maggi

You were made the clone– no, a puppet– of the famous Bruce Wayne, meant to take over his mantle of Batman when the time came. At least, that’s what the others claimed. You believed you were made to suffer. 

The first memories you have were of floating in the abyss– cold and hot, something and nothing. Then, your eyesight went from the black void to a rainbow glazing infront.

(You’ll later recall this memory and ask yourself: how did I know what sort of things I was seeing when I had just come into existence?)

Its colours fly across your eyes before finally adjusting to the colours surrounding you.

Your clear eyes land on the people in front of you. The masks are what you notice first; eyes hidden, and solely the whites seen. The next thing you notice is their clothing – all dark hues, as if draining the happiness from it. Only one stood out to you, the whole clad in yellow top to bottom, bright in the dark.

Finally, you noticed where you were. A cave of some sort, with machinery, weaponry, and all types of things one wouldn’t see in a normal cave. Maybe, besides the bats in the ceiling, the items were all foreign to the place.

One of the masked individuals– vigilantes, your brain provides– steps forward, rather stiffly. He waves a light at your eyes, watching as the pupils dilate. “Vision is good,” he mutters. Out loud, very loudly, one may say, he asks: “Can you hear me?”

A croak similar to a “Yes” comes from you, earning a hum from the person, “Hearing is good, and voice is too.” 

The shorter one of the bunch tuts, crossing their arms in front of themselves, “He doesn’t sound like father,” the pubescent voice squeaks, “He sounds more like a teenager.”

The person in front of you turns around to stare at the boy?-- You’re unsure– and sighs with disappointment, “Damian, this is not an exact replica of Bruce. It’s meant to be younger since young people have more agility, better reaction time, peak organ health, and better sensory abilities than older people, which Bruce is– was.” his voice quietened down near the end, losing its confidence.

You could tell that the ambience had turned more sombre; from the curiosity they showed towards you to the sadness they acknowledged in the loss of a person.

Soft fingers wrap around the chair’s arm, “Who–” you clear your voice, “Who are you?”

The boy who was previously lecturing turns around, a grin on his face, “Why, your creators, of course!” He leans into your face, “And the soon-to-be hero of Gotham.”

“Gotham… City?”

“Well, basically the entirety of Gotham,” the boy shrugs.

They, as in the group of first humans you’d ever seen, got you into training quickly. And you picked it up faster, and according to Tim Drake– the ‘smarts’-- much quicker than he anticipated. 

“At this rate, he’ll be able to reach the same level of field skills as Bruce! As in early 40s Bruce Wayne, who has spent years with the art of fighting, and even then wasn’t perfect!”

You assume that’s good, after all, the person that you were a clone of had high standards. You were reaching those standards– maybe even surpassing them.

Tim helped with investigation skills, Dick (what a silly name) helped with flexibility, Jason helped with weaponry, and then Damian, Cassandra, Steph, and Duke were your training partners. 

Soon, you were able to outsmart the brains of the group, outfight the demons of the team, and knew more than the lot of them combined.

They were happy about it, so you suppose you were too. You had a room, Alfred helped you get settled, and you were a scientific breakthrough. What wasn’t there to be happy about?

(The first mission you went to was a failure. You had to capture this kid for questioning. You couldn’t. She was just so young to be in the crime circle; you were shocked. You knew that the others wouldn’t hurt her, but it felt wrong to capture her. She was doing this for a better life, and it was providing for her and her family, so why should you jump all over it? 

Back at the cave, they stared at you with conflicting feelings seen across the mass. That child was an important part of the mission. They saw it as an emotional decision, something deemed as a risk for you, because how else would you be able to save Gotham?)

Then a year later, Bruce Wayne returns, and the spotlight shines upon the newly resurrected man rather than on the scientific breakthrough. 

All of a sudden, you were in the back of their minds. Like a mere doll, left by the child for another fascination.

You were left to your own devices, with the instructions “do whatever you want”.

Left with nothing to do, you confined yourself to your room. You did not require food or water, you didn’t need to sleep or take baths, you existed as a ghost in the manor. 

There was no need for you any longer. So they sent you away across the U.S. under the guise of “No one can know that there is a clone of Bruce Wayne walking around”.

You started living in a high-end apartment in California, in a somewhat city area. You never left– you didn’t have anything to do. You sometimes wondered if anyone even knew you lived on floor 6, apartment number 615.

For months, you spent looking out the ceiling-to-floor windows, watching the busy streets and interactions between individuals. 

(You would practice conversations in front of the mirror, mimicking how humans seem to talk. Empty space was filled with your own voice, talking about nothing yet something to yourself.)

Then, an earthquake hits. The building collapses with you in it. You aren’t badly injured, and if you were, you couldn’t tell. You felt no pain.

Then rescuers found you, lying beneath rubble and not a single scratch. They called it a miracle. You call it a curse. 

“Where are your parents, kid?” One of the first responders asks, placing a blanket on top your shoulders.

“I don’t know.” 

A woman chimes in, “How have you been living here then?”

With embarrassment, you lie: “...Squatter’s rights…”

The two first-responders look at each other, as if having a telepathic conversation. Finally, the man nods his head, “Guess I’ll have to give you over to CPS, huh?” Something about his tone tells you that he’s not.

The man never did contact CPS, so you weren’t put into the system. Rather, he took you with him. You really shouldn’t have come with him– what if he was a secret serial killer? What if he liked, liked teenagers decades younger than him? Although you couldn’t care less. 

The area he lives in is nice. As the car pulls up to the man’s house, you notice a woman standing at the porch. 

“Honey–” the woman pauses, “Is, is this the child you were talking about?” Her hands fidgeted in front of her dress. What was she so nervous about?

The man nods, lightly pushing you towards her, “Yep. He ain’t got a name or parents. CPS probably would’ve sent him to a homeless shelter since he looks about to be 18.”

The two had taken you in, surprisingly, with ease. It was as if they had been waiting for a moment like this forever– to take in a poor child who had nothing to them. 

Robin, the woman, was kind. She fed you all types of food, although you didn’t need it, you indulged in the flavours. Robin took you to buy clothes, having lost all of them in the earthquake. She was like a mother to you. 

Quinn was like a father if Robin were the mother. He would take you out: restaurants, parks, malls, everywhere. Quinn would do activities with you, calling it “father-son” bonding time. You liked that term.

(They couldn’t call you “kid” or “boy” forever now, could they? So they gave you a name. Bryce. It sounded so similar to Bruce. That man couldn’t leave you even after moving across the country, could he?)

A man came to the door on a dreary night, clouds covering the bright stars. It had been a year since the older couple had taken in you in. The man had business with Quinn and Robin. You were instructed to go to your room, which you did. You waited patiently for either one of them to call your name and to say, “Dinner is ready!” (After all, you liked to savour such moments.)

They didn’t call you down. At some point, sleep had called for you. The sun rose between the soft clouds, and you woke up at 6 am. Finally, by 7 am, you decided for once to take initiative. You walk down the staircase slowly. Peeking from behind walls, you call out for Robin and Quinn– your parents. They were not in any of the rooms. 

You went to your neighbours, explaining the problem. They said they hadn’t seen them at night or day. A day goes by the time you decide to inform the police.

“Are you sure they didn’t go on a trip?”

No. They would’ve told me.

“Must’ve been an emergency.”

No, they wouldn’t have left without telling me.

“Kid, adults do this all the time. They just up and leave for a few, you’ll be fine.”

No, they would– why… why aren’t you listening to me?

Multiple bodies were discovered at the side of a river 34 miles from the house. All had burn marks and traces of drugs. Two of the bodies were identified as Quinn and Robin. The media called it a cult suicide, based on the numerous cult reports in the area. You believed it was murder.

Authorities took the house, sold all the furniture, and donated the couple’s clothes. They left you only a few items to remember Quinn and Robin. Quinn’s bandana, which he would string to his jeans, and Robin’s favourite hair clip, which she would wear to parties. 

Once again, you were worthless—no direction of where to go, and grief gripping at your brain and heart. The backpack, carrying your clothes and a few things from the house, weighed like tons to you. So you walked. You walked until the sun started to set and a beach came into view. 

You don’t remember the walk from across the road to the beach until water splashes against your feet. You look up to where the ocean meets the sky. Robin liked coming to the beach. Quinn liked starry nights. The backpack drops from your shoulders as you get down to your knees, and your hands shake. For the first time since your creation, you cry.

Tears start to roll down your face, blurring your vision. The sea and sky become one, and you gasp harder for air to reach your lungs. A guttural scream pierces the calm of the beach, dying off as quickly as it came. You try to stop the tears, squeezing your eyes until patterns started to appear behind your eyelids, but the stream continued. Everything felt so numb, yet so real. 

What had you done for this fate? Why couldn’t you stay happy? Why was the universe against you?!

The moon shines against the waves. The crying stops, deep breaths replacing them. With wobbly legs, you start to stand up, the decision showing its consequences immediately, with you falling face-first towards the sand. You brace for impact, but don’t hit sand. There is pulling against your shirt before you’re upright, feet digging into the sand rather than in the air. 

You slowly open your eyes to see a man standing behind you, the one who helped you not fall, “Hey kid,” he started, “What was that all about?”

You were warned by Robin and Quinn to never talk to strangers. 

“My parents… they– they’re dead.” The words feel cold, saying them out loud.

The man frowns, “I’m sorry about that… were they one of the cult victims?”

Your eyes snap onto the man’s face, “How did you know?” you murmur.

“My friend was one of them, so I assumed.” He shook his head.

Slowly, you look down at your feet, at the shoes which Robin had helped get you so enthusiastically, “Oh, I’m sorry… what are you planning on doing now?”

You knew what you would do. Revenge. It was the one thing running in your head, Get revenge for Quinn and Robin, and the countless others killed.

“Revenge,” The man spoke, “my group and I, we will get revenge.” He tilts his head slightly to look at the vast ocean. 

“You, too…?”

“Ah, is that what you were planning?”

You nod. 

“Well, isn’t that perfect?” The man’s lips turn upwards into a smile, “Would you like to join us then?”

Something about it, the time, the knowledge, seemed so wrong. Something wasn’t right. You shouldn’t accept, you really shouldn’t–

Rage fills your mind, “Yes.”

Revenge is your purpose, and you will embrace it. 

The man called himself The Doctor. He was a scientist, a biologist, a chemist; he knew so much. Doc introduced you to his group. They called themselves the Fatui. The leader was an ex-lover looking for revenge for her fallen love– just like the many others she had ambitions for revenge– and she let you in with open arms. 

You were the sixth member. You earned a new name, “The Balladeer”. No one called you Bryce in a loving tone any longer. All you were to the others was now Balladeer. 

The gods. You hate them. Fate was something they made from the start, allowing death to happen to their children as a price. You hate them.

Had it not been for them, Robin and Quinn would’ve been alive. Had it not been for those retched, disgustingly selfish gods, so many people would’ve still been here. You will prove to them that you could be just as powerful as them, but better. 

The first god you would defeat was the god of knowledge, of wisdom. Stupid. You will use her people against her, for your gain. Show the people how better you would be as a god rather than some insignificant bug– one which had just recently gained consciousness. The people can’t trust her, but they can trust you. 

Tim hadn't been expecting to help a god— much less a child who is a god. She calls herself Nahida, the god of wisdom, the god who was supposed to rule over Sumeru.

"So let me get this straight," Tim pauses the woman (a puppet, he reminds himself, which Nahida is residing in), "You need our help defeating a fake god who threatens your status as god?"

The woman thinks for a moment, "That's a simple way to put it, so yes."

"And this fake god, it's created by your people?"

The other hums in agreement. Before Tim could ask another question, Bruce interrupts, "And why exactly us? Wouldn't Superman be more helpful? Wonderwoman?"

Nahida's left, index finger lands right below her lips, a pondering pose. "How do I say this," she starts, "that you are very connected to this whole situation?"

"What do you mean?" Bruce narrows his eyes on the woman.

She sighs, her soft voice carrying through the air, "You see, this 'puppet' for a fake god, is the one Tim here created after your death, Bruce."

Tim gasps, "What?!"

Nahida nods, "Yes. This is why you all are very well connected."

"A puppet—" Bruce faces the boy, eyebrows knit, "Tim, what is she saying? What puppet did you create?"

Tim laughs nervously, "Well— you see…"

"I, I had created a puppet like human. It wasn't human, not really. It didn't need to eat or sleep or go to the bathroom and has basically no organs. I guess a robot? What I mean to say is I created a more perfect clone of you, Bruce. And sort of… forgot about it?"

Bruce massages the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh. Most likely to control his anger in front of the god. Muttering about some inappropriate usage of science and unreliable children. Tim pushes himself into his chair, a nervous smile on his face. Finally, a few minutes later, what could also be eternity in Tim's clock, Bruce stops and faces Nahida.

"We will help. It is our duty to end what we started." His eyes narrowing at Tim. The boy laughs nervously.

Explaining the situation to the others was just as pain in the ass as revealing the forgotten information to Bruce.

Damien tsks, "So, that puppet is more like an evil doppelganger of father rather than the perfect clone you claimed to have made, Tim?" The teenager rolls his eye in annoyance at his younger sibling's opinion, choosing to stay quiet rather than starting an argument.

Nahida butts in, "I wouldn't say evil, misguided would be a better word."

"Misguided means that we were at fault, which we weren't. That kid lived a perfectly good life in that top-tier apartment, in Califronia nonetheless, he did it to himself probably." Jason shrugs, "Probably got that from Bruce, trying to one-up everyone. Just this guy is literally a devil."

"I wouldn't say devil either—"

"Miss Nahida, if you don't mind," Dick starts, "But a fake angel or whatever is quite literally a devil."

Nahida stares at Dick with a conflicted look, "Well, no a fake god is just a fake god. It is no thing like a devil."

Dick opens his mouth for a counter argument but it dies down under Cassandra's voice, "Okay," she crosses her arms in front of her chest, "How do we deal with it?" Nahida gives a small smile at the girl.

(Nahida, much to the god's bargain, likes this girl. She gets straight to the point, an amazing fighter, and overall a less stimulating person to be around. Although, many times Cassandra may be blunt with her words, it helps Nahida see how different humans can be.)

"The main goal of this fake god is to get my gnosis, the drive to my godly powers." She touches the place between her chest, directly pressing onto where her sternum lies, "He already has the gnosis of another god, making him powerful already. However, this gnosis is used to solely power his machine and not himself. With my gnosis, his transformation to godhood will be complete."

"The plan is to literally take out the gnosis from him first. I have prepared a timeloop which shall help us contain him in a specific field. Using this timeloop, we will be able to take as many tries as needed to defeat the Balladeer."

Tim raises his hand, "I'm sorry, the Balladeer?"

Nahida nods, "Yes, his name is the Balladeer. Is there an issue with that?"

The boy simply shakes his head, "Oh, no nothing…"

'What a name… the Balladeer.'

The god looks around at the group of people, "Any other questions?"

A blonde girl raises her hand, "Wait, so what happens if— hypothetically of course— one of us dies in the timeloop?" Steph lowers her arm, bracing herself against the railing she sits on.

"Do not worry, you will be alive just out of the plane of existence of the timeloop until it restarts. No injuries will remain in the real world." She pauses, "Although, the plane of existence does not stop the pain from injuries, simply its visibility."

"Will the clone— the Balladeer die if we took the gnosis from within him?" Duke, the boy in yellow, asks.

Nahida shakes her head, "From what I know, his body is very fit for keeping the gnosis, so no. He shouldn't die."

"And what will happen to this Balladeer?" Bruce asks.

The god turns at the man with a hardened look, "Well, he shall be under the custody of Sumeru. So you shalln't worry about that."

It took 167 loops to get here. Plummetting to their deaths, blood loss, ripping of body parties for 167 loops to finally, finally have the fake god cornered.

The bats stood together, each a few feet apart from the other as strategy and— damn, Nahida wasn't kidding about the pain of the injuries remaining. The cuts in their skin hot, their hands shaking as they held weapons.

The fake god's mumuring passes through the hall, "Humans… filthy humans!"

Nahida stood in front of them all, stood in front of the giant mecha as it towered over all of them.

"You think…" the fake god rasps, "You're better than me?" The mecha raising his hand, ready to hit down, "No one is better than me!" the thundering voice shrieks as the hand comes down on Nahida. The bats yell in suprise, watching as the god is restrained in the fist of the mecha.

The fake god looks upon the other in disgust, watching as Nahida wriths in the hand, trying to get away, "You're too late. I've already became a god, the Balladeer a long bygone title of mine." The fist tightens, "Looking back, the existence of what once called itself Bryce appears infinitely small and ugly."

"This is supposed to be a battle between gods, yet you choose to hide behind a mortal." The hand starts to dangle Nahida by the cloak, "And now, you're acting like you'd sacrifice yourself for these humans…"

The Balladeer reaches his hand out the mecha's face, "Are you having fun proving a false sense of herosim to yourself, Buer?" His hand goes through Nahida's chest, a scream ripping from the girl.

The bats cover their faces at the surge of light, overlaps of "Nahida!" dying at the elctric noise. Quickly, they all look back up to see… Nahida holding onto the Balladeer's wrist, her eyes emitting green.

"The data collection is complete…" She looks at the hand in her to the fake god's face, "Do you even know how many times you've tried to take the Gnosis from me?"

As fast as the hand had went in, the Balladeer pulls his hand away, watching as crystalizations of past loops surrond him. As the images collapse, he puts his hands up to shield his face.

He watches, belated realizing, as Nahida cracks the center of the mecha's chest and starts to pull out the gnosis. The Balladeer's eyes widen— in fear? In regret? In anger?

"No… No!" He moves forward, "Please… Wait!" He reaches forward from the void, his hands desperatly trying to grab towards the gnosis, "Anything but the Gnosis…!"

Pipes attached to his back start to crack, ripping away from the Balladeer's body, the fluid splashing around, yet the boy doesn't seem to notice, adamant on trying to grab onto the powerful piece, "TThat's mine! Don't even try…!"

The others can simply watch as Nahida works, watch as the puppet they had created groans, "I'll never— I'll never go back!" He screeches. Finally, the last of the pipes rip away, the moment of fowardness letting the Balladeer fall from a great height.

(And it may as well have been an eternity of falling, watching as Nahida grasp the gnosis in her palms when its supposed to be mine, its mine, give it to me! nonononomineIworkedforit!—)

The crash of the body causes large amount of dust to rise, at the feet of mecha. Nahida floats over to the bats, a solemn smile on her face, "Thank you for your help, thus far."

A few weeks later and the bats were meeting up with Nahida again, at some constitute of Sumeru's. Some of the members were busy, such as Dick, Steph, and Duke so they had not come along.

The group entered the building, walking along the long halls with geometric designs. As they approached the center, the bats recognized the sillouhette of Nahida, short stature and her whites and greens next to—

"What is he doing here?!" Damien exclaims, pointing a batarang at the Balladeer. The other scoffs, crossing his arms, "I don't want you guys to be here either, dipshit."

Nahida shakes her head at the ex-villain's actions, "As I had said before, I had one more request before the deal of allowing a Bats headquarter as well as investments."

Jason gives a short laugh, "And it has to do with this puppet?" Nahida simply nods, a sad smile on her lips, "I understand you all want nothing to do with him, but alas, this last request was for him."

"You see, I want the boy to find the truth of his past."

"The truth?"

"Please, do not question the authority of this god. I am simply doing what I believe is right in this situation."

Tim waves his hand, "Look lady," he says with a grimace, "I understand your like the god of wisdom or whatever, but that guy," He points at the Balladeer, "Is an evil guy, and I don't think he needs it."

"I say it's worth a shot."

Pairs of eyes turn to look at Bruce, wide as if he's lost his mind. "Have you lost your mind, Bruce?" Tim cries out, "He almost turned into a god to kill all of humanity!"

Nahida simply smiles at the tall man, "Thank you."

"I need from all of you is to act as a guard for the Balladeer, make sure he does nothing wrong— although I have some amount of faith in him."

Jason and Damien decided to stay in the real world, incase anything went wry. So it meant that it was up to Bruce, Tim, and Cassandra to properly act as an escort to and from the tree.

The walk to the Irmunsul tree is quite, with the occasional quick, sharp snaps from the Balladeer to not touch the sprouting trees. As they reach the tree, the three bats close in on the distance between them and the Balladeer, not wanting anything to go bad.

"Stop closing in on me," he snarks, "You're just going to fry your brains by touching the tree with only your little toe."

Tim rolls his eyes, but the three comply anyways, taking a few steps backwards.

A small tree sprouts in front of the convict, his hand reaches out to touch it. He lets out a small gasp, startling the three bats. For a while, they watch as the Balladeer's body remains stiff against the tree, his fingers wrapped tightly around one of the branches. Finally, the boy lets go with a sigh.

"I see…" he lets his head drop down to his feet, "All this… was his fault."

Cassandra starts to approach the boy, holding her arms out to get him away before sudden movement from the boy suprises her, making her take many steps back.

The boy looks at Bruce, Tim, and Cassandra with pity, "I apologize for the actions I have committed," he starts, slowly walking backwards, closer to the tree, "I shall no longer be of trouble." His palm touches the tree, a bright light emitting from it.

"No!" Tim screams, his hand reaching out to grab the Balladeer before everything goes white.

Tim wakes up with a gasp, his hand desperately cluching onto the blankets. Wait, blankets?

He takes in his surrondings. No, he thinks, he should be near the Irmunsul tree, not in a room. Much less, his room. With stumbling steps, he gets up to his desk, looking at his phone.

It's the next day. Morning.

"What?!" He whispers to himself, "What the hell happened?!"

Tim rushes out his room, staggering as he jogs— practically runs— to the dining area. His family should all be here at this time of day.

And there they were, sitting around the table as if they hadn't fought a fake-god just a few weeks ago, like they hadn't been personally invited by the god of wisdom to help her. Tim pants, leaning against the doorway. Bruce notices from the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow.

"Tim, are you okay?"

"What—" he takes a deep breath in, "What happened to the Balladeer?"

Tim is met with faces of confusion.

"Who?"

'No guys, I'm not crazy. It was probably just a dream. Yes, I'll try to get more sleep.'

Lies.

Tim is sure the events weren't a dream. And he'll prove them by talking to the source itself, Nahida.

He barges into the building— the same one which he was in before blacking out— despite the protests of the guards.

"Nahida!" Tim yells, "Where are you?!"

"Tim?" A soft, slightly squeaking voice responds, "What are you doing here?" The boy turns around to be faced by the floating god, almost jumping in fright.

"Ah, I apologize for the scare."

Tim waves his hand dismissively, "No, no it's fine. I have something important to ask you."

"What is it?" She tilts her head, indicating she's ready for the question.

"What happened to the Balladeer?"

She frowns, "Who?"

Tim's eyes widen, "You know! The guy who got betrayed three times and wanted to take humanity out? The guy who trusted the man that actually caused everything? If that makes sense?"

Nahida goes deep into thought, her eyes closed and her brows furrowed before a sign of recoginition shows on her face, "Ah, perhaps you are talking about this story?"

After a long period of silence, Tim's mind taking in the story's contents, Nahida lets out a hum, "It seems that he has 'ereased' his existence from other people's mind."

"Is that why the others didn't seem to remember him?" Tim whispers.

"It seems so."

Another round of silence.

"I have a belief that his body, as in himself, he is still in this world." Nahida starts, "The Irmunsul tree gives no indications that his body, too, has been wiped out of existence."

Tim jumps at that, "So, you think he's still here? Possibly roaming around the streets— madman?"

Nahida nods, "Possibly."

"Then I have to find him."

Finding the boy wasn't so hard, it turns out. Matter of fact, Tim saw him walking around the market as soon as he left Nahida's building.

Discreetly, Tim follows the boy, hiding behind poles and blending in with people to see what that villain might be up to.

Tim notices a few things about the ex-fake-god. Firstly, his style of clothing. It was different from what he was wearing originally, lighter too; the fashion seemed to be that mixed of Sumeru's and that of what people in Gotham would wear. The boy walked with less of a stiff, more of a carelessness of the world. The most glaringly different thing was his face.

The boy, once always frowing and having an angry look on his face now had a gentle smile and freedom look.

Tim watches as the ex-Balladeer (?) comes up to a stall selling fruits. The man, most likely incharge of the stall, smiles at his arrival. "Ah, if it isn't the Wanderer!"

The boy— Wanderer lets out a short, breathy laugh, "Hello to you too, Mister Ahmer."

"I'm assuming you have the fruits you promised?"

Wanderer nods, "Of course," he opens up the bag slung across the right shoulder, pulling out 5 fine Sunsettias, "Here they are."

The man gives out a hearty laugh, taking the fruits into his own hands, "Boy, let me give you some payment." He starts to open a pouch, presumably with money, the boy stops him.

"There is no need. I just felt like helping you."

Tim snorts from where he stands, just a few feet away at another food stall. The owner of the stall gives Tim a funny look, which he decidedly ignores. Balladeer and helping. Yeah right.

He keeps a listen on the conversation, how the boy now goes by the name Wanderer, how he's most likely going to 'wander' around from place to place.

"I know nothing about my past. I can only hope my future will help me understand."

Tim chases Wanderer down, just as he's about to leave the city, "You!" he yells, pointing at the boy, "Come here!"

Wanderer stops, confusion and suprise evident on his face, "Me?"

Tim stops, bending down slightly as to put his hands onto his knees, "Yes!" he pants out, "You!"

"You're coming with me, to see someone special."

Nahida watches from the corner of her eye as Tim drags over, presumably, the Balladeer. Tearing away her attention from the hologram in front of her, she turns to face the newcomers.

"Hello, Tim, and I assume Wanderer?"

Tim nods, "Yes, yes! This is the guy I was talking about!"

"Hell— Hello," the Wanderer waves, albeit shyly, "Am I in trouble of something?"

Nahida shakes her head, "Of course not, simply, we want to help you find the truth of your past." She sprouts a tree full of memories, "And Tim here is willing to help you— rather— very confident on helping you." She gives a smile.

The Wanderer raises an eyebrow before touching the tree, trusting the little girl; Tim's own fingers graze against the puppet's before being taken to another place.

Having to face the mecha again was not in Tim's list when helping Wanderer with his memories. He steps backwards, barely avoiding the slam of the hand. His heart pounds in his ears. From the corner of his eye, Tim sees the Wanderer who is bent into himself, hands shaking against his temple and wide eyes.

What did that stupid green orb do?!

Tim dodges an attack by the mecha again, tripping over his own feeting and falling onto his ass. Tim watches the hand rises again, about to slam down. He faces away, closed eyes, hand covering his face— his mind races, what should he do, he'll be squashed, he'll die—

A loud noise and then shimmering sort of sound. The attack never comes. Tim swivels back in front of him to see the Wanderer. "Balladeer?" he mummers.

Wind gathers around the boy as a shining gem floats gently into his hands. The boy smirks, a sharp laugh escaping his lips. His eyes staring at the mecha in front of him, "Die."

"Don't call me the Wanderer anymore," The newly visioned boy snaps, startling Tim and Nahida out of their converstation, "Nor the Balladeer or Bryce."

"I want a new name."

Nahida hums, "Hm, yes our proposal does call for a celebration."

The boy snorts, "Yeah, more like coersion into helping you both."

"'A name is a life's new gift.' You didn't say it out loud, but I know that's what your thinking." Nahida smiles, "Tim here has helped you quite a lot, dealing with you as well. If you can't decided a name, than they can help you."

Tim crosses his arms in front of his chest, "You want me to decide?" a skeptical look on his face.

The other boy shrugs, "Well I don't know any good names. Have you got anything?"

"How about Bruce?" Tim jokingly says. He watching as the boy's expression turns dark, "Is this supposed to be your attempt at a joke?"

Tim sighs, "Fine, fine. Joking. How about…" He pauses for a moment before his brain comes up with a bright idea, "(Name)?"

The boy faulters, "Are you sure?" he raises an eyebrow, staring intently at Tim. Tim nods, "Yeah, I think this will do."

(Joy wells up in your chest. Yes, this name, it will be yours. A new name for a new you.)

"…Ah, Alright, if you say so." his tone monotonous.

"There, now you have a name of your own." Nahida beams, her eyes sparklying beneath the lights. (Name) tsks, facing away from the god, yet blush creeps on his ears.

Tim shakes his head, ignoring the sense of responsibility he feels for just giving a living, breathing person a name, "What do you plan on doing next?"

(Name) hums, "I'm not sure, most likely stay here for a while. Leaving for a thrill if I want to."

"You could come with me?" Tim suggests, nervousness clear in his voice, "If you want."

"No one will remember anything anyways, besides me. I can explain to the others the whole cloning thing but then leave other things out."

(Name) gives a small smile to Tim, quickly bringing his face back to neutrality, "I'll see."

You had a nice day out— especially after a group of exams. The study was rigorous; by the end, you wanted nothing more than just to put yourself in a coffin. Instead, you decided to go out with friends on a cold night in Boston. To a cafe, a catch-up night.

You'd turned your phone off, wanting to enjoy the moment rather than being distracted by notifications.

With friends, you took a circular table near the window seat, facing the street. You were having fun, listening to stories your friends were telling. From sibling fights to silly, petty dramas between family members.

You wish you had a story to tell about family.

"Order for…" the barista looks at the large order of goods, "(Name) (last name)?"

"Oh," You slowly start to get up, "I'll get them!" beginning to walk towards the counter. You needed a slight moment ot just… get away. Just a few minutes.

(Truth is, it hurts to talk about family. (Name) (last name) Wayne is insanely jealous when it comes to family.)

Picking up the tray, you start to walk back to your group, while admiring the decoration of the cafe. It was cute, a cozy feeling. Indoor plants in some corners, large sofas surrounding a coffee table, and people enjoying small talk or working.

Eyes glance over to a corner of the place: people picking out books to read, Cassandra waiting at a table, commissioned paintings on the walls—

You stop, almost spilling everything on the tray. You look over your shoulder again. Cassandra. Cassandra Cain, sort-of-maybe-daughter to Bruce Wayne. Your mouth gapes open slightly.

What the hell is she doing here?!

Before Cassandra even gazes upon you, you turn around and flee to your friends.

"What took you so long?" One of them giggled, saying a quick 'Thank you, (naaaame)!' before taking their coffee. The others chide in with agreements, slipping money to you in exchange for their coffees.

You awkwardly laugh, "Oh, didn't want to spill anything!" You grab your drink, putting it against your lips and taking a big gulp.

"You've never told us about your family, y'know?" One of the boys says. A girl nudges him, "What?! I'm right!"

She tuts, before looking at you with soft eyes, "We don't mean to intrude, if you don't want to tell us, it's fine! We're just a bit curious, is all!" She moves in closer to the table, whispering: "Since you're… Like, Wayne's kid…"

You put the drink down, chuckling a little, "I mean, I'm cool with tell you guys."

(No, the hell I'm not. You think in exasperation, Why the hell did I say that?)

"So there's Alfred, the butler of practically the entire house, and like a grandpa to me." You earn a bit of 'aw's from your friends, "He makes arugably the best food, and spoiled me with it!"

"There's Duke—"

"New adoptee, right?"

You shake your head, "Nah, just temporarily at the manor for a while. Fostering, type thing." The others nod.

"Anyways, Duke is pretty awesome. A year younger. He's pretty funny and fun to hang around; good at puzzles and stuff. I think you guys would get along with him really well." You pause. How would you address the others?

"Um, Dick… he's there! Nice, takes people places, you know the whole 'I love family!' thing.

Tim is pretty busy, being CEO or whatever he is for W.E., kinda addicted to staying awake.

Damian is a bit of a menace, but he's alright for a rude kid. He likes animals and art. I think.

Cassandra does dance, ballet. I've seen her a few times; she's really good at it."

You ignore the feeling that someone is staring at you, focusing on your friends.

You get to your dorm quite late. You were lucky enough not to have a roommate, rather getting one of those single-person dorms.

After closing the door behind you and slipping off your shoes, you fall onto your bed. You rummage in your jacket pockets before taking out your phone. You turn it on.

Notifications start to pour in from Instagram, TikTok, emails, messages, and everywhere.

You press on the emails. Eyes scanning over the names. You pause at two of the emails, both coming around the same time.

Your heart stutters at the sender.

Dick motherfucking Grayson and Jason motherfucking Todd.

from:[email protected] to:(name)(lastname)[email protected] Hey (name)!

I saw you on Boston University's Instagram account! I tried contacting you, but your old number wasn't letting me through. Why didn't you tell me about your number changing? Anyways, congrats! We should celebrate together, you know, hang out! Let me know~ From, Richard Wayne

from:[email protected] to:(name)(lastname)[email protected] Hi.

Was wondering where you're at. We haven't seen each other in a long time. Wanna know what's going on in your life, catch-up, y'know? You probably look so grown-up now.

Jason T.

What the hell. How did they remember this email? Did they even know this email?

You sit up, switching from one email to the other. The words are blurring and turning into one. You swipe out of the app and close your phone.

For a moment, you just sit there, frozen in time. What should you do? It felt nice that they reached out, but it's also been so long since you left. You eye your phone laying next to the pillow.

It's better to forgive, but not forget— something you remember being taught by a teacher— It's better to forgive, not forget. Forgetting means you forgive them for everything, just forgiving means you have moved on from the hurt and are willing to go off from the experience.

The screen lits up as you pick up the phone. Maybe you can do that too— convey how you felt, forgive them, and move on from the hurt.

from:(name)(lastname)[email protected] to:[email protected] Hello Dick,

I guess I forgot to tell you about the number change. And yes, I got into BU! Thank you. Perhaps winter break, we can hang out? p.s. here's my number: +1 ****-****-*****

(name) (lastname) Wayne from:(name)(lastname)[email protected] to:[email protected] Hello Jason,

I'm at BU! I got accepted a few months ago, and yeah, we haven't seen each other in a long time! Perhaps we can meet during Winter break? p.s. here's my number if you want to contact there instead of through gmail: +1 ****-****-*****

(name) (lastname) Wayne

With a satisfied sigh, you turn your phone off. A fluttering feeling rising in your chest as you close your eyes.

The next morning— luckily a weekend— you wake up slowly, the first rays of the sun filter through the window.

Your half-asleep mind first reminds you of being outside with your friends yesterday, the coffee, the talks. You smile softly as you groggily look at the clothes you slept in.

The phone next to you sends a sharp reminder of the email. With a nervous heart you open your phone, seeing two messages from new numbers and— messages from old numbers?

+1 ****-****-*****: Hey! This is Dick! When's your winter break? yknow so I can plan everything out for our sibling bonding time~ sent yesterday, 11:43 pm

+1 ****-****-*****: hi, it's jason. congrats on getting into BU, hoping your having fun in boston. when's your winter break? sent yesterday, 11:34 pm

Bruce Wayne: Hey, kiddo, heard you got into Boston University. Congrats. Why didn't you tell me? sent 4:30 am

Tim Drake: Hey, (name), haven't seen you in a while, what's the happs? sent 4:56 am

Your heart jumps at Duke's messages because— right, Damian is still a kid and probably doesn't have a phone yet to contact me.

Duke: Hello, this is Damian. I wanted to say congrats on your new educational pursuit. Father must be very proud. sent yesterday, 10:09 pm

Duke: I would like to apologize for my past actions. It was not fair what I had done to you. It may not seem much, after all, you've been having to deal with my behaviours for the past few years. I'm truly sorry for the way I treated you. sent yesterday 10:11 pm | deleted for Duke Thomas

You quickly rename Jason's and Dick's contacts, messaging them your break dates with excitement. 'Sibling bonding time' you think 'Sibling bonding time!'

As a teen, you watched as Dick would take the others to places under the saying of 'sibling bonding time' and you'd always wanted it too! Dick would take them to zoos, restraunts, parks— hell, even back to Bludhaven! Now you would finally have the chance to do with Dick, and not only him, but with Jason too!

You had been waiting for the day to come where you could talk to Jason, after his revival. From classes, to friendship dramas, you had wanted so badly to hold a conversation with him like you had back in the day. You had the chance, now!

Now… the other messages…

Damian's is the easiest to answer. He's a kid, he didn't know any better.

You: tell him I forgive him. I accept his apology cause it looks like he means it. he's a baby with no sense of direction, at the end of the day.

Duke: !! alright!!

Now with Bruce's and Tim's messages.

Those were harder. The two of them never had much of a relationship with you during the growing years— maybe besides when you were a little kid— but still.

You click on Bruce's contact, rereading the message.

Bruce Wayne: Hey, kiddo, heard you got into Boston University. Congrats. Why didn't you tell me? sent 4:30 am

You had told him you'd gotten into BU, but you guess he wasn't paying attention.

But now, he was. This attention— you'd always wanted it. So you'll forgive.

You: I did tell you I got into BU. But thanks.

Was it a bit aggressive? Yes. But did Bruce deserve it? Also a yes.

Tim Drake: Hey, (name), haven't seen you in a while, what's the happs? sent 4:56 am

You: I'm in BU, that's why you haven't seen me in a while. u?

Again, a bit aggressive. You couldn't help it. It's a valid feeling, is it not? Trying to reconnect relationships where, at least in your mind, you've done nothing wrong— it's hard.

With a patience that fit of a saint, you close your phone rather than wait for the messages. If they want to message and genuinely reconnect, they will. You shouldn't have to wait.

Jason sits in his dingy apartment, a blanket over his lap as he reads a book. Every so often, his eyes would wander over to his phone, sitting in front of him on the coffee table, screen up. His hopes are high for a notification from you.

He keeps reading. Jason's mind takes the words on the pages, no processing what the words are saying. He rereads that page. He still doesn't understand, so he rereads a second time—

Ding! Jason reaches for the phone with speed, unlocking it with face ID. A smile playing on his face.

from:(name)(lastname)[email protected] to:[email protected] Hello Jason,

I'm at BU, I believe I told you all over dinner? I got accepted a few months ago, and yeah, we haven't seen each other in a long time. Perhaps we can meet during Winter break? p.s. here's my number if you want to contact there instead of through gmail: +1 ****-****-*****

(name) (lastname) Wayne

Jason rereads the message, looking over the words. (Name) had gotten into BU? That's exciting, at least someone in this househould will get a degree— a higher education in general. With fast fingers, he types their phone number before sending a message about when they would be in Gotham for break.

With a reliefed sigh, Jason tosses his phone next to him. This is good, really good. The two of you had always been close-knit, so this. This can help relight that flame. His mood had brightened up, and for the first time in a while, he laughed with a genuine heartyness behind it.

(Jason had missed you, as he kept distance from the family. He missed the stupid jokes that would have him crying— because of its sheer unfuniness. When the two of them would be crazies, running around the house acting like pirates. Jason even missed trying to teach you mechanics, even if nothing seemed to retain in your brain.

After his revival, now that he thinks back, Jason had ignored you. When you had tried to mediate a fight, he had yelled at them in anger. Not a single sign of regret in him as he watched them trying not to cry infront of the others.)

Rather than going out, fighting and patrolling, Jason decides to have a quiet night.

'Thank you, (Name). For forgiving me.' he reflects, letting his drowsiness take him to sleep.

"(Name) says they forgive you," Duke says out of the blue one day, sitting at the counter with cereal in his hand.

Damian blinks. Far too early in the morning for his brain to be functioning, "Excuse me?"

Duke chuckles, restating himself, "(Name) says they forgive you."

The younger boy lets the words process in his head before a small smile plays at his lips, and his posture straightens up, "Really?" he whispers silently. As if afraid that someone might see this soft moment.

"Yep," Duke pops, "They said they'll be glad to talk to you about stuff. I'll send their number to you, ya?"

Damian nods, "Yes, I would appreciate that…"

Duke finishes his cereal before reaching out his hand to tousle the boy, "You did the right think," he starts as he puts the bowl into the sink, "They've been wanting to connect with you for a long time now."

"I am glad that they are willing to give me a chance at redemption."

Duke smiles at him, glancing at the clock, "Better get going now, Signal doesn't wait for anything!"

"Good patrol, Thomas."

(The first time Damain texts you, he feels his giddy feeling in the chest. As if something were roaming around in his ribcage, tickling him.

You reply kindly, asking how his day has been going and how school is.

He responds with the same amount of enthusiasm a child his age should have.

Damain apologizes again, and you accept the apology again.

Now, every time the two of you text, his mood lightens up. Posture is getting lazy rather than the strict-straight back he learned to have. Damain appreciates your presence. He adores your presence.)

Bruce was sitting in a meeting when (Name) had messaged them. As discreetly as he can in front of clients, he opens the message.

You: I did tell you I got into BU. But thanks.

His stomach clenches in— guilt? It must be. Had Bruce been such an absent father for them that he didn't know what college they got accepted to? He replies:

Bruce: I see. I apologize for not remembering. I would like to make it up to you, when will you be free? As your father, I shall see to it that anything you want to do gets done.

(Name) replies in an instant.

You: I'm going to be free during winter break, so like december last two weeks till january first week. maybe we can do something then, dad?

When was the last name (name) had called him dad? Bruce didn't remember. (He didn't remember many things. He doesn't remember the last time he had talked with you prior to moving out of the house. Bruce doesn't understand how he hadn't noticed one of his children— much less his first child missing. He truly is a dissapointment of a father.)

Bruce: Of course. I shall mark it on my calendar.

Bruce: We can go to the restruant which you liked when you were a child?

You: Sure!

A good mood settles into Bruce's body, 'I shall make this amendment count, (Name).'

The meeting flows in good spirits.

You: I'm in BU, that's why you haven't seen me in a while. u?

Tim eyes the message. A bit aggressive, no? But coming from you, he doesn't really care. In fact, Tim is suprised you answered him at all, especially with the attitude he has given you in the past.

(The jealousy he had against you— it was childish from the start. Tim should've known better than to let it dictate how he acted towards you.)

Tim: I heard. Congrats.

You: thanks

His fingers hover above the keyboard, thinking of what to write. Each new message in his mind creating a new scenerio.

Tim: what r you studying?

You: i want to become a teacher so yeah

Tim: that's nice

You: yeah it is

Tim wants to hold this conversation as long as he can. That way, he can learn more about you since he never had tried when you lived in the house.

(Guilt rises in his chest. He should know what you like and don't— hobbies, opinions, everything. Tim is a detective, the best at knowing everything about criminals. Yet, he doesn't know a little about you, his family.)

Tim: i wanna hear more, but im a bit busy atm. do u think we can hang out or smth?

You: yeah man, winter break?

Tim: That'd be nice

You: okay then! text me if u want idk

Winter break was here, your heart fluttering as the car got closer to the mansion. You rolled into the driveway, popping open your trunk and getting out bags filled with clothes. Shoes dig into the gravel as you approach the doors. Index finger hovering above the doorbell, and as you gather your strength, you press.

The door opens immediatly, catching you off guard. Out rushes a shadow towards you, hugging at your abdomen. You laugh, patting Damien's head, "Hey, pal!" In response, Damien further smushes his face into your body.

"Damien!" A sing-like voice comes. "Stop squishing them! They've just arrived." Dick swipes the bags out of your hands before you could say anything. Damien rolls his eyes, yet obligies. He takes your hand, pulling you towards the living room, with Dick trailing behind the two of you.

As soon as you enter, multiple pair of eyes turn towards your directions. An overlapping of your name is said before you sit on one of the couches, next to Duke and Damien.

"I'm assuming the trip to here went smoothly?" Bruce asks, a small smile on his lips. You say yes.

Tim leans agains the single sofa he sits on, "How's college going, by the way? Must have had a lot of exams before break, yeah?" Again, you say yes.

"You're going to become a teacher right?" Jason jumps in, you say yes.

Questions keep coming your way as you attempt to answer them all, before Alfred comes into the room, holding a glass of water. He passes it onto you, "You will all tire Mx. (name) out before dinner. Have patience, ask them questions later."

The others begrudgingly accept, (name) trying to stifle their laughter at the dappened mood on the other's faces.

"You guys can ask me after dinner, how about that?" You smile.

You felt so happy, surronded by familial love. It will take a while to repair the relationships, but it would be worth it, would it not? So, you were happy.

You had a nice day out— especially after a group of exams. The study was rigorous; by the end, you wanted nothing more than just to put yourself in a coffin. Instead, you decided to go out with friends on a cold night in Boston. To a cafe, a catch-up night.

You'd turned your phone off, wanting to enjoy the moment rather than being distracted by notifications.

With friends, you took a circular table near the window seat, facing the street. You were having fun, listening to stories your friends were telling. From sibling fights to silly, petty dramas between family members.

You wish you had a story to tell about family.

"Order for…" the barista looks at the large order of goods, "(Name) (last name)?"

"Oh," You slowly start to get up, "I'll get them!" beginning to walk towards the counter. You needed a slight moment ot just… get away. Just a few minutes.

(Truth is, it hurts to talk about family. (Name) (last name) Wayne is insanely jealous when it comes to family.)

Picking up the tray, you start to walk back to your group, while admiring the decoration of the cafe. It was cute, a cozy feeling. Indoor plants in some corners, large sofas surrounding a coffee table, and people enjoying small talk or working.

Eyes glance over to a corner of the place: people picking out books to read, Cassandra waiting at a table, commissioned paintings on the walls—

You stop, almost spilling everything on the tray. You look over your shoulder again. Cassandra. Cassandra Cain, sort-of-maybe-daughter to Bruce Wayne. Your mouth gapes open slightly.

What the hell is she doing here?!

Before Cassandra even gazes upon you, you turn around and flee to your friends.

"What took you so long?" One of them giggled, saying a quick 'Thank you, (naaaame)!' before taking their coffee. The others chide in with agreements, slipping money to you in exchange for their coffees.

You awkwardly laugh, "Oh, didn't want to spill anything!" You grab your drink, putting it against your lips and taking a big gulp.

"You've never told us about your family, y'know?" One of the boys says. A girl nudges him, "What?! I'm right!"

She tuts, before looking at you with soft eyes, "We don't mean to intrude, if you don't want to tell us, it's fine! We're just a bit curious, is all!" She moves in closer to the table, whispering: "Since you're… Like, Wayne's kid…"

You put the drink down, chuckling a little, "I mean, I'm cool with tell you guys."

(No, the hell I'm not. You think in exasperation, Why the hell did I say that?)

"So there's Alfred, the butler of practically the entire house, and like a grandpa to me." You earn a bit of 'aw's from your friends, "He makes arugably the best food, and spoiled me with it!"

"There's Duke—"

"New adoptee, right?"

You shake your head, "Nah, just temporarily at the manor for a while. Fostering, type thing." The others nod.

"Anyways, Duke is pretty awesome. A year younger. He's pretty funny and fun to hang around; good at puzzles and stuff. I think you guys would get along with him really well." You pause. How would you address the others?

"Um, Dick… he's there! Nice, takes people places, you know the whole 'I love family!' thing.

Tim is pretty busy, being CEO or whatever he is for W.E., kinda addicted to staying awake.

Damian is a bit of a menace, but he's alright for a rude kid. He likes animals and art. I think.

Cassandra does dance, ballet. I've seen her a few times; she's really good at it."

You ignore the feeling that someone is staring at you, focusing on your friends.

You get to your dorm quite late. You were lucky enough not to have a roommate, rather getting one of those single-person dorms.

After closing the door behind you and slipping off your shoes, you fall onto your bed. You rummage in your jacket pockets before taking out your phone. You turn it on.

Notifications start to pour in from Instagram, TikTok, emails, messages, and everywhere.

You press on the emails. Eyes scanning over the names. You pause at two of the emails, both coming around the same time.

Your heart stutters at the sender.

Dick motherfucking Grayson and Jason motherfucking Todd.

from:[email protected] to:(name)(lastname)(wayne)@gmail.com Hey (name)!

I saw you on Boston University's Instagram account! I tried contacting you, but your old number wasn't letting me through. Why didn't you tell me about your number changing? Anyways, congrats! We should celebrate together, you know, hang out! Let me know~ From, Richard Wayne

from:[email protected] to:(name)(lastname)(wayne)@gmail.com Hi.

Was wondering where you're at. We haven't seen each other in a long time. Wanna know what's going on in your life, catch-up, y'know? You probably look so grown-up now.

Jason T.

What the hell. How did they remember this email? Did they even know this email?

You sit up, switching from one email to the other. The words are blurring and turning into one. You swipe out of the app and close your phone.

Sleep. Sleep will fix this. The phone is thrown across the room, and the blanket is pulled over outside clothing.

The next morning— luckily a weekend— you wake up slowly, the first rays of the sun filter through the window.

Your half-asleep mind first reminds you of being outside with your friends yesterday, the coffee, the talks. You smile softly as you groggily look at the clothes you slept in.

Then, the emails are reminded next. Your mood sours.

How Jason and Dick emailed you like they've never left contact with you, how they want to "hang out" seemingly forgetting the lost promises of "I'll go with you somewhere, next time, okay?"

(Every time someone would say that, you would know in your heart that they would forget. Mainly Dick. Especially Dick. He had the Bruce, Tim, and the Titans, and any other thing he's in. They would always be more important than you.

Jason forgot about you after he came back. The few times he was in the manor, he didn't even try to do something with you. Hell, he wouldn't even come to greet you. It was as if the only reason he came to the manor was to make Bruce's life hell, and yours too. You missed the old Jason.)

You stumble over to where your phone is. It lay near the closet door, its screen illuminating new messages. After all, you have a life outside of the Wayne family. And probably the only life, since you weren't truly a Wayne; it was just by name.

God, were you always this depressive?

You shake your head, crouching down to your phone. You hesitantly pick it up, face ID recognizing you and opening it up.

"I need to text Duke about this…," you mutter, still crouched. You quickly swipe into your messages to see multiple numbers trying to get you to respond to them. And two of them were ones you didn't want to see.

Your father — Bruce Wayne, and Tim Drake. How they even knew your new number was beyond you.

(You always kept their numbers saved, because maybe they would reach out. You didn't want that anymore.)

Bruce Wayne: Hey, kiddo, heard you got into Boston University. Congrats. Why didn't you tell me? sent 4:30 am

Tim Drake: Hey, (name), haven't seen you in a while, what's the happs? sent 4:56 am

Your heart drops further when you see Duke's recent texts.

Duke: Hello, this is Damian. I wanted to say congrats on your new educational pursuit. Father must be very proud. sent yesterday, 10:09 pm

Duke: I would like to apologize for my past actions. It was not fair what I had done to you. It may not seem much, after all, you've been having to deal with my behaviours for the past few years. I'm truly sorry for the way I treated you. sent yesterday 10:11 pm | deleted for Duke Thomas

Groaning, you start to text Duke back.

You: Duke, wtf.

Duke: ?

You: why the hell is everyone texting me all of a sudden?

Duke: idk, dick asked for your number on the family gc but i gave them the email u dont use

You: So, i didn't want you to give them ANYTHING about me. But whatever. Tell Damian i forgive him or whatever

Duke: oops, sorry… mkay, any reason to tell him orrrrrrrrrrrrrr

You: well, he is younger… an assassin child at that. I accept his apology cause it looks like he actually means it. he's a baby with no sense of direction, at the end of the day.

You: Also if you meet with the others, tell them to leave me alone. they can talk to me when i come over for vacations, which i doubt ill even come.

Duke: r u sure…? you've been wanting to reconnect with them for a while…

You: that was in the past, ive moved on and don't want them holding me back emotionally anymore.

Duke: okay, sorry about that…

You: its fine.

Fingers press on Alfred's contact. You start a call.

"Mx. (Name)?"

"Alfred."

"Mx. (Name) has informed me that they are not interested in talking with you at the moment." Alfred starts, "They believe they would benefit from focusing on their studies as of right now, rather than on other issues."

Bruce's eyes focus onto Alfred's face in the dark of the Batcave. "What?"

Alfred looks at him with a face Bruce can't quite place, "Mx. (Name) wants to focus on what they are doing, and reccomend that you do the same. They will talk to you when they are ready. Please relay this message to the others, is also what they said."

Calloused hanfs drop away from the keyboard, "Why would they say that?" he murmurs, "I'd thought… they would want to reconcile after so many years…"

"They do not wish to." Alfred starts to walk away, "Safe patrol, Master Bruce."

The Wayne takes out his phone and presses on your contact.

Bruce Wayne: Is there a specific reason as to why you do not wish to talk to me? message not received

Bruce Wayne: (Name)? message not received

Five— six children, and he couldn't manage to have a good relationship with any of them. A failure of a father, really.

A gasp echoes through the living area. Heads snap towards the voice, ready to jump into action for whatever happened.

"(Name) blocked me on Gmail!" Dick stares at his phone with wide eyes, "I didn't even know that was possible!"

Everyone sighs, not expecting such a trivial matter.

"They blocked me on messages and Gmail. I don't know how they found my stalker account on TikTok and Insta, but they blocked me on that too." Tim mutters, eyes already slinking back to the laptop in front of him.

Steph sits up from the couch, raising her right hand, "Oh, Oh! I saw them in Boston a few days ago!" Cass nods.

"They were with friends at a cafe." She pauses, "I was gonna say hi to them, but Cass said no."

"We do not know them well enough to interfere talking between their friends."

Dick sits up straighter, "You should've told me! I would've come so fast…" he whines, his gaze still on your contact information. "I'll just text them on—"

"They've probably already blocked you." Tim remarks, "I'm pretty sure they've blocked all of us on any accounts and numbers."

"You never know!" Dick insists instead, furiously typing on his phone. A few minutes later and his posture deflates. "You're right. They blocked me on social media too…"

"I think…" Three sets of eyes go to Cassandra, "We should take the hint and leave them alone. It is clear that is what they want."

Dick shakes his head, "They're our sibling, we have to connect with them," he claims.

Cass frowns, "We should not go past their boundaries if that is what they want. We must respect them."

The older man gets up, his eyes furrowed as though he was going to say something. His face in a scowl. Ultimately, Dick leaves it at that, muttering a 'whatever' before leaving the room. Tim watches from the corner of his eye as the oldest leaves.

"I do not believe I said anything wrong," Cass says with confusion, "No?"

Tim disagrees, "No. You didn't. Dick is just a bit… nosy."

'And I am too.'

(In the end, after a long day of contemplating, Dick doesn't try to contact you again. You'll come around when you want to, even Dick hopes that you'll do it now.)

from:[email protected] to:(name)(lastname)[email protected] Hi.

Was wondering where you're at. We haven't seen each other in a long time. Wanna know what's going on in your life, catch-up, y'know? You probably look so grown-up now.

Jason T.

from:[email protected] to:(name)(lastname)[email protected] Hi.

Double emailing, cringe, I know. Please just tell me if you want to see me or no, I'll understand.

Jason T.

from:[email protected] to:(name)(lastname)([email protected] Hi.

I saw you got into BU, congrats. At least someone in this family will be a college graduate, haha.

Jason T.

Jason sits in his dingy apartment, a blanket over his lap as he reads a book. Every so often, his eyes would wander over to his phone, sitting in front of him on the coffee table, screen up. His hopes are high for a notification from you.

He keeps reading. Jason's mind takes the words on the pages, no processing what the words are saying. He rereads that page. He still doesn't understand, so he rereads a second time—

Ding! Jason reaches for the phone with speed, unlocking it with face ID. A smile playing on his face.

from:(name)(lastname)[email protected] to:[email protected] Hi.

Please just leave me alone. I do not want to talk to you. Take the hint!

Jason's heart drops at the email; any sense of good mood leaves him. He was hoping— he thought you would want to reconnect. The two of you used to be so… close-knit together.

(Jason remembers attending your extracurriculars, remembers you saying good-bye to him before patrol, and remembers the way you tried to mediate between him and the others.

Eyes that held innocence, and hands that felt soft as a pillow.

That's the past, and Jason can't do anything to go back.)

He puts his phone down and goes back to reading. If you don't want to, that's fine. Jason will not force you to be siblings— friends again.

(He ends up patrolling his area. Fighting crime till his heart raced and his hands sweat under the gloves. Jason will get over your rejection, he will. He's rejected you, so it's his turn to be rejected.)

"(Name) says they forgive you," Duke says out of the blue one day, sitting at the counter with cereal in his hand.

Damian blinks. Far too early in the morning for his brain to be functioning, "Excuse me?"

Duke chuckles, restating himself, "(Name) says they forgive you."

The younger boy lets the words process in his head before a small smile plays at his lips, and his posture straightens up, "Really?" he whispers silently. As if afraid that someone might see this soft moment.

"Yep," Duke pops, "They said they'll be glad to talk to you about stuff. I'll send their number to you, ya?"

Damian nods, "Yes, I would appreciate that…"

Duke finishes his cereal before reaching out his hand to tousle the boy, "You did the right think," he starts as he puts the bowl into the sink, "They've been wanting to connect with you for a long time now."

"I am glad that they are willing to give me a chance at redemption."

Duke smiles at him, glancing at the clock, "Better get going now, Signal doesn't wait for anything!"

"Good patrol, Thomas."

(The first time Damain texts you, he feels his giddy feeling in the chest. As if something were roaming around in his ribcage, tickling him.

You reply kindly, asking how his day has been going and how school is.

He responds with the same amount of enthusiasm a child his age should have.

Damain apologizes again, and you accept the apology again.

Now, every time the two of you text, his mood lightens up. Posture is getting lazy rather than the strict-straight back he learned to have. Damian appreciates your presence. He adores your presence.)

You came for Christmas break, rather than staying in the dormitory. Your friends had asked you to come, but you didn't want to intrude on family time.

The visit was… awkward to say the least. There were the 'hello's and the 'how are you doing's. Unlike when you lived in the manor, however, everyone seemed very into your business.

"How's college going?" Bruce asks one day during breakfast, or atleast breakfast time for the manor.

You glance at him from your phone, "Good."

"Any classes you like?"

"Um… foundations of education is going good, I guess."

Bruce hums, "Mind telling me what that's about?"

You check the clock, "I gotta go, I promised Damian something."

(You used to be so young, following Bruce around. The man recalls. From his office to the Batcave. What he wouldn't do for you to do that now.)

"Do you want to join me in the Batcave?" Tim mumbles in your general area.

You squint at him, "Huh?"

He takes in a deep breath, "Do you want to join me in the Batcave? I have some questions."

The phone slips from your hand and onto your lap, "Uh, the Batcave is lowkey cold, so…"

"There's a heater there."

You stare at him, "Alright, sure, I guess." You shrug, getting up from the couch in the living room.

He ends up going to patrol just a few minutes later, leaving you in the Batcave.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't think I had patrol today—"

You wave it off, simply lying: "It's cool, I guess. I have something to do anyway." You did not have anything to do.

(Tim leaves the Batcave, guilty as ever. He doesn't want to do what he did in the past. He really doesn't, but duty calls. He hopes you will forgive him like you used to when you were younger.)

Dick waltzes into your room, "Want to go to the Zoo?"

You sit up on your bed, "Not particularly, no."

His smile falters a bit, "Come on! Sibling bonding time!"

"I'm a bit busy with catch-up work right now… sorry."

"You can do that later, can't you?"

You shake your head, "I want to get it done with fast."

(Dick remembers how you used to bug him to teach you gymnastics. But it feels like he's the one doing the bugging, now. How the tables have turned...)

"Jason?" You say with confusion, trying to focus on the figure in the dark.

The lights flick on in the kitchen, Red Hood standing at the counter with a box in hand, "Yeah, that's me."

"Oh, okay, cool." You start to walk away before a forced cough calls you.

Jason clears his throat, "I made you cookies," he gestures at a big box sitting in front of him, "The ones you like."

You raise both eyebrows, "Thanks."

"Yeah."

A silence falls between the two of you, eyes wandering around the kitchen. Jason starts, "I guess I should be going."

"Yeah."

(As Jason leaves, he takes a glance back at you. You always loved these types of cookies--- straight up loaded with sugar. You would also share them with him. Will you share these?)

"What're you drawing this time?" You ask with your mouth full of cookies.

Damain scratches furiously in his sketchpad, "Nothing."

You roll your eyes, reaching across the table to pick up his pad right out of his hands. "Hey!" he yells.

There, on the white sheet, lay a picture of… you. Smooth and rigid lines mix to create your facial features, and harsher pencil density to outline. You can't help but laugh, "Damian! This is so cute!"

His face turns a bright red, "Give that back, this instant, or Alfred shall be informed about this… bullying."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, you're talented." You wink, "Also, give me the paper when you're done. I have to show my friends the talent my sibling holds, no?"

"How's the break going for you?" Duke asks, lying on your room's floor.

You sigh, turning around on your chair to face him, "It's awkward."

"Everyone's all of a sudden really interested in what I do and stuff. It's annoying. Besides Damian."

Duke shrugs, "It's to be expected."

"Nuh-uh, it feels weird."

"They're trying to build something with you."

"Well, I want to focus on myself right now."

Alfred sets a plate in front of you, "I believe this break is treating you well?"

"Thanks, Alfie!" you take a bite of the food, "And I guess."

He raises an eyebrow.

"It's just awkward. I'm in the spotlight after so long."

"I believe that it's for the best."

"I don't like it."

"You must give them a chance."

You huff, "I will after I'm settled."

You made a goal. Graduate, become a teacher, live in an apartment and have fun teaching.

And it is what you will do. Any other issues will have to wait. You were your main priority.

You understand that they're trying to fix the past, but they don't seem to understand that it will take time. Time that you don't have. Time that is going towards your occupation.

So when you're done, you will also try. But they have to try in the meantime. After all, you've been trying your whole life.

It's their turn. You're no longer the child who followed for praise and recognition.

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After weeks upon weeks of being under the Batman persona, Bruce finally had time to be the Bruce— father to 4 children and a mentor adult to some— persona. Not the Bruce Wayne persona. Never the Bruce Wayne persona in his house.

This also meant that he had to attend to the finances of their house. More so, his own rather than the others; they all loved using his account more than their own.

Damian's pet food - $206.52

Tim's fast food - $27.00

Tim's fast food - $19.89

Dick's gasoline - $6.12

Boston University fees - $73,819

Damian's art supplies - $99.10

Cassandra's ballet fees - $50.18

Jason's motorcycle repair — $108.89

Pause. Bruce scrolls up again, his eyes hovering over the words "Boston University". He rereads it once. Then twice, as if waiting for it to disappear before him. It doesn't. Which one of the boys got into BU? Unless it was Cassandra… but that's impossible.

His cursor presses the highlighted words, taking him to a Boston University account.

Thank you for filling in the fees! Enjoy your year! The top sentence read, Please feel free to ask any questions at bu******@gmail.com.

At the top-right corner is the account profile that has apparently been using Bruce's account without his knowledge. He clicks on it. It creates an extended sidebar on the side, with different commands. But it's the name that Bruce looks at.

(Name) (Last Name) Wayne.

"(Name)?" Bruce murmured, his mind automatically trying to find a fond memory with you in it— like his brain did when Damian was mentioned. Or Dick, or Jason, or Cass, or Steph, or— but there was no recent one. Memories from years ago, when you had just been born, surfaced in his mind.

Calloused hands nervously picking at scabbed skin, eyes flickering towards the Hospital door, and Bruce waited. He waits for the cries of a newborn or the groan of a mother as she pushes for the last time.

The woman— you're mother— wasn't meant to become pregnant. It was just one night out to relieve stress for both of you. Then she had called, hiccuping, sobbing, and the words "I'm pregnant, I don't know what to do." spilled through her lips.

"Do you want to keep it?" Bruce asked in a calm voice, his own body shaking and fidgeting around, "I can pay for the abortion, if you want—"

"I want to keep it." Your mother murmured through the phone, voice raspy, "I want to keep it, not abort it…"

Bruce sighed softly, "I'm fine with that."

9 months and a few days later, her water broke during dinner at her house. A maid called 911, holding the sobbing woman.

So here Bruce was, waiting for his child— his first child from blood, one he helped conceive— to be born.

The shrieks of a baby break off Bruce's thought. He swivels his head around to the door he was awaiting near; the shrieks didn't stop.

Before Bruce could processe what was happening, nurses were rushing your mother to the emergency ward. Her body pale, and her breath quick and short.

"What's happening? What's wrong with her?" He asked a nurse who was left behind.

"I'm sorry to say, but there were complications after the birth." The nurse explains, her tone formal, "She started loosing too much blood and we fear something might have been ripped from the inside."

"Is she going to be alright?"

The nurse quiets down, "The doctors will see what they can do."

Bruce waits 2 hours. 2 hours and your mother was pronounced dead. He wasn't in love with her, no, not at all. But there was a pang in his chest, and his stomach clenched uncomfortably.

"Would you like to meet your child, Mr. Wayne?"

When Bruce first laid eyes upon you, he thought you were the most beautiful thing in the world. You were a wrinkly thing, wrapped in a beige cloth, and eyes closed in the bassinet. Above your head was a sticker.

"So she named you (name)…" Bruce murmurs, "How beautiful." His fingers caressed your cheeks, watching as your face scrunched up.

1 day in the hospital and you were free to go. Bruce had brought you home, making sure to drive slowly. He had made Alfred get everything you would need. Without breastmilk, you needed formula.

"I bought the best formula available, Master Bruce."

You would need new clothes almost every month.

"I've bought the softest clothes made from Egyptian cotton. Do not worry yourself about diapers either, sir; those are also the finest in the market."

So had begun your life in Wayne Manor. Bruce had tried hard in the begining, really he had. Perfect feeding schedule for a child, sensory time, colors, everything a child needs for development. Your first word was Papa. He had wanted to cry that day.

(Soon, daddy and kiddo time started to disappear from the equation when you were around 5 months old. Bruce had personas to hold up; he couldn't just be "Bruce" forever. He had to be Bruce Wayne and Batman.

"Alfred, look after (name). I will take care of them after."

When you had shyly mentioned the idea of Bruce coming to your kindergarten graduation, Bruce had said: "Not now, kiddo, dad's busy."

"Not now, love, I have something to do."

When Jason had died, his grief had outweighed thoughts of you. He left.

When he brought Tim home, he noticed your seething form at the top of the Batcave. 'You'll understand,' Bruce had thought, '(Name) always does.'

When Bruce had bought Steph, then Cass, and soon Damian, he felt happy. Watching them. Never watching you. But he doesn't know that.

'I'll take them out somewhere.' Bruce had thought after talking to you about the fight between you and Damian. He didn't remember that.)

Bruce lets birth memory fade, "Alfred," He says, "When had (name) gotten into BU?"

"5 months ago, Master Bruce."

"And why wasn't I made aware of it?"

Alfred let out a quiet sigh, "They had told you during dinner the day they had gotten the acception letter."

Bruce stares at Alfred, noting at the older man's dissapointed look on his face. He looked back at his computer and account name. "Oh."

He picks up his phone and presses on the messages app. Bruce doesn't find your messages while scrolling. He has to search up your name instead.

Bruce: Hey, kiddo got free time? This phone number no longer exists.

Bruce looks up at Alfred. Alfred sighs, reaching for his own phone, "I shall give you mx. (name)'s new number. They had gotten a new one years ago." Dread pits into Bruce's stomach.

Dick believes he's a pretty good brother. Sure, between his anger issues, need to have control over every situation, and somewhat insensitivity to what he says, he'd say that his undying love for family outweighs all that.

So when Dick comes across a Boston University video, he doesn't think much of it. He sits on a rooftop with a bag of Batburgers, scrolling through instagram. Dick watches the video, learning what people's names are, what majors they are taking and stereotypes about their majors. Until someone's familiar name catches his eye. "(Name)?" He mutters, pausing the video.

Oh, (name)! Dick feels like he hasn't seen your face in ages! He still remembers when you were a baby, barely a year old, and would watch him do silly things around the manor. "Such a chubby face!" Dick remembers saying when he was younger, "Are all babies this cute, or is it just you?"

(He doesn't remember the many times he promised to take you somewhere fun. The zoo or the theater or just plain-old diner, you would've been happy to go anywhere. Dick was just too busy sometimes. Gotham, depressive eras, Titans, Bludhaven, other siblings, they all just got in the way for you both to have bonding time.)

He sits up straighter now, closing instagram and opening messages.

Dick: Heyyy lil' birdie!!! Heard you got into BU~ Congrats! Wanna hang? We should celebrate itt <3 This phone number no longer exists.

"What?"

Dick: hey guys, yall know (name)'s phone number?

Tim: Isn't it ***-***-****?

Dick: not anymore its not! if anyone does, send it to me please

Tim: huh then idk

Jason: i forgot they existed lol

Duke: I don't have their number, but have their email! its (name)(lastname)[email protected]!

Dick: thanks Duke! better than nothing

Duke replied to Jason's message: That's rude…

As Dick starts to write an email, he can't help but start to think about the most recent interactions that he could remember. How you'd awkwardly stand outside of the family, not saying much at all despite looking like you wanted to say so much, and how your jokes just seemed to fall flat.

from:[email protected] to:(name)(lastname)(wayne)@gmail.com Hey (name)!

I saw you on Boston University's Instagram account! I tried contacting you but your old number wasn't letting me through. Why didn't you tell me about your number changing? Anyways, congrats! We should celebrate together, you know, hang out! Let me know~ From, Richard Wayne

He presses send. That's alright! When you two meet, it'll click immediately between you two. It had when you were a baby and he was a kid, so why wouldn't it now? Dick closes his phone, anticipating your reply.

In all honesty, Jason had truly forgotten about your existence. Not until Dick had asked for your number in the family group chat he was forced into, he had no recollection of you. But it felt like a wound had opened when Dick mentioned you.

His mind is hit with memories of you and him playing, how you would wait patiently for him at the Batcave after shifts, and your lovely baby cheeks that you probably grew out of by now.

"Why did Dick ask for their number?" Jason revs his motorcycle, "They're probably just in their room."

You were at home the last time he saw you. That was 5 months ago, but how much could've changed? He'll go meet you. You two hadn't talked— properly at least— for a while now. So he'll do that today.

When Jason arrives at the manor, he ignores any conversation starters and heads to your room, at least where he remembers your room being. He knocks on the door once. Then twice. Then three times and still no response. He hesitantly grabs onto the knob and turns it.

"(Name)?" Jason peeks inside the room and finds no one there. He walks into the dark room, flicking on the lights.

It was a spacious room, bigger than the guest rooms and ever so slightly bigger than Bruce's. Posters and pictures hung on the wall, shelves filled with your various interests.

Your bed was made, and his hand grazes the cotton comforter of your favorite color. Your desk looked as if it were missing something… maybe a laptop or pc? Last he remembered, you liked playing video games and watching YouTube.

Otherwise, your desk looked a bit dusty, Jason notes as his finger swipes the desk. That wouldn’t have happened with Alfred… He frowns.

Does that mean you haven’t been here in… weeks? That’s not possible, he would’ve known. Hell, Tim would’ve known. That freak doesn’t let anything escape his eye.

Jason crouches down to sit on your bed. His thoughts scattered.

How had he not had time to talk with you after his revival? Why had he not even tried? How long had you been gone?

His hands card through his hair with furrowed brows. “Fuck…” Jason mutters.

After a while of staying and reminiscing on the memories of both of you, he gets up. Guess he’ll just find wherever you went and apologize in person.

That would be a start, wouldn’t it?

Jason: yo, where the hell is (name) at?

Duke: Boston University??

Steph: WHAT

Cass: Oh.

Duke: why r u guys surprised…

Jason: thanks, Duke

So Jason will not be going to Boston, but he will be messaging you. If he had your number. So email it is.

Tim prides himself on knowing everything about everybody. From the largest scar to the smallest habit changes, Tim recorded everything.

A habit that may seem stalker-ish, but he would argue is not.

So he’s exponentially surprised that he had little to nothing on your document.

Your birthday, your deceased mother’s name, how much you inherited from her, and classes you attended up till graduation— classes which automatically filled in without his knowledge.

You, (name), going to Boston University was a bigger surprise in itself. Then again, Tim made sure to avoid you the most he could.

(When he had first met you, he felt insecure. You were actually Bruce’s kid— blood relation and all. He wasn’t.

Tim also felt jealous. You had Bruce as a parent since you were born. Bruce wasn’t a bad parent, not by a long shot, when compared to his parents. In Tim’s eyes, Bruce was the embodiment of a perfect parent.

A parent who looks after his kids and makes sure they’re safe. Tim had yearned for that all his life. Tim also now knows that Bruce is not that good a parent.)

Tim enters a new paragraph in your document. “Entered Gotham University.”

And apparently, no one had your phone number either. So Tim guesses he’ll just have to find it himself.

“Tim.” Barbara says from behind him.

“Barbara.” Tim says back, acknowledging her presence. He keeps typing away on the Bat-computer. Everyone uses the Wayne network, so surely you must too. If not, he has your email, so he can just find anything connected to it—

“Is that… (name)?” Barbara is now next to Tim, eyeing the photo of you with wide eyes, “Damn, they’ve grown a lot…” She says in a soft tone.

Tim looks back at your document and your picture. She’s right, you have grown a lot. The picture had automatically been set to a picture of your senior year in Gotham Academy.

You were smiling, eyes lit up. The Gotham Academy sigil is behind you in the background. Any childish features are gone from your face.

“Yeah…” Tim mutters. You had, he wouldn’t deny that.

After a few hours, he had found some things about you. The first thing is that you had accounts on almost every website or app possible— for some odd reason.

The second is that you had two different emails. The one Duke gave wasn’t your main one. Your main one was (name)(lastname)@gmail.com.

Why wouldn’t you want the email with the last name Wayne being your main email is beyond Tim. Wouldn’t that give you an advantage at… whatever it is you do?

He also found your number.

Tim: Hey (Name), just wanted to say congratulations for getting into a Uni. Sorry if you didn’t want me to contact you.

Tim hopes— prays— you will respond.

“Cass! Look at that cafe there!” Steph points at a cafe, “We should go there! It looks cute!”

Cass simply nods, letting the blonde drag her through the crowded sidewalk. They were at Boston, on the premises of a mission— although she doubts that might be the case. Bruce likes to let his kids off to places under the guise that "it's for a mission".

As the two walk down the street, Cass takes mental notes of other places that Steph might enjoy or someone else in her family— if all were to come over.

Despite it being late at night, many stores were still open and busy too. The two of them step into the cafe; Cass secures a spot for the two of them as Steph orders items for the two of them. As Steph does that, Cass scrolls through recent messages, all seemingly revolving around (name).

She has no memories of you that are personal. Any sitings of you that she kept in her mind were when you would awkwardly try to integrate yourself into activities with everyone. How you'd shift from one leg to the other, hands behind your back as you fidgeted with fingers.

Cass knows you took dance classes at some point, but she didn't want to intrude on that. Plus, she was busy with other things.

Steph sits down next to Cass, leaning in to look at the other's phone, "Can you believe that they got in Boston Uni?! That's amazing, isn't it?" Cass hums approvingly.

Steph also didn't have many moments with you— hell, she barely saw you! She sort of just assumed you hated being with the family because you didn't interact as normally as family does. She also assumed that you were one of those brooding types, so Steph had chosen to not come anywhere near you, even when you tried.

Cass continues scrolling through her phone before a tug on her sleeve distracts her. She looks up at Steph, who is pointing at the other side of the cafe, "Isn't that… (name)?" Cass follows Steph's finger pointing at… you.

You were sitting at a round table, smiling and laughing along with— Cass thinks— your friends. Something that she nor Steph have ever seen. They'd only ever seen you with an awkward smile tugging at your lips.

"We should go say hi to them!" Steph starts to get up before Cass pulls her back down to sit.

Cass shakes her head, brows furrowed, "No. We will be disturbing them."

"Oh come on! We're family! Surely they won't mind."

But both of them knew the answer to that. You would mind. Trespassing into your life—which you had kept a secret for a reason— wouldn't look good in front of others, nor would it fix the past ignorance that the two had.

Steph whispers, "Maybe we should talk to them when they're alone…"

Damian hated your guts when you lived in the manor. You were Father's firstborn, another child with Bruce's blood. To him, you were going to be the better child— the child father would actually love.

So when you tried to befriend him— like some sort of pity case— he did what he does best. Harass you until you leave him alone. Damian believes he executed that perfectly.

You had tried showing him your drawings, which he told you were "mediocre" and "I could do this in my sleep".

(Although the art wasn't bad, especially for someone who doesn't practice a lot. Damian will not admit that.)

The way you stared at him with a wide look and your knuckles turned around your sketchbook told Damian everything he needed. So that's how the one-sided beef started.

Anything you would do, he would insist that he could do better. The way you do it was a poor effort and second-rate. You would just ignore him for the most part, choosing to storm away and into your room.

(Damian noticed that. How you seemed to spend more time outside of the manor or in your room. Avoiding others like second nature.)

There was this one time that you had argued back. "At least father was present for my birth! That means I'm more important than you'll ever be!" You had screamed at him. He could tell it was a weak argument, but it had hurt just a bit.

It proved your importance over Damian's.

Then you'd ran away to your chamber again like a coward. Luckily— or maybe embarrassingly— Dick had heard the fight and went after you to "explain things".

After that day, you had given up on arguing back, much to Damian's boredom. You would only mumble things under your breath or make disgusted faces at him.

Duke came along, and he was friendly, just like you had been with Damian in the beginning. Damian had stopped— somewhat— on annoying others, understanding how it could affect others.

He watched as you and Duke got closer. You acted like an older sibling to Duke despite only being a year older. Duke would crack jokes, and you would laugh; even silly banter would have you clutching at your stomach.

(Damian wanted to be able to do that with you, someone who was connected to him by blood rather than legal documents. But he never dared, embarrassed at what you might think at the sudden change of heart.)

So when he learns from Duke, albeit a bit later than he would've liked, that you had gone out of the manor to study, Damian feels a pit in his stomach.

Really, he shouldn't be feeling this— not after all that he's done to you— but it exists. Damian had been busier with school and hero work, too busy to notice your absence for a mere 5 months. He swears up and down that you were just there in the manor the other day. That was months ago.

Duke looks at Damian from his spot on the couch, patting at the space beside him, "You can send a message to them if you want? I'm sure they won't mind, hell, they'll probably be happy!"

So Damian, begrudingly, sits next to Duke with a phone in his hand.

Duke: Hello, this is Damian. I wanted to say congrats on your new educational pursuit. Father must be very proud.

Damian pauses typing, "I don't want you took at this message I'm going to type."

Duke shifts away to the other end of the couch, so he can't see the screen, "After you've written it, just press 'delete for me'."

Duke: I would like to apologize for my past actions. It was not fair about what I had done to you. It may not seem much, after all, you've been having to deal with my behaviours for the past few years. I'm truly sorry for the way I treated you.

Sent!

ppl who wanted to be tagged: @nmak1, @staarflowerr, @i-bite-whitepeople-for-fun, @hikary-jaeger, @ghostlyworld, @wizzerreblogs, @specklesreid, @ejs-world, @neverdead2, @flattykawa8, @kupids-arrow, @moonsunlights, @killderd1

You, (name) (last name) Wayne, were possibly the most average person on Earth. There was not a skill you were really good at, nor a skill you were terrible at. You were just… average.

Being born into a wealthy family is probably the only non-average thing about you. Your mother had died soon after your birth, seemingly unable to recover the strain of delivering you. But a dead parent is pretty average in Gotham.

You had started noticing it when your father — famous, playboy billionaire, Bruce Wayne— had started adopting.

You were too young to remember Dick, but you do recollect certain moments through your baby haze. He was good at gymnastics. As in real good. Even now, he's exceptional for his age. You remember the giddy feeling you'd get watching as Dick climbed places that shouldn't be possible to climb and fall from heights that should've gotten him hurt had he not known what to do.

Barbara Gordon was there too! Her dad was the Commissioner of GCPD. She was really good at detective work, like your father! You decided to try out puzzles. You were smart. Smarter for a 6-year-old. But clearly not smart enough like Barbara.

She had seen you once stuck on one of the puzzles after her shift as Batgirl, "Oh, are you stuck?" She asked.

You nodded. She squats down to your level and analyzes the story, the evidence, and the people. Barbara soon points at the picture of the old-looking man, "It's him."

Before you could ask how or why, she had gotten up and murmured a "Oh, it's getting late."

By the time Jason came around and Dick had moved, you were around 7. After begging Alfred enough (Bruce is far too busy to listen), he had enrolled you into a gymnastics class. You were doing great at the beginning— with Jason cheering you on from the sidelines when he wasn't busy— but as the classes progressed, you couldn't seem to keep up.

Listen, you could do a handstand, cartwheel, and backflip just fine. But anything higher than that skill level and Alfred feared for your neck. In the end, he withdrew you by the time you were 9.

You'd found another interest between the ages of 7 and 10. Trying to tinker with vehicles and weaponry in the Batcave. Jason had gotten you into it. Teen hands wrapped around somewhat chubby fingers, guiding slowly on how to carefully clean a gun or how to restart a car. The important stuff.

Jason had said you were a natural at it— in the beginning. Then slowly, everything Jason said felt like it was going through one ear and out the other. By the end, Jason would sigh and tell you to just stop for today and that he'll try to teach you another time.

That other time didn't end up coming. Joker killed Jason when he was 15. One day, you were saying goodnight to Jason, and the next day, his body was being lowered into his grave. Despite the tombstone and Jason's bruised, cut, horrifyingly dead-looking body, you couldn't believe it. He couldn't have just died. Surely not.

The days started to feel depressing, going by far too slowly for your liking. No one was there to play with you or listen to your yapping. Just you, Alfred, and a father who never seemed to have time for you.

Soon, Bruce was gone. Then he came back. Then he came back with another kid, Tim Drake. He was three years older than you.

Anger coursed through your veins first. How dare Bruce try to replace Jason? Slowly, you learned from Alfred about Tim's home, and ny remaining anger dispersed. How could parents neglect their own child like that?! You felt guilty for thinking such things about Tim.

Then you were ecstatic! A kid, a kid closer to your age, who you could surely play with! So begin trying to befriend him.

First, you tried the common approach. Straight up talking to him.

"Hi! I'm (name) Wayne! You're Tim Drake, right?" You raised a hand for a handshake.

Tim stares at your hand, eyeing it as though it were the bane of his existence. "Yeah… That's me… I already know who you are." He doesn't shake your hand.

Awkwardly, you drop the hand, "Oh yeah, haha… So—"

"Sorry, I have to do something." He cuts you off, looking uncomfortably around the batcave, "So… you should probably go…"

You're mood deflates, "Oh, alright! Sorry about that."

So after whatever that was, you tried the second approach. Learn what he likes!

You would try your best to sneak around in the Batcave, just to see what Tim was doing most of the time. Which seemed to be something called "hacking"? Or coding? You weren't sure, but Tim was very tech-savvy.

So begin you're months of learning code. The first month went by fast, where you learned to create websites with intricate commands. Then the second month came around, where you had been able to learn how to hack into security footage. 'Wow!' you had thought, 'I'm learning really fast!'

Then the 3rd month, where you didn't learn anything. Nothing was making sense to you. Halfway into the 4th month, you'd given up entirely on trying to understand. 'It's just gibberish!' You groaned into your pillow.

You had tried to bring up your somewhat achievements to Tim, even trying to ask him to help you. But he always shrugged it off with an uneasy tone, as if embarrassed to be around you. So you gave up on him, too. Unlike Tim, you'd say you were pretty average at being tech-savvy. Not Tim's level, of course, but your own little comfort zone.

Jason was back when you were 13. Back from the dead; angry, depressed, and violent. You were… surprised to say the least. Happy, of course, but slightly alarmed. There shouldn't be anything to make someone come back from the dead. That's just… unnatural…

When Jason had come into the manor, he'd practically ignored your presence. Instead, he went straight towards the Batcave, where Tim, Bruce, and Dick were.

You had tried to be a mediator between the four of them, trying to calm Jason down, but you were met with all four yelling at you to leave.

So you left, a heavy weight on your chest. With horror, you realized your hands were shaking, the way your breath stuttered, and the way everything in your line of sight was getting blurry. You practically ran to your room. And you stayed in your room for the rest of the day.

(Bless Alfred for his kind soul, bringing you food to your room rather than requiring you to eat in the dining room.)

Soon, you had two sisters in the collection. Sort of sisters, since that's what the others think. They're not really your sisters.

First was Stephanie "Steph" Brown. Her father was a villain, and she donned the name "Spoiler" to go against him.

She isn't adopted by Bruce, but she hangs around so often that she may as well be considered a part of the family. Like most of the family, she was agile and amazing at martial arts.

You tried out martial arts just to end up quitting 6 months in.

She was crafty, being able to create things through scraps.

You weren't as creative. Sure, a few unique ideas here and there, but otherwise you stuck to your mediocre art book with too many copies of art off Pinterest.

Then there was Cassandra Cain, daughter of David Cain and Lady Shiva. Also, practically an assassin. You're not sure where her legallity lies in the family, since you once overheard that she hasn't been officially adopted, but Bruce acts as if she has. You're not too sure…

But she's an outstanding ballerina. She put emotion on the stage, despite not being able to verbally explain those same emotions.

You tried out dancing too, specifically hip-hop. You quit that 3 months in because you accidentally eavesdropped on your instructor's conversation, where they whispered to each other about how you were a liability on the stage.

Turns out, if you were thrown into a dance circle, you'd do real well. But dance competitions are nowhere near your level.

Things stayed like that for a while. Everyone was busy doing their own thing that they were good at, and playing cosplay at night. You went to Gotham Academy, made lots of friends, had dinner in a empty hall as Alfred looked on with pity, did homework, try to scope out anybody who might be free to just talk with you before just ending up doom scrolling or playing videogames until you would hear the occupants of the house suddently busy, and end it with going to bed slightly dejected before waking up early in a happy mood— doing that all over again.

(To your credit, you were quite the happy kid. Sure, you barely saw Bruce, and Alfred soon became more of a grandpa to you rather than a butler, but you were happy nonetheless. Alfred would take you to the park, enroll you in extracurriculars, and take you on playdates that he would organize. So, you weren't being pushed aside.

You remember when Alfred had apologized for Bruce's neglect on his behalf, but you didn't see it as neglect. No, children who were neglected tended to be sadder —like Tim was— and you were happy. Therefore, no neglect was taking place!

And maybe Bruce was still mourning your mother? Despite it being a one-night stand — which you learned later on in life— that caused your creation, surely there was a part of Bruce that fell in love with your mother?)

Then Damian came a year after Jason. Your half-brother was only a few years younger than you. You weren't too sure how to feel about it. Because this meant that Bruce had sex with another woman, most likely just two or so years after your mother had died.

Grief has no cap; people mourn for different amounts of time— you know that. It just didn't make it feel easier watching as Bruce hugged the child who had tried to cut his hand off just a few minutes prior.

Something clicked in the family that day.

People who didn't seem to have time to talk to you all of a sudden had time to get to know Damian.

Tim wasn't awkward with Damian as he was with you when he had first come, seemingly the two of them bantered naturally as though they've known each other for years.

Dick would come from Bludhaven to take Damian places; zoos, restaurants,theme parkss, all the things.

Hell, even Bruce was trying to build a connection with the young boy. Something he never tried with you.

But… you guess you understood… Alfred— the same Alfred who told you about Tim & Cass' home life— told you about Damian's life. He was born and prepped to be the heir of the League of Assassins. Damian grew up learning to kill and avoid emotions.

So you also tried. Tried to build a relationship with the younger boy by learning his interests. You had overheard Bruce debating what art materials to get for Damian. 'So he likes art.' You hum to yourself.

When you showed him your art book, Damian tutted, "Those pages are filled with art that no one should have the misfortune of laying their eyes upon."

You stare at him. Your art is not good, not by miles, but it's not bad either. It's… decent… average. A thing you keep in case anyone ever asks what your interests are, which you don't have many of.

Seemingly liking your reaction, Damian adds, "I could probably draw it with my eyes closed. My mother brought a personal teacher for me to learn from, and I knowmy father will do the same."

You ended up storming out of that room, clutching your sketchbook in one hand until your knuckles turned white.

And that's how another few years pass. Damian would rile you up, claiming you as the inferior Wayne blood. You'd yelled back once: "At least father was present for my birth! That means I'm more important than you'll ever be!"

It wasn't even a good comeback; it was a weak one.

You got yelled at by Dick, later scolded by Bruce, and even later talked to by Alfred. Dick— true to his name— was a big dick about it.

"He's been through a lot, (name), more than you'll ever be through! He's younger than you; you're his senior. Start acting your age!" and Dick started babbling off about everything bad that had happened to Damian in his young life. Was it meant to guilt-trip you or something? Yeah. Did it work? Sorta, yeah.

Bruce's scolding was a bit awkward.

"I heard about the fight between you and Damian." He started, hands over his chest as he hovered at the entrance of your room.

"Oh." You mutter, trying to ignore him and focus on your video game.

He leans against the doorframe, as if thinking about what to say to you, "That… it wasn't very nice of what you said."

"Okay."

"So, I hope you apologize for what you said." Bruce stands there awkwardly waiting for your answer.

"… Okay."

He nods before leaving your room, with your door open. What a bitch.

You had gotten used to Alfred's little talks. You used to get those talks once a year or two, but they soon became monthly ever since Damian came. Alfred's talk was more effective in getting you to apologize to Damian.

And when you had, Damian had the most smug look on his face, a smug person can have. "So you finally know your worth? Good." and then in a whisper, "I truly didn't care about what you had said, but seeing that everyone seems to reprimand you for it, I think I chose the right act."

You were going to punch that kid into his next life.

As members of your family would pay attention to the littlest details about Damian— Jason less often, he's too busy being a crime lord — envy gripped your heart. Why were they treating him better than you? Damian had tried to kill all of them so many times, but he wasn't reprimanded once.

(name)! He's younger! (name)! He was trained as an assassin for all his life; you weren't! (name)! You may as well just devote your life to being a servant for Damian! It was as if every time your name was said, it was only to scorn you for your choices.

Graduation was a whole other ordeal. Decent SAT score (exactly 1500), 2 APs the entire 4 years of high school, average grade of A- throughout all classes, and a GPA of 3.9. Not bad enough to create a fool of yourself, as Wayne. Not overly good enough to get into an Ivy League. Average.

But senior year turns out to be the most expensive year. Senior pictures, prom, senior trip (you had so much fun with your friends at Disney— sure it's supposed to be for kids, but you were never taken there), the graduation ceremony itself, college applications, and fees for the one extracurricular you took out of obligation.

You'd awkwardly stand with the others as they did— whatever they usually do as a group— to ask for money. Any confidence you had prior evaporating under the sunshine and rainbows of the family. Near the edge of the group, you'd wait for the right chance to ask Bruce about money.

You would whisper to him your requested amount. Sometimes someone would overhear.

"Shouldn't you just choose your allowance?" Dick would ask.

"Look, Bruce, your kid's spoiled rotten." Jason would snip.

Tim would, luckily, just ignore you after giving you a 'do you lack money management?' look.

"Stop leeching off father." Damian would declare in an obnoxious tone.

Sure, you had an allowance, but it's used for what you want. Educational and necessities are upon the parents— or just the parent in your case.

Duke Thomas moved in as a foster kid mid-way through your senior year. Unlike the others, Duke wasn't awkward at his first meeting with you. No, he was happy— something not many people seem to be around you in this family, to be meeting you.

He liked puzzles, you learned. Duke told you about how he would try to figure out Riddler's riddles when he was younger and his parents were healthy.

"I'm not too good at puzzles or riddles." You chuckle.

Duke hums, "That's cool! It takes time since you have to know, like, so much stuff about literally anything."

He would guide you through them, re-telling you anything you were confused about rather than telling you to figure it out yourself. Not only that, but he was the one to share about his life rather than having to hear it through Alfred.

You think Duke is your favorite "sibling"— he has parents who are very much alive and has no desire to be adopted, so sibling is a loose term. Despite him being a year younger, you could go to him for things you couldn't go to the others for.

So when you got accepted to Boston University, he and Alfred were the first ones you told the news to.

"What are you majoring in?" Duke smiled after hugging you.

You hesitated, "Education…"

Alfred inquired: "Oh, so like a teacher, mx. (name)?"

You nodded, "Yeah!"

"A specific grade you think of teaching?"

You think for a moment, "No. Not really."

Alfred hums with a slight smile, eyes gleaming in pride. Duke sat down on your bed, near the desk and you, and started talking about needing to celebrate your effort. Making plans to go somewhere nice or out of state, maybe with the family.

"Not the family. Just me, you, and Alfred—if he wants to join." You glance at Alfred.

"Whatever, mx. (name) wants."

You three ended up going to Legoland in California— per your request. You had fun. Lots of fun, even. Duke and you were the main ones to go on the rides, Alfred opting to stay behind. It was a nice change of pace. Neither of you had ever been there.

Then came moving day. You had already decided to buy everything from the stores closest to your dorm or use Amazon. Anything you took would hold genuine value to you.

It was 2 boxes and 2 suitcases of clothes that you took with you. It was only you that ended up taking a road trip from Gotham to Boston, Alfred needing to take care of members of the house as they all had gotten the flu, and Duke being one of the people who got the flu.

A notification distracts you as you start to move your stuff out of the car.

Duke: did you reach?

You: Yep! When I get set up I'll show you how my dorm looks like ;)

Duke: alright! stay safe and have fun

You: Feeling better?

Duke: slightly, sorta, kind of

You: feel better faster!

"This is it." You tell yourself, "A new beginning!" Corny? Yes. Is it true? Also yes.