The Quietest Room in Wayne Manor
Ducks Early Days
When Bruce brought you home, it was raining. Gothamâs kind of rain â heavy, relentless, turning everything gray and washed-out. You were small then, too small for the coat Alfred had draped over your shoulders as he led you up the long stone steps.
âWelcome home,â heâd said softly, and you wanted to believe it.
The Manor was bigger than you imagined. The ceilings went up forever, and your footsteps echoed no matter how quietly you tried to walk. It smelled like lemon polish, parchment, and something faintly metallic â like a place where people lived, but didnât really live.
Bruce hadnât said much the entire ride. Just a few things about rules, about âadjusting,â about how youâd have your own room. You nodded to everything, clutching your small duffel bag until your knuckles hurt.
You were too nervous to ask if you could call him Dad.
Your room was at the far end of the hall, down from the others. The wallpaper was a faded cream, the bed too big, the window too high. But the sheets smelled clean and there were clothes folded neatly in the drawers â all new, all neatly labeled with your name.
Youâd never had that before.
Alfred was kind in his quiet way. He brought you cocoa that first night and a soft smile that almost felt real. âIf you need anything, my doorâs always open.â
You didnât test that for a long time.
The first person you met was Dick.
He knocked twice, poked his head in, and grinned like sunlight through storm clouds. âHey, new kid. You settling in?â
You nodded. He didnât seem convinced but sat down on the edge of your bed anyway. He talked more than you did â about acrobatics, about how weird Bruce could be, about how Alfredâs cookies were the best in the world. He made you laugh.
Then his phone buzzed, and just like that, he was gone again.
Jason came next, or maybe âappearedâ was the better word. You were wandering the library when you heard a voice from the corner.
âYouâre the new stray, huh?â
You startled, dropping the book youâd been pretending to read. Jason leaned against the shelf, one brow raised, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
âRelax. Iâm not gonna bite. Unless you touch my bike.â
You didnât even know he had a bike, but you nodded solemnly. He laughed.
âGood answer, kid.â
He left before you could ask him to stay.
Tim was⌠different. Polite, but distant. Heâd pass you in the hall with a distracted nod, laptop under his arm, already thinking about a dozen other things. He helped you with your first tech lesson, explaining encryption like you were learning a language heâd spoken his whole life. You listened, fascinated, and asked a question he didnât hear.
When he looked up, youâd already stopped talking.
Then there was Damian.
The first time you met him, he was in the training room. Youâd been brought down by Alfred to âobserve,â since Bruce thought exposure might motivate you.
Damian eyed you like one might study a bug. âAnother one? Father collects strays like trophies.â
You opened your mouth to respond, but Bruce interrupted with a firm, âThatâs enough.â
It wasnât, though.
For weeks, Damian barely tolerated your presence. Every comment, every look, every sparring session carried that sharp undertone: you donât belong here.
Maybe he wasnât wrong.
You tried to be good. You did your homework on time. You helped Alfred in the kitchen when he let you, though you mostly just stirred things while he hummed. You didnât ask too many questions when Bruce came home late, bleeding. You didnât mention the bruises you got during training.
You smiled when Dick teased you. You laughed at Jasonâs jokes. You nodded when Tim explained things you didnât understand. You bit your tongue when Damian rolled his eyes.
You did everything right.
And still, it never felt like home.
There was a moment, once â small and fleeting â when you thought maybe it could be.
You were about seven. Bruce had been sitting in the study, half-reading, half-working, when you wandered in. You were supposed to be in bed, but the thunder was loud, and the lightning made your windows glow white.
âCanât sleep?â he asked, not looking up.
You shook your head.
He didnât send you away, so you climbed onto the couch and sat there in silence, watching the rain lash against the windows.
After a while, he said, âItâs just a storm. Itâll pass.â
And for a second, it sounded like a promise.
You fell asleep there, your head against the armrest, the storm fading somewhere outside.
When you woke, he was gone, the fire burned low, and a blanket had been tucked over your shoulders.
The years passed, and the silences got louder.
Bruce was always busy. Dick moved out. Jason came back angrier. Tim stayed lost in his work. Damian grew sharper.
You grew quieter.
It wasnât that anyone hated you. That wouldâve been easier to understand. It was just⌠they didnât see you. You were the shadow at the edge of the room, the quiet echo after the laughter had stopped.
Even Alfredâs gentle patience couldnât fill the space that kept growing inside you â that cold, echoing thing that whispered, you donât matter here.
You started staying outside longer after school, walking the old trails behind the Manor until the sun dipped low. Sometimes, youâd climb to the garden wall and watch Gothamâs lights flicker in the distance.
They looked like a million little chances youâd never get.
One night, you found a small duck by the pond. It was alone, wings damp, feathers sticking out in uneven clumps.
You sat with it for hours, whispering soft words until it stopped shaking. When it finally drifted back into the water, you smiled for the first time in weeks.
You didnât know it then, but it was a fitting omen â a small, lost thing that would someday learn how to survive in the dark.
Years later, when people whispered your name in Gothamâs underworld, theyâd never imagine that it started in a mansion filled with marble floors and silence.
Theyâd never guess that the villain they feared was once just a quiet kid trying to be seen.
