#brokenpinballmachine

precognition!reader who feels like the grim reaper: a walking visionary who can see people's deaths. After many repeated attempts, they just learn to shut up and walk past; what good does warning people do if none of it works?

Yet it all happened so quickly: a new vision. New people, people who they barely recognized. The Flying Graysons. A circus accident, flying in the air like Icarus flying too close to the sun. An orphan, the sole survivor of the family.

In the corner of precognition!reader's eye, they could spot Bruce Wayne—the billionaire of Gotham. Watching, waiting, as if considering something. They don't know what happened in them; the spark that suddenly jolted their hand in writing the letter. Maybe it was the pity they felt for the small child, but they asked—begged Bruce to adopt the poor boy. They didn't mention his name specifically, keeping it as broad as possible.

When Bruce first received the letter, he categorized it as fan mail, brow raised as his eyes skimmed through precognition!reader's pleas. Another delusional fan letter he threw away, nothing new.

Yet when the events that precognition!reader predicted played out right before his eyes, his heart stopped beating for just a moment. A sudden harsh wind of déjà vu hitting him as he remembers precognition!reader's warning.

So, he did as he was told and adopted the boy.

Does he regret it? No. But he waits, waits for another letter—perhaps explaining the sudden urgency and why precognition!reader wrote to him, or perhaps, who this mysterious letter was from. In his mind, he doubted it; maybe it was just a coincidence? Yet the events they predicted seemed to line up too well, even if a little vague.

precognition!reader who gets visions before Batman and Robin patrol, knowing how the whole fight sequence would play out before the two even started moving.

precognition!reader who knows that Bruce Wayne is Batman, and the child they convinced Bruce to adopt, Dick Grayson, is Robin. They watch Dick Grayson grow up, under the new alias Nightwing, and they watch as he starts to inch away from Bruce, growing distant.

precognition!reader who gets another vision: a boy stealing a car tire from the Batmobile. Another poor boy who was doing all he can just to get by.

precognition!reader who decides to write another letter: "Adopt him."

Two words. Two words were all it took for Bruce to start getting suspicious: just who are they? Why were they sending him these letters? The paranoia creeps into his mind.

He needs to investigate.

As he's about to get into the Batmobile, he sees him: Jason Todd.

And once more, he does as he's told. He doesn't know why. How did they know? Why were they doing this?

precognition!reader hearing articles about Bruce's new kid. A new Robin with Batman—they weren't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

precognition!reader who gets a terrifying vision: there lies Robin bleeding as the Joker holds a crowbar in his hand, torturing the poor boy. Precognition!reader heart quickens as they watch Bruce cradle Jason, dead in his arms, blood running across his whole body.

precognition!reader who knows they're unable to prevent it, but can hopefully lessen the pain Bruce would go through.

As Bruce checks the new letter, five letters haunt him to his very core:

"It's not your fault, Bruce."

And as he cradles a dying Jason Todd in his hands, his mind repeats those very same words like a broken record player: It's not your fault, Bruce. It's not your fault, Bruce. It's not your fault, Bruce. It's not your fault, Bruce.

He spirals into madness reading the letter over and over again, spending his time analyzing every single detail. The handwriting, the parchment of paper used, the pen that was used.

precognition!reader who was smart enough to use gloves, unable to be tracked for now.

Bruce searched the return address. A random location for every single letter, no correlation whatsoever.

When Bruce first found Tim, he initially thought he was the one who wrote the letters, based on the way he accurately predicted Bruce's alter ego.

Though, he soon found out his intuition was wrong when he received the next letter:

"He's not me."

He felt as if he was going mad. He didn't show it, but he was frustrated.

precognition!reader who weaseled through Bruce's fingers like falling sand for so many years—who seemed to have omniscient knowledge based on the letters he was being sent.

Working with his new Robin, he tried to figure out the identity of the mysterious writer.

precognition!reader who stops writing to Bruce.

Bruce starts to gets paranoid. Tim is also intrigued by precognition!reader, and Dick has heard tidbits of them from the small amount of times he would visit.

Even when Jason gets resurrected, precognition!reader refrains from sending a letter, deciding to shake the family off their tail.

For a while, precognition!reader stayed low, up until Bruce and the rest of the family forgot about their existence. They focused on themselves despite the many visions they seemed to get every day—for some reason, it was all centered around Bruce again.

precognition!reader who gets a vision of a random child. Black hair, what seemed to be Arabic roots. They had no idea who this random child was. He didn't seem to be in any innate danger, only training intensively for something they weren't able to make out, so they ignored the vision, thinking nothing of it.

precognition!reader who soon places the puzzle pieces together. The child they were watching was the child of Bruce Wayne.

precognition!reader who decides to write one final letter—their fatal mistake:

"Take care of him."

And just like Bruce expected, he adopted a new son, Damian Wayne. Yet, unlike all the other adoptions, this one was different: he was now dead set on finding who precognition!reader was, the rest of the family involved.

They each scouted their own little sections, Damian scouting with Bruce. They all wanted to meet precognition!reader—the mysterious letter writer who predicted their whole lives before it even happened. They all felt some sort of connection with them despite barely even knowing them.

precognition!reader who goes MIA, much to the dismay of Bruce, and it seemed permanent this time.

Tim who analyzes precognition!reader's final letter very carefully. He analyzed the letters; it was written with a fountain pen. He traced the handwriting carefully with his index finger before scrolling through a database of people in Gotham with similar handwritings.

The way precognition!reader would write a specific letter, or how the words slightly tilted down as they wrote without the red guideline commonly on red notebook sheets. He spent countless nights comparing, reading, testing.

precognition!reader who receives a chilling new vision:

precognition!reader, tied up in the Wayne Manor's kitchen, with Bruce affectionately petting their head, whispering "Welcome home."

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

The test results came in—you truly WERE his child, even if you hadn't looked like it. A result of another one-night stand from his civilian life.

Yet his suspicions were confirmed true: you weren't a normal baby.

Maybe it was the fact you were able to inhale food in mere seconds despite being so small, or how you were able to walk on the walls of the manor—no, wait, yeah, that was definitely the reason why.

It was an accident on your part, really; Dick was chasing you around, pretending to be a 'monster,' and you were giggling and running away as fast as your toddler legs could carry you.

You weren't looking where you were going, and before you knew it, you had suddenly turned sideways, walking up on the walls near a painting of the family.

And Dick watched—mouth agape, eyes wide open—as he saw you run, and run, and run, until you were hanging upside down on the roof, as if the laws of gravity didn't apply to you (because they didn't).

Hanging like a bat—child of Batman? He would've laughed if you weren't in danger right now.

"Hey, little bat!" He made the nickname up on the spot. "Let's get you down from there, yeah?" he called out, trying to convince you to somehow get down the way you'd gotten up.

You only babbled nonsense. Dick could make out a few words over your thick baby accent.

When Alfred and Bruce ran in after hearing the frantic shouts of the oldest Wayne, Bruce's heart nearly leaped out of his chest, yet his face remained neutral.

Alfred put a hand to his mouth, watching you sit upside down on the roof, clapping your hands at the sight of the worried adults below you.

It reminded Bruce of Dick when he was younger, hanging on chandeliers without a care in the world. Yet, Dick swung on chandeliers—you were swinging on nothing.

After a few minutes, you somehow fell, Bruce directly below you and catching you in his arms. Dick and Alfred rushed toward you, making sure you hadn't gotten hurt.

Jesus, you were going to give all of them a few extra gray hairs.

And it didn't just end there.

When you were growing up, the family couldn't ignore every little odd thing about you.

You were talking with Tim, the older boy ranting about something.

"Yeah—It was strange. I thought he was copying me, but we just turned out to have the same string of thought—"

"I guess that's why the spider wanted to use the world wide web!"

The joke was utter nonsense, and Tim deadpanned at your words, but somehow he could hear a laugh track in the background play randomly.

"You heard that too, right?" he asked.

"Heard what?"

"The laughing!" He blurted out, a little paranoid. Was he just going insane?

"What laughing? Technically, we can't hear anything because we're just a bunch of text right now," you responded nonchalantly.

"What??" His face contorted into one of confusion.

Tim saw you swivel your head in a random direction—but what he didn't know was that you were turning your head directly at the readers, or should I say, YOU.

"Yeah, I know who you are," you whispered, no speck of emotion on your face. "All of you."

Tim watched in concern. Yeah, if anything, he thought you'd be the first to go insane rather than him.

Damian was weirded out by you at first. His nicknames for you consisted of:

"Freak of nature"

"Witch" (regardless of gender)

"Chaotic imbecile"

He still has a vivid memory of the time you forced him to paint a door on one of the manor's walls (much to Alfred's dismay), and he watched as you suddenly opened the door and walked through the emptiness as if it were a regular Tuesday.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he tried to do the same but bumped his head on the wall instead, grumbling out a string of curses.

Jason wasn't too concerned with you. If anything, he'd make jokes that Bruce was the reason why you turned out this way—that if anyone stayed with him for too long, they'd go insane.

Yet you were his sibling, so obviously, you had to tease him too.

You had a gun in your hand, a sleek, shiny metal gun—the one Red Hood uses.

The latter was chasing you around the mansion before you accidentally shot something, or worse, someone. You would run up the walls again, but Bruce banned you from doing so.

"Kid, give that back!" You heard Jason yell from behind you.

You stopped at a specific part of the manor—soon to be your favorite part of the manor—a hallway with many rooms located inside. You barely had any idea what were in half of them, but with Jason hot on your tail, you made quick work of what you had.

He watched you enter a room, then come out of another room and enter another, coming out of another room and entering another, over and over, Jason's eyes darting all over the place until you stopped coming out.

Jason stood there, confused, bewildered, as he tried to process what he just saw.

He walked up to the door he last saw you enter and swung it open, finding you laughing hysterically on the ground with his gun nearby.

Grabbing you by the collar of your shirt, he started to scold you but stopped when you shrugged at him innocently and another laugh track played in the background.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

After a while, the family FINALLY allowed you to go on patrols.

Yet what they weren't expecting was for you to grab the words that were flowing out of the villain's mouth and start attacking them with it.

You did that often, and as shocking as it may seem for outside eyes, they weren't that shocked.

Joker especially liked you, watching you grab the "H" and the "A's" from his maniacal laughter and start throwing them in his face.

So that's why he decided to use you as bait.

Tied to a chair in wherever Joker had decided to place you, you whistled out a tune as if this were the most normal situation to be found in.

Obviously, after a while, you got bored, and you were easily able to get out of the rope he tied you in and just sort of... stand there.

Damian sneaked in through the small window of the cellar you were in, eyebrows furrowing when he saw you just standing, not even making an attempt to get out.

"What are you doing?" he asked, snappy and short.

Turning your head to face him, you smiled. "Oh hey! I was just waiting for you to come and save me."

He let out a small "TT" under his breath. "It looks as if you've already situated yourself out of this mess."

The window slammed shut, a timer ticking down in the corner of the room with a bomb in it.

The only two exits were the metal door in front of the room and the window behind them that Damian tried to break, but wasn't able to.

You laughed and gave him a small pat on his back with his little attempt, making him cross his arms and click his teeth.

"Alright, let me see..." you mumbled under your breath, digging deep in the pockets of your vigilante outfit as you started pulling stuff out of it.

Damian could feel his eyes bulging out of his head as he watched you take out the most random assortment of items.

A rubber duck, a pencil, your math homework from when you were in 4th grade, a lit firecracker, and then a bomb.

"Genius, you fool, we're going to escape with a bomb—the very thing that's about to blow us up if we don't escape," he huffed.

"Just watch, Damian," you smiled as the bomb went off in your hand, seemingly doing nothing as the door stayed there.

Your half-brother squinted. "Was that supposed to do somethi—"

And before he knew it, the metal door shattered like pieces of glass, allowing an easy escape.

As much as Damian didn't want to admit it, he sort of looked up to his sibling. The connection between them wasn't only by blood, it seemed, but by the way they were also able to easily get out of any situation.

Your powers were still an enigma to him, of course, but at least you got the job done. He begrudgingly respected you.

Or maybe he spoke too soon, as when the two of you reunited with Dick, you slipped and fell off the roof you were on, somehow floating and pulling out a sign in your pocket with the words "UH OH" written on it before falling.

"Little Bat!" Dick called out in concern.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

In the quiet manor, there you sat, with an icepack on the side of your head that seemed to grow a comically large red bump.

Bruce only shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Jason watched in amusement with slight worry hidden underneath, his arms crossed as he leaned against one of the walls in the room.

Dick sat near you, scolding you to be more careful. Damian was on your other side, not saying anything, yet you could tell that he felt the same way.

Tim hovered over you, watching Alfred bandage some bruises on your arm.

"So you somehow slipped off the roof of a tall building and somehow survived?" he asks, analyzing your body for any more injuries.

You nod, a fat tear blob falling out of your eye comically as you recall the memory.

Dick squishes your cheek, pulling it with his fingers. "I heard everything from Damian! Don't you ever pull out a bomb from your pockets ever again!"

"They did what?" Jason becomes chalant for a split second.

Bruce turns to look at you. "You had a bomb in your pocket?" He raises a brow.

Damian adds more fire to the flame: "It was lit too, Father."

"Alright, no more of that. What else do you have in your pockets?" He goes toward you and lifts you by the inside of your arms as if you were a cat.

Alfred sweat drops at the excess amount of items that you were able to take out from your clothes, some of which should be impossible to do so.

"Hey! That's my scientific graphing calculator! I was looking for that!" Tim grumbles as he snatches the calculator from the floor.

Bruce warily eyes the Superman merch on the floor but says nothing about it.

Jason picks up a kitchen knife. "Did you not feel this poking around?" he questions.

You shake your head.

Tim tries to take a look inside your pocket, but he finds nothing inside. He felt as if his mind was about to explode. How could you have possibly taken out all of this stuff if there was nothing in your pocket? Wait—you were still taking stuff out! There's nothing in your damn pocket!!!

Damian eyes all the dangerous items that you've been carrying around. You could've died from your own carelessness, and he wasn't letting you die anytime soon.

"Why do you have this in your pocket?" Bruce asks, puzzled, as he carefully picks up a piece of kryptonite. "And where did you even get it?"

You shrug, a laugh track playing in the background.

The rest of the family deadpans. Alfred can feel more wrinkles growing on him.

"I think I'm gonna need a vacation after this," Dick jokes. "Maybe fly to Italy."

"Italy, you say?" A wide smile spreads across your face as you reach deep in your pocket. "So you'll need a plane!"

whimsical!reader who listens to jazz while reading in the manor's library, often getting lost in a random book their finger grazed from the shelves. They don't even notice Jason walking inside despite his broad figure quite literally in front of them. Jason could only give them a small chuckle and shake his head from how cute they looked.

whimsical!reader who doesn't care about femininity or masculinity. If they find something cute, then they like it!

whimsical!reader who puts ribbon bows on everything. The bottom of their pants have small bows tied to them, drawing small little bows on whatever paper they're writing on, their room doorknob has a little bow strung up on it—hell, they even smacked Dick's forehead with a bow when they got mad at him.

whimsical!reader who daydreams often, not knowing how attractive they look while doing so. Out at a café with Tim? He's glaring at everyone who's constantly staring at them as whimsical!reader falls into the imagination of their own little mind.

The brothers listening to whimsical!reader rant about their dream partner, knowing damn well they would let hell run the earth over before letting someone touch them—but they don't need to know that. The brothers just smile and nod, teasing them, having completely different thoughts in their minds.

whimsical!reader using Bruce's credit card to constantly buy plushies from Amazon. Their whole room is practically filled with stuffed animals and merchandise of different fandoms, so much so that Alfred sweats whenever he has to clean their room.

whimsical!reader who loves attending the galas with Bruce, loving to dress up. A large circle of people always surrounds them at the parties, people knowing the Wayne child was still single. Bruce shoots down every attempt before anyone can get too far.

The Wayne family constantly watching whimsical!reader without them knowing, making sure they're out of harm's way at all times.

A woman seemed way too flirty in an overly revealing dress? Dick just had a 'small little talk' with her—she never dared to look their way again.

A man placed a hand on their shoulder for a second too long? Jason's probably broken the fingers on the hand that touched them.

Their friend that seemed way too touchy with them during lunch? Tim had spread an embarrassing rumor that ruined the friend's reputation, digging it into the ground to the point of no return.

Someone tries to pick a fight with them? Damian's got that. Already cursing out their oppressor as whimsical!reader tries to calm him down.

And if whimsical!reader were to ever get a partner?

Bruce wouldn't say much, but his disapproval would be obvious. The rest of the family would mock whimsical!reader's partner, magnifying their red flags and making whimsical!reader's partner seem more worrisome than they truly were.

Dick would make 'lighthearted' jabs. Lighthearted in single quotes because most of his 'jokes' were just backhanded compliments directed at whimsical!reader's partner.

Jason would constantly give intimidating stares to whimsical!reader's partner, picking apart every weakness they had. He would walk up to their partner and start interrogating them, watching their every movement like a hawk.

Tim constantly has tabs on whimsical!reader's partner, keeping a separate file on everything about them, from their hair and weight, all the way to what type of drink they prefer. He'd use the information to try and convince whimsical!reader that it wasn't meant to be.

If whimsical!reader's partner had a crime or even something as small as jaywalking on their record? Tim is trying to convince them that their partner is a 'bad influence.'

Damian was especially the worst, straight out calling whimsical!reader's partner with the most sophisticated, intelligent, and creative insults.

You still remember.

Every night you still remember.

You cradle his body—the body that used to cradle yours. The warmth in his chest slowly disappearing, leaking out with the blood on your hands—his blood.

The blood of the man you once knew as your father, now dead in an over-glorified costume, and you didn't even have the chance to say goodbye.

You didn't even have the chance to tell him "I love you" one last time.

Because even if the words flowing out of your tear-stained face were quick, the bullet will always be quicker.

You hold onto him like a lifeline; if he died, something inside of you would die too, and you wouldn't know where to go from there.

"Please, Bruc—dad," you sob out, your arms wiping away the snot that seemed to trickle out ever so slightly. "Please, please—I—"

The words in your throat seemed to stop, and the only thing you could sob out were violent screams. Violent screams that it should've been you instead of Bruce. Why did he have to jump in front of you?

Because he was a hero.

And you were just a kid.

You were just a kid when the Joker killed your father. People know him as 'Brucie', Bruce Wayne, Batman, but you'll remember him as the one who died for you.

You were just a kid when you pushed the mantle of Batman onto yourself, despite Alfred's protests, convincing yourself it was what your father would've wanted. Someone needed to protect Gotham after he had passed.

You were just a kid when you had to raise another kid, Dick Grayson, your brother. A starry-eyed kid who had a bright future laid out for him—you didn't want to reveal the truth, but you had to, one day or another.

You told him: "He's dead," and he wrangled in Alfred's grasp, yelling that he wouldn't believe it until he saw Bruce's dead body with his own eyes. Yet you couldn't visit his grave because, in truth, you didn't believe it either.

You were just a kid when the Wayne Enterprises were in your hands. Homeschool with Alfred in the day, business in the afternoon, Batman at night. You constantly checked the mirror, plucking out the gray hairs that seemed to reappear like a bad memory.

You were just a kid when, in fury, unable to come to terms, you killed the Joker. Gun in hand, shaky fingers pulling the trigger, a large BOOM rang throughout the room, and before you knew it—you went against everything your father had taught you.

You couldn't look at Dick that night. Nor could you look at Alfred. The blood on your hands doubled, and you felt like a monster.

You barely went out anymore, letting Alfred and Dick comfort you by your sides—but you felt selfish. You grieved the Joker because you killed him, but another grieved because they were the love of their life.

Harley Quinn, oh, poor Harley. You felt as if you were just as bad as the Joker, killing away someone that another person had loved so dearly. Rage filled every bone in your body, and your vision was clouded with anger, and soon, regret.

Harley Quinn—now under the alias 'Jess Terr'—donned a suit homage to the Joker, the same shades of purple and green haunting you on the streets as well as in your mind.

And Dick, who clings to your side as Robin, too afraid to let you go—that if you disappeared from his line of sight, you would die as well. Alfred and you were the only two people he had left in the world.

The media knew something had happened—a freak accident. Bruce Wayne had died in a car crash, Batman retired, a new Bat hero taking the scene of the stage.

Yet the media shifted its attention on a new klutz: Y/n Wayne, the new star of the show. Like a hand-me-down replica found in the thrift store.

You attempted to imitate Bruce's persona, a kooky, lovable person who had too much money to spend. You did everything he did—charities, balls, parties. You wore his smile like second skin. It was as if he never truly disappeared.

But you knew better.

The news articles would pile up with your name, large, bolded, and in the headlines. A new scandal you'd wrapped yourself around, a new penthouse you bought, a new organization you made a partnership with.

You started to wonder if all of this was really worth it—if this whole cycle you lived out every day was worth it.

"Master Y/n, might I suggest you take a break from your vigilante life today?" Alfred asked behind you.

You didn't respond at first, focusing on the little sounds that seemed to enter your ear. The clink of Dick's plates in front of you, the small breaths from your nose, the way your heartbeat pumped faster in your chest.

And then: "I'm sorry, Alfred, but as long as Gotham is awake, I am needed."

A tired sigh escaped the butler's lips, an answer he expected from you. Of course, he did; you were just like your father—stubborn, relentless, yet noble. The very cause of his death.

Your brother whispered from behind you, tugging on your sleeves. "You promise to come back home tonight?" he asked, his eyes glossy.

Biting your lip, you nod. You were scared. Not because you had a reputation to uphold, not because of the new life you were living, not because you were afraid of being exposed—you were scared that you would leave Dick waiting, home alone. Just like he did.

You would die on the streets and you would break a fragile promise that seemed to connect the two of you together every night. Just like he did.

He let go of you and watched your fading figure leave.

He wanted to go with you tonight, yet Alfred prevented him from going. "You need a good night's sleep," he would tell him. "Young children aren't supposed to be awake at this time of day."

So he watched, watched from the window. He woke up early in the mornings to watch you return, to hug you, to make sure you were still living, breathing.

Yet you woke up every day and felt like a failure, no matter how many times Alfred told you otherwise. You cried in your own arms as you felt how rough your skin was—a testament to your new life.

You felt the scars you seemed to gain every night after a careless decision from a battle; Bruce wouldn't have done that. Bruce would've been more careful.

The scars on your body showed how much of a novice you still were, and it pained you that you still weren't good enough.

In your dreams, Bruce would hold you tightly (similar to how you held him on that night). Alfred would watch. Dick would jump into his arms too, and he would always catch him. The four of you took a picture, Dick would draw a doodle of it, soon to be hung up on the fridge with a magnet.

And you wake up, panting. Your heartbeat thudding in your chest as sweat trickles down the side of your forehead, looking around the dark room with widened eyes and bated breath. 'He's not here,' you remind yourself; you never knew if you were talking about Bruce or the Joker.

You still felt like a kid as you watched Dick, the previous bond between the two of you growing distant.

He was making a name for himself. He wasn't just 'a Robin' anymore, not a sidekick, but a human. A human being with emotions of love and joy, of passion—the very same emotions that bled out of you so many years ago when you gave up your name and took on Bruce's.

You still felt like a kid when you visited his grave. Your father's. Holding a bouquet of forget-me-nots and lilies of the valley, you placed them down near the other flowers and gifts people had left him.

You still felt like a kid when you dressed up in your batsuit, kicking Jess in the face as another one of her attempts to kill you failed. You were nothing but a faded picture of your dad.

Why are you so incompetent?

Why are you still trying so hard to cling onto something long past?

A picture—a still picture of you and Bruce, a tooth missing from your mouth, lies still on your nightstand. The edges of the golden picture frame were faded from your tender caresses.

He held you with his charming smirk on his face.

What would he say now?

What would he say, watching you kick the face of Jess, whose anger against you was understood? Watching as a bruise forms on her ghastly pale face.

You weren't sure anymore if it was her makeup or her lack of self-care.

Her green hair was messily dyed, her clown makeup was wobbly, as if she had rushed to put it on. She had permanent mascara marks flowing down her cheeks.

She was just like you—yet the stains of your tears never stayed.

You had to be strong. Set an example for Gotham, be the hope that never dwindles under the decaying sky of the crime-riddled city.

"Please, Jess," you try to plead with her.

She scoffs, swinging her mallet towards you. "Please, Jess, my ass!" She yells out in pain, on the verge of tears.

It was a game of cat and mouse every night. Jess would make some plan to kill you, you would save yourself in the nick of time. Every night, you tried to reason with her, but it would all turn out futile in the end.

A wide smile was plastered on her face, the grin unnaturally wide. "If I can't kill you, I'll just kill everyone here!"

You stare at her, jaw clenching. Robin, who you had called for the mission, stands behind you in a fighting stance.

"Guess what? After every night of playing our little game, I hid tons and tons of nuclear bombs underneath Gotham. Ain't that fun?" She spoke through her tears, still grinning. "If you don't defuse it, it'll kill everyone here! Maybe the whole world if I'm lucky enough!" She laughs maniacally as a timer starts to count down, disappearing into the shadows before you could track her down.

The two of you locate the bomb immediately—you scoff at how you hadn't noticed sooner.

Robin looks at you. "How are we going to defuse the bomb? There are so many wires!" He holds pliers in his hand.

As you take them from him, you notice the sweat on his fingers. He was looking at you for reassurance, but you weren't sure if you would be able to give him any.

You give Robin a task: try to find a wire that looked different from the rest. You knew it was impossible—like finding a needle in a haystack, yet you didn't want to let him down. You needed to seem like you had a plan.

You rack your head for any memories—any clues and hints Jess might've dropped, anything that could hint at how to defuse the bomb.

Half-minute mark, your hands are shaking, your legs are trembling. You're scared. You want your dad back.

You search, search like a madman. You analyze each wire, which ones have metal coatings, which ones are different colors—you can't do it anymore. You're hyperventilating. You were never cut out for this job, goddammit, pull yourself together, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe—

You watch Dick, tears in his eyes as he calls out to you again.

You place the pliers over a random wire before pulling back. You had one attempt, one life. You miss Bruce.

You cut a random one, the bomb doesn't go off but the timer's still counting down. Dick looks at you with wide eyes; he's scared.

You start cutting every wire, yet nothing happens. Dick tugs on your cape, tears in his eyes as he sobs in your chest; the words coming out of his mouth were frantic, panicked.

A voice rings through the room, coming from the timer: "Just kiddin', Bats! None of these wires are real; the bomb goes off regardless of which wire you cut!"

You kiss Dick on his forehead, knowing it would be your last.

Then it all just stopped.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

When you woke up, you saw a bright flash of light—and then the sun, directly above you.

Grass swayed beneath you, left and right, a flower field. It tickled your arm. Shades of green danced mockingly.

As you lifted yourself up, the smell of dew and honey entered your nostrils, reminding you of your peaceful life before everything happened—when Alfred would watch you smell the flowers in the backyard with a younger Dick whose hand you held tightly.

You seemed to be in an open field of a cemetery, based on the tombs and crosses scattered everywhere.

Exiting, you found yourself in a familiar place: Gotham.

Yet it looked different. The run-down, abandoned coffee shop you would always pass by on patrol now looked active, a sign with the words "OPEN" on it shining brightly in neon. Graffiti on the walls you once passed by seemed to be clean, as if it were never there in the first place. Like a new word, an alternate universe.

Tall buildings and busy streets seemed to be lively. Weird.

You hopped from rooftop to rooftop, hugging yourself tightly against the wind that blew your cape. Too cold.

So you sat. You sat and watched the sun go down in a world you had thought just ended, shoulders slumped.

Were you dead? Were you just a ghost? Millions of questions flooded your mind. You couldn't recognize anything anymore—you still knew it was Gotham, but it just wasn't your Gotham.

As if the world had rewritten itself.

And then you saw it—or more like, saw them: The Bat and Robin.

Except, it wasn't you. You could tell, it wasn't you in the suit. Or perhaps the years of being a Bat hero had hardened you to your full extent? You're not sure.

Robin didn't look like Dick Grayson either. A different outfit. A different frame.

Funny, you thought. They looked like Bruce.

Their poise, their attitude, even the way their cape flowed in the wind. You analyzed their every movement, and they seemed to have noticed, from the way both of them turned to look at you.

It couldn't be Bruce, right? Bruce is dead. Bruce is not going to come back. Bruce is—

You didn’t notice them stopping in front of you, the younger Robin scoffing and crossing his arms at your outfit.

"Who are you?" The Bat asked, and God, you recognized it. His tone of voice. It was Bruce. A little raspier than you remembered, but you still remembered it. And the words spilled out of your mouth before you could stop them:

"Bruce?" you asked, your lip quivering slightly.

Batman didn't say anything, calculating; Robin raised a brow.

You probably looked pathetic, eyes wide, knees shaking—you ran toward him.

Bruce was alarmed seeing your figure get closer and closer, but before he could react, you hugged him. An embrace he seemed to feel awkward in.

You sobbed into his clothing, barely able to make out what you were saying yourself. You felt like a jumbled mess of emotions. You didn't even know if this was Bruce, but with every last drop of your body, you were hoping it was.

"Please—I miss you," you broke down, crying in his chest. Bruce tensed under your hug, still unsure of what intentions you had. Yet, even so, he patted your back softly.

The Robin next to you spoke up, asking the same question Bruce had asked a while ago: "Who are you?"

You took off the bat-mask.

"Bruce! Bru—Dad, it's me, see?" You managed to get out through your tears.

Bruce's face hardened.

And in his tight embrace, you could feel his heartbeat quicken a little.

Because he knew it was impossible. Your face, all grown up, yet still resembling your charm.

Bruce knew it was impossible because in this world, he never took the bullet for you. In this world, he cradled you in his arms as he watched you die.

He was the one who was too slow.

Though, even after all of these years, Bruce would never get used to your powers: the ability of intangibility.

"Y/N!" Bruce called from below, a decision he would soon come to regret.

He looked up from the newspaper after hearing something from above; there you were, half of your body phased through the roof connecting the first and second floors, hanging like a bat as you grinned wildly at him.

Bruce's eyes widened for just a split second, but you were still able to catch the tiny little shift in movement.

"Yeah, what's up?" You felt your hair being pushed down with the weight of gravity against you.

Bruce looked into your eyes, stared at the smug smirk on your face before taking a deep breath. "Never mind, I'll just call Alfred," he sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Whatever you say, Bruce!" You smiled, slowly phasing upwards until your body was out of his sight.

And it didn't just stop at your father. You could say that you might be a little mischievous and loved giving your brother heart attacks.

Tim was in his room, working on a problem for his math class. Placing his pen near his mouth, he squinted as he looked at the problem in his textbook.

"So the limit for f(x) should be... 0 as x approaches 3, right?" he mumbled out, not talking to anyone specifically. "Or wait, I forgot to factor..."

He placed his pen down somewhere, deciding to stretch his legs and go down to get a drink—he felt exhausted after staying up for a while. He always told himself to fix his sleep schedule, but he'd been too busy to think about anything else.

Holding a cup of tea, he returned to his room, searching around for his pen.

He could've sworn he had put it—

"Were you looking for this?"

You popped your head out of a wall, directly in front of him as you held his pen.

"JESUS CHRIST!" He yelled out, scrambling back and holding his hand upon his heart. "Ugh, I really need to stop falling for that." Taking deep breaths, Tim tried to calm his heart.

You only let out a small giggle, placing the pen on his nightstand. "Having fun, Tim?"

Tim grumbled under his breath, "Better now that I know that the ghost in my room turned out to be my sibling."

"Yeah, yeah, don't miss me too much, okay?"

Tim rolled his eyes, a small smirk forming on his face.

You especially loved to mess with Dick if he had ever visited. His reactions were the most gold-worthy, especially since he basically wore his heart on his sleeve.

Seeing the black-haired male sit in the living room, scrolling through his phone mindlessly, you got an idea.

While he was distracted, you phased through the wall, grabbing an expensive vase and moving it to a different location.

You continued to scramble the object all throughout the room until he noticed.

With a second glance, Dick looked around the room, an eyebrow raised as he took in the new scenery.

Much to your dismay, he didn't comment on it, rather deciding it was just a fault of memory; however, you could still see the skepticism on his face as he started to glance around every once in a while to see if he could catch the culprit.

And he did.

"Aha!" He yelled out, pointing in your direction as he watched your arm grab one of the small decorations. "I knew it was you!"

Caught, you put both of your hands up as you smiled in his direction, slowly phasing out of the wall you were in. "I was waiting for you to notice!"

He ruffled your hair affectionately before flicking your forehead, making a small groan escape from your lips. "Now re-arrange all the stuff you moved before Alfred kills us all."

Jason, on the other hand, barely had any reaction to your attempts at scaring him.

You remember your first attempt—in the kitchen. He was pouring himself a glass of milk as you phased through the kitchen walls, yelling a small 'boo!'

No reaction. Not even a single muscle tensing, nor a wrinkle moving on his face.

"Kid, I've been through hell and back. You're gonna need to try harder than that," he quipped with a grin, chugging the glass in his hands before leaving the room.

You recall your second attempt—involving Damian.

Bad move. Damian was never scared of you, not because he has experienced as much trauma as Jason, but because he could predict and hear your every move.

Jason was conversing with Damian in one of the hallways before the youngest Wayne completely stopped talking, blinking a few times and opening his mouth once more.

"Alright, you ghastly moron, you can come out now," he deadpanned, facing the wall you were hiding behind.

With a pout, you slowly phased out, a little irked that your hiding spot was called out so easily by your brother.

"Seriously, Y/N? That was the best you could come up with?" He crossed his arms.

"Yeah, whatever you say, you brat. I haven't seen a successful attempt of you sneaking up on our brothers," you jabbed lightly.

"That's because I don't sneak up on them. I don't waste my time with such trivial activities."

Jason could only smirk lightly, watching the banter between his two younger siblings before shaking his head.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

"Hey Battie, got any intel?" You speak through the comms located in your ears, connecting the rest of the family to you.

Though, you stopped listening when you noticed Tim being dragged by one of the villain's henchmen, passed out with rope tied around his body.

You swiftly follow the two, straying not too far behind as his body is led into a warehouse.

Watching, waiting, searching for the perfect time to strike.

The minion's face falls flat as he notices your limbs slightly phasing out of the walls.

He yells at you. "Come out and fight me!" He unsheathes his dagger.

You hide behind a mirror.

"What, ya' think I'm dumb? Ya' think I don't know that batfreak's little sidekick can go through walls?" He smirks, staggering his way towards your direction.

He looks in the mirror.

"It's useless, so why don't you just give up no—"

CRACK!

Blood trickles down his nose, eyes widened as he sees a fist meet his face, a sickening crack echoing loudly through the building.

SLAM!

Before he had any time to react, the same pair of hands grab him by his collar, smashing his face into the mirror as small shards get embedded in his skin.

A kick to his stomach sends him flying to the other side of the room, landing with a harsh 'thump' over his shaking body.

Trembling, he sees a new figure walk into view—you.

Based on the files, you were just a mere sidekick to Batman. A useless one-trick pony whose only ability is to be able to go through walls.

Yet as he looks at your looming figure, he sees something else, a rage inside of you—and you didn't seem so useless now.

He tries to swing a punch. You dodge, side-sweeping him as he lands on his back. Quickly recovering, he kicks your side, sending you towards a wall, and you cough due to the dust from your fight.

Damn, that was definitely going to form a bruise.

He chokes you, lifting you up against a wall, his jaws clenching. You grab onto his arms.

"Let's have a chat, yeah?" A saccharine smile encases your face, the two of you phasing through the wall.

A yelp escapes the henchman's lips as you were the one in control now; oh how the tables have turned. You watch his expression contort from anger to confusion as you grab onto him, pushing him through a stone wall in the sewers, half of his body clipped into it.

"Alright dickhead, how about this: you turn yourself in, or I'll turn you in myself with your brain full of stone,"

He snarls, thrashing in your grasp before giving up. "FINE! Fine! You win! Let me outta' here!" He gasps, clawing at your hands that were choking him through the stone.

With a small smirk on your face, you leave him in the dark, desolate sewers and return to your brother.

Carefully untying each knot, you pull away the ropes that held his body tight, making sure not to accidentally give him rope burn while doing so.

Yeah, you were gonna need to relax after this. A nice bubble bath with your favorite Batman rubber ducky—that sounds nice.

"Hey, Red Robin! Earth to Red Robin!" You snap your fingers a few times in front of his face, shaking him by his shoulder erratically. "Whoo, passed out cold, huh?"

Lifting Tim up, you sprawl him on your shoulders, knees slightly bent from the weight of the boy, but it wasn't anything you couldn't handle.

Damian opens up the warehouse to find the two of you just in time.

"A little late to the party?" You giggle. Damian narrowed his eyes at the unconscious Tim.

"What happened? I thought he could handle himself," Damian asks.

You shrug, "Dunno, I think it might've been a sneak attack."

Nodding, the three of you (or two of you + an unconscious Tim) head back to the Batmobile.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

Alas, life returns to normal for you.

Well—mostly normal, as normal as you, that is to say, you aren't normal.

Dick and Jason were munching on the same popcorn bowl, Dick watching the movie intently while Jason looked disinterested. Tim was sitting next to them with a hand on his cheek and an elbow on the couch. Damian sat below, criss-cross applesauce. You were—wait, where are you? You're not with them.

Tim seems to notice this, voicing out his concerns: "Where's Y/N?"

Jason looks around and shrugs; Dick calls out your name half-heartedly, eyes still lingering on the trashy TV movie.

Damian only smirks. "What do you mean, Drake? Y/N is right—"

"HERE!" You yell in Tim's ear, phasing through the wall next to him, making him jump back and scream.

"Could you stop doing that?" He yells back, his heart pumping so fast he could feel his own blush rise to his cheeks.

Jason lets out a small chuckle. You sit on the arm of the chair, letting one leg drape down the side. "Nope! I'll be doing that till the day you die!"

Tim groans in response, but it's quickly cut short when the TV flickers to life—the villain you had previously fought hijacking every station.

"Batman, and that intangible brat!" The villain growls. "I'll make you pay for the humiliation you have caused me and my minions!"

You look to the left.

You look to the right.

You point at yourself. "Me?"

Damian deadpans. "No, phantom pain, the 40-foot octopus behind you—Yes, you."

Dick snaps out of his trance, eyeing you warily. "What could you have even done to make them lash out so bad? Revenge—and specifically on you?"

You shrug. "I just beat them up a little."

"—I'll kill you for attempting to trap my henchmen in stone and leaving them in the sewers!" The villain exclaims.

Jason raises a brow. "That doesn't seem like a little."

"Oh, like you're one to talk," You cross your arms, letting out a little 'hmph.'

Damian could only shake his head in disappointment, watching you trail out of the room—probably to find Bruce.

"Hey, have any of you seen Alfred lately?" Tim asks out of the blue.

You pop your head in the wall next to him. "No, why do you ask?"

"WHAT THE HELL?? STOP DOING THAT!" Tim huffed.

And now you were on his front steps, by the doorway, with a ridiculously cool butler who drove you here past the high-security gated fence that screamed "rich."

You pinch yourself.

This was probably a dream, right?

Yeah, you'd probably wake up in a few minutes back at home, living off stale bread and tap water... right?

As you and the black-suited butler made your way through the manor, you sightsee everything like a tourist. You felt a little insecure walking with your shabby clothes through the marble-padded hallways with million-dollar home decor that looked like it would scold you for simply looking in its direction.

Was it a blast? Yeah. Were you intimidated? Double yeah.

You waddled alongside the butler, who you soon came to know as Alfred, like a little duckling following a mother duck, sticking close to his side.

Your shoes let out soft squeaks every time you accidentally turned your foot the wrong way on the shiny floor, letting the sound reverberate through the hallway and echo through the empty mansion.

It wasn't empty, per se; it was just lonely.

"Master Y/N, would you like to meet your father?" A voice snaps you out of your haze. Looking up, your eyes meet the soft gaze of Alfred.

Nodding fervently, you quickly follow him toward a door.

A father, just like you dreamed of.

A father just like the one you'd see whenever you would look through the window at your next-door neighbor's kid.

A father just like the one everyone always teased you for not having.

A father so you could finally feel normal.

A father you could finally call—

"Not now, Alfred; I'm busy."

The words were snappy and quick. The room was messy. His table was filled with important files.

And there you were.

Ripe and plucked from your home at the fresh age of seven, hiding behind the tall butler's legs as you watched your 'father' dismiss you without a single thought. You grip the hem of your shirt as you look up at Alfred, but he seemed to be looking at Bruce.

He didn't even look at you.

He looked at the stack of messy papers on his desk. He looked into Alfred's eyes as the butler coughed into his gloved hands.

But he never looked at you.

It's fine.

This was Bruce Wayne you were talking about. He was probably just busy, right? I mean, someone’s got to do the paperwork for the million-dollar company he was working on. With only Alfred being the butler of the house, it can get stressful, right?

Alfred gives you a sympathetic smile, and you smile back.

"It seems Master Bruce is a bit busy. I'm sure he'll come up to greet you later."

Yet he never did.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

Richard 'Dick' Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake.

The names of your three older 'siblings.'

You could tell by their stares that they saw you differently—they saw you as a liability.

You aren't sure what liability you could be, but there certainly was something deeper behind the mask of emotions each of the three brothers were hiding.

Yet you didn't care.

You attached yourself to Dick first, staring at him in awe when the two of you first met. Muscular, awesome, super-cool. You would've used those words to describe him.

If you weren't following Alfred, you were probably following him. He never complained—at first.

He would ruffle your hair from time to time, watching you giggle as you told him to do it again and again. He'd allow you to stay up late at night—not like Bruce would care anyway—and sometimes eat ice cream before dinner. That is, if Alfred didn't catch the two of you.

It was nice.

You never really conversed with him, only making small talk. In hindsight, maybe it was truly a stupid move for you to get attached to him so easily.

It changed ever so slightly, but you never noticed.

The little uncomfortable shifts in his movement, how he would always seem a little more impatient when talking to you, and how everything seemed to change so easily.

He was still as laid-back and chill as ever.

Yet he never seemed to have the time to hang out with you.

"Sorry, Y/N! I'm going out tonight! I think Tim might not be busy though?"

"Oh, Y/N? Yeah, sorry, I don't think I have the time, I have to get to... err... work later. Maybe tomorrow, buddy, kay?"

"Sorry, I'm a little tired from tonight. Maybe later?"

Soon enough, the excuses were nothing but sweet lies in your ears, and his 'maybes' and 'laters' piled up to nothing in the end.

You clutch the poster in your hand tightly.

'FIFTH GRADE GRADUATION CEREMONY'

Maybe it would be better in the end not to ask.

You still had your other brothers, right?

Then you tried Jason; an enigma you couldn't seem to wrap your head around.

He would randomly show up in the manor at night, the air always seeming to get chillier whenever he would climb through the windows.

You tried to go up to him.

"Hey! Oh, uh—Jason! I was... I was wondering if you could help me with my summer assignment for, um, my sixth-grade class? You know, it's fine if you don't want to, I just thought... maybe..." You quickly trail off at the end, eyes unable to meet your brother's.

An awkward silence falls between the two of you before the latter interrupts it with a sigh, walking past you and out of the hallway the two of you were standing in.

The floor felt cold. You were cold. Why isn't he speaking?

Until he does: "No thanks, go bother someone else with your problems."

And he left you behind, even colder than before. Your heartbeat thudding in your empty chest.

Yet you didn't give up. You still had a smidge of hope that maybe he just needed to warm up to you?

Despite your efforts, it seemed he was making efforts of his own.

He always avoided you—leaving the room when you entered, showing up only when he knew you’d be gone.

And he only seemed to be doing it to you.

You watched and analyzed as he talked casually with Tim and Dick, albeit a little cold, but still better than how he treated you.

Biting the tip of your fingernail, you watched the three of them interact as you seemed to fade into the shadows.

And your hope seemed to fade as well.

But it still glimmered under the spotlight as you turned to the last brother: Tim.

But he never turned to you.

He would push you away. You never got the chance to even introduce yourself to him properly.

I mean, you tried to, sure, but he never stuck around long enough for the two of you to have an actual conversation.

It's not like he avoided anyone else, no.

You were searching for Alfred once, wandering through the maze of a mansion that seemed so familiar yet distant on your fingertips at the same time—a home you could never truly 'connect' to.

There he was. Laughing and smiling. Drinking what seemed to be tea from an expensive cup made of Chinese porcelain.

He seemed to do just fine when conversing with your other siblings.

And you felt guilty.

Guilty for feeling jealous of someone whose only title to you was as a 'brother.'

You don't know who he truly was behind the mask he wore around you.

Maybe he's had his hardships with the rest of the family too. He's been here longer, right?

Perhaps you just needed the family to accustom to the change. Wait a few years and maybe the family photos hung up on the wall in golden picture frames would change a tiny bit; just a small little addition: you.

Sooner or later, you'd be there with the family. Laughing and smiling as Dick cracks up a stupid joke, as Jason only shakes his head in disappointment despite the grin on his face, as Tim calls his joke dumb but masks his snicker by sipping the liquid in his cup.

You know who the Wayne siblings are; you live with them.

Yet you don't.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

Damian Wayne. Your little brother.

Similar to you but different in so many ways.

For one, you both were biologically connected to Bruce.

But that seemed to be where the similarities ended. The family was able to bond with him instantly. He seemed to be the center of attention when he walked into the room.

Maybe it was the way he spoke? The way he acted? How he was a dick to everyone—and no, not 'Dick' as in the name of your brother, ha ha.

He was another opportunity. The both of you shared at least one thing in common, and he seemed to take an interest in you. He was the only one who had acknowledged your presence when everyone was introducing themselves.

Yet you didn't try.

You waited for him to come up to you at one point, hoping he was different from the rest, but he never did.

And soon enough, he blended in with the rest of your family. Choosing to ignore you instead, as if he had realized your 'worth' to the family and had decided you weren't a problem big enough for him to even deal with.

Like you were a messy stain hidden on the back of a designer brand shirt.

An accident.

Because you were.

You were the result of a one-night stand between Bruce and your mother (who you assumed was now dead).

You were never supposed to exist in this world—or so you would tell yourself.

And every day, getting up seemed to feel a little more useless.

No one to confide in.

Alfred. Oh, Alfred.

He was dear, truly. You loved him with all of your heart, and he reciprocated that sometimes with his actions. Saving you extra cookies, being the only one who celebrated your birthdays with you, the only one who seemed as if he didn't mind your presence in the household.

But one man could only do so much.

After all, he couldn't be split into six different Alfreds.

But you appreciated him and his efforts, even if no one could make it to your events.

Even if the fifth-grade graduation poster you had meant to hand out to everyone lies rotting underneath your bed in a room you've obviously outgrown.

Even if everyone else seemed to view you as nothing more than someone who lived under the same roof as them.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

"Happy birthday, Master Y/N," Alfred smiles wistfully, knowing none of the family members would be able to make it.

A cake was being held in his hands, your favorite flavor, the only one you told him you loved many years ago.

"Oh! You remembered?" You ask, eyes widening in surprise as you swipe a bit of icing onto your pinkie and lick it.

You watched as he turns off the lights, the fancy chandelier above the two of you flickering off, and the light from the candlestick on top of the birthday cake casting everything in an orange hue instead.

You smile, tearing up a little as you wipe the tears building in your eyes, managing to whisper out a small, "Thank you."

It was the first birthday you'd truly celebrated in years.

Alfred only nods in return as you blow out the candle, the room engulfed by an empty darkness.

It made your heart sink, but you decide to push away the feelings on your very special day.

As the butler turns the light back on, you sit down in one of the dining room chairs, the cake placed in front of you as Alfred stands next to you.

It was awkward, but Alfred insisted on standing.

You take out the little '12' shaped candle on top of the small cake, placing it on a napkin.

By this point, you knew their secret—they were all vigilantes. You chose not to become one. What use would it be? You weren't agile, stealthy, or smart, and you didn’t want to be a bigger burden than you already were.

"Could we... decorate a little?" you ask, placing the silverware in front of you. Hell, if there was already a cake, decorations wouldn't hurt, would they?

Alfred smiles. "Of course."

As the two of you set on your next mission—blowing up balloons—the rest of the family was busy with their own.

The moonlight reflected across the roofs of the buildings as they jumped across them, landing with small ‘thuds.’

"Robin, can you see where the villain is headed?" Bruce asks, his voice deep and gruff.

Damian nods, opening his mouth to answer before being interrupted by Dick. "Err... guys... is it just me, or is he looking directly at us?"

"No, Dick, he's looking directly at the moon. Yes, he's looking at us!" Jason groans next to him, sliding down the stairwell of a run-down apartment complex nearby.

"Any new intel?" Bruce whispers into his earpiece.

Static buzzes through it, but Tim's voice is still somewhat audible. "Not sure... seems to be a new villain, but I'd be wary."

As the four of them start to fight, you and Alfred are still decorating the mansion’s dining room.

"Master Y/N, where would you like me to hang the balloons?" Alfred’s voice rings in your ears. When you look in the direction of his voice, you notice your favorite-colored balloon in both of his hands, making the smile on your face grow wider.

"You can hang them up in the corners of the room!" you giggle. "Or maybe we could scatter them on the ground!"

"I'm afraid that might be a safety hazard, Master Y/N," he replies.

You can only shrug. "Hey, it’s not as bad as you think!" You give him a lopsided grin. "I’m sure no one would slip on them!"

Right, quite literally ‘no one,’ because you knew none of your family members were actually going to show up.

Though it seemed as if fate was on your side (or against your side, as you would soon realize), the rest of your family seemed to make their way through the dining room window, with the exception of Tim, who had gone up from the Batcave after the failure of a mission they’d been through. The brothers were yelling and arguing about whose fault it was that the mission had gone so... astray, until they took in the scenery before them—stopping at the sight of the decorations strung up and a face they hadn’t seen in years.

You’ve grown, and it shows.

Your heart stops.

Theirs do too.

You couldn’t believe it—they actually came!

They couldn’t believe it—they accidentally came.

They eye you, the birthday cake sitting sadly on the table with a knife sliced halfway into it, the many plates sitting on the tables (despite only two of them having silverware placed next to them), and then they look at you again.

It was the first time. The first time Bruce had looked you in the face.

Why did your birthday have to be tonight, of all nights? The portrait held up on one of the walls seemed to have more vigor and enthusiasm than the rest of the family combined.

Damian, who especially had a temper tonight, stormed off, not before muttering a few curses under his breath followed by a breathy 'tt.'

"Sorry I wasn’t..." You turn to Alfred, who only nods. "I wasn’t expecting you guys to come! I can get more silverware if you want—or maybe Alfred can do that if he doesn’t mind—"

You are cut off when Bruce shakes his head, taking off his Batman mask.

"No need," he responds. "I’ll go check up on Damian."

Jason follows behind him swiftly, abruptly turning his head away from the sight in front of him as if it was painful to look at.

Alfred goes back into the kitchen to make something to cheer up the youngest master.

Dick forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, grabbing Tim’s hand. "Actually! Sorry, Y/N, Tim and I were planning to train tonight! We’re running late, actually." He pauses, checking his wrists before grabbing Tim’s arm and leading him out of the room.

You grip the hem of your top.

Once again, you’re alone.

It was inevitable.

You don’t understand. Why do they avoid you like the plague? Why do they hate you so much? You’ve tried everything for them to like you, yet they seem further out of arm’s reach as the days go by.

It was the first time Bruce had looked you in the face, but he couldn’t look at you for more than a few seconds.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

You don’t remember when it all just stopped. When you stopped. Stopped hoping, stopped waiting, stopped trying.

Maybe it was at your middle school performance during the end of the year—you reserved a seat for them. It was stupid of you, but you still kept hanging onto a single golden thread you knew would snap.

They didn’t come.

You weren’t surprised.

Or maybe it was during your high school graduation a few months ago? No, it was definitely earlier.

The place you called ‘home’ seemed stranger to you.

The hallways felt unfamiliar.

The rooms always felt cold.

The portraits that stood silent on every other wall seemed to ignore your presence.

You barely saw your ‘family’ anymore. You locked yourself in your room and found ways to entertain yourself inside.

It was your safe haven.

Your room was still your room despite everything. The colors on the walls seemed to be fading out, and the posters attached to them seemed to be in need of new tape.

The poster under your bed looked unrecognizable. Faded ink and rips all over it, you could barely make out the ‘FIFTH GRADE GRADUATION’ that still looked disappointing as ever when you held it in your hands.

Sighing, you put it inside an empty shoebox nearby.

Some things are better forgotten.

You start reaching under your bed in order to clean—

tap

A small tap makes you look behind you.

tap tap tap

It wasn’t a loud sound, really, but it was enough to get your attention.

The window seemed to be tapping on its own—no, wait, something was tapping on the window. Maybe it was a bird?

Making your way towards the glass pane, you lift it up, looking around. Nothing out of the ordinary. A raven seemed to be snuggled into its nest nearby, protecting its eggs.

"Psst!"

On instinct, you let out a yelp, jumping away from the window.

What the hell?

Rubbing your bottom, you get up from the floor, your eyes still stuck on the small square opening that connects the outside to your room.

Then, it seemed as if someone lent you a hand—no, literally, a hand fucking jumped out from the bottom of the window.

It slowly lifted itself up to reveal...

You?

No, you were right here, right? Sitting on the ground, mouth agape, as you look at...

Yourself??

You—no, they, whatever it is—seemed to lift themselves up from the window.

And ‘they’ as in multiple people, not the pronoun, because two other people who also looked eerily similar to you made their way through the window, now standing on the edge directly in front of you.

It felt like a fever dream, to be honest, as you stood in front of three people who looked like you.

And you tried to scream.

Keyword: tried, because the moment you opened your mouth, one of them quickly clamped it shut, pinning you to the doorway.

"Don’t even try it," they growled.

You frantically try to remove the hands but the person in front of you was strong as hell.

The one standing closest to the window yells out: "Vg/n! Don’t be rude!"

You instantly spot the weird clothing on them—pure white, bright as hell, a staff that seemed to come straight out of a children’s show.

It looked like cosplay more than anything.

The one next to the person who looked like they won first place in a Comic-Con costume contest only cackled loudly.

Their outfit wasn’t any better—but what stood out the most was the leopard print furry jacket and studded belt they wore. You really hope it was just faux fur.

"Oh, you guys are just too funny," they let out a wheeze, gripping their stomach harshly. "You’re gonna scare the poor kid!"

The one holding your mouth could only roll their eyes before looking back at you. "I’ll let go of your mouth if you promise not to scream."

You nod as they gently let go.

You hold back your scream.

You don’t scream, nor shout, and you definitely don’t let it all out.

"Look, you might not believe us, but we’re you—err, alternate versions of you," they pause. "I’m Vg/n, or you but... a vigilante."

"What?" you voice out your confusion.

"Yeah," the person in the fur jacket perks up. "I’m the super awesome and cool version of—"

"Ignore them, that’s V/n, the version where you become a villain! I’m M/n, the version where you’re, well, magical!" M/n shouts from beside you. V/n lets out a little 'hey!' from the rude introduction, crossing their arms but doing nothing otherwise.

You stand still, feeling your heart pounding in your ears.

"Ya think we broke ‘em?" V/n whispers to M/n.

You shake your head, opening your mouth to reply. "No, no, I just...—why are you here?"

"Well, that’s what we’re trying to figure out too!" M/n tries to give you a reassuring smile, yet you can tell they’re just as lost as you are. "We were just doing our business in our universes, and BOOM! We’re suddenly together in an alleyway."

"Wait—so if you’re all alternate versions of me, then... what version am I?"

"Well, you’re like the past!" M/n twirls their staff. "Or you can also be the ‘true’ Y/n if you’d like, but that’s debated."

"Past...? How old are you guys??"

"It depends on who you’re asking, but we’re all around the age of 23-24!"

Your jaw drops. "Wait, so you guys are also from the future?"

V/n shrugs, looking around at the other two. M/n is avoiding eye contact, choosing to look around the room instead. Vg/n is trying to act nonchalant in the corner, arms crossed. How helpful.

"So, you guys are trying to get home?"

"That’s the gist of it," V/n nods, a toothy smile forming on their face.

"Well, we could ask Br—"

Suddenly, the three of them speak up, yelling at you with a big fat no.

Vg/n can only sigh at your puzzled face, answering the unasked question that they seem to sense is floating around in your head. "Remember your twelfth birthday?"

You do, but you would rather forget about it.

"Basically, all of us went through the same event as you. Same party, same intruders, and same heartbreak. Yet what was different was how we reacted. I decided to become a vigilante, V/n became a villain, and M/n became... well, magical after finding a ring."

Even alternate versions of you couldn’t catch a break.

"Well, we should at least discuss this somewhere else; I’m getting homesick from this manor," V/n scoffs. "Or homehate, or whatever. I just hate this place and the people that live here."

Vg/n doesn’t say anything, but you can tell that they agree with V/n too, even if they don’t want to side with a villain.

"Off we go!!!" With their wand pointed high, M/n runs out of the room with a cheer, alerting both V/n and Vg/n to chase after your other alternate self, with you following in pursuit. You can’t even make it to the exit of the manor before you run into your family.

Your whole big-ass family.

Not even one member—your WHOLE FUCKING FAMILY—OH MY GOD. At the WORST time ever, too.

You knew this was going to turn into a mess.

old taglist: @cosmosluckycharms@the-dumber-scaramouche@lilithskywalker@senhoritaapple@aetheriis@euphoria-looney@depressed--therapist@chericia@mybones537 @coffeeaddictxd @tw-om-gi-hs-56387 @im-so-goddamn-tired @omniscient3teabag @seanwalbrecht!!

But after a while, everyone could sense a new figure following them wherever they went.

An uneasy pit formed in your stomach.

Were you being stalked by a villain? Or no, perhaps it was the work of something more sinister.

Whatever it was, it felt as if it was swallowing you alive. Every step felt like a burden, the footsteps of you and your alternates ringing through your ears as you hear softer, quieter footsteps that you didn't recognize.

Yet whenever you turned around, it always seemed to stop.

You could feel the conflict growing in the rest of the group as well as they share glances with each other, stopping at a lamppost that suddenly flickered to life as the air around them grew colder.

What time was it?

Oh shit! 8:28! You said you'd be back home at 8:00.

As you glance at the time sprawled across your phone, eyes wide, your alternates seem to notice with the realization hitting them as well.

You bite your lip.

"I don't think they'd even notice you've been gone for so long," V/n grumbles, picking at their fingernails. "They don't even care about you, remember?"

Nodding, you ponder on it. It was true—the lack of care for you did seem to make it easy to get by, but your concern was voiced out by someone else.

"Didn't you see how they acted towards Y/n when they first met us?" Vg/n speaks up. "I'd say they're getting suspicious—if not for the sake of our safety, then for the sake of their reputation."

V/n scoffs. "What, they'd think poor 'ol little Y/n's hanging out with three big bad villains?"

"Technically, there's only one!" M/n comments from behind you.

"You get my point," V/n sighs.

Taking in both sides of the argument, your own opinion starts to form in your head, foot lightly tapping repeatedly on the concrete from nervousness. V/n was right, they'd never usually care, so why would they now?

Save for Alfred, of course.

With a pat on the back, V/n pushes you forward, wrapping their arms around you as they give you a lazy smile. "And for what it's worth, what're they gonna do, huh? Give us a background check? Bet we're not even in their database."

As V/n releases their hold from your shoulders, the four of you walk back to the Wayne Manor.

"Remember, Y/n, you can not—and I mean absolutely can NOT tell anyone about who we truly are," Vg/n stares at you sternly.

Giving them a weak nod, you respond. "Yeah, of course. I don't think they'd care regardless... well—I think," Taking a deep breath, your eyes look back into theirs. "Where are you going to go?"

They don't respond, basking in the silence for a bit.

"I think... I'd like to explore this place. I'd also like to experiment, see if my powers still work as effectively here!" M/n smiles, their wand glowing brilliantly.

V/n answers next. "Yeah, yeah, what the nutcase over here said. I'll explore. Maybe meet this world's version of Harley an' Ivy."

Vg/n only nods. "I'll be lurking in the shadows, making sure there aren't any more anomalies, and keeping the two that we already have in check."

A final shaky sigh escapes your mouth, trusting that the three versions of yourself could take care of... well, themselves.

It was probably better if they didn't stick around, anyway. It would only grow the current suspicion of your family—something you wanted to shrivel up and kill.

If they didn't return to their world soon, what would happen? Would the world turn itself in just because it was missing one person from the algorithms of its universe? Would havoc spread across an alternate Gotham knowing that a child of the beloved Wayne family had disappeared mysteriously?

Actually, you doubted that last part.

You were pretty sure the media barely even knew about you.

Regardless, you enter the gate, waving a small 'goodbye' with your hands as you watch your different versions do the same—albeit with different levels of energy. (M/n looked like they were flapping a singular wing more than waving goodbye.)

Alfred opens the door.

"Welcome back, Master Y/n. Dinner has been readied. Master Bruce would like a word with you."

If there was a top 10 list of things you weren't ready for, this would be at the top of the list.

Yet the uneasy feeling of the sudden shift in priorities never left your head.

You—the forgotten Wayne, the one who no one even remembered, suddenly becoming a rising topic between your brothers and your father.

If this was a few years back, you would say it was all that you had dreamed of.

And yet, now you were dreading all the attention you were receiving.

'Just walk. Right foot forward, then left foot, then right foot' you think, slowly inching your way towards the kitchen as you dread what Bruce had to say.

Yet that conversation never came, because you bump into a broad chest, and looking up you see:

Jason Todd.

Another factor playing into the irony of everything. The one who would always avoid you like you were the devil was the one now confronting you.

Oh great, the universe seemed to love seeing you in pain.

"We need to talk."

Short and simple—to the point. Reminiscent of Bruce in a few ways, but he seemed to be a sore subject for the both of you.

"What are you hiding from us?"

Jason had no idea why he was so—off-put by the idea of you hanging out with... whoever these people even are. Hell, they somehow snuck in your room AND there was no video footage of how they entered (Tim confirmed the tape had not been tampered with—it had just fast-forwarded through time as if the universe had made some sort of mistake).

They could be a bad influence on you.

Maybe he was projecting.

Maybe he just didn't want you to go astray—lead a life of regrets like him.

And yet, he felt pathetic. Pathetic he couldn't even understand nor handle his own emotions.

You were one of his biggest regrets.

He regretted never having the time to spend with you; pushing you away because of some grudge he held against his father. And now, all the time in the world seemed to dwindle down into nothingness.

Nothing but the cold hard truth: To him, it felt too late to turn back.

"I'm... hiding nothing. Why?" you ask, realizing you'll probably seem even more suspicious.

Jason felt his mouth go dry. "Don't fuckin' give me that excuse. I heard everything."

Of course—it felt like someone was watching you, and now you know why.

Your mouth starts to go dry. You gulp.

"I heard one of them is meeting up with Harley. Tell me, Y/n, are you friends with a villain?" he accuses harshly, his face contorting to an emotion you could barely pick apart. Anger, yet protectiveness flashed on his face. There was a hint of yearning from the way his eyebrows creased slightly.

"No! No!" The lie comes straight out of your ass. "It's... like we said, a cosplay thing. Some of my other friends were cosplaying as Harley and Ivy and they were gonna meet up together, that's it!"

His eyes trail up your form up and down, a sign of disbelief, yet he doesn't press further on. His fists clench and unclench responsively.

The weight of the lie felt heavy on your shoulders, and now it was Jason's turn to go quiet.

"Fine." he says quietly. "Have it your way."

Light on his feet, he pushes past you, not being able to meet your eyes.

And you don't try to reach out. You don't try and use this as an opportunity to get close with the family again.

Not anymore—you decide. You don't care anymore.

But deep inside, you knew you truly did.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

You're trying to go out.

Keyword here is 'trying' because before you could even step foot outside of the manor, you're stopped by one of your 'brothers.'

Dick Grayson.

Great, first Jason and now Dick. Who's it going to be next, Damian?

Waiting for him to move out of the way, he tries to give you a charming smile, to which you don't respond. You were going to meet your alternates again near the BatBurger joint, the smell of oil and grease already reminiscent in your nose.

"Where are you going, buddy?" he asks, his grin slightly faltering when he sees your unamused expression.

"Just gonna meet up with some friends," you respond, not sparing him a second glance.

You could see his face fall into a frown before rising up again, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Again?"

You nod.

He crosses his arms.

"Don't you think you're spending a little too much time with them? Why don't you hang out with us? We could eat ice cream again like we did when we were younger!"

"I'm not a child anymore, Dick, you don't have to baby me."

"C'mon, you know you can always talk to me if you have any problems, right?"

"Like you've ever cared." You whisper—barely audible, but you're sure Dick heard every word laced in bitterness from the way his jaw tightens. For once, the ever so loud and energetic Nightwing had nothing to say, no comeback, no witty response.

You shake your head. "Just... never mind."

Pushing him out of the way slightly, the older Wayne allows you to pass through with little resistance.

Not because he gave up, but because you were right.

And soon enough, you find yourself near the popular fast food chain, seeing two familiar figures make their way toward you. Though, this time, M/n seemed to be missing.

The three of you reach each other, walk inside, place your orders, and sit down at a table.

"Where's M/n?" you question, speaking first.

V/n shrugs, making the both of you turn toward Vg/n.

They respond with a sigh. "They were supposed to meet us as well, but after we went our separate ways, they never came back to our meetup spot."

"Ya think they got lost?" V/n takes a fry, putting it in their mouth.

"I just hope they're not connected with the recent spike in deaths recently," Vg/n huffed.

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Recent spike in deaths? How'd you know that?"

The vigilante doesn't respond at first. They take a few seconds to gather their thoughts before formulating an answer. "I saw it. Mutilated corpses throughout Gotham alleyways, near the direction M/n went through anyway."

All of you stay silent. Vg/n opens their mouth to continue:

"It looked as if someone—or something—hit them with a hard, blunt object repeatedly and unnecessarily. Their bodies seemed to cave in."

"Damn, that bad?" V/n offhandedly commented, sipping obnoxiously on a straw attached to a soda that was mostly empty.

The two of you turn to look at them.

"Whaat? You expect me to feel sorry? I'm a villain—people die, like, every day." V/n scoffs. "Aww boohoo, little Timmy died! Let’s mourn him, then completely forget about him! Hey, you know what would attract more views than death? Bruce Wayne! Bruce this, Bruce that, don’t forget about his dead son that everyone seems to love to mourn instead! What about Y/n? Didn't they die too? Oh but alas, who cares about poor Y/n? Bruce doesn't care about them so they must not be important."

The sudden contempt and disdain dripping off every word make you blink twice. "I'm not... dead?" you question, your expression contorting to one of confusion.

Vg/n slams their hand on the table before the villain can respond. "You will not disrespect the Wayne family in such a way," they seethe.

"Or what? I thought we all hated 'em. Are we forgetting how they treated us all of a sudden?" V/n munches on another fry.

"Yes, how they treated us was wrong, but they are still my—they are still an alternate version of my family. I might not have had good experiences with them either, but the blatant disrespect will not be tolerated," the other alternate rants.

The only response from V/n is an eye roll. "Yeah, and when they leave you in the dust again, don't come cryin' to me 'cause I'll only respond with an 'I told you so.'"

You decide to butt in again before someone flips over a table, feeling veins popping from Vg/n's forehead. "Hey, let's all calm down. We can... we need to stay focused. We'll try to find M/n first and then we'll get you into your respective universes—" You pause for a second, swallowing your spit, "—or well, at least I hope so."

Placing a comforting hand on Vg/n's shoulder, the latter simply swats it away, taking in a deep breath. "Then we should head out now."

Their chair screeches against the recently mopped floors. V/n eyes them carefully, watching them walk out in a calm demeanor—too calm. You could feel the angered aura radiating off the vigilante from their little 'argument,' but decide not to comment on it. All too familiar—little habits here and there that remind you of the Waynes.

The way they hide their emotions—too reminiscent of Bruce and Jason, masking it under a feign of nonchalance.

After sticking another fry in their mouth, V/n and you follow, the three of you walking along the direction where your alternates swear they saw M/n part from.

And there, out of the corner of your eye, you notice movement.

Glimmering even in the daylight, a shiny, sleek costume with glitter trailing behind. The way the sun bounced off every shiny surface of the costume and flashed your eyes, looking like there were sparkles under the sunlight.

The way a blooming deep, dark red seemed to paint half of the outfit, splattered all over as if they stepped into a paint bucket.

M/n—the magical version of you.

And yet, they didn’t seem so magical now.

Your variants seem to notice the same, watching M/n jump from rooftop to rooftop before landing in an alleyway with a small thud, glitter seemingly falling out from nowhere.

As the three of you follow, you watch the interaction in the alleyway closely, your eyes trailing the magical person like a frightened cat.

The soft click escaping the shoes of M/n echoed uncomfortably at the sight of dried blood staining the heels, the staff in their hand seemingly having a lighter shade of red.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

Oh shit, what the hell did they do? Were they the one who committed the murders? A million thoughts race inside your head, your previous train of thought completely derailing and crashing into the lump inside your throat.

Then you see it.

A man—probably drunk. White wife-beater with stains all over it. Fat, pudgy body. Probably around the age of 30. Unkempt, messy hair with an unshaved stubble.

He seemed to be the perfect candidate based on the way M/n's eyes widen ever so slightly, or how their pupils seemed to contract significantly.

"Oh shit, he's about to get his ass beat," V/n mumbles from behind you.

You punch their shoulder lightly—a sign for them to shut their mouth.

They quickly understand and follow begrudgingly.

"Ah! Kiyo, it's another monster!" M/n yells to no one. "Ah! Wait—I forgot! Kiyo isn't here with me!"

With a flick of their wrist, they raise their hand up to the sun, a shining radiant crescent forming below them.

"Kiyo, even without your strength, let's continue to reach for the stars!~" they cry out, pointing the blunt end of their wand toward the defenseless, sleazy man.

With another shout, M/n swings their wand like a bat, hitting the man's head with enough force that it throws him toward a nearby dumpster; his body hits it with a large clang before slithering down to the cold, hard floor.

"Wha...? Huh—?" The man wakes up, head slightly bleeding from the impact, but not before M/n swings another time.

You grimace at the sight, blood pooling around the floor as the man is unable to defend himself from the onslaught of attacks. God, you’re pretty sure he was unable to comprehend anything at all.

Unable to control themselves, Vg/n walks toward the two of them. You try to call out for the vigilante, but it’s no use. What the hell were they thinking? It’s more than obvious that little alternate wasn't in the right state of mind right now.

Hearing unknown footsteps behind them, M/n quickly swings their head around.

The sight of their face is uncanny.

A wide, unnerving grin paints their face with extremely small pupils decorated in their eyes. Giddiness radiates from their entire body, yet the sight of them is chilling.

"Vg/n!" M/n shouts out gleefully.

"What the hell are you doing?" the other simply shouts back.

Each word is cold and biting, making M/n flinch from the tone they’re using. "Oh this? I'm just angelizing the monsters!"

"Angelizing?" Vg/n questions, making their way closer toward M/n.

With a quick nod, the magical person's grip on their wand tightens, holding the other end with their opposite hand. The faint smell of a metallic scent suddenly fills your nostrils, making beads of sweat dribble down your forehead.

"See these monsters?" They point their wand toward the dead man whose head seems to cave in slightly. "I don't have Kiyo with me right now so I have to make do!"

Vg/n gnashes their teeth, taking the collar of M/n's outfit and lifting them up from the dead body underneath. They trap them in the air, their brows furrowed and eyes widened.

A shaky breath escapes their lips, the other hand not holding the alternate clenches slightly.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Every word comes out harsher, more bitter, as if pent-up anger had suddenly spilled out.

You turn to your villain self with a worried expression. "Do you think we should stop them?"

A chuckle escapes their lips, giving you a smirk. "Well, goody-two-shoes, you can do that yourself. I'd like to see where this is headed!" They place their two relaxed hands behind their head, watching intently as your other two alternates argue.

You give them a deadpan expression, your heart beating faster in your chest. It felt like a fever dream. Everything felt unreal at this point—seeing your older self in a costume, fucking killing someone—you were barely able to imagine yourself killing an animal.

And yet it was all too real. The floor beneath you felt real, the sensation of your clothes sticking uncomfortably beneath you felt real, every short breath that seemed to flow in and out of your mouth felt real.

And you were frightened.

Scared at the fact that this—these people—are all still you. They all stem from your origin. If you had taken a different direction, you would grow into one of them.

You shiver.

V/n doesn't take notice, too swallowed up in the loud clashing of the brutal and bloody scene in front of the both of you, M/n and Vg/n throwing and blocking punches like it was training day in the Wayne family.

So you decide to watch too. If Bruce couldn't notice them as they are right now, how extreme would you have to go to get his attention?

And you don't notice; don't notice how the scenery slowly starts to change in front of you. How the color of the alleyway grows dimmer and how the blue hue in the sky slowly changes into a deep saffron. Before you know it, you blink and find yourself in a new location.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

EARTH, ALTERNATE UNIVERSE: VILLAIN

You turn around, the world completely shifted around you. There were no more alternates yelling in front of you. Loud shouts and gunshots are heard nearby, though the street is busy and no one seems to spare a second glance. They keep their heads down as if they'll die if they get too nosy.

You purse your lips.

The bright lights of the cars zooming by weren’t comforting by any means. Puddles were littered near the sidewalk, signaling it had recently rained.

Walking through the damp, wet street, you soon realize you didn't just teleport to a random location in Gotham—you had a hunch you were in a completely alternate universe.

The world was darker, shades of monotone black and white filling the streets. Every color you saw seemed more muted.

And well, your original Gotham might not have been vivid in color, but it certainly wasn't lacking like the city in front of you. Just looking at it made the frown deepen on your face.

You didn't know where to go. You don't know which alternate universe you ended up in, and you weren't going to take any chances.

So you ended up in a distant yet familiar house: the Wayne Manor.

You put in the password for the front gate that you remember, a loud beep ringing in your ear.

Entering through the expensive gate, you stop at the front door of the mansion, reminded of when you first got here. You freeze at the memory, your hands shaking, unable to open the door again.

With a deep breath, you try and calm yourself down, but it feels futile.

Whatever—fuck it!

You swing the doors open with your eyes shut before closing the door behind you and walking through the house, your shoes squeaking at every slight misstep.

"Hello?" you call out. You weren't expecting anyone to answer; they were probably on patrol, after all.

And yet you hear a voice behind you:

"Y/n...?" A small, short, quivering voice speaks up from behind you.

Turning your head, you see Bruce.

"Oh, uh..." You pause, not sure how to respond, watching his eyes widen slightly as if something was erroneous. "I thought you were on patrol?"

He watches your every move, as if the moment you make any sudden action, you'll disappear. "No, no!" he growls out. "You can't be... you can't be real."

Your eyes stare blankly at him, squinting as you try to make sense of his words. "Well, I'm pretty sure I am, based on the way I'm in front of you right now..."

"No! You're..." He pauses, the words unable to flow out of his mouth.

"You died. I saw it, I was there,"

And that's when you knew you were fucked.

You had no excuse for this.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

batfam is so badly out of character but its ok we ballin

Maybe it was for your dead mother, who was only in her thirties before you watched her body fall to the floor.

A heart attack, you overheard the doctors telling Bruce. A fatal one.

Maybe it was for Alfred. The only one who had attempted to know you—to understand where you were coming from; a child whose heart was too big to fit in their own body. A porcelain heart worn on your sleeve that could no longer bear the weight of your own shoulders.

But Alfred seemed to be more of a hazy memory nowadays, with Bruce mourning a child he had lost to what seemed like so long ago, and Tim having more importance than you in the manor’s hierarchy. He became a passing figure.

You cried louder, harder. You just wanted the attention, didn't you? The tears that poured out of your eyes were just a ruse, weren't they?

You selfish little thing.

Always wanting, always needing. Never enough were you satisfied.

You have everything at your disposal, yet you yearn for more. The gluttony that shattered your ever-growing heart feasts on the small appetizers of attention, doesn't it?

When they look your way ever so slightly, you gobble up the sight like a starving man, don't you?

So timid, so stupid, so trusting enough that you truly believe they ever had enough space in their bodies for someone’s heart as big as yours.

What can you do? Are you as smart as Tim? Are you as agile as Dick? Helpful like Alfred?

And, God forbid, were you as mourned—missed—as much as Jason?

And there you lie: crumpled up with your legs pinned to your chest as if it were a lifeline, crying into your knees as if anyone would hear you.

Listen to your heartbeat thump erratically in your chest.

In the corner of your small, small room. In the bed where you lie—with the sheets stained wet from hours and hours of disharmonious sobs escaping your throat.

Do you think anyone is going to save you?

Do you think you deserved to be saved?

You selfish little thing.

Your throat hurts. You lie still now. You can't cry anymore. It ran out. The tears stopped. Just like last night.

You're aware of your surroundings. Too aware; too quiet. The crickets chirp loudly as if mocking you.

And then you feel it: cold, lifeless hands that touch your cheek so softly, so gently, like you were a glass sculpture. Rubbing your cheeks with an icy thumb as if the broken shards of your heart could be mended together with a few strokes. It tilts your head up, forcing you to look at the owner of the body part as you feel your mouth run dry.

You. A soulless version of you. Dressed to the nines in a previous gala outfit, flawless skin, fashionable jewelry flickering in your eyes. Everything you could be. Everything you wanted to be.

Its cold hands trace your jaw before resting on your cheek, its face giving you a smile. You couldn't tell what emotion lay behind it. Your breath hitches. It copies you mockingly. You don't understand why, but the smile felt unnerving—unnatural to you the longer you seemed to stare at it. As if it were plastered on like a cheap, manufactured plastic doll. The ends of its mouth were too wide; too curved.

It opens its mouth.

“Oh dear,”

Its hand continued to cup your cheek, rubbing away a few wet spots on your tear-stained face. “You did well.”

You don't respond. You don't know how to respond. The cold fingers lazily stroked your cheek. “Look at you... so helpless, so lost. Taking advantage of them. You don't know where to go from here, do you?”

Its smile formed more of a smirk. “Every night, they're working their asses off, yet you play victim? You, who’s sitting ever so still in this lavish mansion with everything it could ever offer you? You're still not satisfied?”

It leans in closer to you, your eyes widening as you can feel both of the cold hands slowly make their way to your throat. Your throat felt like it was on fire, as if the words you wanted to say shattered as soon as they went past the esophagus, only allowing a few quick, incoherent stutters through as the result of it. You could feel its breath slowly inch closer to you as it spoke up again.

“Don't you pity them? Or are you going to remain a burden?”

Sensing your shoulders tense up, soft circles are rubbed on your neck with its thumbs. Lifeless hands touch your cheek one more time before being held behind its back, the saccharine smile dropping as it leans forward, mouth near your ear; the words spoken were like a lullaby, a gentle lull.

“You selfish little thing,”

And nothing else. You freeze in place. The smile is plastered back on its face as it takes a few steps back. You look it in the eye; it stares back at you coldly. You refuse to tear your gaze away as you stare at it, watching it slowly inch away from you, almost tauntingly. Turning its back on you, it moves towards the door, opening it and leaving into the manor.

The soft ’click’ of the doorway leaves you back to your own thoughts.

Alone. You always are.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

Ever since that night you saw them—you saw that version of you. Even after years passed, it followed you everywhere, saying nothing but silently observing. When you turn your head and lock your gaze on it, it would still be in the corner of the room, watching, waiting; a new outfit, you notice. A shiny metal brooch in the shape of a heart, red in color, pinned to their chest. It stares back—still ever so lifeless, like an antique doll. You suddenly lose your appetite.

The Christmas dinner in front of you looked more and more daunting as you tried not to throw up on the spot.

’Be more grateful,’ you thought to yourself as the other you stared you down, its silent smile still plastered on its face. You didn't know if it had any facial muscles at all from how still it sat.

And no one noticed.

Dick and a resurrected Jason argued about something trivial. Tim would comment on it, Jason would reply back with something snarky. Damian ignored them, eating his food thoughtfully. Whenever someone would respond with something dumb, he simply chose to roll his eyes or scoff at the idiocy.

No one noticed as you shivered, as you sweat nervously, as your fingers trembled ever so slightly as if something was wrong.

No one noticed but them, still staring back, staring at you.

Your chest tightened. Everything felt off; you didn't want to ruin tonight for anybody. It was one of the only few days where everyone would come together and spend time (save for you, obviously).

Your eyes dart back to the figure standing in the corner for what felt like the umpteenth time as your grip on the metal handle of your fork tightened.

’Be grateful, Alfred worked hard on this plate.’

The first few bites of food took convincing, and even then you still felt like forcing everything out.

“Is everything alright, Master Y/n?”

Alfred’s words snap you out of your thoughts as you look around—dead silent as the whole family turned to you. You notice the silverware that had dropped on the floor.

You could feel Bruce’s stare burn holes in your head as you tried to formulate a response, short stutters only being able to come out.

Your chest tightens further, and your heart aches.

“I... I need a minute,” you were quickly able to let out as you shift your feet, pushing your chair out, which let out a horrible screech as you made a run for it to your room.

Damian scoffs, Tim gives you a weird look, Jason doesn't acknowledge you, Dick tries to change the subject.

You lock your door, but you still see them in the corner.

Their haunting gaze. No matter where you ran, where you hid, they always seemed to follow. To hell and back, you could never get rid of them.

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“This one is for you, Jay!” Dick had a smile, one he couldn't read, making Jason raise a brow. “It's from me, so cherish it with your heart, okay?”

Jason chuckled as he quickly caught the box thrown by Dick, giving it a small rattle near his ear before roughly handling the package, tearing the Red Hood–themed wrapping open without a care.

He grabs a Nightwing keychain out of the box and a shiny white mug that read ’I've laughed in the face of the devil’ in black text.

Tim crosses his arms, snorting as he held out an identical Nightwing keychain in his hand. “Very creative, Dick,” he smirked.

Damian scowled, also holding out an identical keychain, his eyebrows furrowing as if asking, ’Really?’

“What? It's so you guys have me wherever you go!” Dick smiled.

“Grayson, your... small figurine is quite... ’charming’, but will probably be lost underneath my bed at the end of this week,” Damian responded sarcastically as he held it with his pointer finger and thumb as if it were a specimen.

Bruce sits on the couch, reading a new headline about him, with gifts from his children next to him. He eyed the fountain pen gifted to him by you, but said nothing of it.

The last set of gifts remain. Tim picks one up curiously as he read the tags. “From... Y/n,” he reads aloud, each gift having their names written on it carefully.

The room suddenly freezes, not only from the tense moment from earlier, but due to the lack of gifts that were marked ’To: Y/n’.

Dick bit his lip nervously as he grabbed the box labeled for him, speaking up first. “I can... go check up on them later?” He gives his brothers a lopsided smile.

Jason stared intently at his gift. Shiny, sleek wrapping paper. Thoughtfully wrapped, only to be torn down by his brutish hands. His gaze lingered on the stairway where you had run off to a beat too long before his gaze returned to the present.

As Tim took his own gift, he opened his mouth. “They were probably nervous, is all.” Damian takes his gift with a scoff, muttering something incoherent under his breath; Tim could barely make out the word ’useless’ but chose to ignore it.

“Hey, it's almost movie time.” Dick points to Alfred, who held up a bucket of buttery popcorn. The other brothers turn towards the direction Dick was pointing at, pushing the thought of Y/n to the back of their heads.

The savory smell wafted around the room, tickling each of their noses as they leaned in closer. Jason takes a piece, throwing it in the air and catching it with his mouth. Tim tried to imitate, but failed, earning a giggle from Dick. Damian plopped a piece in his mouth, savoring the buttery flavor of the popcorn as it melted; when no one was looking, he swiped a few more pieces quickly.

Dick quickly left the room before returning with a dozen or so CDs in his arms, dropping them flat on the shiny floors with a thud. “Alright, you know the drill! Pick a movie!”

“I do not care in whatever movie we waste our time watching, except the idiotic railway engine,” Damian thinks aloud.

“Polar Express?” Jason snickered as he grabbed its DVD. “Alright, we've picked out the movie we're watching tonight.”

Much to Damian’s dismay and his protests, the intro to The Polar Express movie plays aloud as each of the family gets comfortable on the couch with Bruce.

“Don't turn up the volume too loud,“ Bruce comments warmly.

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Freezing.

You were shivering head to toe, breath uneasy as violent sobs escaped your lips once more.

They turned a blind eye; not once did they check up on your well-being.

And in the corner of the room was your figure. Posture straight, luxury clothes. A shadow cast on them, blocking away most of its facial features—but its eyes. They were still staring at you. Watching your every movement like a hawk, like a predator about to pounce on its prey.

Your family was asleep. It struck midnight a while ago, but you shook in your dark bedroom, legs pressed against your chest as you cried. Just like last night. Just like the night before that.

“Please—” you breathed out, sweaty—desperate. “What do you want from me?”

It didn't respond. It continued to stand still in the corner of your room.

“Please, please, please,” your words turned into an incoherent ramble as you could barely make out any of the words you were saying. Your sobs overpowered you as you cried out, just like the time when you first saw them, sobbing for someone to save you, for someone to hold you.

And soon enough, you jolt at the slam of your door, craning your head to see the source of the noise: Bruce, followed by your brothers.

You clutched your blanket tighter, hiccuping as you couldn't stop the never-ending tears flowing down your cheek. You weren't sure why you couldn't stop crying. You didn't want to cry anymore. Your figure was still staring at you.

Tired, Bruce tried to talk to you. You couldn't understand a single word he was saying. Tim rubbed his eyes behind him. There was a ringing in your ears, and you felt nauseous.

A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he turns back to the brothers, mouthing ’false alarm’. When he looks back at your bawling figure, he opens his mouth: “Get a hold of yourself.”

You can't respond. You don't know how to respond. The room feels like it's spinning. Your head feels dizzy.

You watched as everyone slowly left your room, eyes glossy but numb, staring off into nothingness. Damian left first, followed by Bruce, then Tim. Jason looked at you with an uneasy glance before walking out, with Dick following closely behind him.

The figure in the corner finally moves.

“Aren't you happy?” It tilts your head with its finger. “You have their attention now. Isn't this what you've always wanted?”

You try to open your mouth to speak, but they force it closed. “Selfish little thing,” its smile made your own blood run cold as you shiver again. “So, so, so utterly broken. So lost. So selfish.”

The words repeat in your head like a broken record player.

Your throat felt like it was losing air. Air—you need air. You need to go out, get out, anywhere but here. It's too tight here, too claustrophobic for you and your big heart.

Your legs move before your mind can process anything as you feel it head for the exit of the Wayne Manor.

The cool air brushes your skin as you walk towards a lamppost. You don't know where you're going. Your other self follows behind you slowly.

You can never truly escape yourself.

────── ₊˚⊹ ✶ ──────

“Y/n... missing?” Bruce muttered under his breath as he skimmed the surveillance footage. Alfred nods worriedly beside him. He had attempted to wake you up, but after hearing nothing but silence, entered your room only to find messy sheets lying on the bed instead of your body.

Bruce opens his mouth but quickly gets cut off when Tim enters. “Bruce! Joker’s been spotted up north again!” He yells urgently before catching himself. Coughing into his palm, he explains the situation to his father.

Bruce only nods. While your case was important, he couldn’t ignore a villain either. Maybe by luck he, or one of his many kids, would be able to find you coincidentally? He doesn't rely on luck much, but it seemed it was all he could do now.

Alfred sighs, seeing Bruce walk away with Tim and head towards the others, neatly organizing the files placed on Bruce's desk. He just hoped with all his heart you were okay. If Bruce didn't find you soon, it would only be a matter of time before he had to take things into his own hands—and he'd prefer not to do that.

Was there an attempt on their end? Well, yes.

Not only would it look bad for a Wayne to randomly go missing (not that you were popular with the media anyway), but you were still a sibling to them, and Bruce was still a father.

He's messed up a few times here and there, but who hasn't?

“They’ll get over it...” Jason finally acknowledged the elephant in the room later at the dining table. He wasn't eating—no, he had already eaten. He leaned against the wall near the doorway and had his arms crossed, his leather jacket riding up slightly.

Yet his chair wasn't the only chair empty.

Tim glanced at your empty chair. He did try his best to run scans on all of Gotham’s security footage... keyword: tried.

But there was just so much to look at, and he felt like there were bigger fish to fry.

Damian didn't understand how to feel.

He didn't understand why he would be worried about someone so useless like you. You were a messy storm tied by a string that would snap at any second.

The same thread that somehow wove its way into their lives, even if it was unnoticed.

You were in the background for your whole life, but the moment you were removed, something felt wrong.

His thoughts are interrupted when Dick bursts through the entrance, panting heavily as he spoke urgently.

“A... A fire! There's a burning theatre a few miles away, I just got a report!”

Bruce halts, setting his fork down on his dinner plate, nodding swiftly at his children as they nod in return.

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Music plays throughout the theatre, harmonizing with the screams and echoes of the people pushing through like a stampede of wild animals.

The chords are all extended, allowing a jazz-like melody to play through the cacophony of cries and sobs. The structure of the roof fell little by little until the silent sky shone brighter than the flames encasing the building.

Dick pushed through the sea of people, Bruce quickly behind him. Firefighters were on the scene, attempting to subdue the never-ending flame.

Jason ushered people out. Tim and Damian checked exit spots to see if they could spot a culprit.

Smoke rose higher than the violins that gracefully played, the beautiful piano accompanying it like a dance. Tim and Damian moved quickly—efficiently, yet they couldn't find anything.

Underneath the track was a beat reminiscent of bossa nova—a more glaring indicator of its genre, yet wouldn’t be complete without it—drums beating like Dick’s heart as he tried to see if there was anyone still left in the building.

The guitar strummed like a pulsing flame. The bass under the track was pulling everything together, building cohesion, making everything sound smooth.

Unlike how Bruce felt. Unlike the chaos that surrounded him.

A xylophone played a slight countermelody in the background, ever so slightly, but without it, the piece would have felt bland. Jason was struggling to calm everyone down through the chaos. He tried not to yell; he was really trying his best.

The vocals were haunting.

Soft, airy.

Like whispers underneath the moonlight.

A secret best kept hidden.

The music played repeatedly over and over again, the track only a few minutes long, yet it seemed to be on loop the entire time.

It felt familiar to the family.

Like a distant memory.

If they reached out, would they be able to grasp their sense of déjà vu?

Or would it slip through their fingers endlessly, time and time again, over and over again?

Questions were left unanswered, all except one:

You.

When Bruce and Dick had finally reached the auditorium after pushing through a few flames, they saw you.

Standing there, like the distant memory they were chasing after, a vinyl record playing the song near you.

It felt louder now that they were at the origin of the sound.

You stood there quiet, yet smiling. It was unreadable. Bruce couldn't tell what emotion lay behind it.

The fire danced gracefully near you, like a performance.

Soon after, everyone else arrived, confusion etched on their faces, wondering why you were here.

The vocals went silent as the song dwindled down into a soft melody nearing the end of its track.

Jason was the first to move.

The final chord strummed before a horrifying vision overtook all of them:

You, their soft-hearted sibling who would sob themselves to sleep every night, engulfed in the burning flames like a wildfire, the whole stage being burned up as the fire peaked at a new height.

And the song finally laid its last breath.

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The next night afterwards was quiet.

The family all sat at the dinner table, utensils clattering against plates as they ate in silence.

What was there to be said?

At the head sat Bruce. Beside him on the left was Dick, and on the right was Damian. Beside Damian was Tim, and Jason was next to Dick.

Your seat was near the end of the table, and no one sat across from you.

Yet despite all that had happened, your seat was not empty.

There, in your chair, sat you.

Smiling. Dressed to the nines, flawless skin, fashionable jewelry flickering in their eyes.

Gaze so cold and unrelenting. A ruby red heart brooch lay on its chest; its posture straight and perfect.

It sat still, watching them eat. Dick tried not to make eye contact. Jason didn't acknowledge it—he couldn't. Tim felt his appetite being lost. Damian hadn't touched his plate at all.

Bruce sat silent, as he always was, but there was an uncomfortable tension around him.

And you—the other version of you, the one who tormented you endlessly—sat still and watched with its lifeless eyes.

Smiling, waiting.

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can you tell where I got the inspiration from? teehee