#son reader

Peter Parker.

See, Y/n Stark is the type of guy who preferred music and painting to building suits and technology that Tony loved so much, which only seemed to widen the gap between father and son. Tony didn’t seem to have much time for his son but made sure to have lots of time for Peter, who shared Tony's love for technology.

Y/n couldn’t help but feel jealous as he watched his dad always dote on Peter, offering him opportunities and praise that Y/n craved. But he seemed to have little time or patience for his artistic son.

He placed his finished piece on his desk and started putting away his sketching utensils. Just then, he heard a knock on his open door and turned around to see that Steve was standing in the doorway. Y/n smiled when he saw Steve. Besides Tony, Steve was his favorite Avenger. He sometimes acted more of a parent than the one currently in his life and the guys both bonded over their love for drawing.

"Hey, Steve. How was the mission?"

"Tiring. Dealing with rogue mutants can certainly take a toll on me," Steve replied, his eyes suddenly drifting to Y/n's newly crafted sketch, "Nice drawing Y/n. Is this for your end-of-semester art project?"

Y/n nodded his head in confirmation. "Yes, my professor wanted the class to draw something that represents our unique perspective on the world."

"And what perspective is that?"

Y/n paused to think about that question. "I guess... It's my view of the world as an artist. The world is full of life and energy, but there's also darkness and shadows. It's a reminder that beauty and struggles coexist. Nothing can ever change that."

Steve nodded, tracing the bold lines and subtle shading. "That’s an interesting yet accurate perspective. I am proud of you. You’re going to do great things one day."

A small smile appeared on Y/n’s face. He may not have gotten his dad’s praise, but he was happy that someone praised his artistic abilities and told him that he was proud of him. It warmed his heart.

"Thank you. That means a lot to me."

"You’re welcome. By the way, we’re having a group dinner tonight. We’ll be having lasagna, so bring your appetite."

Y/n grinned. He loved the soldier's cooking, especially when it was a dinner meal. It was so much better than eating takeout. "Oh, I'll be there, and y'all better hope that it all doesn’t get eaten by me."

Steve laughed before pivoting on his heel and leaving. Y/n watched as the soldier's retreating figure disappeared down the hall before turning back to his sketch, contentment washing over him.

As Y/n admired his work, his thoughts drifted back to his father. He knew that Tony loved him in his own way, but their relationship had always been strained. Tony’s focus on technology and his busy lifestyle, along with mentoring Peter, left little room for the two to hang out or for Tony to understand Y/n's passion for art.

But now, Y/n was determined to fix their relationship. After all, he lost his mother over a decade ago, and his father was the only blood family that he had left. He didn’t want their relationship to continue to be strained, and if Tony could make room for Peter in his life, then he could make some room for his biological son.

With that thought in mind, the e/c-eyed male headed to the private elevator that would take him to Tony’s workshop. And as he rounded the corner, he bumped into Rhodey, whom Y/n often looked up to as well. They greeted each other with their signature handshake that was only made for them two before Rhodey took off, explaining that he had a meeting to attend with a council member, and Y/n continued his journey to the workshop.

When he arrived at Tony's workshop, he saw his father standing next to his work bench, typing on his phone. Behind Tony, there was his Iron Man suit, opened up. Y/n figured that he just stepped out of it.

"Hey, Dad." Y/n greeted politely, crossing the room to give Tony a one-armed hug.

Surprisingly, Y/n's father did reciprocate the hug but didn’t even bother to look up at his son when he greeted him. He just kept his brown eyes glued to the phone in his hand. "Y/n. How was your day?"

"It was good. Classes were pretty light today, and I mostly just worked on my end-of-the-semester project for art class." Y/n explained, hoping that Tony would ask him more follow-up questions, such as what piece Y/n decided to draw or if he could see the work for himself. However, all Tony gave was a curt nod, still typing on that phone of his. So, Y/n cleared his throat and switched topics: "Dad, do you want to hang out this Saturday? There’s this art showing at the museum, and—"

"An art showing?" Tony finally looked up from his phone, his eyes flicking briefly to his son’s face before returning to the screen. "Sorry, kid, but I have meetings this Saturday. Besides, I’d rather watch paint dry than look at old paintings. You know that I’m more of a technology and engineering kind of guy than an art one."

Y/n's shoulders drooped, and he tried to hide the disappointment he felt. "Yeah, I know. I just thought maybe you’d want to spend some time together. It’s been a minute since we did something like that."

Tony seemed oblivious to Y/n's reaction, continuing to tap away at his phone. "Well, we’ve been busy. You're busy with college, and I'm busy with SI and saving the world, two full-time jobs for me," he put his phone down on the desk, finally giving Y/n his full attention. "But you’re right, we haven’t hung out in a long time. How about we go see that new Outlast movie that’s coming out next weekend?"

Y/n nodded, a small smile coming onto his face. Even though it wasn’t what he wanted to do, he was just happy to have some father-son time with his dad. And more importantly, it was without Peter.

"That sounds good to me. I can’t wait."

Y/n turned around and prepared to leave the room, excitement fluttering in his chest, just as Tony got a phone call from Peter. Y/n stood there for a moment and listened to how Tony asked Peter when he would be coming over and that Tony cleared the rest of his schedule today to help Peter with his last semester project.

The h/c-haired son frowned, feeling the excitement he felt a couple seconds ago disappear and the raw disappointment return. So, Tony can clear his schedule for Peter and make time for him, but he can't make time for his biological son?

It was ridiculous.

But Y/n had to remind himself that it was okay. Peter could have that time with his father all he wanted to today because next weekend, the two Starks would be spending some time together.

Feeling satisfied, Y/n left the workshop and returned to his room. It turned out that he had two things to look forward to: lasagna and the movies next week.

He couldn’t wait.

XXXXX XXXXX

The days passed slowly, but finally, the long-awaited Saturday finally arrived. It was the day of the planned outing with Y/n and his father, a day Y/n had been looking forward to. He hoped this would be a turning point in their relationship, a chance to bridge the gap that seemed to widen between them every passing day.

Now, he was getting ready in his room, choosing a casual outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. He knew that, even though it was April, the weather was rather cool with it being sixty-five degrees outside. That made him add a blue jacket to his outfit.

After checking himself out in the mirror, he walked down the hall to the common area, where Tony had told him to meet. As he walked down the hall, he hoped that the horror movie they were going to see would be good. The trailer did look promising but they can also be deceitful.

Y/n rounded the corner and entered the common area, where the Avengers were watching a movie and enjoying a spread of pizzas, popcorn, nachos, and cheese fries. Thor was the only one who wasn’t here since he went to Asgard for a few days. He noticed they were watching the first "Back to the Future," a classic Steve had promised to watch at the next team movie night after Y/n discovered that he had never seen that movie series before.

Guess he finally listened, Y/n thought as he looked around the room and noticed something that he had failed to notice.

His dad was nowhere to be found.

"Hey, has anyone seen my dad?" Y/n asked, looking over the team of heroes.

"Yeah, he left. You just missed him too." Clint answered, his fingers reaching into the popcorn bowl that was in his lap and shoving some popcorn into his mouth.

Y/n frowned. What? "Left? Left where?"

"He said that he was taking Peter to the science fair." Steve munched on a pizza.

The college student's heart sank and his shoulders sagged, feeling disappointed. So, his father had forgotten about their plans. Again. And it was for Peter. Again.

"Oh," was all Y/n could manage to utter. He knew that he should be used to this, but it still stung every time it happened.

Natasha, sensing the disappointment in Y/n's timbre, glanced over at him. "You didn't know he was going out with Peter."

That was a statement, not a question. Natasha had always been perceptive.

"No, no, I did," Y/n backpedaled, forcing a grin. He didn't understand why he was protecting his father, but he just wanted this conversation to end. "I just forgot, but you telling me made me remember."

Y/n knew he was a terrible liar, and he didn't sound convincing. He knew they didn't believe him, considering Steve's frown, Bruce's concerned look, and the looks shared between Clint and Natasha.

Bruce grabbed the remote and paused the movie. "Look, why don't you join us, Y/n? You can finish the movie with us."

"Yeah, come on, Y/n!" Sam piped up. "We've got plenty of food, and we were just about to start a game of charades."

Y/n glanced at the team of superheroes. While he appreciated their invitation, he had been looking forward to spending time with his dad, so he shook his head but still kept the forced smile on his features. "Thank you guys, but I think I'll just head back to my room. Next time."

The h/c-haired male turned around and left the main area, frustration nagging at his insides. When he got to his room, he flopped down on his bed, back pressed against it as he stared up at the ceiling.

He didn’t understand.

Why did Tony continue to treat him as an afterthought? And what the hell was so damn special about Peter? Why did he always have to be the recipient of his father’s love? He couldn’t help but feel like he was always playing second fiddle to the guy who was two years younger than him. It was ridiculous to be jealous of someone younger than him, but Y/n couldn’t help himself. It hurt so much that his father favored Peter over him.

Y/n pulled out his phone, intending to call his dad when he got a notification from Instagram that his dad had posted a pic. He clicked on it and found himself staring at an image of his dad with Peter.

The caption read: Peter will take over my company someday. #prouddadmoment.

Proud dad moment...?

Peter wasn’t even his actual son and Y/n couldn’t stand the way his dad looked at Peter with such praise. What can I do to make him look at me like that one time?

And before Y/n knew it, his cheeks were pelted with water, and he just realized at that moment that he was crying. The tears fell to his cheeks before dropping onto the bed, but Y/n wiped his cheeks angrily since he shouldn’t allow this to make him sad. But it was so hard not to.

His e/c eyes drifted to the photo that was on his side table. He reached for it and picked it up. It was a photo of his mom. Y/n allowed his finger to run over his mom’s smiling face in the picture. It’s times like this when he wishes that she was still alive. At least then, he’d have a parent in his life who cared about him.

Suddenly, a knock came from his door.

"Come in," Y/n called out, setting down the photo back on his desk. He wished that it was his father knocking on the door, but he wasn't surprised when the door opened, and it wasn't him. It was Steve. "Hi, Steve. Did you like the movie?"

Steve nodded, taking a seat on the bed. "I did. It was a great eighties film. I can see why you love it so much." Steve then changed the conversation. "You okay?"

Y/n nodded. He knew he wasn't okay, but he didn't want to ruin Steve's evening with his problem. "I'm fine. Shouldn't you be playing charades with everyone else?"

The soldier disregarded the question and simply stared at Y/n for a moment, seemingly sensing that he wasn’t telling the truth. "Hey, why don't we grab some dessert? I know a great ice cream shop."

Y/n hesitated briefly. He didn't want to be a burden to Steve, but he also didn't want to spend his evening in his room.

"That sounds nice, thanks." Y/n smiled and followed the soldier out of the door.

Steve drove them to a small ice cream parlor that was tucked away in the city on his motorcycle, a vehicle that Y/n had never expected to get on willingly. Steve got the classic chocolate sundae, while Y/n got a vanilla sundae with chocolate syrup, sprinkles, and a cherry on top.

They then went to the park to watch the beautiful sunset and enjoy their sundae. The sun, a fiery orb of warmth and light, dipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky with two shades of orange and pink.

Y/n and Steve watched the breathtaking scene in comfortable silence. The park was lively with kids playing, the distance hum of cars, and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. Y/n's vanilla sundae sat untouched. His mind was elsewhere, consumed by the disappointment and hurt he felt over Tony's absence. Steve, on the other hand, enjoyed his chocolate sundae, taking slow, deliberate bites of it.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" The super soldier broke the silence, his eyes shifting over.

"Yup," Y/n murmured, his e/c eyes taking in the stunning view. "It's like a painting."

Steve smiled, nodding his head in agreement. He then spoke again, his voice deadly serious. "So, what's going on? You've seemed a little down lately."

Y/n let out a sigh, knowing there was no point in lying to Steve. "It's my dad. I just feel like he always puts Peter first. It's like I'm not even his real son sometimes."

The blonde's expression softened, and he placed a comforting hand on Y/n's shoulder. "I know it's tough, but try not to take it personally. Your dad has a unique relationship with Peter, but that doesn't diminish his love for you. You're his son."

He sighed again, "I know but it's hard not to feel overshadowed sometimes. Peter gets all the attention, and I'm just... here."

"Your dad may not always show it, but he's proud of you, Y/n," Steve assured him. "And I know that he loves you very much. Sometimes, parents just need a little reminder that their kids need them."

Y/n nodded, but he couldn't help feeling skeptical. After all, actions spoke louder than words, and Tony's actions indicated that he loved Peter more than him. Like Y/n would always come second to Peter.

But he didn't feel like dwelling on Tony's absence anymore. Instead, he turned his attention back to the sunset, watching as the last sliver of the sun disappeared behind the horizon. The sky grew darker, the colors of the sunset fading into the twilight. He didn't get the opportunity to spend the evening with his father as he planned, but at least he had spent it with someone who cared about him deeply.

And that made him smile.

XXXXX XXXXX

The next morning, Y/n found himself in the kitchen, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. The events of the previous day still weighed heavily on his mind, leaving a bitter taste that even the strongest brew couldn't mask. He wanted to confront his dad about his behavior, but at the same time, he didn't want to talk to him after what happened.

As he added a dash of sugar to his cup, the familiar clanking of Tony's footsteps drew closer. He saw his father enter the kitchen, but Y/n leaned against the counter, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the windows. He deliberately avoided greeting his dad as he would usually do.

"Morning, Y/n," Tony greeted politely, but Y/n remained quiet, his back still turned. Feeling perplexed by the cold shoulder, Tony frowned. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Y/n replied, voice low and dismissive as he finished his coffee and placed the cup in the sink.

Y/n moved forward, attempting to leave the kitchen, but Tony stepped in front of him, unsatisfied with the response. "I'm your father. It's my job to be concerned."

Y/n's laughter rang out, harsh and bitter as if Tony had just told him a funny joke. "That is quite ironic coming from you."

The frown on Tony's features deepened. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Y/n's voice was quiet, "that lately, you've been anything but a father to me. But I can't say the same for Peter tho. You literally drop everything for him, but you can't even remember our plans."

Tony took a step forward, his tone rising defensively. "That's not true, Y/n. I do my best to be there for both of you. I juggle a lot, but I make time for you when I can."

Y/n's gaze didn't waver and he cocked his head to the side. "You make time for me? Then where were you last evening?"

"I took Peter to the science fair."

"Even though we had plans to go to the movies?" The younger man pointed out.

Tony's eyebrows furrowed as realization dawned, shame washing over his face. "I'm sorry, Y/n. I know we had plans, but Peter needed me. I couldn't leave him."

The two Starks were so busy arguing that neither of them noticed a stealthy figure that managed to infiltrate the compound, temporarily disable Friday, and had a knockout device in their hand. 

"Peter needed you?" Y/n shook his head, his voice thick with hurt. Why did he forget about me? "What about what I need? You're my dad, not his. I need you."

Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You have me every day, Y/n. Don't you see that I am always here for you?"

"Are you, Dad?!" Y/n's voice rose to a shout. "When was the last time we spent quality time together, just the two of us? When was the last time you and I had a real conversation that wasn't about your work or Peter? When was the last time you asked about what's going on in my life? You probably don't even know that my birthday is in two days. I'll be turning twenty-three, by the way. You don't know that one of my art pieces was presented at the museum you found too boring to visit. And you don't know that I made the Dean's List in school for the third year in a row!" Y/n's voice dropped to a whisper, but the words still stung like acid. "Mom would never treat me the way you do."

Tony flinched as if struck, his eyes widening at the mention of Y/n's mother. The weight of his son's words hit him like a physical blow, and he opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the room began to fill with a thick fog.

Y/n noticed it too, confusion clouding his face. But as more of the mysterious substance was released into the air, he dropped to his knees, his vision blurring. Tony staggered and slumped against the kitchen counter, his eyes falling shut.

And then, everything went dark. The gas in the room caused both father and son to collapse, slumping to the floor hard.

Later, once Y/n regained consciousness, his head pounded as he tried to piece together what happened. The last thing he remembered was the argument with Tony in the kitchen, and then everything went dark. But now, he found himself in an unfamiliar room, dimly lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were made of rough concrete, and the floor was cold and hard beneath him.

"Y/n? Can you hear me?" Tony's voice, filled with concern, reached him, and he turned to see his father hovering nearby.

"Dad?" Y/n's throat was dry and scratchy as he tried to sit up, but dizziness forced him to lay back down. It's overwhelming.

Tony helped Y/n into a seated position against the concrete wall. "Easy there."

Y/n looked around. "Where are we?" 

"I'm not sure," Tony admitted, his gaze scanning the room for any clues. "But it appears that we have been kidnapped." 

Y/n's heart pounded in his chest as the reality of their situation sank in. Oh crap. He couldn't believe that they were in this predicament, but he didn’t know why he was completely surprised. Since he was a Stark, people have always attempted to kidnap him since the day he was born, but this was the first time someone had successfully managed to kidnap him. 

And he couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow his fault. If only he hadn't argued with his dad, they wouldn't have been distracted when their captor struck.

"I'm sorry, Y/n," Tony apologized, his eyes filled with remorse, and Y/n was slightly taken aback because he hadn’t been expecting that. "I should have been there for you more. I let my work and my relationship with Peter overshadow our bond. That was wrong of me to do that."

Y/n eyes drifted to his hands, clasped in his lap. "You know, it hurt every time you chose Peter over me," he admitted, his voice quiet. "I don't understand why you always favor him. Why is everything he does amazing, but when it comes to me, you're never satisfied? Was it something that I did wrong? Or didn't do? Because I can change if it means you'll love me."

Tony shook his head vigorously, moving closer to his son. "No, Y/n. I don't want you to change for anyone, especially not for me. I can admit that I haven't always handled things perfectly. Peter reminds me of myself at his age, and sometimes I get caught up in my own nostalgia. But that doesn't mean I love you any less, Y/n. You're my son. I'd do anything for you."

Y/n's heart swelled at his father's words. He forgave Tony the moment the words "I'm sorry" exited his lips. Y/n had never been one to hold grudges, and now that Tony had acknowledged his mistakes, he hoped that they could finally move forward and rebuild their relationship.

Y/n wrapped his arms around Tony, who reciprocated the gesture. "I just want to spend more time with you," he muttered. "You know, do all that father-son stuff."

"And we will," Tony promised, pulling away. "As soon as we get out of here, I'll clear my schedule for the next month. We can go to the Bahamas. The water is beautiful, and I know they have amazing art exhibits there. It can be my birthday present to you. It'll be just the two of us."

It was impossible for Y/n to refrain from allowing the corners of his mouth to curl upward into a smile. He experienced a sense of optimism for the first time in a long time. As he looked into his father's eyes, he was certain that he would fulfill his promise. Y/n couldn't help but feel like a ten-year-old on Christmas morning.

"I'd like that, but how are we going to get out of here?" That was the big question.

Tony smirked. "Leave that to my team."

He informed Y/n through sign language that he had a secret tracker implanted in his watch, which had been confiscated. The Avengers were aware of the tracker, so it wouldn't be long before they arrived.

And then, as if on cue, the door to the room they were in flew off its hinges by a man getting thrown through it. Then, Steve walked into the room, dressed in his Captain America outfit. Steve threw his shield at the cell the Starks were in, allowing the two men to finally escape.

"Tony, Y/n, are you guys okay?" Steve walked over to them and started looking for signs of harm or injuries of any kind, but was relieved that he didn’t find one. 

"Just peachy," Tony assured the blonde, grabbing his watch from a nearby table and taking Y/n's arm. They rushed out of the building, with Steve leading the way.

As the three made their way out, Y/n heard the sounds of gunfire, screaming, and growling echoing in the air. The Hulk was in full force, dismantling one of the kidnappers, while the other Avengers fought alongside him. Steve sprang back into action, and Tony transformed his watch into an Iron Man glove, joining the fighting. Even Spider-Man was there, taking out multiple opponents with ease.

But in the chaos, Y/n spotted a gunman aiming at Spider-Man from a distance. Acting without hesitation, he pushed Spider-Man out of the way, taking the bullet meant for him. The gunshot tore through Y/n's stomach, and he fell to the ground, eyes widening in shock and pain.

Tony had just fired a beam of light from his repulsor, sending the man flying into the nearby truck. But as he did, he heard the crack of a gunshot. He looked over to see where the shot had come from.

And his heart dropped to his stomach.

Y/n had been shot.

The bullet had pierced Y/n’s stomach, and blood was already soaking through his shirt, dripping onto the ground below.

"No, Y/n!" Tony screamed, running over as Steve hurled his shield at the shooter. Tony caught Y/n just as he began to fall, blood seeping through Tony's fingers as he peeled off his jacket and pressed it against the wound. Y/n trembled in his arms, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

"D-Dad."

"I know, I know, it's going to be okay," he whispered, his voice thick and his eyes shone with unshed tears. "You're going to be okay, I promise." His jaw clenched as he peered over at his teammates who had finally finished their fight and were rushing over. "Get us to a hospital, now!"

They didn't need to be told twice. Steve moved forward and quickly helped Tony carry Y/n to the Quinjet, with the other Avengers following closely behind them. Once inside, Natasha took her place in the pilot seat and Clint sat in the co-pilot seat next to her. Natasha quickly turned on the controls and maneuvered the jet into the air above, racing to the hospital.

The Quinjet soared through the sky, the city a blur below. Inside, the atmosphere was filled with worry. Everyone watched as Iron Man tried to help his injured son. Tony refused to let go of Y/n, his hands shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding, mind racing with fear and desperation. He had faced countless dangers as Iron Man, but nothing compared to the fear he felt at the thought of losing his son. 

Finally, the Quinjet landed on the rooftop helipad of Metro-General Hospital, and Steve and Bruce rushed out, carrying Y/n on a stretcher. Tony was right beside him, keeping his hands clasped in Y/n’s. 

"We need a doctor, now!" Tony shouted as they burst through the hospital doors.

Immediately, a group of two doctors and two nurses came over, taking over Y/n's care and wheeling him away. And Tony was beside them, still holding his hand.

"What happened?" One of them asked.

"Some idiot shot him," Tony explained. 

The medical team wheeled Y/n into the operating room fast. The female nurse commented how Y/n had a weak pulse rate as the group of medical specialists lifted him onto the bed. Tony held onto his hands, tears welling up in his eyes. 

The male doctor assessed the situation, noticing a smaller entry wound in Y/n’s upper right back and a larger exit wound in his abdomen. "Lungs failing," he said, his voice steady but grave. "Start an I.V. — two units of O, stat." The female nurse hurried off to fulfill the order. The female doctor asked for adrenalin, and the male nurse rushed to comply with the request.

Tony stood by his son's side, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched the doctor's work. He couldn't remember a time he prayed, but he found himself silently pleading with any higher power that might be listening to spare his son's life. "Hang in there, son," he whispered.

Y/n struggled to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t think I’ll make it. Guess I’ll be seeing my Mom soon…"

The billionaire's heart broke a little more. "Don't you dare die on me." Tony's voice was borderline pleading, begging for his son not to leave him. He has to survive.

But as the doctors worked frantically to save Y/n's life, his condition continued to deteriorate, his grip on Tony's hand weakening. "Dad," Y/n whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm so cold."

Hearing this, Tony couldn't hold back his tears, which fell onto his son's hand. "I-I-I can't feel my legs," he continued, making Tony feel an enormous sense of dread and despair. He wanted to leave, unable to continue witnessing his greatest fear unfolding before his eyes. However, Y/n gripped Tony's hand tightly. "D-Don't go." Their eyes met, and Y/n let out a gasp before managing to utter three words.

"I love you."

The heart monitor's steady beep began to slow, then faltered, finally falling silent as Y/n slipped into full arrest. Tony cried out, "Oh god." His hand clamped over his mouth as he watched his son flatlined.

"Full arrest. Paddles!" The male doctor shouted, and the female doctor brought over the paddle machine. Tony stepped back as he witnessed the scene unfold. The lady squirted gel on a paddle, and the male rubbed them together. "Clear!" He yelled and used the paddles on Y/n. 

But it didn't work.

"Recharge," he barked, and she obeyed. "Clear!" He used the paddles once again.

Still, Y/n’s heart did not respond and the heart monitor remained silent. His grip fully weakened in Tony’s hand, and his eyes remained unmoving. Sadly, it was officially. Y/n, son of the billionaire, was dead. The male doctor looked at Tony with a mix of sympathy and sadness.

"I’m so sorry," the male doctor voiced. 

And, just like that, Tony Stark broke. 

He leaned over Y/n, his body heavy with grief, tears streaming down his face as he clutched his son's lifeless hand. The pain in his chest was unbearable as if his own heart had stopped beating. He couldn't believe his only child was gone.

Now, he would never witness his son's college graduation, celebrate another birthday, see him walk down the aisle, or become a dad himself. Y/n was gone, and Tony would never see his son again.

And Tony felt like he had died too.

His sobs echoed through the hospital room, a sound so full of anger and pain that it seemed to pierce the very air. The doctors and nurses quietly left the room, deciding to let the genius grieve alone.

"Y/n," he choked out, his voice breaking on his son's name. "Please... come back. I can't… I can't live life without you here."

But he knew that his son wasn't coming back, no matter how much he'd beg for it. That thought was unimaginable, a nightmare from which he couldn't wake.

He had failed his son, failed to keep him safe, and now, Tony was forced to face a world without the h/c haired male in it. 

It was bad enough that the genius had been such a shitty dad to choose Peter over Y/n, but now he wouldn’t be able to show Y/n that he was fully committed to changing, to being the dad Y/n deserved.

That made his sobs grow louder.

The Avengers entered the room, their faces etched with sorrow. Each of them had faced countless battles, but nothing could have prepared them for the pain of watching one of their own lose a child.

Steve placed a hand on Tony's shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort for his friend. He knew that no words could ease the pain of such a loss, but he hoped that his presence would offer some solace. He took a moment to say a silent prayer for the man who was like a son to him.

Natasha's stoic expression cracked, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She had seen death countless times in her work, but this — this was different. This was one of their own, a part of their family.

Sam also couldn't hold back his tears. His vision blurred, and he wiped them away, not wanting to add to Tony's pain. But the pain was there, a dull ache in his chest that echoed the grief of his friend.

Clint had to look away, his jaw clenched. He had lost people before, but this was different. This was a young man, full of life, who left this cruel world too soon.

Bruce stood with his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes were downcast, but there was a hint of green in his eyes. He couldn't imagine the pain of losing a child, especially someone so wonderful. 

Peter was the most visibly shaken and he felt somewhat responsible. If he had been more aware of his surroundings and saw the hidden shooter, then Y/n wouldn't have taken the bullet for him.

Parents shouldn’t have to bury their child, but Tony was going to bury his.

Tony's fingers trembled as he closed Y/n's eyes. "I’m sorry, son," his voice was a broken whisper. "I love you so, so much."

For Y/n, the light had gone out. For Tony, the darkness has never felt so complete.

The air in your cell was always the same - sterile, chilled, and utterly still, a stark contrast to the tempest of thought and power that swirled within you. It was a prison designed not just to hold a body, but to cage a mind, a gilded birdcage paid for by the United States government to keep your mother, the legendary Edna Mode, in check. They feared what she might create if she were truly unshackled, and they knew the one chain she would never break was the one connected to you.

Your gaze drifted from the sleek, minimalist sketches in your hand to the woman on the other side of the impregnable glass. She was, as always, a vision of severe elegance, her black bob sharp enough to cut, her large glasses reflecting the soft glow of the cell's lighting. She was studying your drawings, her expression one of intense, professional scrutiny.

"How should I make the skirts, Mama?" you asked, your voice a low, smooth baritone that never seemed to rise in volume, yet carried perfectly in the acoustically-tuned room. You leaned a shoulder against the cool, transparent wall, the gesture casual, but your mind was calculating the tensile strength of the polymer, the frequency of the energy field humming within it, the precise amount of gravitational force it would take to shatter it into a million glittering pieces. You did not, because she was here.

You tapped the glass with a fingernail, drawing her attention to a specific sketch. "From the magazines you've brought, the fashion wants pencil-thin skirts. Constrictive. A cage for the legs." A faint, ironic smile touched your lips. "But I feel it's too cliché, don't you think? A silhouette born from post-war anxiety, a desire for control. It lacks... flair. It lacks the freedom of movement you so champion."

Your mother’s eyes, magnified by her glasses, flicked from the sketch to your face. There was a profound, aching love in that gaze, a love that was both your greatest comfort and your most effective prison. They had taken you during the war, when your powers of gravitic manipulation had first manifested not as simple flight, but as the ability to crush battleships into spheres of scrap metal. They saw a weapon. They saw an "Evil" genius. They saw the son of the woman who was, even then, single-handedly architecting the age of heroes with her designs. To control her, they caged you.

And she visited. Every week. Bringing you books, magazines, scientific journals, and fabric swatches. These design sessions were your lifeline, the one thing that kept the yawning abyss of madness at bay.

"Pencil skirts are for secretaries and politicians, mein sohn," Edna replied, her voice crisp. "For civilians. For capsules!" She spat the last word with her trademark disdain. "We do not follow fashion. We define it." She leaned closer, her voice dropping, becoming conspiratorial. "The waist, you have it here, high. Excellent. It speaks to a classical form. But the skirt... imagine it not as a tube, but as a series of overlapping panels. Like the petals of a flower, or the plates of armor. They lay flat when stationary, but with movement..." she made a graceful, unfolding gesture with her hands, "they open. They breathe. They allow for a kick, a leap, a sudden pivot. It is a contradiction—elegance and utility in one."

Your mind ignited, the gravitational field in your cell subtly fluctuating as your concentration deepened. The air grew heavier, the light seeming to bend slightly towards you. "Yes," you breathed, your pencil flying across a fresh sheet of paper. "Articulated panels. A hidden flexibility. A secret power." You thought of your own, the invisible force that you could wield to make a feather fall like a hammer or a tank float like a dandelion seed. "It is a lie that tells the truth."

A shadow passed behind Edna's eyes then, a ghost of a memory you both shared. You knew she saw him in you—not just her son, but the father of the little girl she sometimes, carefully, spoke of. Violet. Your Violet. Conceived in a stolen moment of passion with a heroine who could phase through walls, a woman who understood what it was to be intangible in a world of solid, unyielding things. A woman Syntro's robots had torn from this world before she could even hold her daughter. Your daughter. Given to Bob Parr and his wife to raise, to keep her safe, to keep her from ending up in a cage like her father.

Edna's visits were her penance and her solace. In designing these impossible, forward-thinking fashions with you, she was connecting with the mind she so admired. And in her eyes, when she looked at the pictures of the Parr family she discreetly provided, you saw the truth. She doted on Jack-Jack not just for his own burgeoning, chaotic talents, but because in his fiery red hair and limitless potential, she saw the echo of her own brilliant, lost boy. She was trying to fill the chasm you had left in her life.

You finished the new sketch, holding it up. The skirt was a masterpiece of implied motion, a work of art that was also a blueprint for a battle-suit. "For the next generation, Mama," you said softly, your voice thick with an emotion you usually kept locked down as tight as your cell.

Edna Mode looked at the design, then at you, her son. The genius. The gravity-well. The father. The prisoner.

"Ja," she whispered, a single, perfect tear tracing a path down her powdered cheek before she swiftly wiped it away. "No capes. But for this... for this, we make an exception." It was a joke, and it wasn't. It was a promise. A memory. A shared dream of a world that had labeled them both, in their own ways, monsters, and in doing so, had failed to see the beauty they could create together.

"How's she mama?" You ask tentatively

The air in the cell, always so sterile and still, seemed to grow heavier with your question. The creative energy that had just crackled between you, shaping the future of fashion and function, dissipated, replaced by something more fragile, more raw.

Edna did not startle. She was a woman who anticipated everything. But the line of her shoulders, usually pulled back with impeccable posture, softened almost imperceptibly. Her gaze, which had been fixed on the revolutionary skirt design, drifted downward to the small, locked portfolio she always carried.

There was a long pause, filled only by the nearly inaudible hum of the containment field. You could feel the gravity in the room wanting to respond to the ache in your chest, a subtle pull towards a center of pain you kept tightly leashed.

"How's she, Mama?" you asked again, your voice softer, the smooth baritone now laced with a vulnerability you reserved only for this topic.

Edna’s fingers, usually so decisive and sharp in their movements, trembled slightly as she unclasped the portfolio. She didn't look at you immediately, instead studying the contents as if seeking guidance.

"She... thrives," Edna began, her voice carefully modulated, each word a deliberate brick laid in a wall to hold back a tide of emotion. "The Parrs. They are... adequate. They provide a stability that is... beneficial."

She slid a single, pristine photograph through the narrow, shielded slot at the base of the glass used for passing documents. Your hand, which could manipulate the fundamental forces of the universe, trembled as you reached for it.

It was her. Violet.

She was older than in the last photo. Her hair, the same dark, sleek shade as her mother's, was longer. She wasn't looking at the camera, but rather down at a book, a faint, serious frown on her lips. She was sitting on a sofa, tucked into a corner, one knee drawn up to her chin. The very picture of adolescent introversion.

"You see the posture," Edna murmured, her voice gaining a sliver of its usual analytical strength. "The withdrawn nature. It is a defense mechanism. She feels... different. Of course, she is. But they treat it as a social awkwardness, not a... potential."

You traced the outline of her face on the cool surface of the photograph. Your daughter. A girl who could make light bend and solid matter intangible, being raised by a man whose greatest power was his physical strength. The irony was a bitter pill.

"Has she...?" you couldn't finish the question. Has she shown any signs? Any of her mother's phasing? Any of my... gravity?

"Nothing overt," Edna said, anticipating you as always. "But there are... anomalies. Objects that seem to fall around her when she is distressed. A strange shimmer in the air when she feels cornered. It is subtle. The Parrs are too... normal to see it for what it is."

There was a hint of her old contempt for the mundane in that word, "normal." It was the same tone she used for "capsules."

"She is safe," you stated, needing the confirmation more than the air you breathed.

"She is safe," Edna affirmed, her gaze finally meeting yours through the glass. In her eyes, you saw the complex, painful truth. She was ensuring Violet's safety, not just from the world, but from *this*. From a life behind glass. She was giving her the normal childhood you were denied, the childhood she now tried to replicate in fragments with Jack-Jack.

You looked back at the photo, at the girl who was the living, breathing ghost of the love you had lost.

"Good," you whispered, the word heavy with a grief that had its own gravitational pull. You placed the photograph carefully beside your sketch of the armored skirt—two different kinds of designs, both born from a love that was powerful enough to shape the world, and painful enough to shatter it.

"I can't take it anymore mama...the heros are being accepted by the society once more! can't I leave this wretched place? it has been 15 years!"

The silence that followed your outburst was more profound than any you had ever felt. The hum of the containment field seemed to swallow the very echo of your words. The photograph of Violet felt suddenly heavy in your hand, a token of a life lived just beyond the glass.

Edna Mode went perfectly still. For a moment, she was not a legendary designer, not a retired force of nature, but simply a mother, her heart breaking in sterile, government-issue lighting. The sharp lines of her face seemed to soften, the armor of her composure cracking.

"Fifteen years..." you repeated, the number a lead weight in your stomach. Your voice, usually so controlled, was frayed, the smooth baritone cracking under the strain of a decade and a half of confinement. "They parade them on television now. The Omnidroid, Syndrome... it's all forgiven. The world needs its heroes again. But they leave me in here." You slammed a palm flat against the glass. It didn't reverberate; it was designed not to. It absorbed the impact, and the sound, with insulting efficiency. "I am not a villain. I never was. I was a precaution. A bargaining chip to keep you in line."

You watched her, your chest heaving. The gravitational field in your cell reacted to your anguish. The discarded sketches on your small desk lifted, floating in a slow, mournful orbit around your body. The light bent, warping around you in a visible shimmer.

"Mein sohn," Edna whispered. The words were not a reprimand. They were a plea.

"Do not 'my son' me, Mama!" you snapped, the pain turning to a sharp, desperate anger. "You designed for gods! You built suits that could withstand volcanoes and nullify lasers! You see the future in a spool of thread! Look at this place!" You gestured wildly at the pristine, soulless cell. "You could get me out. You *know* you could. A frequency modulator to disrupt the field. A phased polymer cutter. You could build it in an afternoon from scraps in your workshop!"

Tears, hot and shameful, finally welled in your eyes. You were a man who could conceptualize the curvature of spacetime, yet you were powerless against a few inches of engineered material. The irony was a constant, gnawing torture.

"I see her," you choked out, holding up Violet's picture. "I see her growing up in a world that would call her a monster if they knew. A world I could help shape! I could protect her! Not from a prison cell!"

Edna removed her glasses, a rare and profound gesture. She polished the lenses with a silk cloth from her pocket, her movements slow, deliberate, giving herself time. When she replaced them, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry.

"Do you think," she began, her voice low and dangerously calm, "that I have not run the calculations? That I have not drafted a hundred designs for your freedom? A suit to negate their sensors. A device to mask your unique gravitational signature."

She took a single, sharp step forward, pressing her own palm against the glass, mirroring yours.

"And do you think," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper you had to strain to hear, "that the moment you take one step outside this facility, the 'precaution' becomes active? They do not have one file on you, they have thousands. Contingencies. The moment you are deemed 'loose', the order is given. Not for you."

Her eyes, magnified and deadly serious, locked with yours.

"For her. For Violet. An 'accident'. A tragic gas leak in the Parr household. An unexplained illness. They showed me the files, mein sohn. To ensure my continued... cooperation."

The breath left your lungs. The floating sketches fluttered to the floor as your control shattered. The world outside the glass, the world of heroes and acceptance, twisted into a gilded cage far more terrifying than your own. Your freedom was not just your own. It was a sword hanging over your daughter's head.

You slid down the glass, your back to it, the fight draining out of you to be replaced by a cold, bottomless despair. You were not just a prisoner of the government. You were a prisoner of a love so vast it required your eternal sacrifice.

You heard a soft rustle as Edna slid down to sit on the other side, her back to yours, only the cold, unyielding polymer between you.

"I know," was all she said, her voice thick with a shared, impossible grief. "I know."

"I just want to hold the memory of my love, my daughter...just once...I am sure she thinks that brute of a man is her father"

The words hung in the air, thicker and heavier than the containment field itself. They were not shouted in anger, but whispered into the space between your back and the glass, a confession of a pain so profound it had no volume. The fight was gone, leaving only the raw, aching truth.

On the other side, you felt Edna shift, her small frame settling more firmly against the glass, a phantom pressure against your spine. The silence was different now—not charged, but shared, a mutual mourning.

"That... brute," Edna's voice came through, laced with a venom so pure it was almost a comfort, "provides a roof. He provides a name. He provides the illusion of normalcy that keeps her safe from the vultures who would dissect her genius, her potential, just as they dissected her father's."

You closed your eyes, the image of Bob Parr—all blustering strength and simple morality—flashing in your mind. A good man. A painfully, infuriatingly good man. He would never understand the subtle calculus of gravitic fields, the beautiful complexity of a mind that could see the stress points in a building or a social construct with equal clarity. He would see a daughter who was shy, not a daughter who was powerful enough to make the world itself ignore her.

"He tucks her in at night," you whispered, the words tasting like ash. "He tells her everything will be alright. He gets to see her frown at her homework, to hear her laugh..." Your voice broke. "He gets to be the one she calls 'Dad'. And I... I get quarterly photographs and a lifetime of silence."

The injustice of it was a physical weight on your chest, a gravity well of your own making, pulling everything inward toward a crushing point of sorrow.

"You hold her every time you draw," Edna said, her voice softening, becoming the one you remembered from a childhood spent surrounded by blueprints and marvels. "You hold her in the lines of your designs. You see her mother's grace in the drape of a conceptual gown, her potential for power in the articulation of a hidden seam. The Parr man gives her a present. You... you are designing her future. The world she will one day inherit."

She paused, and you could almost hear the careful editing in her mind, choosing which truths to wield as a balm and which to keep sheathed.

"And she does not think he is her father," Edna stated, her tone becoming analytical, definitive. "Not in the way you mean. A child knows. On a level that has nothing to do with facts. She feels the absence. She feels the silence where another voice, another presence, should be. It is why she hides in the corners. It is why she creates her own shields, long before her powers ever manifest. She is waiting for the missing piece."

A single, hot tear traced a path down your temple and dripped onto the cold floor. It was the most painful and the most beautiful thing your mother could have said. That your absence was a tangible thing to your daughter. A void that yearned to be filled.

You let your head fall back against the glass, right where you knew her head rested. For a long time, you both sat there in silence, two geniuses, two forces of nature, trapped by a love that was both your prison and your only tether to the world.

"Then I will keep drawing, Mama," you murmured, the fight gone, replaced by a weary, determined resolve. "I will design a world worthy of her. Even if I never get to see her step into it."

It was a life sentence. But it was a sentence you would serve for her.

Then an idea popped in your head "Can't I meet her? briefly? as a family friend from time to time? supervised of course"

The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire. Then, a soft, almost imperceptible sound came from the other side of the glass. It wasn't a laugh. It was darker, more sorrowful. A sigh that held the weight of every failed blueprint, every calculated risk that had proven too dangerous.

"Ach, mein Kind," Edna murmured, her voice thick with a pity that felt like a physical blow. "You think like a father, not a strategist. You see a visit. A smile. A moment. They see a variable. An uncontrolled interaction."

She shifted, and you imagined her straightening her jacket, recomposing herself into the impenetrable Edna Mode the world knew.

"A 'family friend'?" she continued, her tone sharpening. "What is your cover story? A long-lost colleague of mine? They will dig. They will find nothing, because you have no past outside these walls for the last fifteen years. Your existence is a state secret, buried deeper than nuclear codes. The moment you appear, even 'supervised,' you become a loose end. And loose ends..." she let the sentence hang, the threat she had already articulated—the threat to Violet—filling the silence.

The spark of hope in your chest guttered, but you fanned it, desperate. "Then not as me. A disguise. You could design it! A face, a voice... something even their scanners wouldn't penetrate. You've done it for heroes before."

"FOR HEROES!" The words cracked through the room, sharp and final. She had stood up. You could feel her shadow falling over you through the glass. "Heroes are public. Their identities are the disguise! Your identity is the threat! Do you think I have not considered this? That I have not lain awake, designing a hundred different faces for my own son?"

Her voice dropped again, becoming a fierce, hushed whisper. "The risk is not in the disguise failing. The risk is in you. A single glance held a moment too long. A slip of a phrase that only her true father would know. A gravitational anomaly, a flicker in the lights because your heart aches to reach for her. They would be watching, not with the eyes of guards, but with the eyes of scientists studying a dangerous specimen. They would see the connection. They would document it."

She leaned down, her face close to the glass, her reflection superimposed over your slumped form. "And what of her? She is a perceptive girl. She feels absences. What do you think it would do to her, to meet a 'stranger' who feels... familiar? Who stirs a ghost of a memory she cannot possibly have? It would not give her a father. It would give her a mystery. A haunting. It would make the absence you feel now a active, painful confusion for her. Is that the gift you wish to give?"

Each word was a precise, surgical cut, severing the fragile roots of your idea. She was right. Of course, she was right. She had run the scenarios, calculated the probabilities, and the result was always the same: catastrophic failure.

The hope died completely, leaving a cold, hollow certainty. You uncurled from the floor, your movements slow, weighted with a fresh layer of despair. You looked at the sketches of the articulated skirt, at the photograph of your daughter. Two beautiful, impossible futures.

"You are right, Mama," you said, your voice flat, emptied of all emotion. "It was a foolish thought."

Edna watched you, her expression unreadable behind her glasses. "It was not foolish," she corrected, her voice softening once more. "It was a father's thought. And that is why it could never be." She collected her portfolio, her movements efficient and final. "I will be back next week. We will continue the designs for the fall line."

It was a dismissal and a promise. The visit was over. The business of survival, of loving from a distance, would continue. You were left alone again, with nothing but the ghost of a possibility and the crushing certainty that the only way to hold your daughter was to forever remain a ghost yourself.

The silence after Edna's departure was a physical presence, thick and suffocating. You stood in the center of your cell, the schematics for the articulated skirt and the photograph of Violet lying side-by-side on your desk—a testament to a genius that could shape the future but was powerless to change its own. The despair was a familiar anchor, pulling you down into the cold, polished floor.

Days bled into one another. You ate, you slept, you designed, the routine as unyielding as the walls. Then, a shift.

It was in the demeanor of the guards during your hourly perimeter check. Their posture was less rigid, their eyes, usually blank slates of protocol, held a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps even a sliver of pity. The head of your security detail, a stern man you knew only as Agent Briggs, had always been a statue of unwavering discipline. But one afternoon, as the food slot hissed open, he didn't immediately step back.

He lingered for a moment, his gaze scanning your latest batch of sketches, which included a design for a child's coat with a collar that could theoretically deploy a hard-light shield.

"Ambitious," Briggs said, his voice a low rumble. It was the first unsolicited comment he had ever made.

You looked up, wary. "A theoretical exercise. For inclement weather."

Briggs gave a non-committal grunt. "The world's changing, Professor. Faster than the old protocols can keep up with. The Incredibles... what they did in Metroville... it's reset the board. Public opinion is shifting. The 'Supers' aren't a threat anymore; they're a necessity."

You remained silent, your mind racing, calculating the angles. This was not simple small talk.

He tapped the reinforced glass with a knuckle. "Some of us... we read the old files. The initial reports from the war. They didn't call you 'Evil' then. They called you 'Asset Gamma'. Your actions saved an estimated fifty thousand civilians when you collapsed that artillery barrage into a singularity over the English Channel." He paused, letting the weight of that statement settle. "The current administration is... re-evaluating what constitutes a 'threat'."

A wild, dangerous hope, one you had forcibly suppressed for years, began to stir.

"What are you saying, Agent?"

"I'm saying the political winds are shifting," Briggs said, his voice dropping even lower. "The argument that holding the son of Edna Mode is a strategic necessity is losing ground. There's talk. Of a phased rehabilitation. Supervised, of course. Heavily supervised."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You forced your breathing to remain even, your gravitational field to remain stable. "Rehabilitation to what end?"

Briggs's eyes flickered to the photograph of Violet, then back to you. "To the end of being a productive, if monitored, member of society. Perhaps even a consultant. Your mother isn't the only genius who can design for a new age of heroes." He straightened up, the moment of informality gone. "A proposal is being drafted. It will take time. But for the first time in fifteen years, it's being drafted."

He turned and left, the heavy door sealing shut with a definitive thud.

You were left alone, but the air itself felt different. It was no longer sterile; it was charged with potential. The government was loosening its grip, not out of kindness, but out of a new, calculated need. They saw the rising tide of super-powered individuals and realized they had caged one of the brightest minds capable of understanding and countering them.

A slow, calculated smile touched your lips. It was not a smile of joy, but of strategy. They were offering a leash instead of a cage. A longer leash, perhaps, one that might even allow you to walk within sight of your daughter.

You picked up your pencil. The design for the child's coat was no longer a theoretical exercise. It was a prototype. You began sketching again, not just fashions, but schematics for energy-diffusing materials, for gravitic stabilizers small enough to be woven into the lining of a jacket. You would give them what they wanted—a consultant, a genius they could use. You would play their game.

Because every step you took in their world, every design you approved, every "consultation" you gave, would be a step closer to her. And this time, you would not be the ghost in the machine. You would be the architect of your own redemption, and of a world truly safe for your daughter. The game had changed. And you were finally being dealt back in.

***

The day arrived not with a fanfare, but with a quiet, bureaucratic efficiency that was somehow more terrifying. It had only been three weeks since Agent Briggs’s cryptic message. The proposal, it seemed, had found surprising momentum.

You were not prepared.

They didn't lead you out in shackles. Instead, two agents in crisp, dark suits escorted you from your cell for the first time in fifteen years. The world outside was a sensory assault. The hallway seemed to stretch for miles, the ceiling impossibly high. The hum of the ventilation system was different, the air smelled of industrial cleaner and, faintly, of rain. You had to consciously suppress the instinct to alter your personal gravity, to make the floor feel as solid as the one you were accustomed to.

They took you to a neutral room, not unlike an executive conference room, but with softer lighting and a pair of comfortable armchairs. One wall was a one-way mirror. You knew who would be on the other side. Briggs. Analysts. Your keepers.

"Remember the parameters," Agent Briggs said, his voice calm but firm. He stood by the door. "One hour. Supervised interaction. You are a consultant from my department, a specialist in adolescent meta-human development we've brought in to assess her potential in a controlled, academic context. Your name is Dr. Elias Vance. Any deviation from this narrative, any attempt to reveal your identity, and this ends. Permanently."

You barely heard him. Your heart was a frantic drum against your ribs. Dr. Elias Vance. The name felt like ash in your mouth.

The door on the opposite side of the room opened.

And there she was.

Violet.

She was taller than in the photographs, all long limbs and a guarded slouch. She wore a dark jacket and a skirt, her hair falling like a curtain over one side of her face. She looked bored, resentful, dragged here on another of her parents' misguided attempts to "understand" her.

Then her eyes met yours.

It was like a physical impact. She had her mother's eyes. The exact same shade of deep, intelligent brown. For a fleeting second, you saw the ghost of your lost love in her face, and the gravitational field in the room wavered. The pen on the small table between the chairs vibrated, lifting a millimeter before you slammed your control back into place, your knuckles white where you gripped the armrest.

"Violet Parr," Briggs said, his voice unnaturally cheerful. "This is Dr. Vance. He's just going to ask you a few questions about some of the... unique things you might have experienced."

She gave a non-committal shrug and slouched into the chair opposite you, not making eye contact again. "Whatever."

The door closed, leaving the two of you alone in the soft light, a universe of unspeakable truth and a carefully constructed lie between you.

The script they had given you evaporated from your mind. All the clinical questions about "sensory phenomena" and "spatial awareness" seemed grotesque. You were a genius. You had theorized about eleven-dimensional space. And you could not form a single, simple sentence.

You just looked at her, drinking in the reality of her presence. The small, frustrated line of her mouth. The way her fingers picked at a loose thread on her skirt. She was real.

"You know," you began, your voice strangely hoarse. You cleared it, forcing the smooth, academic tone of 'Dr. Vance'. "They ask me to quantify the unquantifiable." You gestured vaguely, a gesture you had seen your mother make a thousand times. "To put numbers on a feeling."

That made her look up, a flicker of interest in her guarded eyes.

"You designed the suit for the new hero, Dyna-Might," she said, surprising you. Her voice was quiet, but clear. "I saw the schematics in a magazine. The way you used interlocking carbon-filament to redistribute kinetic force... it's smarter than anything Mr. Incredible ever wore."

Your breath caught. She had noticed. She had understood.

"It has its merits," you said, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest. "But it lacks... elegance. It is a sledgehammer. True design should be a scalpel."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "My... my dad says the best power is just being strong enough to punch through your problems."

You felt a stab of something hot and sharp—jealousy, grief, a profound sense of dislocation. The 'brute' was teaching your daughter his simple philosophy.

"And what do you think, Violet?" you asked, the question leaving you in a whisper, utterly deviating from the script.

She looked down at her hands, and for a single, breathtaking moment, the air around her shimmered. It was there and gone, a heat haze of distortion. A perfect, nascent phasing field. Your daughter's power. Her mother's legacy.

"I think," she said softly, "that sometimes... not being seen at all is the strongest thing you can be."

The truth of it, the profound, heartbreaking wisdom from this girl who was both a stranger and the center of your universe, threatened to shatter you. You were a man who could pull asteroids from their orbits, and in that moment, you had never felt more powerless, or more in awe.

The hour was gone in a heartbeat. When the door opened and Briggs announced the end of the session, it felt like a limb being torn off.

Violet stood, giving you a small, polite nod. "Bye, Dr. Vance."

The name was a knife wound.

As she reached the door, she paused and glanced back, her brow furrowed slightly. "It's weird," she said. "You... you feel familiar."

Then she was gone.

You were left in the silent room, the ghost of her presence the only thing left in the air. It was the most beautiful and the most agonizing hour of your life. You had met your daughter. And she had walked away, calling you by another man's name. The first thread of a new design, infinitely more complex and dangerous than any suit, had been spun. And you were now irrevocably, perilously, entangled in it.

The return to your cell was a blur. The sterile, chilled air that had been your constant companion for fifteen years now felt alien, the silence a mockery of the storm raging inside you. The guards’ routine checks felt like distant events happening to someone else. You stood motionless in the center of the room until the lights in the corridor outside dimmed, signaling the facility's night cycle.

Only then did you move.

You did not go to your bed. You slid down the wall, your back against the cold, unyielding polymer, right where you had sat with your mother's ghostly presence on the other side. The same spot. A different kind of agony.

The controlled facade of Dr. Elias Vance crumbled into dust. The memory of her face, not in a photograph but living, breathing, filled your mind. The sound of her voice, so like her mother's in its cadence, echoed in the sterile silence. "You feel familiar."

A raw, choked sound escaped your lips. You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms as you fought against the tide. But the levee broke.

It started as a silent, body-wracking shudder, your shoulders trembling with the force of emotions you had suppressed for a decade and a half. Then came the tears, hot and relentless, tracking through the accumulated grime of a day spent pretending to be a stranger to your own child. You didn't sob; the grief was too deep, too profound for sound. It was a silent, desperate weeping that left you gasping for air, your chest heaving.

You saw it all again. The way she had picked at the thread on her skirt—a nervous habit her mother had. The flicker of intellectual curiosity in her eyes when she spoke of your design. The heartbreaking wisdom in her whispered confession: "Sometimes... not being seen at all is the strongest thing you can be."

And the final, casual evisceration: "Bye, Dr. Vance."

You were the most powerful gravitational manipulator on the planet, and you had never felt so utterly, completely helpless. You had been close enough to touch her, to smell the faint scent of her shampoo, and the chasm between you had never felt wider. You were a ghost in her life, a "familiar" feeling, a man with a borrowed name.

The gravitational field in your cell reacted to your shattered control. The desk, the chair, your discarded sketches, all lifted gently from the floor, orbiting your hunched form in a slow, mournful ballet. The light bent and warped, casting strange, undulating shadows on the walls. The very fabric of your prison wept with you.

You cried for the years stolen. You cried for the wife you lost to Syntro's cruelty. You cried for the little girl who thought a strong punch was the answer to everything. You cried for the father who had to hear his brilliance acknowledged by his daughter while wearing another man's face.

Eventually, the storm passed, leaving you hollowed out and exhausted. The floating objects settled back to the floor with a series of soft clicks and rustles. The room returned to its oppressive stillness. You didn't move from the floor. You curled onto your side, your cheek against the cold, polished surface, the ghost of her presence your only blanket.

Sleep, when it finally came, was not an escape. It was a fractured reel of images: Violet's face, Edna's sorrowful eyes, the impersonal gaze of Agent Briggs. And through it all, the echo of a name that was not yours.

You cried yourself to sleep that night, the silent, devastating tears of a father who had touched the sun only to be cast back into the deepest, coldest dark.

The image of you, curled and broken on the cold floor of your cell, was a stark painting of despair. But beyond the glass, in the dimly lit observation room, a very different scene was unfolding—one you were never meant to witness.

Edna Mode stood not with the analysts, but in a separate, soundproofed chamber adjacent to the main observation deck. She had not, in fact, left the facility after her visit. She had been here the entire time, watching your "supervised" meeting with Violet through her own private feed. Her small hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides.

As Violet left the conference room, looking confused and a little unsettled, she was not escorted back to her parents. Instead, Agent Briggs gently guided her down a quiet corridor and into the chamber where Edna waited.

Violet’s eyes widened. "Edna?" she whispered, recognition dawning. The reclusive, legendary designer was a frequent, if mysterious, presence in her life, always bringing incredible gifts and offering sharp, cryptic advice.

Edna dismissed Briggs with a sharp nod. The moment the door closed, her severe demeanor melted away. She knelt, ignoring the peril to her immaculate trousers, and took Violet’s hands in her own.

"The man in there," Edna said, her voice low and urgent. "Dr. Vance. What did you feel?"

Violet, startled by the intensity, tried to pull back, but Edna’s grip was firm. "I... I don't know. He was weird. Sad." She looked down, the memory of the strange, familiar feeling unsettling her. "It was like... like when you hear a song you can't remember, but you know all the words. He felt... important."

Edna’s breath hitched. She looked over Violet's shoulder at the monitor showing your cell, where you were now sliding down the wall, the first tremors of your breakdown beginning. Her own heart was breaking in tandem.

"Listen to me, mein kind," Edna said, forcing Violet to meet her gaze. "The world is not what it seems. The stories you are told are often... convenient lies. That man," she gestured toward the monitor, her voice trembling with a passion Violet had never heard, "is one of the greatest minds of our age. His designs, his theories... they are the foundation upon which so much is built. Remember what you felt. Trust that feeling, not the name they gave him."

Back in the observation deck, Agent Briggs watched your cell's internal sensors. The gravimetric readings were spiking erratically, painting a picture of profound emotional distress. He didn't see a dangerous weapon losing control. He saw a man shattered. He keyed his comms.

"Subject's vitals are critical. Psychological collapse is imminent. The 'Vance' gambit has yielded the predicted data on their connection, but the cost is higher than projected." He listened for a moment to the voice on the other end, his jaw tightening. "Understood. Proceeding with Phase Two: the calculated risk. We'll give him a longer leash, dangle the possibility of more contact. A grieving, emotionally compromised subject is more pliable than a defiant one. And the girl... she's the perfect incentive."

He looked toward the chamber where Edna and Violet were speaking, a cold, strategic light in his eyes. "The mother is a variable, but a contained one. Her cooperation is guaranteed as long as we hold the son."

Inside the private chamber, Edna pulled Violet into a sudden, fierce hug. It was over almost as soon as it began, but the message was searingly clear.

"That feeling of importance, Violet," Edna whispered into her ear, her voice barely audible. "Hold onto it. It is the only real thing in this room full of ghosts."

As Violet was led away, thoroughly confused and emotionally stirred, Edna turned back to the monitor. She watched you finally succumb to sleep, your body curled in a fetal position on the floor. A single, perfect tear escaped, tracing a path through her powder before she viciously wiped it away.

She had played her part. She had fed the government's narrative to keep you alive, and she had planted a seed of truth in your daughter's heart. She was trapped in the middle, a master designer weaving a tapestry of lies and hope, knowing the final pattern could still end in tragedy.

You cried yourself to sleep, believing you were alone in your grief. You didn't know that your mother was watching, her own heart breaking, already moving the pieces on the board for the next, dangerous game. And you didn't know that your daughter was walking away, not with the simple confusion of a teenager, but with the first, faint glimmer of a truth that could either save you all or tear everything apart.

***

The Parr household, usually a bastion of controlled chaos, was frozen in a silence more absolute than any Violet had ever created with her force fields. It had been two days since the strange, unsettling meeting with "Dr. Vance." The feeling of him—the profound, gravitational sadness, the way his intelligence seemed to hum in the air, the sheer, inexplicable familiarity—had gnawed at her, refusing to be quieted.

She found them in the living room. Bob was attempting to fix a lamp, his massive hands fumbling with a delicate switch. Helen was folding laundry, her movements efficient, her face a mask of placid normalcy. The picture of domesticity. The picture of a lie.

Violet stood in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Who is he?" she asked, her voice quiet but sharp as a shard of glass.

Helen looked up, a practiced, pleasant smile on her face. "Who, sweetie? Dash's new coach?"

"No." Violet’s voice didn't rise, but it carried a new, chilling weight. "The man you made me talk to. Dr. Vance."

Bob put the lamp down with a soft thud. "He's a specialist, Vi. The government is... they're starting new programs for kids with... potential. We just thought it would be good to—"

"He's not a specialist," Violet interrupted, her words falling like stones. "He's a prisoner. I could feel it. The room was a cage. And he looked at me... he didn't look at me like a subject. He looked at me like..." She struggled for the words, Edna's whispered advice echoing in her mind. "Trust that feeling." "He looked at me like he was dying of thirst and I was a glass of water."

Helen’s smile had vanished. She exchanged a swift, panicked glance with Bob. It was all the confirmation Violet needed.

"Who is he to me?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "And don't you dare say 'nobody'."

Bob took a step forward, his big hands held out placatingly. "Violet, honey, this is very complicated. There are things we've had to keep secret to protect you—"

"Protect me?" A bitter, hollow laugh escaped her. The air around her began to shimmer, a faint, violet-tinged haze of distortion. "Or protect yourselves? He knew about Mom's designs. The real ones. Not the stuff for the public. He talked about elegance. About scalpels, not sledgehammers." Her eyes, blazing with a hurt and betrayal so deep it was giving birth to a new kind of power, locked onto Helen. "He talks like you, Mom. But it's... it's purer."

Helen flinched as if struck.

"His name," Violet pressed, the force of her will making the lights in the room flicker. "His real name."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken. Bob looked at Helen, a world of shared history and painful decisions passing between them in a single glance. He gave a small, defeated nod.

Helen took a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping. The "Elastigirl" posture was gone, replaced by the weariness of a woman who had been carrying a terrible secret for far too long.

"His name," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "is Y/N Mode."

The name hung in the air, meaningless to Violet for a heartbeat. Then, the connection slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. Mode. Edna Mode. The brilliant, severe, loving woman who had always been a mysterious presence in her life. The woman who looked at her with an intensity that now, suddenly, made a devastating kind of sense.

"He's... Edna's..." Violet stammered.

"He is her son," Helen confirmed, her voice thick with grief. "And... he was there, at the very beginning. He fought in the war, before the Supers were public. His powers... they were deemed too dangerous. The government... they took him. To ensure Edna's cooperation."

The pieces were falling into a horrifying mosaic. The brilliant, sad man in the cage. The legendary designer. The secrets.

Violet’s gaze turned inward, the final, most terrifying piece clicking into place. "And... my mother? My... real mother?"

Bob’s face crumpled. He couldn't meet her eyes.

Helen’s voice was raw with a pain that was not her own. "Her name was Lucia. She could phase through matter. She was... incredible. She and Y/N... they loved each other very much. She was lost. In the early battles against Syntro's prototypes."

The truth was a supernova, obliterating the world Violet thought she knew. The shyness, the feeling of being an outsider, the power to become invisible and create shields—it wasn't just a random mutation, it was true! Heros only inherited powers like their parents!. It was a legacy. A inheritance of genius and tragedy from a father and mother she never knew.

She looked at Bob and Helen, the people who had raised her, loved her, given her a name. But the foundation of that life had just been revealed as a carefully constructed lie.

The shimmering force field around her solidified with a sharp crack, a perfect, impenetrable dome of violet energy that sealed her off from them in the middle of their own living room. Inside, Violet Parr sank to her knees, not in sadness, but in a furious, silent storm of grief and revelation.

She wasn't just Violet Parr. She was Violet Mode. And her father was not a retired Strongman. He was a gravitational genius, locked in a cage, and she was the only one who knew he was telling the truth. The game had just changed, and she was no longer a pawn. She was a wild card.

***

The catalyst was a photograph. Not of Violet, but of her mother, your Lucia. An agent, careless during a file transfer, let a single, grainy image slip from a folder. It was her, suited up, phasing through a collapsing wall, a fierce, beautiful smile on her face—a smile you hadn't seen in over sixteen years. On the back, a handwritten log: "Asset Lucia 'Phantom' Mode. Terminated by Syntro Unit 7. Collateral damage acceptable."

Collateral damage acceptable.

The five most devastating words ever written. They hadn't just killed her. They had written her off as an acceptable loss. The last thread of your restraint, already frayed by years of torment and the bittershell agony of seeing Violet, snapped.

Your cell had a weakness. Not in the polymer, not in the energy field, but in the gravity-based stabilizers that kept it anchored. For years, you had studied their frequency, their resonance. You had never attempted to manipulate them, because the cost of failure was too high. Now, the cost of inaction was higher.

The other "villain" was a man named Kage, who could manipulate shadows and darkness. You had rarely spoken. But you knew his rage mirrored your own. A single, shared glance in the exercise yard, a whisper woven into the hum of the ventilation system, and a pact was made.

The escape was not loud. It was silent, cold, and precise. During the night cycle, you placed your hands on the glass and reached out with your mind. You didn't try to break the stabilizers. You harmonized with them. You found their resonant frequency and then pushed, gently, subtly, increasing the gravitational pull in one, specific, microscopic flaw in the system.

There was no explosion. Just a high-pitched whine, and then a spiderweb of cracks appeared in the polymer, not from impact, but from the structure being twisted against itself from the inside out. It hissed open like an overripe fruit.

Kage’s cell was next. His darkness slithered through the crack in your door, shorting out the electronics of his lock with a silent surge of corrupted energy.

Together, you walked out. There were no alarms. You simply bent the light around you, creating a bubble of perceptual invisibility, and warped gravity to muffle your footsteps into nothingness. You were two ghosts passing through a fortress that had believed itself impregnable.

The world outside was a shock of cold air and blinding freedom. You stood under the moonlight, the man who was once "Asset Gamma," the prisoner, the father. Now, you were something else.

Kage melted into the shadows, heading towards his own vengeance. You did not watch him go. Your purpose was singular.

You looked back at the facility, a monolith of your pain. You raised a hand. The ground beneath the outer wall groaned. Then, with a sound like the earth itself tearing, a fifty-foot section of reinforced concrete and steel wrenched itself free from its foundations, crumpling into a sphere of compressed rubble no larger than a car. You held it there, hovering in the air, a monument to your wrath.

The sirens began, finally.

You were no longer Y/N. You were no longer Dr. Vance. You were The Mad Child. And your goal was not just freedom. It was deconstruction.

You would tear down the entire edifice of their lies, brick by bureaucratic brick. You would find every agent, every analyst, every politician who had signed off on Lucia's "acceptable" death and your daughter's stolen childhood. You would show them the true meaning of collateral damage.

Being a vigilante in Gotham was easy. Easy if you were professionally trained in combat. Easy if you had the money to get every little convenient device you wanted.

Neither of which you were.

Both of which Batman and his posee of underlings were.

Sure you’d picked up what you could being on the street, fending for yourself, sneaking into dojos and boxing gyms to observe and practice later yourself. But in the end, you were just some kid trying to make your way in the vigilante scene. Which led you to the situation you were in currently.

You were crouched on top of two metal shipping crates staring down at the drug deal soon to take place. You squinted through the mixture of darkness and heavy rain. A new drug had recently hit Gotham’s streets and you intended to get your answers and drop the contraband by the police station.

You saw the seller take his position. You readied yourself but waited until the buyer showed up. You needed to be sure they actually had the drugs before you went down guns blazing, cracking skulls and kicking ass.

As soon as you saw the drugs leave the jacket you were on them, jumping from your hiding spot onto the seller, tackling him to the ground. The man yelped in surprise and pain while the buyer started running. You spared the buyer a glance, grunting in annoyance.

“Get the hell off of me you freak!” The seller yelled as you kneeled on his arms and back, pinning him to the ground and grabbing the dropped bag of substances. You sighed as he struggled under you.

“Where’d you get this?” You demanded, increasing the pressure on his back.

“None of your business!” He spat.

“Look, buddy. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The hard way involves dangling from Wayne enterprises.” You said through grit teeth.

The man seemed to pale at the threat of heights.

“A-a ring leader…we just call him the boss. I swear that’s all I know!” He practically screamed.

“God what a cliché…” You grumbled to yourself, landing a swift blow to his head and knocking him out. You stood up and stretched, groaning.

‘Jesus—my back hurts.’

You brought the bag down to inspect it before shrugging and shoving it into your backpack. You’ll deal with it on the way home. You glanced back down at the unconscious drug hustler.

“Not your day today, buddy.” You said shaking your head.

Then you heard an abnormal sound in the white noise of the rain. A hard thunk on metal. You stilled. Were they really here? Had they searched for you specifically or did they get the same tip as you?

You tensed, preparing. Someone landed behind you and you whipped around to face them.

‘Nightwing.’

‘This is fine. I can handle him…. No. No I definitely can’t. Ok this is fine this is ok.’

“Ready to finally come quietly?” Nightwing flashed a smile.

You returned it with malice. “Never in a million years, boy wonder.” You laughed to yourself.

His smile faltered and he just shrugged.

“Well you brought this upon yourself.” He said and another person jumped down behind you.

You snapped your head in their direction.

‘Robin. The pipsqueak. Great.’

You backed away slowly from both of them, your eyes glancing back and forth between them. They both move at you suddenly. You jump back and dodge one attack from Robin, simultaneously throwing yourself into Nightwing—luckily it caused him to fumble. Your back hit the ground and you grunted in pain. Robin ran at you and you kicked him away from you.

The little caped rat was launched back, skidding to his knees before getting back into an offensive stance. You scrambled to your feet, taking a defensive position. You grit your teeth and glared at him, prepared.

The fight went on for what felt like hours, especially in a two against one.

You spat on the ground; your muscles ached. You saw the flash of red on the asphalt before the rain washed it away. That distracted you enough for Robin to kick you off the dock into the frigid water below.

The water swamped you all at once. The cold seemed to knock all the warmth from your body. You panicked as you sank further and further down, you were so tired. You just wanted to rest. You kicked and flapped your arms desperately but you didn’t feel in control of them. You couldn’t hold your breath anymore. The darkness pulled your mind further from consciousness and you passed out.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

C’mon, Nightwing.” Robin said to the dark haired man who was staring into the water.

“He’s not coming up.” Nightwing responded.

Robin looked at his brother and raised an eyebrow.

“So?” He asked indifferently.

“He’s in trouble.” Nightwing seemed to have made a decision in that answer.

“What does it—.”

Robin was cut off by Nightwint diving into the water.

“Dammit, Grayson!” Robin yelled after Nightwing.

About a minute later, Nightwing emerged.

“You’re an absolute idiot.” Robin spat at Nightwing, helping him back onto the docks with the young vigilante in his arms.

“He was gunna die.” Nightwing retorted.

“Great.” Robin started sarcastically. “Now, since you’ve saved him, you can drop him here and let the cops deal with him.”

“We’re not doing that, Robin.” Nightwing responded, tiredly.

“I don’t like what you’re suggesting.” Robin growled.

“Suggested? I didn’t even say anything.” Nightwing chuckled some.

“You’re implying we take him back to the cave.”

“He could have answers.”

“He’s a cretin. Not even worth the trouble.” Robin grumbled.

“Always glad to hear your opinions.” Nightwing said sarcastically, already heading back towards the Batcave.

Robin rolled his eyes and reluctantly followed.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

You opened your eyes to blaring lights above you.

‘God, what time is it?’

You rolled over to try and shield your eyes from the light.

‘Lights?’

You rubbed your eyes. You felt no mask. Fear spiked your heart. Memory of the drug pickup and fighting two of Batman’s sidekicks and passing out in the water flooded your brain all at once. You shot up and realized you were in a cell.

‘Oh no no no no no no—‘

You quickly stood up and stumbled. You managed to catch yourself on a glass wall.

“He’s awake, circus clown!“

You looked up to see the Red Hood pushing himself off a wall, looking very tired. Your eyes adjusted to the light as he walked to the front of the cell. No point in hiding your face, they’ve all probably seen it. Nightwing joined him, looking a little too pleased for your liking.

“The man himself gunna show up or did he leave his favorite to do his biding for him?” Red Hood asked. However, there didn’t seem to be much bite behind his words.

“I’ve been here, Red Hood.” Batman himself emerged from the shadows with Robin appearing from behind him like a lost puppy. A very…angry puppy.

Red Hood startled some at the sudden appearance, but recovered quickly. The gun wielding vigilante seemed to curse something at Batman but you couldn’t hear.

“Let’s not delay this anymore.” Batman spoke.

You swallowed. His gaze pierced through chest and saw right through you.

‘Start what?’

“What’s your name?” Batman’s voice was gruff.

“Like hell I’d—“ You started.

“Yo! Red Robin!” Red Hood called to the other other Robin somewhere out of your view.

Your full name, alias, and address was listed within the second. Your heart fell to your stomach and crawled back up again. Nausea punched your gut.

“Tell us all you know about the drugs and the ring relating to them.” Batman’s tone wasn’t aggressive, but you weren’t fooled. This was a command.

“Dunno anything…” You slurred out. Christ, you hurt everywhere.

“I don’t believe you.” He responded.

You rolled your eyes. Sure, you were lying but you just wanted to go home. To nap. Oh my god a nap sounded great right now.

“They call it amethyst. It’s a narcotic. It’s new but sweeping the streets fast. That’s all I know.” You grit out.

“Where are your parents, kid?” Batman asked.

“Don’t you know, since you apparently know everything?” You growled at him.

“I do. I just want confirmation from you.” He responded calmly.

“Six feet under at Gotham Cemetery. You can take up my behavioral issues with them. I’m sure they’d be overjoyed to hear about them.” You told him sarcastically.

Batman was quiet, thinking. Robin suddenly seemed to catch onto something.

“No! No! You’re not going to—!” He yelled.

Batman approached the cell and slipped off his cowl. Your eyes widened. You tried to speak but you couldn’t.

“You’re too young to be on your own. You’re younger than my second youngest. How’d you like to live with me and my family?”

You shook your head from you stunned state.

“What!” You gaped.

“No!“

“No!

Both you and Robin exclaimed in unison. Batman—who was apparently Bruce Wayne, by the way—smiled some.

“Seems it’s that or foster care.” He said, seeming to not even consider the possibility of putting you in foster care.

“You’ll fit right in.” Bruce Wayne seemed to find it amusing.

He typed a code into the keypad and the door opened. You blinked and stepped out hesitantly. The other three sidekicks were watching you. One with muted excitement, one with indifference, and one with outrage.

“I’ll get Alfred to set up a room for you. I’m sure you’re tired.” Bruce Wayne said.