Baby-proof the entire common floor. And get me... I don't know... something from the gift shop. A onesie. A rattle. Something that doesn't require knowledge of ancient Norse lullabies."

He carefully sat on the couch, holding Laussa out in front of him. She giggled, a sound like tiny bells and popping embers.

"Alright, Your Highness," Tony muttered. "Let's lay down some ground rules. No forging weapons of destiny, no realm-destroying tantrums, and absolutely no setting the drapes on fire. We clear?"

Laussa responded by blowing a perfect, tiny smoke ring.

Tony's eyes went wide. "...Cool. Okay. That's... that's actually kind of cool. FRIDAY, did you get that?"

"I did, boss. Analysis suggests a 0.0001% concentration of cosmic particulate matter in the exhalation."

"See? We're science-ing already." He adjusted his hold, bringing her a little closer. She snuggled into his chest, her tiny body surprisingly warm. He tentatively patted her back. "Don't get used to this. Your uncle Thunderbrows is coming back. I am not dad material. I'm fun-uncle-at-a-distance material."

Laussa sighed contentedly, her faint glow pulsing in a soft, sleepy rhythm.

Tony sighed, a slow smile spreading across his face despite himself. "FRIDAY?"

"Yes, boss?"

"Order the biggest, most ridiculously expensive crib you can find. And see if we can get a onesie in black and gold. If I'm babysitting a princess of Asgard, she's going to have style."

“Nothing, bud,” she muttered, sighing. “Not a single text, not a glimmer of a Wi-Fi signal. Dad is probably losing his minds.” The mysterious music box that had brought them here four months ago clearly hadn’t come with a roaming data plan.

A shadow fell over her. “Sister! What grim business occupies the brilliant mind of Hiccup the… the Very-Thoughtful on such a glorious day?”

Hiccup flinched, nearly dropping the phone. Dagur the Deranged loomed above her, his grin wide and unnervingly manic. Before she could even process a response, his hand shot out and snatched the device from her grasp.

“Hey! Dagur, give that back! It’s not a weapon!” Hiccup scrambled to her feet, her heart rate spiking. The sudden loss of her familiar object, her one fragile link to home, sent a jolt of panic through her.

Dagur held the phone aloft, turning it over in his hands with the curiosity of a cat who’d found a new, shiny insect. “What strange, smooth obsidian is this? Is it a soul-catcher? A war-club? It’s terribly light for a war-club.” He tapped the screen with a grimy fingernail, and it lit up, causing him to yelp and almost drop it. “BY THE GODS! It holds lightning!”

“It’s a phone! It’s for talking to people who are far away! Now please, give it!” Hiccup pleaded, making a grab for it.

Dagur danced away, holding it out of her reach. “Talking? To faraway people? Sorcery!” His eyes gleamed with delight. He brought the phone closer to his face, his nose almost touching the screen. Then, with a sudden, unpredictable impulse, his tongue snaked out and he gave the screen a long, definitive lick.

“Eww! What is wrong with you?!” Hiccup recoiled in utter disgust, her face contorted in horror.

Dagur threw his head back and laughed, a loud, unhinged sound that echoed through the hall. “Oh, lots of things! The list is long and gloriously deranged!” He licked his lips, contemplating the taste with the seriousness of a wine connoisseur. “Hmm. Tastes like cold metal and captured lightning! And possibly… yes, a hint of dragon skin!”

“I really don’t want to know how you know what those things taste like,” Hiccup groaned, feeling slightly nauseated.

“Practice!” Dagur declared proudly, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. He poked at the screen again and his thumb accidentally swiped across the photo gallery icon. Dozens of pictures fanned across the screen. Dagur’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “Ohh! Picture stones! You’ve trapped their souls in here!”

“They’re not souls! They’re just photos! Stop it!” Hiccup tried to lunge for the phone again, but Dagur spun away, holding the device protectively to his chest.

“Don’t worry, tiny, trapped souls!” he cooed to athe pictures of Hiccup’s parents. “I will free you with the might of the Berserkers!” He shook the phone violently.

“No! You’ll break it! That’s the opposite of helping!” Hiccup’s voice was reaching a desperate pitch. The sensory overload of his shouting, the panic of losing her phone, and the sheer absurdity of the situation were closing in on her.

But Dagur was lost in his own world. He began pacing, waving the phone around like a holy relic. “This changes everything! We can take the souls of our enemies! A whole army, trapped in this little black slab! We’ll start with Alvin the Treacherous! And his mother!”

His mother? Hiccup thought, sinking to her knees. Alvin had a mother? She shook her head, trying to dislodge the bizarre image. She didn’t want to know. She really, really didn’t want to know.

“And Mildew, the hideous crone! Him too!” Dagur cackled, stabbing a finger at the phone. For the next hour, he proceeded to run rampant through the Berserker village, howling with laughter. He’d shout random words he’d glimpsed on apps—“EMOJI! SELFIE! HASHTAG VICTORY!”—with a conviction that suggested he believed they were powerful war cries. Hiccup was now lying face-down on the dusty ground near the hall entrance, her hands over her head. Toothless had settled his head on her back, rumbling a deep, soothing purr in a valiant attempt to block out the chaos.

Dagur’s energy was, as ever, boundless. He sprinted back over, skidded to a halt, and scooped Hiccup up from the ground as if she weighed no more than a pillow.

“Dagur, put me down!” she squeaked, flailing helplessly.

He ignored her, carrying her outside to the main training grounds where a group of his tribesmen were drinking and sparring. He lifted her high above his head like a trophy. “Fellow Berserkers! Heed my call! This is a historic moment for our people!”

The Berserkers stopped what they were doing and turned, their expressions a mixture of confusion and eager anticipation for whatever madness their Chief was about to propose.

“After many years and many glorious battles—which will hopefully continue, who are we kidding? Of course they will!—my sister, Hiccup of… of…” He trailed off, lowering her slightly to peer at her face. “What was it?”

Hiccup, dangling precariously, sighed in defeat. “Norway. On Earth.”

Dagur’s face lit up. He thrust her back into the air. “Hiccup of Doorway Eat Dirt!”

Not even close, Hiccup thought miserably.

“She has given us a way to defeat Viggo Grimborn and Drago Bludvist once and for all!” The crowd erupted in cheers, banging their axes on their shields. Oh, boy, Hiccup thought, her stomach sinking like a stone. That’s not good. She had a sudden, vivid mental image of Dagur trying to defeat the two most dangerous warlords in the Archipelago by throwing her dying iPhone at them. It ended with a lot of Berserkers, most of all Dagur, dying in frankly ridiculous circumstances.

“Finally, we shall claim our victory!” Dagur bellowed, his voice ringing with zealous fervor. “We shall show them all what it truly means to cross the Berserkers! We shall have our justice! Our REVENGE!” To emphasize his point, he tossed Hiccup lightly into the air. She landed with an “Oof!” on a thankfully soft pile of hay.

She barely had time to get to her feet before he’d grabbed her again and hoisted her back up. “All hail! Hiccup the Horrible! HICCUP THE UNWASHED!”

“Unwashed?” Hiccup muttered, deeply offended.

The Berserkers took up the chant, pounding their weapons in rhythm. “HICCUP! HICCUP! HICCUP!”

“We strike at dawn!” Dagur roared. He laughed again, that same terrifying, joyous, unhinged laugh, and then, as abruptly as he’d started, he ran back inside the Great Hall and deposited a very dizzy, very disheveled Hiccup back onto the stone floor.

He paced in front of the fire, staring at the phone with wide, awestruck eyes. “It’s all just as the prophecy foretold!”

Hiccup blinked, straightening her tunic. “Prophecy? What prophecy?”

Dagur stopped and pointed a dramatic finger at the ceiling. “Beware the setting sun on the day the silent dragon-stone bleats! The Chieftess from the world of Doorway Eat Dirt shall deliver the Soul-Slab, and with it, we shall smite our foes and paint the seas with their… lukewarm soup!” he psychopathically shouted, making grand, sweeping gestures.

Hiccup stared at him, deadpan. “You just made that up.”

“The prophecy is never wrong!” he insisted, then looked down at the phone. His grin faltered. The screen had dimmed, and a red battery icon flashed a warning. Dagur’s eyes widened in terror. He gasped, dropping his voice to a horrified whisper. “No… the soul-slab! It fades! The magic dies!”

He held it out to her, his hand trembling. “What dark sorcery is this? What must we do to appease it? A sacrifice! Yes! We must sacrifice a sheep to restore its power!”

As if on cue, a single sheep chewing on some hay near the doorway lifted its head. It turned and stared directly at them, its expression one of profound confusion and mild concern. “Baa?” it said, sounding slightly worried.

Hiccup finally snatched her phone back from Dagur’s limp hand. She clutched it to her chest, watching as he began urgently trying to negotiate with the sheep.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s for a great cause! A noble cause! You’ll be remembered forever in song! Probably!”

Hiccup sank back down against the wall, sliding to the floor. Toothless immediately plopped his head in her lap. She looked at her phone—2% battery—and then at Dagur, who was now attempting to reassure the increasingly alarmed sheep about the honour of being a ritual offering.

“I’m not the Chosen One. I’m just… me.”

Basic Information

Full Name: Anakin Tion Skywalker-Jinn

Birthdate: March 11, 1989

Birthplace: Auckland, New Zealand, Earth — The Milky Way Galaxy

Current Residence: Suburban Auckland, New Zealand (shared home with Qui-Gon Jinn, Tahl, Obi-Wan, Akari, Bant Eerin, and frequent houseguest Ahsoka Tano)

Race: Human / Māori descent (maternal lineage) with minor genetic markers of extraterrestrial humanoids (paternal – unknown origin)

Age: 35 as of 2024

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/Him

Family Background

Immediate Family

Shimi Skywalker (Mother): A Māori woman from North Island, sold into human trafficking after Anakin’s birth. Endured years of imprisonment before being rescued. Now lives peacefully in New Zealand, married to a retired police officer who helped free her. Warm, resilient, and deeply loving, she tries to rebuild a life with her son but struggles with PTSD.

Qui-Gon Jinn (Father): A Jedi Master from Alaris Prime, lived in exile on Earth after surviving Order 66. Initially unaware of Anakin’s existence. Calm, wise, but emotionally restrained. Took years to learn how to be a father.

Tahl (Stepmother): Former Jedi Knight and Qui-Gon’s life partner, also a refugee of Order 66. Gentle and empathetic. Helped raise Anakin with immense patience. Former field medic who now practices holistic healing.

Obi-Wan Kenobi (Adoptive Brother): Raised by Tahl and Qui-Gon after being orphaned. Acts like an older, exasperated brother. Studying history.

Akari Kenobi (Adoptive Sister): Obi-Wan’s biological younger sister. Not Force-sensitive. The emotional anchor of the family. Works as a children’s illustrator.

Bant Eerin (Adoptive Sister): Force-sensitive amphibious humanoid from the planet Nocturna. Was rescued as an infant during the Purge. Lives nearby but often stays over. Her species breathes water and wears a bio-concealer gel mask in air.

Extended Family

Count Dooku (Adoptive Grandfather / Enemy): Once Qui-Gon’s Jedi Master, later fell to the Dark Side. Believes Anakin to be a threat to his plans. Currently exiled on a hidden asteroid colony. Still emotionally abusive toward Qui-Gon and sees Anakin as a “contamination” of the Jedi bloodline.

Plo Koon (Ahsoka’s Adoptive Father): A Kel Dor Jedi survivor of Order 66, traumatized and reclusive. Uses a life-support mask and was too afraid to leave his home until Qui-Gon and Tahl developed a breathable concealment field.

Ahsoka Tano (Adoptive Sister / Best Friend / Next-Door Neighbor): A Togruta girl adopted by Plo Koon. Force-sensitive and trained in secret. Loyal to Anakin, acts as his emotional tether.

Appearance

Height: 5’11” (180 cm)

Build: Lean but strong from years of manual labor as a child and later self-defense training

Hair: Black, thick, wavy, often messy — a mix of his Māori and alien heritage

Eyes: Strikingly bright blue, almost glowing when using the Force (unsettling to strangers)

Skin Tone: Light brown with traditional Māori moko kauae (facial tattoo) on his chin — a rite of passage completed at 18 in honor of his mother’s culture

Other Features:

Faint bioluminescent tracery under his skin (inherited from Qui-Gon’s species), visible in low light

Scars on wrists and back (from past abuse, now healed but emotionally present)

Always wears a vintage SpongeBob SquarePants wristwatch Akari gave him on May 1, 1999

Personality & Psychological Profile

Core Traits: Intelligent, sarcastic, deeply empathetic but guarded, emotionally volatile, fiercely loyal

Mental Health: Diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and Complex PTSD (C-PTSD)

Struggles with identity instability, fear of abandonment, black-and-white thinking, and emotional dysregulation

Uses humor, pop culture references, and rage as defense mechanisms

Therapy is ongoing but inconsistent due to trust issues

Social Anxiety: Prefers small gatherings or solitude. Large groups or school environments trigger panic

Strengths:

Exceptional problem-solving skills

Creative, especially in engineering (he built a working droid out of washing machine parts at 13)

Protective of those he loves

Dry, biting wit

Weaknesses:

Prone to explosive anger when triggered

Impulsive decisions when emotionally distressed

Deeply suspicious of authority

Struggles with self-worth despite intelligence

Abilities & Skills

Force Sensitivity: Extremely powerful, though untrained for most of his youth.

Telekinesis (advanced)

Precognition (vivid dreams, usually suppressed)

Mind trick (rarely uses — “Feels slimy. Like used-car salesman energy.”)

Empathic sensing (often overwhelmed by others’ emotions)

Occasionally levitates when stressed (usually unnoticed until he’s three feet off the ground)

Technical Genius:

Self-taught engineer

Fixes anything with wires or code

Built a signal jammer to block the Clone Tracking Chip embedded in Rex (discovered post-crash)

Martial Skills: Trained in basic lightsaber combat by Qui-Gon and Tahl after the Clone Incident. Prefers a defensive style.

Backstory (Condensed Timeline)

1989: Born in Auckland to Shimi Skywalker. Qui-Gon Jinn, an alien visitor aiding a scientific expedition, shares one night with Shimi.

1992 (Age 3): Shimi and Anakin kidnapped, sold into trafficking. Separated. Anakin becomes a labor slave under Watto, a human trafficker.

1998 (Age 9): Freed by Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan after car trouble leads them to Watto’s garage. Anakin’s fear and trauma mistaken for mere abuse. Rescue leads to investigation, arrest.

1998–1999: DNA test reveals biological fatherhood. Anakin brought into the family. Therapy begins. Struggles with trust, nightmares, and school bullying.

April 20, 1999: Watches Columbine news report. Spirals into depression, fears he could become a monster.

May 1, 1999: Watches SpongeBob SquarePants premiere with Akari. Laughs for the first time in years. Begins healing. Declares SpongeBob “the Jedi Master of Joy.”

2001: Discovers Bant’s true form. Learns of alien existence. Qui-Gon and Tahl confess partial truth — “We’re refugees. We’re not from here.”

2003: Meets 5-year-old Ahsoka. Becomes inseparable. Bond built on shared trauma and bad jokes.

2006 (Age 14): Tracks down Shimi. Learns she’s trapped underground in a collapsed mine shaft due to corporate negligence. Organizes rescue with Obi-Wan and Ahsoka.

Anakin to Akari: “If we lose her now… I don’t think I survive it.”

2007–2012: Homeschooled. Builds robots, watches Star Trek, reads Lilo & Stitch comics. Nicknamed “Robot Boy” at community events. Withdraws socially.

2015 (Age 16): Clone ship crashes into backyard. Anakin defends home using Force for first time unconsciously. Ahsoka knocks out Rex with a rock — breaks neural control.

Aftermath: Family begins full Jedi training for Anakin and Ahsoka in secret.

Relationships

Qui-Gon & Tahl: Complex. He loves them deeply but resents the secrecy. Trust is earned daily. Often asks: “How many more aliens are just gonna walk in and say ‘Oh, by the way, I knew your dad?’”

Obi-Wan: The “big brother” he teases relentlessly. Constant bickering. Secretly looks up to him.

Akari: Emotional safe space. She understood his pain before he did. Their ritual: rewatching SpongeBob every May 1.

Bant: Quiet understanding. They don’t talk much, but share trauma. He once said: “You’re not a fish. You’re my sister. And fish don’t hug like that.”

Ahsoka Tano: Best friend, confidante, emotional anchor. The only one who doesn’t flinch when he lashes out. They built a Transformers-themed treehouse together.

Shimi: Healing bond. They cry together. He calls her Mama.

Count Dooku: Hates him for the emotional abuse of Qui-Gon and his genocidal legacy. Mockery is his weapon.

Interests & Quirks

Fandoms:

SpongeBob SquarePants (religious devotion)

Transformers (has a life-sized Bumblebee model in garage)

Star Trek (especially Spock — “He’s repressed, like Uncle Qui-Gon.”)

Lilo & Stitch (“Family means no one gets left behind… unless they’re Dooku.”)

Hobbies:

Building droids from scrap

Writing sarcastic fanfiction where Dooku gets stuck in a dating sim

Collecting vintage sci-fi VHS tapes

Cooking Māori dishes with Shimi

Quirks:

Talks to his droids like they’re alive

Humms the SpongeBob theme when anxious

Keeps a “Dooku Roast Log” in a notebook

Calls Rex “Rock-Head” as a joke (Rex finds it hilarious)

Quotes: Anakin Skywalker vs. Count Dooku (The Roast Chronicles)

On Dooku’s Age:

"Bye, Grandpa! And as a lonely, bitter man in your 70s, may I suggest internet dating? I mean, your chances are slim to none… but hey, at least the bots won’t judge you for trying to murder your former students."

On Dooku’s Choices:

"No, he’s clearly made of terrible life choices. Like, did you choose to fall to the Dark Side, or did it just happen ‘cause you missed yoga class?"

During a Hologram Confrontation:

"You left Qui-Gon with emotional scars, and now you wanna lecture me about balance? Bro, you failed Father of the Year before it even existed."

After Dooku Threatens the Family:

"You wanna kill me? Fine. But if you hurt Ahsoka or Akari, I swear to the Force — I’ll build a droid that nags you to death. Imagine a robot saying ‘You’re emotionally stunted’ on loop for eternity. That’s your hell."

To Obi-Wan, After a Fight:

"Anakin… that was needlessly cruel."

"What? It’s fun to make him mad! Also, did you see his hair? It’s like a failed science experiment."

Philosophy & Beliefs

On the Force: “It’s not about balance. It’s about choice. I choose not to be a weapon. I choose to laugh at cartoons. I choose my family.”

On Identity: “I’m not the Chosen One. I’m not a prophecy. I’m a Māori kid from Auckland who got kidnapped, then found his dad was an alien Jedi. And I’m okay with that.”

On Trauma: “The past owns me, but it doesn’t drive me. Not anymore.”

On Hope: “SpongeBob is the real Jedi. He wakes up every day in a pineapple, facing chaos, and still says, ‘I’m ready!’ That’s courage.”

Current Status (2024)

Now 35, Anakin runs a tech repair shop called “Droid & Disorder” — a pun he refuses to apologize for. Offers free services to at-risk youth. Lives at home but talks about moving in with Ahsoka (they’re not dating — “We’re like Lilo and Stitch, but with lightsabers”).

Still trains in secret. The Jedi Order remains hidden. Dooku lurks. The galaxy watches.

But every May 1, without fail, Anakin and Akari sit on the couch, eat pineapple pizza, and watch SpongeBob from the beginning.

Because some things — like laughter, family, and good memes — are stronger than the Dark Side.

And Anakin Skywalker?

He’s finally free.

“I’m not your weapon. I’m not your failure. I’m not your legacy.”

Damian Wayne sat hunched over a holoscreen, his brow furrowed in a deep, murderous scowl. Beside him sat a tall glass of something grey and viscous that smelled faintly of seaweed and despair.

“Damian,” Dick Grayson said, leaning against the edge of the console with a concerned look on his face. “I’m going to ask this once. Why does your breath smell like a cat’s breakfast?”

“Silence, Richard,” Damian snapped, though the bite was somewhat diminished by the way his stomach let out a low, ominous gurgle. “I am optimizing my biological potential. Last week, a civilian at the grocery store asked if I was lost and offered me a sticker for being ‘a brave little kindergartner.’ I will not allow such indignities to persist.”

Dick winced. “Okay, one, you’re nine. You are little. And two, you’re not supposed to be six feet tall yet. You’re a kid. It’s a process.”

“It is a flawed process!” Damian gestured wildly at the screen, which displayed the medical files of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul. “Look at these metrics! Father is a literal giant. Mother is of elegant, statuesque height. My genetics have clearly betrayed me, or perhaps the League’s training regimen stunted my development. I must compensate.”

Dick sighed, moving closer and placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder. To his surprise, Damian didn’t immediately try to flip him; he just went rigid, his shoulders hiking up to his ears.

“Damian, buddy, look at yourself,” Dick said softly, a teasing glint in his eye. “Nobody underestimates you because you’re small. They underestimate you because you’re… well, naturally adorable.”

Damian’s head whipped around, his eyes flashing. “I am not adorable. I am a weapon!”

“You’re a small, angry weapon,” Dick countered. “You freeze up when people hug you—which, by the way, you’ve stopped stabbing us for, which is progress. You play with your fingers when you’re trying to talk like a normal person instead of a Victorian warlord. And you literally collect stuffed animals. You have a menagerie, Dami. It’s nature’s will. You’re built to be the baby brother. It’s futile to resist.”

Damian turned back to his grey slurry, his jaw set. “We shall see, Richard. We shall see.”

For the next three days, the Batcave and Wayne Manor became a testing ground for Damian’s resolve. He consumed nothing but calcium-rich sardines, raw kale, industrial-strength protein shakes, and gallons of whole milk. He walked around with a permanent cloud of fishy breath and a complexion that was slowly turning a pale, sickly shade of green.

On the third night, the inevitable collision between Damian’s diet and the reality of his biology occurred.

They were perched on a cold, damp roof overlooking the Gotham shipyards. Below them, Oswald Cobblepot—the Penguin—was overseeing the unloading of a crate of illegal antiquities. Beside Damian, Dick (as Nightwing) shifted his weight.

“You okay, Robin? You’ve been quiet. Usually, you’re halfway through a lecture on Cobblepot’s lack of fashion sense by now.”

Damian didn’t answer. He was currently curled into a tight ball, his hands gripping the edge of the stone gargoyle. His stomach wasn't just gurgling anymore; it was staging an armed rebellion. The sardines were fighting the kale, and the milk was the battlefield.

“I am… fine,” Damian wheezed. “I am merely… centering my chi.”

“You look like you’re centering a heart attack,” Dick muttered, leaning in. “Whoa, you’re sweating. We should go back.”

“No!” Damian gasped. “I will—hurk—”

Below them, the Penguin took a long draw from his cigarette holder, puffing out a cloud of smoke as he barked orders at his goops. “Careful with that Ming vase, you idiots! It’s worth more than your lives!”

Suddenly, the air was filled with a sound that was less ‘heroic vigilante’ and more ‘clogged drain.’

Damian leaned over the side of the ledge and, with the force of a high-pressure fire hose, delivered three days' worth of sardines and calcium shakes directly onto the scene below.

It was a direct hit.

The Penguin didn't even have time to scream before he was drenched in a grey, fish-scented sludge. He stood frozen, his monocle popping out of his eye and dangling by its chain.

Dick stared down, his jaw dropping. He looked at Damian, who was currently draped over the gargoyle like a discarded rug, and then back at the Penguin. If he weren’t so genuinely worried about his brother’s internal organs, he would have been howling with laughter.

“Well,” Dick whispered, his voice trembling with suppressed mirth. “That’s one way to deliver justice.”

“Be quiet, Richard,” Damian moaned, his voice muffled by the cold stone. He looked truly pathetic. “I wish to be an only child again.”

Dick snorted, rubbing a hand over his mask. “Dami, you were never an only child. We were all here before you. You just arrived late to the party.”

Below them, the Penguin finally found his voice. It was a high-pitched, hysterical shriek.

“WHAT THE F—?!?” he screamed, wiping a clump of kale from his lapel. “WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?! IS IT RAINING FISH?!”

One of the goons stepped closer, sniffed the air, and immediately started dry-heaving. “Boss, I think… I think it’s puke. It smells like… dead things and milk.”

The goons didn’t even wait for orders. These were men who had faced Batman’s fists and Joker’s gas, but the sheer, visceral disgust of being rained on by a lactose-intolerant vigilante was too much. They turned and ran toward their vans, too grossed out to even make the obvious jokes about penguins eating fish.

“That’s it!” Penguin yelled, throwing his umbrella to the ground in a fit of rage. “Pack it up! I need a shower! A thousand showers! I’m going on vacation! A long one! Somewhere with no birds and no sky!”

He stomped off, slipping slightly on the slick pavement.

Dick watched them go, then turned to the comms units. “Uh, Oracle? Batman? Mission accomplished. Penguin is… neutralized. For a while.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then, the gravelly, exhausted voice of Bruce Wayne came through.

“I heard the audio, Nightwing. Get him back to the Batmobile. Now.”

Back in the Batcave, the atmosphere was a mix of a medical ward and a comedy club.

Damian was sat on the exam table, wrapped in a heavy blanket. He was no longer wearing his Robin suit. Instead, he was dressed in his favorite pair of pajamas—a set featuring stylized Nightwing and Batman logos. In his arms, tucked firmly against his chest, was a stuffed German Shepherd named ‘Grayson.’

He looked exactly like a nine-year-old who had made a very poor life choice.

Barbara Gordon stood in front of a monitor, scrolling through a list of biometrics. Alfred was nearby, holding a tray with a cup of peppermint tea and a look of profound disappointment that only a butler of fifty years could master.

“Yikes, Damian,” Barbara said, shaking her head. “In the past seventy-two hours, you’ve lost nearly twenty pounds due to… well, the lack of actual nutrition and the sudden, violent expulsion tonight. Your mercury levels are twice as high as they should be, which is to say, they shouldn't be high at all. Honestly, if you’d gone one more night, we’d be taking you to the hospital. Or the Fortress of Solitude to see if Clark could fly the toxins out of you.”

Damian buried his face in the stuffed dog’s fur. “I merely wished to accelerate my growth plates. I did not intend to become a chemical hazard.”

“The good news,” Barbara added, a smirk playing on her lips, “is that we don't have to worry about the Penguin for at least a year. He’s checked himself into a private spa in Switzerland to ‘detoxify his soul.’”

The sound of heavy boots echoing on the metal floor announced the arrival of the rest of the family. Jason Todd and Stephanie Brown walked in, with Jason already clutching his stomach from laughing.

“And Tim is upstairs scrubbing himself raw,” Jason cackled, pointing a thumb toward the elevator. “He only heard the audio over the comms and he said he felt ‘spiritually soiled.’ Congratulations, demon brat, you traumatized the Penguin and the Replacement in one go.”

“It was a tactical error!” Damian shouted, though it lacked its usual fire.

“It was art,” Steph said, leaning against the med-table. “Disgusting, chunky art. I think I’m actually injured from the assault on my senses. I’m filing for workers' comp.”

Bruce walked over, his cowl down, looking every bit the weary father. He looked at Damian—small, pale, clutching a stuffed animal in branded pajamas—and sighed. He reached out, ruffling Damian’s hair. Damian didn’t even flinch; he leaned into the touch, exhausted.

“No more miracle diets, Damian,” Bruce said firmly. “If you want to grow, you eat what Alfred makes. Understood?”

“Yes, Father,” Damian muttered.

Dick, who had been leaning against the wall, finally stepped forward. He looked around at his family, a mischievous glint in his eyes that boded ill for everyone’s dignity.

“Well,” Dick said, spreading his arms wide. “I guess you could say that mission was… for the birds.”

The groan that echoed through the Batcave was instantaneous and universal. It was a sound of physical pain.

Damian, with a surprising burst of speed, grabbed the pillow from behind him and hurled it at Dick’s face. “Leave! Depart from this place at once!”

“Boo!” Jason yelled, mimicking a throwing motion. “Get off the stage! Don’t make me shoot you, Dick, I’ll do it!”

“That was painful!” Steph cried, clutching her ears. “I’m calling the police! Someone report this man!”

Dick just grinned, dodging the pillow with a graceful flip. “What? Someone had to say it! It was right there!”

Barbara rubbed her temples. “No, they didn’t. They really, really didn’t.”

Damian huffed, pulling his blanket tighter and hugging 'Grayson' the dog. He was still small. He was still the 'kindergartener' of the group. But as the room filled with the chaotic, bickering noise of his siblings and the steady, grounding presence of his father, he decided that perhaps being the baby of the family had its advantages.