Hi guys! I thought I should just share my whole mini little library of Project Hail Mary-related things so they're all in one place:
It includes:
A telesync of the movie (with subtitles)
My transcript of the movie (more on that here)
Audio recordings of the movie
A PDF of the book
The full audiobook
A copy of Andy Weir's doc on Eridians
A draft of the screenplay for the film from 2022
An audio recording of the director's commentary
The telesync subtitle SRT file
The audiobook, audio recordings, and commentary all have their properties programmed so they (should) work just like songs with a track number, album cover, artist, and so on if you download them.
There are two audios of the movie, one is the entire film untouched and one is that same audio cut up and broken down into separate scenes for convenience.
Additionally, there are two versions of the transcript, one with time stamps that match the audio and one without. The time stamps (+ their titles from the audio) are outlined in that version, so if you double-click on that tab or click "show outline," they'll all show up and you can pick a specific scene.
The first few seconds of the commentary are missing unfortunately as my US friend who was kind enough to record it for me had some technical difficulties at the start, but the commentary starts around the shot of the robot arms right before the shot of "good luck!" written on Grace's sleeping bag. It's also about 40-45-ish seconds behind the audio recording if you can only listen.
There's also a google doc with some instructions to follow if any of the files aren't working, which usually happens when too many people try to access or download something at the same time.
As always, if anything's not working right, you notice any mistakes in the transcript, or any of the audios are cut wrong, please let me know and I'll fix it as soon as I can!
Update: thanks to some combined amazing efforts from @drizzly-bear as well as @nonbinary-octopus, we now have an English subtitle track for the telesync! The track is attached to the file itself, but the SRT file is also in the google drive on its own in case something isn't working and you need to download it yourself.
Note that it is just the subtitles and not closed captions, so there are only minimal sound effects and other descriptors.
Please let me know if there are any inaccuracies or parts of it that don't work, I did my best to go over it and make sure everything's in order before sharing but I'm sure I missed some things!
Introducing Fossilized Eridian Grace's new design!
Special thanks to Sly_Fox1504 on Tiktok for informing me that there's an actual mineral called Vivianite which grows on bones.
This actually made the redesigning process much easier now that I have something I could work with, the opal fossil was a bad idea.
His new base design is more geometrically correct than the original version, which I've simplified a bit with lesser rough edges compared to the original.
I've simplified his base colours and patterns compared to the original one which was chaotic and would've been unnecessary harder for me to recreate.
I've still used the same fused limbs at the front of his limbs but the claws are opened instead to be more human like. While his back limbs no longer have claws due to him not being a naturally born eridian.
On his back is a whole cluster of vivianite shards that's grown out of his back area, because of this growth he doesn't have the same function to produce sound like a normal eridian. However at the top of his backside there are small holes that he can produce sound through similar to birds noises.
Due to how fragile the shards are, Rocky has made a special xenonite case for Grace to wear to protect that area of his body, aka eridian glasses by technically.
He also has small vivianite shard grown veritably on the center of his front and underside, there's also an exposed area on both of his sides where the vivianite below his rocky shell is shown alongside some parts of his ribcage.
For some reason these parts of his body is less fragile so he doesn't need protection for it.
While he can survive the atmosphere in his dome, he need to take a while for his shell to adjust to Erid's atmosphere by waiting for it to harden enough so the heat doesn't affect him.
So this concluds to Grace's new design, there will be some small changes made as the story progress but overall this the design I'm most satisfied with for eridian Grace.
I introduce you Eridian Grace post-fossilisation (still don't have a name for this au)
Here are two versions one with scratch marks on his limbs,
And one without it,
I tried to make the colours as accurate I can get to an actual opal fossil but this is what I can do.
For Grace's eridian design he actually has two shells by technicality, he's outer shell is made up of well rocks (listen I don't know much about minerals okay), while his internal shell which is the exposed area on his head is made up of opal.
For some unknown reason he is able to survive the domes atmosphere despite being an eridian now, although he isn't able to handle Erid's atmosphere but for some reason with light exposure to the atmosphere over time his rocky outer shell would harden? and adapt to it so he can leave the dome.
But the exposed area of his internal shell doesn't harden? so Rocky made him a special pair of xenonite google/helmet to protect that area.(Basically Rocky made him eridian size glasses)
His front limbs are fused for unknown reasons but he has gotten used to them. Speaking of limbs it took him about 3 weeks to get used to walking on all fours with four legs?hands?
I keep thinking about Eridians and Rocky’s gem from Adrian and his celebration outfit.
The little stone rocky had from adrian was literally in his arm, and it made me think about Grace getting a stone like that from Rocky, which lead to me wondering if Grace could have it in his skin somehow. Earrings. Earrings would be perfect for this.
I was ALSO thinking about Rocky’s celebration outfit- who’s to say Grace can’t have something similar? Celebration jewellery for the local alien! Earrings that dangle and make pretty sounds when Grace moves.
I hope you don’t mind, this was so cool I had to fic it
-
The rain beats like a drum against the rooftops, gusts sending it sideways past umbrellas and eaves. It’s the kind of night that Dick would like to experience from inside his unit, wrapped up in blankets with music loud enough to drown out the incessant tapping. He hates the rain these days, it brings back memories laying on cold concrete, water dripping down his face. He never would have come out to Gotham tonight if Jason hadn’t—
Well. It’s not actually Jason leading him silently through the streets, Dick knows that. Jason is dead. Betrayed and tortured and blown up in a warehouse on the other side of the world while Dick was too far away to help him. While Dick didn’t even know he needed it.
So it’s not Jason in the bright yellow cape, not his little brother darting up fire escapes and flitting across the rooftops and leading him on this wild goose chase. If Dick told anyone about the spectre they’d tell him he was crazy. Maybe he is, because how could he ever admit that it’s comforting to hear his brothers voice even from a hallucination? How could he ever feel them that it’s worth the bitter muttering and sharp accusations just to have the memory of his brother with him?
He doesn’t know why he decided to follow it tonight instead of turning away. He doesn’t know why it suddenly went silent and slipped away, or why he followed, but as he follows it through the gates of Gotham Cemetery.
It leads him to Jason’s grave. He’s not surprised, had guessed where the chase would end from the moment he realised what part of town they were in.
The hallucination perches silently upon the angel's back, kicking its feet playfully as if waiting for him. Dick stands beyond the grave and closes his eyes, hiding from the world for just a moment before opening them again. He reaches a hand out with a sigh, watching the rain patter off his palm.
A muffled crack reaches his ears and Dick tenses, gaze flicking around the graveyard for any sign of a disturbance. He’s almost written it off as a coincidence when movement catches his eye, something more than just the splash of rain. The soil before the angel shifts, sinking, almost as if— almost as if someone’s—
It can’t be. It can’t. This is madness. Jason has been dead for months, there’s no way it can be him, but Dick can’t help but pray.
Please, he begs, fingers clawing at the soil, reaching down for whatever is trying to free itself from the sodden turf. Please, please, please.
A hand grasps his, mangled fingers wrapping around his wrist, and Dick wrenches upward. They struggle together, fighting gravity and the sodden ground inch by inch. As the boy slips free of the dirt Dicks shifts his grip, wrapping his arms around him in an embrace.
The ground squelches in protest, shifting and falling inward to fill the hole his brother carved to free himself.
The figure in his arms is far too cold, breath heaving as he shudders in Dicks arms. Dirt coats the once pristine suit, blood streaking down his arms from torn fingernails and wooden splinters. Their tears mingle with the rain.
Don’t let this be my imagination, Dick pleads to the heavens, clutching his brother to his chest. Please let this be real.
It’s only once he staggers out the gates of the graveyard that Dick realises the yellow-caped figure is gone.
Summary: how does everyone miss you after your death?
WC: I think like 6k maybe
CW: ANGST, sadness, depression, anxiety, tears, loneliness, GRIEF, mentions of suicide, if any of these topics upset you, please click off for your own wellbeing
NOTE: This is a part of a series -> READ PART 1 - READ PART 2 - PART 2.5. (this is sort of set in between part 1 and 2)
Bruce Wayne, your father, doesn't say your name out loud anymore.
Not in the cave.
Not in the Manor.
Not even in the quiet moments when Alfred pretends not to watch him linger in doorways that used to belong to you.
He tells himself it’s discipline.
In truth, it’s because the one time he did — late at night, voice worn thin over the comms by pure habit — the silence that followed nearly brought him to his knees.
Your room remains untouched.
Not preserved like a shrine — Bruce would never allow something so openly fragile — but… paused. Your books remain stacked in uneven piles on the desk. The perfume bottle on your vanity still open. Unwashed makeup brushes. The scrunchie on the nightstand. The small scratch you once carved into the windowsill during a stakeout briefing is still there.
He notices everything.
Bruce visits your grave rarely.
Not because he doesn’t want to — because he cannot afford to, quite ironic for a billionaire but the few times he does go, it is always before dawn, always alone, always standing stiff like he’s bracing for impact.
He never kneels.
But his hand always, always rests on the stone longer than necessary.
In the cave, your suit remains in the memorial case, behind thick, reinforced glass
Bruce has upgraded that same glass three separate times.
No one comments on it.
He finds himself looking at old photo albums much more. They sort of hit different because you were the only child Bruce raised from infancy. As proof the manor could produce something gentle.
Photos of you when you were a baby, chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed.
Photos of your toddler to teenage years.
He's so proud of the individual you were.
He feels this sense of wrongness.
He was never supposed to outlive you.
He longs to hear your voice once more.
He yearns to feel your hugs.
He'd wait for you to call his phone so your caller ID showing up.
He'd break his no kill rule just to hear you call him 'Daddy' once more, to ask him to go shopping with you, to get his opinion on an outfit, to help you with your form in training.
Why?
Because he misses his daughter.
Dick misses you in motion.
You were never still as a kid — always trailing after him through the cave, always swinging your legs off furniture that was definitely too expensive for that, always nudging into his space like you belonged there.
Because you did.
You’ve always been his little sister.
He watched you grow up in pieces — scraped knees on the gravel outside the manor, sleepy-eyed moments where you’d curl into the cave chair past your bedtime and refuse to go upstairs so you could hang out with him a little more, the first time you beat him in a spar and looked so smug about it.
The Tower feels wrong without you.
Dick laughs at something during a Titans meeting — automatic, easy — but it dies quick when he turns, instinct sharp, ready to catch your reaction.
Dead air.
Kori notices first.
Her hand settles gently on his shoulder. “You are drifting again.”
Wally leans back in his chair, squinting. “Okay, yeah. You’ve been weird-weird lately.”
Roy snorts. “He’s been staring into space like he’s in a sad music video.”
Donna doesn’t joke.
She just watches him carefully.
Dick forces a grin that doesn’t stick. “I’m fine.”
Nobody in the room believes him.
Later, alone, he scrolls through old photos.
You on his shoulders. You half-asleep in the cave chair. You flipping him off in the background of a Watchtower group shot.
His thumb lingers on the screen.
“I wish you were here.” he murmurs.
-
Jason misses the one person who never changed how they looked at him.
Before.
After.
Even when he came back wrong around the edges and sharper in places that used to be soft — you never flinched. Never tiptoed. Never gave him that careful, fragile treatment everyone else slipped into without realizing.
You just—
Talked to him.
Like he was still Jason.
Like he hadn’t been wronged of his death and dunked in the Pit against his own will.
Your absence sits under his skin like a bruise that never fully fades. Like an itch that can't ever be scratched.
He doesn’t visit your grave for a long time.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
Because the last time he stood in front of a headstone with someone he loved underneath it, something in him broke clean down the middle.
When he finally does go, it’s late.
Helmet off.
Hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
He finally reaches out and touches your gravestone, the line where it reads "loving sister"
“You would’ve hated the new helmet design,” he mutters roughly.
Silence.
His jaw tightens.
“…you were supposed to still be here to say that.”
Jason stays longer than he planned.
Way longer.
Tim never really contemplated the deaths of his family members.
Sure, Jason's he's thought about, that's his brother duh but with the amount of jokes they've all made about it, he never really internalised the weight and gravitas of death. Even when Bruce was supposedly dead, Tim knew he was alive.
But for you, his sister, there was no going back.
He watched as your final breaths left your lips and as the life left your eyes. He felt the sickness that consumed him after he made the realisation. The scent of your blood, and the sight of your skin will forever be burned into his memory.
Tim misses his twin.
That’s what it feels like now — like someone reached into his chest and removed the person who balanced the equation.
You used to sit beside him during stakeouts, shoulder bumping his, quietly reorganizing his disaster of a workspace without making a big deal about it.
Now his desk stays messy.
He tells himself he prefers it that way.
It’s a lie.
Tim still sends things to your accounts.
Memes.
TikToks.
Reels.
Stuff you would have absolutely roasted him for.
Your messages stay on delivered.
He watches edits of the two of you sometimes — late at night, volume low, eyes burning.
There’s one that keeps coming back.
she would have been another year older today.
Tim shuts his laptop so hard it echoes.
He hates doing interviews now.
Because you're always the subject.
The studio lights are too bright.
That’s Tim’s first thought.
Too white, too hot, reflecting off the glass desk and the polished floor and the host’s perfect teeth. Everything feels overproduced — controlled. Sanitised.
He hates it.
Still, he sits straight-backed in the sofa, suit immaculate, tie perfectly aligned, looking charismatic and cheery towards the talk show host. To anyone watching, he looks composed. Sharp. Wayne heir polished within an inch of his life.
Only the people who really know him would notice the tells.
The way his fingers keep flexing against his palm.
The way his jaw is set just a little too tight.
The way his eyes flick, once, to the empty space beside the stage — like he’s checking for someone who isn’t there anymore.
Across from him, the host smiles brightly into the camera.
“Tim, I must say, it’s really admirable, the way you’ve stepped up your public presence lately,” she says smoothly. “Especially after… well.”
Tim’s stomach drops.
He knows that tone.
Still, he answers evenly. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”
Professional. Controlled.
Bruce would be proud.
The host nods sympathetically, tilting her head just enough to look compassionate.
“And of course, the city has been watching the Wayne family very closely since your sister’s passing.”
There it is.
Tim keeps his face still.
Careful.
Measured.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s been a difficult time.”
For a moment, it almost passes.
Almost.
Then the host leans forward slightly, voice softening into something that makes something cold crawl down Tim’s spine.
“Some people have said that the pressure of the Wayne legacy can be… overwhelming. There’s been a lot of speculation online about whether the expectations placed on her may have contributed to—”
Her suicide, she wants to say.
Tim stops breathing.
Just for a second.
Not visibly.
But inside, something… snaps.
The studio suddenly feels too loud.
Too sharp.
Too—
He hears her finish the sentence.
“…to what happened.”
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind.
The kind that stretches thin.
Tim’s hands curl slowly in his lap.
On the outside, he looks very still.
On the inside, his chest feels like it’s caving in.
You would have hated this.
The thought hits him so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of him.
He can hear your voice — bright, annoyed, alive.
"Tim, if I ever end up on one of these shows after I die, haunt them for me."
His throat tightens violently.
The host is still talking.
“…and many young people related to your sister have spoken about the pressures of high achievement environments—”
Tim looks up.
For the first time since the interview started, his composure cracks.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just—
His eyes shine.
Barely.
But enough.
“…I think,” Tim says slowly, voice quieter than before, “that people who didn’t know her should probably stop pretending they understand her.”
The studio goes very still.
The host blinks.
Tim’s gaze is steady.
Sharp in a way that makes the air shift.
“She wasn’t… overwhelmed by expectations,” he continues, voice tight but controlled. “She was one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.”
There’s something raw under the words now.
Something dangerously close to breaking.
“And reducing her to a headline doesn’t exactly honor her memory.”
The host opens her mouth.
Closes it.
“…of course,” she says carefully. “We meant no disrespect.”
Tim nods once.
Polite.
Finished.
But his hands are shaking under the desk.
He doesn’t remember most of the ride home.
Just the city lights blurring past the window.
Just the way his chest feels too tight.
Just the way your name keeps echoing in his head.
The Manor is quiet when he gets back.
Too quiet.
Tim drops his keys harder than he means to on the entry table.
The sound echoes.
For a second, he just stands there.
Breathing.
Not breathing.
Trying.
Failing.
“…Tim?”
Bruce’s voice.
Low.
Careful.
Tim turns.
And that’s all it takes.
His face crumples.
It’s sudden.
Violent.
Like the composure just… gives out.
Bruce is across the room in two strides.
“Hey— hey, talk to me,” Bruce says, voice immediately softer, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to touch without making it worse.
Tim shakes his head hard.
“I—” His voice breaks completely. “I thought I was fine.”
The words come out wrecked.
Bruce’s expression shifts — something sharp and pained flashing across his face.
“What happened?”
Tim laughs.
It sounds awful.
“She— the host— she just—” His breath stutters. “They keep talking about her like she’s a fucking case study or something.”
His hands are trembling now.
“They don’t know her,” he chokes. “They don’t know anything.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens hard enough to hurt.
He pulls Tim forward without hesitation.
Tim goes.
Immediately.
Like he’s been holding himself together with duct tape and red bull and pure spite.
He presses his face into Bruce’s shoulder, breathing uneven and sharp.
Bruce’s hand comes up to the back of his neck automatically — firm, grounding.
“I’ve got you, Son” Bruce murmurs.
Tim shakes his head weakly.
“I keep sending her stuff,” he admits, voice muffled. “ Reels. Like she’s just—”
Coming back.
The words don’t make it out.
Bruce’s grip tightens.
Just slightly.
“…I know,” he says softly.
Tim’s fingers curl into the fabric of Bruce’s shirt.
For the first time all night, he stops trying to hold it together.
And Bruce stands there, solid and steady, while his son finally, finally lets himself fall apart.
After that, Tim couldn't look Bruce in the eye for a few days.
Tim still misses you.
You're death felt like losing a tooth.
What's left is this space, when you run your tongue over it, it's empty and it just hurts.
The weight of your absence couldn't be any less consuming.
So to fill that, he takes to Duke.
Duke misses your future.
He misses you of course, but he also mourns everything you could've, no, would've been.
You were the most intelligent person Duke had ever known. Not just educated, intelligent.
You were also the one teaching him how to drive — patient, steady, teasing just enough to keep him from spiraling.
Now the Manor garage feels massive and wrong.
The looming steps downstairs to it are scarier than he remembered. The roller doors seemed more intimidating than ever.
Your car is still there.
The Mansory Urus your dad bought you for your birthday a while ago.
Still parked perfectly.
Still exactly how you left it.
Dust gathers slowly across the hood.
Duke stands in front of it longer than he means to.
“…you never even got to finish teaching me,” he says quietly.
You had this aura surrounding you, your eloquent speech and nature incited something in duke.
You were the one he talked to when the future felt too big.
Too uncertain. Too close and too far all at once.
Now those worries just… sit. And he wonders if they'll ever leave his mind
Steph doesn’t notice the pattern at first.
Because talking about you has become… normal.
Not in the way it used to be — not bright and immediate and answered back — but threaded into conversation like muscle memory. Like breathing.
You still come up when they’re getting ready for patrol.
When Steph is digging through her closet.
When Cass is sitting quietly nearby, listening the way she always does — the way she used to listen to you.
It’s automatic.
Unintentional.
Constant.
They’re in the Cave when it happens the first time.
Zatanna is visiting, perched casually on one of the rolling chairs while Steph rifles through a pile of accessories on the table, asking for Z's opinion on something for the gala next week,
Zatanna picks up a bracelet, turning it so the metal catches the light.
“Oh, this is cute,” she says. “Where’d you get this?”
Steph doesn’t even hesitate.
“Oh — y/n bought it for me.”
It comes out easy.
Bright.
Normal.
Like you’re just upstairs.
Like you’re just late.
The words hang in the air for half a second too long.
Steph’s hand pauses mid-motion.
Cass goes very still beside her.
Zatanna’s expression softens immediately.
Steph clears her throat, forcing her shoulders to stay loose as she snatches up another piece of gear.
“She had, like… zero self-control in stores,” Steph adds quickly, voice just a little too light. “Girl saw something shiny and suddenly it was everyone’s problem.”
It almost lands.
Almost.
Cass’s gaze flicks to Steph’s face.
Quiet.
Knowing.
Missing.
Because she remembers.
You grabbing both their wrists in some overpriced boutique, eyes bright, absolutely refusing to leave until you’d forced at least one of them to pick something.
You always did that.
Collected people with the same certainty you collected things
-
The Watchtower cafeteria is louder than usual a few days later.
The Titans were all clustered around one table, mid-argument about something ridiculous and loud and very them.
Steph and Cass slide into empty seats nearby with their trays.
For a while, it almost feels normal.
Almost.
Until Wally offers some fries.
Steph perks up immediately, reaching for them on instinct.
“Bro you know Y/N was such a fein for these fries.” she says automatically, already halfway through grabbing a handful. “Like — concerning levels of commitment.”
The table quiets just slightly.
Not awkward.
Just… aware.
Cass’s shoulders shift beside her.
Steph freezes mid-bite.
Because the words hit her a second too late.
Her hand lowers slowly.
“…sorry,” she mutters.
But no one looks annoyed.
Just soft.
Understanding.
Missing in their own quiet ways.
Cass finally reaches over and takes one fry.
Then another.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Steph glances at her.
“…you’re eating my fries on purpose, aren’t you?”
Cass’s eyes flick to her.
Calm.
Steady.
A little bit sad.
But warm, too.
Steph exhales shakily through her nose.
“…yeah,” she murmurs.
Because even now—
Even gone—
You are still sitting between them.
In habits.
In jokes.
In the empty space they both keep unconsciously leaving at the table.
Their friend.
The one they always thought they’d have.
Damian, much his father, doesn't say your name out loud anymore.
Not on patrol.
Not at dinner.
Not even when your dog comes running the second she hears footsteps in the hall.
But your absence lives in the spaces he cannot control.
He spends most of his time with Elizabeth Taylor Wayne.
More than before. More than anyone thinks is normal.
She sleeps in his room now—curled at the foot of his bed in one of the ridiculous couture outfits you used to buy her. Damian pretends the wardrobe rotation is for “proper care standards.”
No one calls him out.
Because the truth is written in the way he carries her.
Too careful.
Too gentle.
Like he’s terrified the universe will take something else from him.
Sometimes, late at night, he sits cross-legged on the floor with her in his lap, fingers buried softly in her fur.
“…She liked this one on you,” he murmurs once, adjusting the tiny sleeve of her outfit.
Elizabeth just blinks up at him.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
Damian hated the looks of pity and sadness he got from his teachers. He hated the way kids at school walked on eggshells even more than they normally did
To himself, Damian thought he was handling your death very well.
But the changes were obvious
His art studio changes slowly.
At first, no one notices.
Damian has always painted. Always worked in silence behind closed doors, brush moving with surgical precision. It wasn’t unusual for canvases to pile up.
What is unusual… is the subject.
Because one becomes two.
Two becomes five.
Five becomes too man to count.
Alfred is the one who finds out.
He hadn’t meant to intrude.
A simple check-in.
A quiet knock that receives no answer.
The door slightly ajar.
“Master Damian?” Alfred calls gently.
No response.
So he steps inside.
And stops.
For you are everywhere.
On the canvases.
On the easels.
On the walls where half-dried sketches have been carefully pinned in perfect rows.
Portrait after portrait after portrait.
You laughing.
You mid-sentence.
You in civilian clothes.
You looking over your shoulder like you’re about to say something sharp and clever.
Some are polished oil paintings.
Some are messy charcoal sketches.
Some look like they were done in a hurry—like Damian had been afraid the memory might fade if he didn’t get it down fast enough.
But the worst one—
The one that makes Alfred’s chest tighten—
Is the unfinished canvas in the center of the room.
You and Damian.
Side by side.
Your shoulder just barely bumping his.
Your smile soft.
His expression… lighter than Alfred has seen in months.
The paint around your face is detailed.
Careful.
Perfect.
But Damian’s half of the canvas is still rough.
Like he couldn’t finish it.
Like he didn’t know how.
“Master Damian, I see…you’ve been busy.”
Alfred’s voice is soft.
Careful.
Damian freezes.
He hadn’t heard him come in.
For a moment, the room goes completely still.
Then—
“…You were not meant to see this.”
His voice is tight. Controlled. Too controlled.
Alfred steps further inside anyway.
Slow. Gentle. Like approaching a wounded animal.
“I think,” Alfred says quietly, eyes still on the paintings, “she would have been very honored.”
That’s when Damian breaks.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
But something in his posture folds in on itself.
His shoulders hunch—just slightly.
His grip tightens on the paintbrush in his hand until his knuckles go white.
“I am not doing this for her honor.”
The words come out sharp.
Defensive.
But his voice wavers on the last word.
Alfred finally looks at him fully.
Sees the glassiness in those stubborn green eyes.
Sees the way Damian is blinking too hard.
Too fast.
“…Then why, Master Damian?”
Silence.
Heavy.
Crushing.
And then Damian’s voice comes out small in a way Alfred has only heard a handful of times in his life.
“…Because I do not wish to forget her face.”
Oh.
Oh.
The paintbrush drops.
It clatters against the floor.
Damian’s breathing starts going uneven—like he’s trying to control it and failing.
“I believe I have perfect recall,” he says quickly, like he’s arguing with himself. “Photographic memory. I should not require—”
His voice cracks.
Just once.
Sharp and sudden.
And that’s it.
That’s the thread snapping.
Damian turns away fast—too fast—but Alfred is already there, already close enough to see the way his hands are shaking.
“I was supposed to protect her,” Damian whispers.
The same broken confession.
Quieter this time.
Rougher.
“I was right there.”
Alfred does not hesitate.
He places a gentle hand on Damian’s shoulder.
Grounding.
Steady.
Safe.
And Damian—
Damian finally folds.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
But he steps forward, just enough that his forehead presses briefly against Alfred’s shoulder like he did when he was much, much smaller.
Alfred asks "What are you thinking right now, my dear boy?"
Damian replies, his voice is muffled.
Shaky.
"I think- "
"I think I miss my sister.”
And this time—
Damian cries.
Dinah doesn’t notice the silence at first.
The Watchtower cafeteria is busy enough — low conversation, the hum of machinery under the floors, someone at the far table arguing about mission logistics. Normal League noise. Functional. Alive.
She’s halfway through her coffee when her phone buzzes against the table.
A small sound.
But it cuts through everything.
Dinah glances down automatically.
And freezes.
Across from her, Barry is mid-sentence when he trails off. “…Dinah?”
She doesn’t answer.
Because the screen is lit up.
And there you are.
Her wallpaper.
You and her pressed together shoulder-to-shoulder, your grin bright and shameless, your arm looped tight around her neck like you belonged there. Like you always would.
For a second — just one — Dinah forgets how to breathe.
“…that’s a really sweet picture,” someone says gently.
She doesn’t even register who.
Her thumb moves over the screen without unlocking it, like she’s afraid the image might disappear if she touches it wrong.
“Yeah,” she says quietly.
Her voice is steady.
Almost.
“She had a habit of invading my personal space.”
A soft ripple of knowing smiles moves around the table.
But Dinah’s gaze doesn’t leave the screen.
Her chest aches.
Because she can still hear your voice in that moment — still feel the way you leaned into her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like you trusted her.
Like you were safe.
Clark watches her carefully from across the table but doesn’t say anything.
Neither does Bruce.
The conversation eventually picks back up around her.
But Dinah stays quiet.
Staring.
Missing you in the smallest, sharpest way.
Later that night, the Queen penthouse feels wrong again.
Not empty.
Wrong.
Dinah stands in the doorway of her bedroom, unmoving.
Her eyes track slowly across the space.
The heels by the vanity.
The structured bags lined neatly along the shelf.
The lipstick on the dresser.
All of it—
You.
Her fingers curl slightly at her sides.
“You are literally everywhere,” she murmurs under her breath.
Not angry.
Not bitter.
Just… tired.
Her chest pulls tight as she steps further into the room, reaching out to brush her fingertips over the smooth leather of one of the bags.
She sets the bag down carefully.
Like it matters.
Like you might come back for it.
Ollie notices the shift in the house long before he admits it.
At first it’s small things.
The way the music doesn’t stay on as long.
The way the living room feels too neat.
Too quiet.
You used to fill the space without trying — feet on the furniture, commentary constant, energy bright and impossible to ignore.
Now?
The penthouse echoes.
He’s halfway through a joke one evening — something stupid, something that absolutely would’ve made you snort — when the sound dies in his throat.
Because there’s no second laugh.
No dramatic groan.
No voice immediately telling him he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.
Ollie goes still.
“…huh,” he says quietly to no one.
The moment passes.
But the quiet stays.
And it settles somewhere heavy behind his ribs.
Patrol is the worst.
Dinah feels it the second they hit the rooftops.
The city wind cuts sharp across the buildings, familiar and familiar and
Off.
She lands lightly beside Ollie, already scanning the street below.
Automatically.
Professionally.
But there’s a space to her right that shouldn’t be empty.
You used to be there.
Always just half a step too close, always talking just a little too much over comms until Dinah had to shush you at least once per patrol.
Now the comm line stays clean.
Too clean.
“…you good?” Ollie asks quietly over the channel.
Dinah doesn’t answer right away.
Her gaze sweeps the rooftops again.
Habit.
Memory.
Missing.
“…yeah,” she finally says.
But her voice is softer than usual.
Ollie hears it.
Of course he does.
Because he misses you too.
Misses the way you used to cut through the tension with something sharp and ridiculous.
Misses the extra set of eyes.
Misses the kid who was never technically theirs—
But somehow became theirs anyway.
The city stretches out below them, loud and alive and completely unaware of the space you left behind.
Dinah exhales slowly through her nose.
Then, quieter than the wind—
“…you would’ve loved this case.”
Ollie doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know who she’s talking to.
“…yeah,” he murmurs.
And for the rest of patrol—
They both leave just a little extra room on the rooftop.
Like some part of them is still waiting for you to land there.
The Watchtower still remembers you.
It’s not supposed to work like that.
The system is designed to archive, to update, to move forward with clean efficiency. Profiles get edited. Access gets reassigned. Files get buried under newer ones.
But yours—
Yours is still everywhere.
No one has had the heart to delete it.
Barry is the one who notices first.
Not officially. Not in some big dramatic moment.
Just… late.
Too late for anyone else to be up. He stayed back after tower duty.
The Watchtower hums softly around him as he scrolls through the information sector for all League-affiliated members, half-looking for something to keep his hands busy, half-trying not to think too hard about why the place feels quieter lately, as he scrolls through the documentation for each member, he sees Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood-
Then he freezes.
“…Oh.”
Nightingale blinks back at him from the screen.
Your name and picture, you're still smiling.
Last modified: three weeks before your death.
Barry hesitates.
He shouldn’t open it.
He knows he shouldn’t.
But his finger moves anyway.
The file loads.
He has to close it after a few seconds.
He couldn't escape you, his lab always had you in it.
His books filled with dense chemical equations—your messy-but-brilliant shorthand scrawled into the notes exactly the way you used to do it when you got excited and stopped caring about formatting.
Barry lets out a soft, broken breath.
“You were still working on this…”
It’s advanced. Complicated. Classic you—three steps ahead of where anyone expected you to be.
There’s even a little side note at the bottom.
test with uncle barry. — remind him to wear gloves this time
Barry huffs out a quiet, watery laugh.
“Yeah… yeah, that sounds like you.”
-
Diana finds you in the training room.
Not physically.
But close enough to make her chest tighten.
She had only meant to run a quick combat simulation—something light to clear her head between briefings.
Instead, when the program loads, the difficulty setting flashes across the screen.
User preset: Nightingale
Diana stills.
“…Oh, little warrior.”
She steps closer.
Reads the parameters.
Of course you had it set higher than recommended.
Of course you had overridden the safety dampeners.
There’s even a custom note in the corner.
if this gets easy, remind bruce i need an upgrade
Diana’s lips curve—soft and sad all at once.
“You were never satisfied with ‘easy,’ were you?”
She doesn’t change the setting.
Doesn’t lower the difficulty.
Instead—
Diana selects your preset.
And fights through the entire simulation exactly the way you would have wanted.
-
J’onn notices the book months later.
It’s tucked into the Watchtower’s quiet library half-hidden between heavier volumes.
He recognises it immediately.
Because he remembers buying it.
For you.
You had lit up—bright and eager in that way you only did when someone handed you something you could learn from.
He picks it up now, careful, reverent.
The spine is gently worn.
There are sticky notes poking out from the edges.
J’onn opens it slowly.
Your handwriting greets him in the margins.
Quick thoughts. Questions. Little arguments with the author written in sharp, clever bursts.
He pauses on one underlined passage.
Next to it, you had written:
ask uncle j’onn about this — feels like something he’d have thoughts on
For a long time, Martian Manhunter simply stands there.
Very still.
“…I would have liked that conversation, young one.”
He places the book back exactly where he found it.
But his hand lingers on the cover for a moment longer than necessary
Clark and Lois carry their grief differently.
More publicly.
But simultaneously more quietly.
And in some ways… more painfully.
Because they had to write about you.
They hadn’t wanted to.
Goodness, they hadn’t wanted to.
But the world had demanded answers.
So Lois sat at her desk with shaking hands and typed your name into headlines that made her stomach twist.
Clark edited a copy with his jaw locked tight, eyes burning every time your photo appeared on the screen.
They kept it respectful.
Careful.
Gentle.
But it still felt wrong.
It still felt like betrayal.
And the worst part—
The absolute worst part—
Was watching Jon.
Because Jon doesn’t hide it well.
He sits at the Kent kitchen table some mornings just… staring at his phone.
Scrolling through old messages.
Old photos.
Clark hears him sometimes.
Late at night.
Soft.
“…She said she’d spar with me again.”
Lois finds him once with your old voice messages playing quietly from his phone.
He doesn’t notice she’s there.
Doesn’t notice the way her face crumples just a little before she quietly backs out of the room.
They lost a niece.
Jon lost something closer to an older sister.
And none of them quite know how to fix that.
Kon, Bart, Tim and Cassie regularly screwed around, it was nothing new.
They don’t mean to go that way.
It just… happens.
One minute Tim is leading them down the Watchtower corridor, half-talking about something tactical and half-distracted by the tablet in his hand. Bart is bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet beside him, Cassie is mid-story about a mission mishap, and Conner is walking just a step behind them all, quiet but present.
Normal.
As normal as things get anymore.
Then Tim turns the corner—
—and stops dead.
The others almost walk straight into him.
“Dude—” Bart starts, then follows Tim’s line of sight.
And goes very, very still.
The Memorial Hall stretches quietly before them.
The memorial for heroes that had passed.
Soft lights.
Polished floors.
And at the centre—
A large holographic memorial flickers gently in the air.
You.
Smiling.
Standing tall in your suit, cape draped perfectly behind you, the bat symbol bright and proud on your chest like you’re about to say something smart and mildly annoying to all of them. Standing next to Blue Beetle and Tula.
For a second, nobody breathes.
Cassie’s voice comes out small.
“…Oh. I didn't know they put that in yet.”
Tim’s fingers tighten slowly around his tablet.
He didn’t know they’d finished installing it.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe he just avoided this corridor on purpose.
Bart shifts beside him, all restless energy suddenly gone, like someone hit a pause button on him.
“…She looks so—”
He doesn’t finish.
Doesn’t have to.
Because you do.
You look confident in the hologram.
Alive.
Like you might step forward any second and roll your eyes at them for being dramatic.
Conner steps closer first.
Slow.
Careful.
Like the air around the memorial is fragile.
His eyes drop to the inscription beneath the image.
NIGHTINGALE
The word seems to echo in the quiet room.
Cassie inhales sharply beside him.
"Y'know she told me she hated that callsign at first,” she whispers.
Tim lets out a faint, broken huff of air.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Said it sounded too soft.”
Bart’s voice is softer than any of them have ever heard it.
“…She grew into it though.”
Silence settles again.
Heavy.
Tim finally forces himself to step forward.
One step.
Two.
Until he’s standing directly in front of your hologram.
Up close, the smile hits different.
Because he knows that smile.
Knows the exact moment it usually came before you said something sarcastic.
Knows the way your eyes used to flick toward him like you were already dragging him into whatever chaos you’d cooked up.
His throat tightens.
“…She would’ve roasted the hell out of this hologram,” he murmurs.
Cassie’s lips tremble faintly.
Because yeah.
You would have.
Bart shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck.
“…She would’ve said the lighting was mid.”
That—
That almost gets a real laugh out of Cassie.
Almost.
Conner doesn’t laugh.
He’s still staring at the word.
Nightingale.
“…It fits her,” he says quietly.
Tim swallows hard.
Because it does.
The four of them stand there for a long moment.
Not really talking.
Not really moving.
Just… looking.
Like if they stare long enough, maybe the hologram will glitch.
Maybe you’ll move.
Maybe—
Bart suddenly blurts, voice too bright, too fast:
“She’d be so mad we’re being this emo right now.”
Cassie lets out a shaky breath.
“…Yeah.”
Tim’s mouth twitches faintly.
“…She’d tell us to touch grass.”
That actually gets a weak snort out of Conner.
Progress.
Small.
Fragile.
But real.
Tim finally lifts a hand—
Not quite touching the hologram.
Just… hovering there for a second.
“…Miss you, dummy,” he murmurs under his breath.
Then he drops his hand.
Clears his throat.
Straightens slightly.
“C’mon,” he says quietly. “We’ve got a briefing in five.”
But when they walk away—
All four of them glance back.
Just once.
And the Watchtower lights flicker softly over your smiling face.
Nightingale.
Still watching over them.
A/N: I haven't written a fic in so long, this felt so good to do. yes i am still on my batsis death fic induced high yall can rip it from my cold dead hands (HAHAHAH GET IT- sorry ill see myself out)
Got bullied into making a taglist
(this is just everyone from my dead air fic comment section apologies if i missed you) - comment if you'd like to join, I'm only rlly doing this for this series because everyone likes it,
please don't just comment for the sake of asking to be tagged, I read and 🩷 all comments and really appreciate them.
Post Dark Side of Dimensions. I am 100% kaiba didn't time travel, he went into the land of the dead. No one ever said time travel. Anyways, shenanigans.
SYNOPSIS : Being the one and only Spidey in your universe—with your endless list of rouges—is hard enough. To be transported across universes doesn't make it any easier—your life only gets that much more complicated. You seem to have taken the place of a different you that previously existed here—this you just so happened to be the forgotten, normal child of Bruce Wayne... joy. As you manage your way through both your hectic love life, hiding your secret identity, and your growing concerns for how strangely out of character your family was beginning to act—it seems like going home, wherever that may be, now, is out of the question.
note: EXCITED YAYAYYAA A ,, love interests will be: harry osborne , johnny storm/human torch . possibly kon el . . .
༊ .⭒ THE BALLAD OF A BYGONE BLIGHT ✰ CHAPTER LIST
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 00. ꒱ ♯ THE LONELY SPIDER.
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 01. ꒱ ♯ SPARKLESS LIFE.
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 02. ꒱ ♯ A GREEN FIRE—LOVE IS WEIRD!
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 03. ꒱ ♯ EACH COIN CAN BE FLIPPED TWICE.
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 04. ꒱ ♯ FANTASTIC FOUR.
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 05. ꒱ ♯ YOUR CLOSED-OFF HEART.
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 06. ꒱ ♯ TAKE A BITE.
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 07. ꒱ ♯ FOOLS OWN PARADE.
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 08. ꒱ ♯ LOOK WHAT THE BAT DRAGGED IN!
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 09. ꒱ ♯ #CRASHED.
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ 10. ꒱ ♯ THE BABYSITTER'S CLUB.
༊ .⭒ THE BALLAD OF A BYGONE BLIGHT ✰ ASKS/Q&A !
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ where is the original reader + does the batfam feel guilt for "replacing" the dc!reader. ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ why did i genderbend black cat. ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ spidey's feelings on dc!reader living spidey's original life. ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ reader liking hobie more than the batfam. + how he'd hypothetically fit into the fic. ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ gwen stacy romantic subplot ideas. ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ would spidey move between universes + dc!reader becoming a spiderperson. ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ when(if) will genderbent!black cat appear? ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ spidey's backstory + who knows their identity in their universe. ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ what if spidey's gwen died, but she was alive in the dc!universe. ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ dc!reader in marvel universe world building + who knows why spidey's gone. ꒱
꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ ♯ "nonchalant" johnny + who is spidey most likely to "forgive" in the fam. ꒱
Summary: You passed in your father's arms. and no one will forget how you looked when you died. And after months of rotting grief, why are you standing there?
NOTE: There is multi-universal travel in this fic, itsv type shit. On another Earth, Bruce dies instead of Batsis!Reader. Letting you know just for clarity's sake.
READ PART 1
The night is supposed to start like any other.
The cave is alive—screens glowing, engines humming, the familiar low thrum of readiness vibrating through bone and steel.
Everyone’s half-geared, muscle memory kicking in.
Ready for patrol.
Routine.
Something solid to hold onto.
You should be here.
Your suit remains in the cylindrical glass vault on the wall—Nightingale’s armour pristine, untouched. The matte black plating catches the cave lights in dull glints, the bat emblem symbolic on your chest, pink highlights and accents decorating your suit.
It's neat. Too neat.
Like it’s waiting.
Waiting for it's wearer to come back and put it on. Dick notices it first. His gaze snags on the suit and lingers half a second too long before he looks away Jason clocks it next. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, like he’s bracing for a hit he knows is coming. Damian doesn’t look at it at all.
Bruce steps forward.
“No patrol tonight.”
The words echo strangely against the stone.
Everyone freezes.
“What?” Steph says immediately, boots halfway on. “You’re joking.”
Bruce doesn’t blink. “I’m not.”
Tim swivels in his chair, confusion flashing to irritation in a heartbeat. “Bruce, we’re already running behind—Oracle flagged three hotspots—”
“I know,” Bruce says.
Jason lets out a sharp laugh. “So what, Gotham’s just on its own now?”
Bruce’s mouth tightens. “You’re benched. All of you.”
The cave feels smaller.
Tighter.
“For how long?” Dick asks carefully.
“Tonight,” Bruce replies.
Then, quieter, firmer: “Tomorrow too.”
Damian finally looks up. “That is unacceptable.”
Bruce turns to him. “You’re staying.”
"And if any of you try anything, I'll stretch that time to indefinitely."
The finality in his voice shuts everyone down.
Even Jason doesn’t push. Not when Bruce looks like that—tired in a way no sleep fixes, grief stitched into every line of his face. He looks like he's aged years in the past few weeks
“Suit down,” Bruce orders.
Reluctantly, one by one, they comply.
The walk back up to the manor is silent.
Boots echo against stone. Gloves are pulled off and shoved into pockets. Helmets are clipped uselessly at belts. No one says what they’re all thinking: that patrol would’ve helped. That punching something would’ve been easier than sitting with the ache.
They pass your suit again on the way out.
Cass’s fingers twitch like she wants to reach for it.
Damian pauses for a fraction of a second—so brief it’s almost invisible—but his shoulders tense, breath hitching before he schools himself and keeps walking.
The elevator doors close.
The cave disappears.
They reconvene an hour later in Tim’s room, still dressed half-for-battle, irritation buzzing under the grief like static.
Tim’s sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. Jason’s leaning against the desk, arms crossed, foot tapping. Steph paces, restless energy with nowhere to go. Cass sits cross-legged near the window on a bean bag, watching the city lights like she might memorise them. Duke’s slouched in a chair, hoodie pulled up, jaw clenched.
Dick stands near the door, arms folded, trying—and failing—to keep the peace.
“This is bullshit,” Jason mutters finally. “Benched. On a random ass Tuesday night.”
“It’s not random,” Tim snaps, far sharper than intended.
Silence.
Steph exhales solemnly. “It's 'cuz tomorrow’s her birthday.”
No one answers. How could they refute that?
Elizabeth Taylor Wayne, your pet Cavalier, pads into the room then, tiny paws soft against the carpet of Tim's carpet, who's room she frequented after your passing. She’s wearing one of her little pink sweaters—slightly crooked, like someone rushed putting it on. She pauses in the doorway, head tilting, tail wagging uncertainly before she beelines straight for Damian. (YO I LOVE DOGS OMFG)
Of course she does.
Damian stiffens as she noses at his boots, then sighs and crouches, scooping her up with practiced care. She settles immediately, licking his chin like she’s claiming him.
“She’s anxious,” he mutters, more observation than complaint.
Jason snorts quietly. “Yeah. Wonder why.”
Dick rubs a hand over his face. “Bruce thinks keeping us here helps.”
“Helps who?” Steph asks.
Yet again, no one has an answer.
Tim finally speaks, voice low. “He couldn’t even look at her suit.”
That does it.
The room goes heavy.
Dense.
Like the air itself is grieving.
Elizabeth squirms, then wriggles out of Damian’s arms and hops onto Tim’s bed, curling up atop one of your old hoodies like it’s instinct. Like she knows.
Damian watches her with an expression he doesn’t have words for.
“She was supposed to wake me up tomorrow,” he says suddenly.
Everyone looks at him.
“She always does,” Damian continues, staring at nothing. “She said birthdays should start early. That they deserve… ceremony.”
Steph presses her lips together.
Dick swallows. “We’ll still—” He stops.
Tries again. “We’ll get through tomorrow. Together.”
Jason scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. “Yeah. Sure.”
Outside, Gotham hums on, uncaring.
Inside Tim’s room, surrounded by half-packed gear, borrowed hoodies, and the soft breathing of a dog who misses you in a way she can’t explain, your siblings sit with the weight of being benched—not just from patrol, but from the one thing they all want most.
To outrun the day that’s coming.
The house knows before anyone says it out loud.
Wayne Manor is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like it’s learned how to mourn without making noise. The kind of silence that presses against the ears, that fills every corner until it’s hard to breathe.
Damian wakes first.
He always does.
Training drilled into muscle memory. For a brief, treacherous moment, his body moves on instinct alone—feet hitting the floor, posture straightening, already turning toward your room with irritation half-formed on his tongue. He expects to see your door open, light spilling out, you already awake and doing something infuriatingly normal.
Instead, the hallway is still. Your door is closed.
The realisation hits him in stages. Not like a blade, but like pressure—slow, crushing, unavoidable. He stands there longer than he should, staring at the door like if he waits long enough, you might open it yourself and give him a kiss on the cheek.
Elizabeth Taylor trots up beside him, soft and warm, tail brushing against his calf. She presses her head into his leg, grounding him. Damian exhales shakily and kneels, burying his fingers into her fur.
Her pink velvet dog bed isn’t in your room anymore.
It migrated.
Quietly. Over several days.
It sits in Damian’s room now, tucked beside his bed, next to Titus'.
No one commented on it. No one questioned it.
She sleeps there every night, curled close to him like she’s guarding what’s left.
Everyone has been taking care of her.
They take turns bathing her, brushing her coat, changing her outfits with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for something fragile and irreplaceable.
Jason complains the loudest but never skips his turn. Steph hums softly while she buttons tiny sweaters. Alfred puts her in a pink stroller and takes her to your grave every now and then. Cass watches her like she’s memorising her existence, Dick brings Haley over more often, for Elizabeth to have a girl companion. Damian's taken up replenishing her doggy bowl and upkeeping her insanely expensive diet you sponsored.
After all, she is the last living thing that loved you without knowing what death was.
Downstairs, Alfred sets the table.
He does it the same way he always has—measured, precise, unyielding in ritual. The grand dining room feels cavernous this morning, its long table too long, the ceiling too high. Sunlight filters through the tall windows and lands across the polished surface like it doesn’t know what it’s illuminating.
Your place is set.
The chair between Duke and Damian is pulled out, napkin folded neatly, cutlery aligned just so. Alfred adjusts it twice before he’s satisfied. He doesn’t look at the chair for long. One by one, they drift in.
Dick checks his phone as he walks, then stops dead when he sees the date. He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.
Jason takes the seat across from yours without realising it, then stiffens when his gaze flicks up and lands on the empty space opposite him. Tim arrives last. Hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands. Eyes shadowed. He hasn’t been sleeping well. None of them have.
Bruce doesn’t come down.
Alfred pours tea.
He comments on the weather. Mentions a meeting at Wayne Enterprises that Lucius has postponed. His voice is steady, clipped, perfectly composed. He asks about training schedules that no longer exist. About patrols that aren’t happening. They answer him because it’s easier than saying anything else.
Forks scrape against porcelain. Cups clink. Damian doesn’t touch his food. Elizabeth sits at his feet, chin resting on his shoe, eyes tracking every movement like she’s afraid someone might disappear if she looks away.
The chair stays empty.
It’s Tim who finally breaks.
His voice is barely above a whisper.
“It’s her birthday.”
No one responds immediately.
The words don’t echo. They sink.
Steph’s hand freezes mid-reach. Duke swallows hard, eyes fixed on the table. Dick closes his eyes like he’s been punched. Jason’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding audibly.
Alfred stills.
Just for a breath.
“Yes,” he says softly. “I believe it is.”
No one wishes you happy birthday.
After breakfast, no one knows what to do.
They hover in that awful in-between—too restless to sit, too exhausted to move. Bruce still hasn’t come down. The manor feels wrong without him, like the absence of both father and daughter has knocked something structural loose.
That’s when they see the package.
Bruce stands near the base of the staircase, motionless, a medium-sized box clutched in his hands like it weighs more than it should.
Your name is printed on the label in clean, unmistakable letters. Ordered weeks ago. Scheduled. Planned.
For today.
No one speaks.
Bruce doesn’t look up. His grip tightens slowly, knuckles whitening. The box crinkles faintly under the pressure.
Alfred approaches quietly, like he’s walking up to something wounded.
“Master Bruce,” he says gently. “Perhaps… a game might be of use. The children could use the distraction.”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t move.
But he doesn’t object either.
So they play cards.
Uno, of all things. They gather in the sitting room, sunlight slanting through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air like nothing has changed.
Steph volunteers to deal.
She shuffles once. Twice.
Disperses the cards, makes sure everyone has the standard deck of seven.
Everyone has one. Yet there's one extra deck remaining.
One meant for you.
“Oh,” Steph breathes.
Her hands shake. She almost drops them.
No one tells her to stop.
She reshuffles, and deals again like muscle memory can carry her through what her heart can’t.
They play.
They argue about rules. Jason accuses Dick of cheating. Damian snaps at Tim for not paying attention. Alfred comments dryly from the armchair, pretending not to notice the way conversation falters every time someone laughs too hard.
Tim’s phone buzzes.
A TikTok.
It’s stupid. Genuinely stupid. A video that would’ve made you laugh. Without thinking, without pausing, he hits share.
Your name pops up automatically.
Sent.
The realisation lands a second later.
He stares at the screen, breath leaving him in a sharp, broken sound. The phone slips from his hands. He curls in on himself, shoulders shaking as Cass’ hand finds his sleeve and Dick shifts closer, anchoring him.
Later—after cards, after silence, after everyone drifts away—Bruce stands alone in the hallway.
He holds the package.
He doesn’t open it.
He stares at it like it might start breathing.
“I was supposed to give this to you,” he whispers, voice breaking completely. “I was supposed to be here.”
The manor listens.
And for the first time that day, it lets him cry.
After your funeral, it felt like there was a hole Dinah and Ollie harboured that they couldn't fill up. The penthouse is too quiet when they come back from your funeral.
It’s the kind of quiet that only exists after something enormous—after crowds, speeches, the weight of hundreds of eyes and condolences and hands on shoulders. The doors shut behind Dinah and Ollie with a soft click, and suddenly there’s nowhere for the grief to hide.
Dinah slips her heels off by the door without bending down, toes nudging them aside.
Her feet ache. Her shoulders ache. Her chest feels hollowed out, like something vital has been scooped cleanly away.
Ollie sets the keys down too hard on the counter. The sound echoes.
He winces like he’s broken something.
“Well,” he mutters, forcing air into his lungs, “home sweet—”
He stops himself.
Dinah doesn’t answer. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, still in black, still stiff, still holding herself like if she lets go she’ll collapse straight through the floor. There’s a strange exhaustion that follows events like this. Not the kind sleep fixes. The kind that makes your bones feel heavy, your thoughts slow and sludgy, your body lag a half-second behind your mind. Dinah feels it settle into her joints as she walks further inside, fingers brushing the back of the couch.
She can still hear voices.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“She was such a beautiful soul.”
“She loved you both so much.”
Dinah sinks down onto the couch and stares at nothing. Ollie hovers for a moment, unsure, then sits beside her. He reaches for her hand, squeezes once.
Solid. Real.
“She shouldn’t be dead,” Dinah says suddenly.
Ollie’s jaw tightens. “No.”
“She was supposed to come over,” Dinah continues, voice flat, distant. “To get back her airpods, and she wanted to borrow a dress. She said she’d already planned the outfit but wanted my opinion.”
Ollie exhales through his nose. “She always wanted your opinion.”
“She never listened to it,” Dinah says.
A pause.
“But she wanted it.”
The penthouse smells faintly like flowers—sympathy arrangements that arrived before they left, before they could stop them.
Dinah hates it.
It feels invasive. Wrong.
She stands abruptly. “I need to change.”
Ollie watches her walk away, shoulders squared, movements precise like she’s holding herself together through sheer discipline. He doesn’t follow.
Dinah goes to the closet.
She’s halfway through unzipping her dress when she sees them.
The handbags.
Lined up neatly.
Exactly as you left them.
Her hands still.
For a moment, her brain refuses to connect the dots.
They’re just bags.
Leather. Fabric. Accessories.
Normal things in the closet of a woman who happens to have a billionaire for a husband.
And then the memory hits her sideways.
You, perched on the bench, swinging your legs.
“Dinah, why do you have so many black bags?”
“Because black goes with everything sweetheart, your father knows that of all things..”
“That’s boring. This one though?” You’d picked up the ridiculous beaded clutch, grinning. “This one has personality.”
Dinah’s throat tightens.
She slowly, carefully zips the dress back up and steps out of the closet.
That’s when the days start to blur.
The quiet mornings.
The untouched handbags.
The way Ollie stops cracking jokes when he realizes no one’s laughing.
And eventually—weeks to months later—it’s the department store.
Dinah hasn’t moved the handbags.
They’re still where you left them—lined up along the back of the walk-in closet in their shared penthouse, pristine and untouched.
Chanel, YSL, the ridiculous beaded clutch you insisted she needed because “Dinah, it’s cute.” Dinah passes them every morning and every night and does not touch a single one.
She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t need them.
That’s a lie.
Ollie notices first.
He notices everything lately.
Dinah feels both blessed and cursed to have such an observant husband.
The way Dinah’s fingers hover, the way she inhales like she’s bracing herself, the way her shoulders tense when she catches sight of something that still smells faintly like you—your perfume, your shampoo, your presence.
“You gonna rotate your bags or keep ‘em in museum formation?” he asks one morning, light, careful.
Dinah doesn’t look at him. “They’re fine.”
Ollie nods. Lets it go.
He’s learned when not to push. He feels your absence as well.
Queen Industries feels wrong without you. Ollie’s office used to be a revolving door whenever you were in town. You’d show up unannounced, feet kicked up on his desk, stealing his coffee, complaining about Bruce, asking if Roy was around, asking if Dinah had eaten yet.
You made the place loud. Lived-in. Human.
Now it’s just… quiet.
Too clean.
Ollie catches himself glancing at the door some afternoons, half-expecting you to barrel in with a grin and a complaint and some overpriced desserts you bought from that viral pastry place downtown.
But yet, it never happens.
The door stays closed. The silence settles.
He hates it.
That’s why he suggests the department store.
“Dinah,” he says one afternoon, keys in hand, “you haven’t bought anything frivolous in weeks. That’s not like you.”
She arches a brow. “I don’t need frivolous.”
“Okay, but want?” he counters. “Come on. Smell some expensive nonsense. Yell at me about notes and undertones.”
She hesitates. Then sighs. “Fine.”
The store is bright and glossy and painfully normal.
Dinah moves through it on autopilot—past makeup counters, past mirrors, past smiling employees who don’t know her world has ended. Ollie trails behind her, hands in his pockets, watching the way she moves slower than usual, like she’s underwater.
They reach the perfume section.
Rows and rows of glass bottles. Gold caps. Elegant labels. Too many choices.
Dinah reaches for one without thinking.
She freezes.
Her fingers close around the bottle.
She doesn’t spray it.
Doesn’t need to.
She already knows.
Ollie sees it immediately—the way her breath stutters, the way her grip tightens, the way her eyes go distant.
“Babe?” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”
Dinah swallows.
Her voice comes out quiet. Fragile.
“Y/N used to wear this.”
Ollie steps closer, his usual bravado evaporating. “Yeah?”
Dinah lifts the bottle, finally spraying it onto the tester strip. The scent blooms into the air—warm, familiar, unmistakably you.
Sweet without being childish. Sharp without being harsh. Confident.
Alive.
Dinah closes her eyes.
And suddenly you’re back.
You’re sprawled across her couch, kicking off your shoes, telling her about a gala you went to with your father and sister that bored you out of your mind. You’re hugging her hello, cheek pressed to hers, that exact scent clinging to your skin. You’re laughing, loud and bright, asking if she wants to gossip because oh my god you will not believe what Dick and Jason did.
Dinah’s chest caves in.
She makes a broken sound before she can stop herself.
Ollie’s arms are around her instantly.
“Hey,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ve got you.”
“She smelled like this,” Dinah whispers, fingers trembling as she clutches the strip. “Every time she came over. Every time she hugged me. I didn’t even realize how much I associated it with her until—”
Her voice cracks.
Ollie tightens his hold. “She had good taste,” he says hoarsely. “Obviously.”
Dinah lets out a shaky laugh that dissolves into a sob. “She was our kid,” she says. “She just… showed up one day and never really left.”
“I know,” Ollie replies.
His own voice wavers now. “I miss her stealing my office chair.”
“She stole everything,” Dinah says.
“My clothes. My makeup. My time.”
Ollie exhales. “My peace.”
They stand there like that—in the middle of a luxury department store, surrounded by strangers and polished glass and music that feels inappropriate—holding each other while grief quietly wrecks them.
Dinah pulls back first, wiping her eyes. She looks at the bottle again.
She puts it back carefully, like it might shatter.
As they walk away, Ollie glances back once, then mutters, “She’d be mad we didn’t buy anything.”
Dinah huffs weakly. “She’d tell you to stop being dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Ollie says. “And then she’d hug us both and say we were doing our best.”
Dinah presses her lips together, nodding. They leave the store empty-handed.
The scent lingers anyway.
Just like the memory of you.
ON ANOTHER EARTH, IN A SEPARATE UNIVERSE.
You remember the night your father died.
23 days before your birthday
On another Earth, the night your father dies does not end when his heart stops.
It stretches.
It coils around your spine and stays there.
You remember the sound first—not the explosion, not the chaos, but the quiet after. The way Gotham goes eerily still when something sacred has been taken from it. Rain clings to your lashes. Your gloves are slick with blood that will never come off, no matter how hard you scrub later.
Batman is not dead.
But Bruce Wayne is.
You don’t scream. That comes later. Right now, you’re too busy counting breaths that aren’t happening, hands shaking as you press down, as if pressure alone could undo destiny.
“Dad,” you whisper, uselessly. “Please.”
His cowl is cracked, his face pale beneath it. His eyes are still open, unfocused but somehow still kind.
That’s what destroys you — the kindness. Even now.
Someone pulls you back. Dick’s voice cracks your name like it’s breaking glass. Damian is shouting, furious and terrified and far too young to be watching this. Tim's gotten nauseous, you can't decipher what Babs is saying over your comms.
You don’t remember leaving the alley. You don’t remember the ride back. You only remember that Gotham keeps breathing even when Bruce Wayne doesn’t.
The cover story is decided before the blood dries.
You are not in the room when they say it, but you hear it anyway — whispered through walls, through Alfred’s careful silences, through the way everyone avoids your eyes.
A drug overdose.
Suspected suicide.
The words feel obscene.
Bruce Wayne, philanthropist. Bruce Wayne, troubled billionaire. Bruce Wayne, fallen icon. Bruce Wayne, a father, who is now dead.
The media eats it alive.
They speculate. They pity. They dissect his life like it belongs to them.
You sit at the long dining table and stare at the empty chair at the head.
He died in an alley protecting his city.
And the world thinks he gave up.
Parallel lines you don’t yet have the words for twist tight in your chest.
The funeral is public.
Of course it fucking is.
Bruce Wayne deserves marble steps and black umbrellas and a sea of faces pretending they understand loss and better yet, pretending they knew who he was.
You're holding your dog, and Ace and standing beside Dick, who hasn’t slept. Damian is rigid on your other side, small hand fisted in the fabric of your coat like he might fall apart if he lets go. Tim looks hollow. Cass watches everything with eyes too sharp. Steph cries quietly. Jason doesn’t look at the coffin at all.
They speak of Bruce Wayne’s achievements. They speak of his generosity. His legacy. His struggles.
They do not speak of Batman. They do not speak of the man who taught you how to breathe through pain.
When the casket is lowered, something inside you follows it.
Later, when the cameras are gone and the world finally leaves you alone, you break.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
You fold in on yourself in a hallway at Wayne Manor, hands pressed to your mouth to keep the sound in. Your knees hit the floor. Alfred finds you there and doesn’t say a word.
He just kneels, dignified even in grief, and holds you like you are still a child who scraped her knee.
“I am so very sorry, Miss,” he murmurs.
You nod because if you speak, you will drown.
The days after blur into responsibility.
Someone has to take over Wayne Enterprises.
That someone is you.
Board members test you at first — subtle, patronising, polite. You shut it down quickly. You wear black like armour. You speak carefully.
You do not cry in meetings. Tim's by your side more often then not.
At night, you sit in Bruce’s study with the lights off, listening to the house settle.
You don’t touch anything. It feels like trespassing.
Dick becomes Batman because Gotham doesn’t wait for grief.
You watch him leave the cave the first night, cape settling over his shoulders in a way that makes your chest ache.
He pauses at the steps.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says quietly.
“I know,” you reply.
But you do it anyway.
Damian stops sleeping through the night.
He ends up in your room more often than not, curled tight and furious with the world, he holds you like you'll disappear as well. You brush his hair back like Bruce used to. You never mention it.
You become the constant in all their lives.
Joining the PTA for Duke regardless of how much you hate Margie and all the other middle-aged women. Showing up to Cass' ballet recitals. Taking Damian to piano classes and his swimming lessons. Helping Jason on the occasional mission, and the occasional hangover.
And it costs you more than you let on.
You and Dick ramp up your presence at the Watchtower.
Initiating meetings, scheduling timetables, emails with the UN.
Even though the two of you are heavily respected, all your league members look at you the same.
Two kids who lost their dad.
And now they're paying the price for his absence.
Dinah and Ollie are the ones who notice first.
Because of course they are.
They show up without warning, no fanfare, just familiar noise cutting through the manor’s oppressive quiet.
Ollie complains about the driveway. Dinah hugs you hard enough that your breath stutters.
They don’t ask you to be strong. They don’t ask you to talk. They just stay.
Something you took for granted quite frankly.
You end up in Star City more often than you expect — weekends at first, then longer stretches. Dinah teaches you how to breathe again, slow and deliberate. Ollie distracts Damian with archery and loud jokes and the kind of fatherly affection that doesn’t demand anything back.
You sit on their couch one night, exhausted, head tipped back, and Dinah drapes a blanket over you without comment.
“You’re allowed to rest sweetie,” she says softly.
You don’t answer.
But you stay.
They become your anchors — not because they fix anything, but because they don’t try to.
Because they remember Bruce without making him a ghost.
Because they look at you and still see you, not just the weight you’re carrying.
When you laugh — really laugh — for the first time in weeks, it startles you.
Ollie grins like he’s won something.
“There she is,” he says
This past weekend, you've been staying with Dinah and Ollie, it was the perfect opportunity as Dick's on a solo mission with the Titans, Tim and Damian are with the Kents, Jason's with the Outlaws and Steph and Cass are preoccupied with Babs on girls night, they were gutted you couldn't come with, but they weren't gonna stop you from being with Ollie and Dinah. They knew how much you relied on them.
Star City feels wrong before you ever see it.
It’s subtle at first.
The way the air hums just a fraction too loud, like the city itself is vibrating under your skin. The sky is clear, but it feels watched.
You stand on the balcony of Ollie’s penthouse, coffee cooling untouched in your hand, and you can’t shake the sense that something is leaning toward you.
Waiting.
Dinah notices because Dinah always notices.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are sharp.
You glance back. “What thing?”
“The staring-into-the-middle-distance-like-the-universe-is-about-to-punch-you thing.”
You huff a weak laugh. “Didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“To me? Always.” She steps closer, her shoulder brushing yours. “You been sleeping?”
You hesitate. That’s answer enough.
Below, Star City moves like nothing is wrong.
Cars. People. Normalcy.
It makes your teeth ache.
“I don’t like this,” you say finally.
Dinah doesn’t ask what this is.
“Neither do I,” she replies.
Inside, Ollie’s on the phone, voice low, humour stripped clean. When he sees your expression, he ends the call immediately.
“What,” he asks. Not joking. Not loud.
Just what.
“There’s something in the Glades,” Dinah says before you can. “I can feel it.”
Ollie exhales through his nose. “Merlyn.”
The name lands like a bruise.
You straighten instinctively. “You’re sure?”
“No,” Ollie admits. “But I’m never wrong when it matters.”
The lights flicker.
Once.
Twice.
You all freeze.
That hum you felt earlier deepens, crawling into your bones, vibrating behind your eyes.
Somewhere far away—too far to pinpoint—metal screams.
You don’t say it.
But you’re already reaching for your gear.
The facility isn’t marked on any public map.
It sits half-buried in concrete and steel, a scar stitched into the city’s underbelly. The closer you get, the louder the sound becomes — not noise exactly, but pressure. Like reality being squeezed through a needle’s eye.
Your comm crackles.
“Energy readings are off the charts,” Dinah says, voice tight. “This isn’t just tech.”
“No,” you murmur. “It’s worse.”
The entrance yawns open, heat rolling out in waves. Inside, the air shimmers, bending light in ways your brain doesn’t like. Your head throbs. Your teeth buzz.
Ollie draws an arrow anyway.
“Guess Merlyn decided subtlety was overrated,” he mutters.
You move ahead of them without thinking, instincts honed sharp by too much loss, too much responsibility. Nightingale moves like second nature — quieter than fear, faster than doubt.
The core chamber is massive.
Circular.
Wrong.
Spanning hundreds of metres in distance.
A machine dominates the centre, towering, spiralling rings rotating at different speeds, glowing with a violent, sickly light. Energy arcs between them, snapping like lightning with no thunder.
The air smells burnt, metallic, alive.
You gaze up at the machine
You hear Dinah swear softly. “That’s a supercollider.”
"It's a particle accelerator. Merlyn failed with the last two, this one's gonna succeed." You say.
Ollie goes still. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
At the far end of the platform, Merlyn waits.
He looks pleased.
“You’re late,” he calls out, voice echoing unnaturally. “I was beginning to think grief had dulled your reflexes.”
Your hands curl into fists.
“You’re going to shut it down,” you say coldly. “Now.”
Merlyn laughs.
“Oh, child,” he says. “This is the shutdown. Of everything.”
The machine pulses.
Harder.
Your knees buckle for half a second before you catch yourself.
Dinah grabs your arm. “You okay?”
You nod, even though your vision is fracturing at the edges.
“Split up,” Ollie says. “We disable the outer rings.”
You don’t argue.
You should.
But something in your chest is pulling you forward, toward the heart of the machine, toward the light that feels like it knows your name.
The closer you get, the worse it becomes.
Gravity wobbles.
Time hiccups.
Your footsteps echo twice, then not at all.
You swear you see movement in the light — shadows that don’t belong to anything solid.
Your comm screeches.
“Nightingale—!” Dinah’s voice cuts in and out. “Something’s—wrong—”
“I know,” you gasp.
Your head pounds. Images flash behind your eyes — Bruce’s smile. Damian asleep on your shoulder. Dick’s hand on your back. A coffin lowering into the earth. Another one. Parallel grief folding in on itself.
Merlyn steps into your path.
Up close, his eyes are fever-bright.
“Do you feel it?” he asks eagerly.
“The strain? The walls between worlds thinning?”
You raise your guard despite the vertigo. “You’re insane.”
“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “But I’m also right.”
He gestures, and the machine surges.
You scream.
Not from pain — from everything. From the sensation of being pulled apart at a molecular level, of existing in too many places at once. Your knees hit the platform. You claw at the metal, gloves smoking where they touch.
Dinah shouts your name.
Ollie fires an incendiary arrow that disintegrates midair.
Merlyn’s grin widens.
“You’ve been holding the universe together with grief and duct tape,” he says softly.
“You were always going to snap.”
He grabs you.
For a split second, you think of your father.
Then he throws you.
You don’t fall.
You are taken.
The world detonates into colour and sound and screaming light.
Your body is weightless, then impossibly heavy.
You can’t tell where you end and the energy begins. The supercollider howls, rings spinning faster, faster—
Your thoughts fracture.
Is this how he felt?Is this how I die?Is this how I leave them?
Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.
Space folds.
Time screams.
You're shot into a myriad of electric webs, seas of blue with sparkling rope.
You see cities that aren’t yours.
Skies wrong shades of blue.
Your atoms stretch.
Your soul lurches.
The last thing you feel before everything tears—
—is your name being ripped out of the universe like it was never meant to stay.
And then—
nothing holds you anymore.
You wake up on concrete.
Cold seeps through your suit first—through the plating, through the kevlar, through whatever adrenaline is still clinging to your bloodstream like it knows it’s about to be evicted. Your vision swims. Light fractures overhead, neon signs bleeding into each other, letters doubling, then tripling, then snapping back into place.
Star City.
You know it instinctively. The smell—salt, oil, rain. The hum of traffic a few streets over. The particular way the wind curls through alleyways like it’s learned the city’s bones by heart.
But something’s wrong.
Your ears ring, a high, thin whine, like feedback after an explosion. You push yourself up on your elbows and the world tilts violently to the left.
Your stomach lurches. You swallow hard, breathing through it.
“No,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong here. Too loud. Too real.
Your head throbs where it hit—when did it hit? The last thing you remember is light. Pressure. The feeling of being pulled apart and stitched back together incorrectly.
You sit up slowly.
The alley is narrow.
Brick walls on either side, damp with last night’s rain. A flickering security light buzzes overhead. There’s a dumpster to your right, graffiti you don’t recognize sprayed in angry red strokes.
You look down at yourself.
Nightingale’s suit is scorched.
Hairline fractures spiderweb across the chest plate. Your gloves are blackened at the fingertips like you tried to grab the sun and lost. Your mask is still on—thank goodness—but the edge is cracked near your temple.
Your comm is dead.
Of course it is.
You try to stand.
Your ears ring as you push yourself upright, palms scraping against the ground.
Your hands stutter.
Not shaking. Stuttering.
Your fingers leave faint echoes behind them when you move, like afterimages burned into the air. You watch, horrified, as your wrist phases a fraction of an inch out of sync with the rest of you, snapping back with a sharp, nauseating jolt.
“Oh—no,” you whisper. Your voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “No, no, no—”
You stagger to your feet, back slamming against the wall as another wave of distortion rolls through you. It feels like pins and needles under your skin, like your atoms are being politely but firmly told they don’t belong here.
Wrong Star City.
You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe through it.
In. Out. Slow. The way Bruce taught you. The way Dinah insisted on when your hands shook too badly to string an arrow.
Dinah.
Your eyes snap open.
They were just with you. Both of them. You can still hear Dinah shouting over the rising whine of the collider, still see Ollie’s hand gripping your shoulder, too tight, too scared.
You turn in a slow, unsteady circle, scanning the street beyond the alley mouth.
Pain explodes up your spine and you gasp, stumbling back against the wall. Your breath comes fast, shallow. Your heart is hammering, too loud in your ears.
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s—fine.”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
Where are Ollie and Dinah?
They were just there. You can still hear Dinah’s voice in your head, tight with warning. Ollie’s hand on your shoulder, solid, grounding.
You open your eyes again and the alley is still empty.
No Green Arrow.
No Black Canary.
No humming supercollider tearing reality open behind you.
Just Star City.
But not your Star City.
You think of your family, of Dick, Damian, your siblings back home, you wonder if Dinah and Ollie notified them of you disappearance. The panic the two of them might be feeling, are probably experiencing.
But your thoughts return to your surroundings.
Of a different Star City.
You don’t realise how deeply wrong it is until you hear footsteps.
They’re halfway down the block, arms full of nothing, the shopping bags long since abandoned back at the department store counter.
Dinah is mid-sentence, voice warm with something dangerously close to nostalgia, when Ollie stops so suddenly she almost runs straight into him.
“Ollie—?”
He doesn’t answer.
He’s staring down the alley.
Dinah follows his gaze, annoyance melting into something colder, sharper, the instant she sees the movement there. A figure braced against the brick, head bowed, armor catching the flickering streetlight in jagged flashes.
The air feels wrong.
Not tense. Not hostile.
Off.
“Do you see that,” Ollie says quietly.
Dinah’s fingers curl around his wrist without her thinking about it. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I do.”
The figure moves—and glitches.
For a split second there are two of them, offset by a fraction of space, before snapping violently back into one. Dinah’s breath catches hard in her throat.
“…That’s not funny,” she whispers. “That’s not—”
They’re already moving.
Not as Green Arrow and Black Canary. Not with masks and weapons and mission parameters.
Just as themselves.
Because whatever is happening in that alley, it feels personal in a way that makes Dinah’s chest ache.
You hear them before you see them properly. Footsteps approaching, voices cutting off mid-conversation.
You spin, adrenaline flaring sharp and hot, muscles screaming as you drop instinctively into a defensive stance. The world lurches again at the sudden movement, your balance wobbling as static skitters across your skin.
Two figures stand at the mouth of the alley.
Civilian clothes.
Dinah’s scarf. Ollie’s jacket.
The exact way Ollie stands when he’s relaxed but ready, weight shifted just so, hands loose at his sides.
Your heart slams into your ribs so hard it hurts.
“—Uncle Ollie?” The words slip out before you can stop them.
Both of them freeze.
Dinah’s eyes widen, just a fraction. Ollie’s shoulders go rigid, like someone’s just drawn a bowstring through his spine.
You take a step toward them.
The world breaks.
Your vision fractures into overlapping images, the alley stretching and folding in on itself as your body lags behind your intent. You gasp, clutching at your side as your outline shimmers violently, air cracking around you like displaced electricity.
“Hey!” Ollie snaps, all instinct now. “Don’t move.”
“Woah—woah,” you say quickly, panic rising, hands lifting placatingly even as they leave ghostly trails behind them. “It’s me, it’s me, I swear—”
You rip your mask off.
For one awful, suspended second, no one moves.
Dinah feels like the ground has dropped out from under her.
It’s you.
It’s your face.
The same person she’s scolded and laughed with , the same cheeks she's pressed kisses to when the world got too heavy. The same jawline, the same scar near your temple she remembers patching up herself.
But your eyes—
Goodness.
Your eyes look like they’ve seen too much.
Not older, exactly.
Just… exhausted in a way she’s never seen on you before.
Like sleep hasn’t touched you properly in years.
Like grief has taken up permanent residence behind them.
There are fine lines of tension around your mouth that shouldn’t be there yet.
Scars she doesn’t recognise.
A weight to the way you hold yourself that makes her chest ache.
You look at them like you’re drowning and they’re the only solid thing left in the world.
Ollie swallows hard.
“…Kid,” he says, voice low, careful, like one wrong syllable might shatter you. “That’s not possible.”
“I just saw you,” you say, breath hitching. “You were there. Both of you. The collider—Dinah, you were yelling at Merlyn, and Ollie you told me to get back and—”
Your body spasms.
A violent ripple tears through you, your form blurring and splitting before snapping back with a sound like a gunshot. You cry out, dropping to one knee, nausea flooding your throat.
Dinah moves without thinking.
Ollie catches her wrist.
“Dinah,” he says quietly. “Our kid is dead.”
The words sit there.
Heavy. Final.
You look up at him.
Something flickers across your face—pain, old and sharp—but it settles into something quieter, sadder.
“…Not on my Earth,” you whisper.
Silence.
Then Dinah steps forward anyway.
She stops just short of touching you, hands hovering inches from your shoulders, like she’s afraid you’ll glitch apart if she makes contact.
“Say that again,” she says softly. “Slowly.”
You explain.
Not cleanly. Not all at once.
Fragments spill out between breaths.
You come from a different Earth.
Different choices.
Bruce died instead of you.
Surviving things you weren’t supposed to.
Merlyn. The collider. The moment everything went wrong.
Ollie listens without interrupting.
That’s how Dinah knows—knows—he believes you.
Because with Ollie, disbelief would’ve come loud. Defensive. Angry.
Your body glitches again, smaller this time but relentless, a constant shimmer at your edges like the universe is tugging at you, trying to pull you loose.
Dinah’s eyes fill with tears she doesn’t bother to hide.
Ollie exhales slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
She reaches for you.
Stops.
Looks at Ollie.
He nods.
Dinah pulls you into her arms.
The contact grounds you instantly—and breaks something wide open inside your chest. You cling to her like she’s gravity itself, fingers digging into her coat as another wave of distortion rolls through you. Dinah buries her face in your neck, inhaling the same smell that went with you everywhere.
Ollie joins a second later, wrapping both of you up, pressing his forehead briefly to yours.
“We’ve got you,” he murmurs, fierce and unsteady. “We’ve got you.”
For the first time since the collider, the world holds.
They don’t ask where to take you.
Ollie doesn’t even consider anything public.
The penthouse doors slide shut behind you, sealing out the city, and the quiet hits you like a wave.
Without the noise to anchor you, the wrongness comes roaring back.
The penthouse is different.
The kitchen and the living room have been swapped. Dinah and Ollie's wedding portrait looks different.
Huh.
It's all a bit uncanny really.
It's the same house, same people, but there differences everywhere.
You think that's probably what they thought when they laid eyes upon you.
Your reflection in the glass windows flickers, lagging a half-second behind your movements. You sway, knees buckling as the room seems to tilt.
Dinah catches you before you hit the floor.
“Easy,” she murmurs, guiding you down onto the couch. “I’ve got you.”
Your glitching worsens under the stillness. Your outline shimmers constantly now, like a bad signal. Ollie watches it with a tight jaw, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.
“You’re decaying,” he says.
You huff out a weak, breathless laugh. “Yeah. That happens when you’re not supposed to exist somewhere.”
Dinah shoots him a look.
“What,” he says. “That’s my way of panicking.”
She kneels in front of you, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes.
“We’re going to fix this,” she says, voice steady despite the tears shining there. “You hear me? We didn’t survive losing you once just to do it again.”
Your throat tightens.
“Still bossy across universes,” you murmur smirking.
Her smile breaks—and she pulls you into another hug, holding you like she’s afraid the universe might steal you back if she lets go.
She hugs you so tightly, it's so comforting.
You can tell she's been through a lot.
She still scratches your scalp the same way she always did, puts a hand behind your neck.
Some things never change, you guess.
The city outside keeps moving.
And for now—
You’re still here.
Ollie doesn’t pace when he dials.
He stands at the window of the penthouse, one hand braced against the glass, the other holding the phone like it might detonate. Star City glows below—alive, oblivious, cruel in its normalcy. Dinah sits behind you on the couch, her arm draped around your shoulders, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles like she’s afraid you’ll slip out of existence if she lets go.
The call connects on the third ring.
“Bruce,” Ollie says.
There’s a beat.
Then Bruce's voice, low, tired, restrained to the breaking point. “Oliver.”
Ollie exhales through his nose. “I need you to listen. And I need you to stay calm.”
That alone is enough to make Bruce’s spine go rigid on the other end of the line.
“What’s happened?” Bruce asks. “Is this about Gotham?”
“It’s about your daughter.”
Silence.
Not the empty kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that means Bruce has gone very, very still.
“…Which one,” Bruce says quietly. Asking even though he knows the answer.
Dinah closes her eyes.
“Y/N,” Ollie answers.
The name hangs between continents.
Bruce’s voice drops. “That’s not funny.”
“I know.”
“Oliver.”
“I’m not joking.”
Another pause.
Longer.
He can hear Bruce breathing now.
Controlled. Measured. Like he’s already bracing for impact.
“She’s dead,” Bruce says.
It isn’t an accusation.
It’s a statement. A fact carved into his bones.
“I buried her.”
Ollie swallows. “I know you did.”
“Then don’t say her name like this,” Bruce snaps. “Don’t—”
“She’s sitting on my couch,” Ollie says, cutting in. “She’s alive. She’s hurt. And she’s not from this universe.”
The words land wrong. Like broken glass in the mouth.
“You’re going to explain,” Bruce says, voice razor-thin, “right now.”
“She looks like her,” Ollie continues, slower now, choosing every word. “But older. Tired. Like grief’s been living in her bones for a long time. She knows things she shouldn’t. She called me uncle. She called Dinah aunt. She—”
“Stop,” Bruce breathes.
“No,” Ollie says. “You need to hear this. Because she thinks you are dead.”
Bruce’s hand tightens around his phone so hard it creaks.
“In her world,” Ollie says, “you died on the same mission. Same explosion. They ruled it a suicide. Covered it up. Just like—”
Bruce closes his eyes.
“…Just like we did with her,” he finishes hoarsely.
Dinah opens her eyes again, tears streaking silently down her face.
“She’s decaying,” Ollie adds. “She got into an incident with Merlyn and got shot into this universe, I think it's because this universe doesn't have Y/n in it. But it's like she doesn’t belong here. Barry might be able to help, but right now—right now she needs you.”
A long, broken breath on the other end.
“…I’m coming,” Bruce says.
“Come alone,” Ollie replies gently. “As Bruce.”
The call ends.
He doesn’t go to the cave.
He doesn’t touch the Batmobile, doesn’t pull on armour, doesn’t look at the memorial wall. He takes the stairs instead of the lift, every step echoing too loudly through the manor.
The living room is full.
They’re supposed to be gearing up.
Half-suited, half-armed, irritation crackling through the air because patrol was delayed again.
But they're not. 'Cuz they're benched.
Damian is on the floor with Elizabeth Taylor curled against his thigh, pink bed dragged in like a quiet rebellion. Dick is mid-sentence, Steph sprawled across the arm of a chair, Tim cross-legged with a tablet, Jason leaning against the wall, Cass and Duke close together.
Bruce passes through them like a ghost.
“Bruce?” Dick says, confused. “You good?”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
Jason straightens. “Hey. Where are you going?”
Bruce stops at the door.
“I need to step out,” he says.
Damian frowns immediately. “For what purpose?”
Bruce turns then.
His eyes land on each of them in turn, like he’s committing their faces to memory.
“It’s about your sister,” he says.
The room detonates.
“What?” Steph blurts.
Tim’s tablet slips from his hands and hits the floor with a sharp crack. “Bruce—?”
Dick is already moving. “Is she—did something—?”
“You benched us, then you say that?” Jason snaps. “You don’t get to just—”
“Enough,” Bruce cuts in, sharper than intended.
Silence slams down.
“I will explain,” Bruce says, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Later. Alfred will stay with you.”
Damian rises to his feet, Elizabeth’s leash still looped around his wrist. “Father. You are withholding critical information.”
Bruce meets his gaze.
It softens considerably.
He kneels to meet Damian.
“Son, I need you to trust me,” he says.
Damian’s jaw tightens.
He nods once.
Bruce leaves.
The front door closes behind him with a quiet finality that feels like another loss.
You don’t mean to open the news.
You really don’t.
But the penthouse is too quiet, and Dinah’s thumb has stilled on your shoulder, and Ollie’s gone tense in that way he gets when he’s bracing for bad timing. A tablet is in your hands before you’ve fully registered it.
Your name is trending. It's been trending for weeks.
You stare at it, blankly, like your brain refuses to translate.
You tap.
Your face fills the screen.
Y/N WAYNE, DAUGHTER OF BRUCE WAYNE, DEAD.
Another headline.
Another photo.
A gala smile.
A candid shot with Damian scowling beside you.
Death ruled a suicide.
Your throat closes.
“Oh,” you whisper.
Dinah notices instantly. “Hey—hey, sweetheart, what did you see?”
You tilt the phone toward her.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
You scroll numbly.
Edits. Tributes. Candle emojis.
She would’ve been another year older today.
People arguing in comment sections about whether you were happy.
Whether you were lonely.
Whether you were “too gentle for this world.”
Your hands start to shake.
“I’m dead,” you say, distantly. “Here, I mean.”
Dinah pulls you fully into her chest now, arms locking tight. “I know.”
Your eyes burn. “They said I killed myself.”
Ollie’s voice is rough. “They didn’t want questions.”
You nod slowly. “Same thing they did to my dad.”
The realisation settles like ash.
“This isn’t my universe,” you murmur. “I knew that. I just—I didn’t think it would hurt like this.”
Your vision blurs. The glitching starts again, a faint stutter at the edges of your hands, like static crawling up your skin.
Dinah presses her forehead to yours. “You’re okay. You’re here.”
“Am I allowed to be?” you ask quietly.
Footsteps sound behind you.
The door opens.
Bruce Wayne, your father, stands in the threshold.
He looks smaller without the suit.
Older.
His eyes find you instantly—and stop.
Time folds in on itself.
You look up.
Every breath has left your lungs.
Dinah and Ollie's gazes remain transfixed on you and Bruce staring at each other.
“Daddy?” you say, small and uncertain, like a child testing the edge of a nightmare. You stand, slowly.
Bruce crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into him, arms crushing, desperate, breath shuddering against your hair.
“Oh my goodness, baby, you’re here,” he whispers. “You’re real.”
You cling to him, fingers digging into his coat. “Daddy I missed you.”
He lets out a sound that might be a sob.
When he pulls back, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding, trembling.
“You shouldn't be here. My daughter is dead,” he says, voice breaking. “Here.”
You nod.
“I know. I saw.”
“And in your world,” he continues, forcing the words out, “I died.”
“Yes.”
The symmetry is unbearable.
“They said you overdosed,” you add softly. “Suicide. They couldn’t tell the truth.”
Bruce closes his eyes. “We did the same to her.”
Your chest aches.
“I buried you. I took over the company. Dick became Batman. Damian—he needed someone. I stayed Nightingale. I just… hardened.”
Bruce cups your face gently. Smiling, even though the pain he's feeling is the worst he has ever felt, like stitches being ripped open again.
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
Your glitching worsens suddenly, static crawling up your arms.
Bruce notices immediately. His jaw sets.
“You’re destabilising,” he says. “Barry can help. He understands this kind of physics.”
You nod, trusting.
Exhausted.
“I don’t belong here,” you whisper.
Bruce pulls you into him again, softer this time.
“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re not alone. I promise sweetheart.”
You wrap your arms around his waist, feeling like he'll disappear at any second, but you savour this moment.
The moment lingers longer than it should.
Bruce’s hands are still on your shoulders, like if he lets go you’ll flicker out completely. You can feel it—the strange, itchy wrongness under your skin, the way the air doesn’t quite agree with you.
Dinah watches it happen with a tight mouth. Ollie clocks it immediately.
“You’re destabilising again,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.
You nod faintly. “It gets worse when I think too hard.”
Bruce exhales, then straightens. The Batman slides back into place—not the armor, not the voice, but the decisiveness.
“I’ve already called Barry,” he says. “And I notified the Watchtower. Select members only.”
Ollie lifts an eyebrow. “You trust them with this kind of stuff?”
“I trust them with her,” Bruce replies without hesitation.
That lands heavier than anything else.
Dinah squeezes your hand. “Alright. Then we move.”
She stands, already reaching for the hidden panel near the hallway. “We suit up.”
You blink. “Now?”
Ollie gives you a soft, crooked smile. “Kid, if you’re gonna glitch out of existence, you’re doing it somewhere with the best minds in the universe.”
Dinah disappears briefly and returns with something folded carefully over her arm.
Your breath catches.
It’s a suit—but not yours.
Not Nightingale as you knew her.
The silhouette is familiar, but refined.
Reinforced seams. Subtle gold threading worked into the black. A faint canary insignia worked into the inside lining, near the collar.
Dinah holds it out. “Temporary. Modified to stabilise your vitals. Barry’ll do the real work, but this’ll help .”
You take it with trembling fingers. “You didn’t have to—”
“We did,” Ollie says gently.
As you change, the penthouse hums with quiet urgency. Dinah and Ollie suit up too, muscle memory guiding them. When you step back out, fully masked, Bruce stops breathing for half a second.
You’re Nightingale.
But older. Sharper. Tired in a way this world’s Nightingale never had the chance to be.
Bruce approaches you slowly, like you might spook.
“You ready?” he asks.
You hesitate—then lean forward and hug him.
He makes a small, broken sound as his arms wrap around you, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I should go home first,” he says quietly. “I need to tell them, the kids deserve to know.”
You nod. “I know.”
You pull back just long enough to press a kiss to his cheek. He does the same to your hair, lingering.
“Be careful,” he whispers.
“You too, daddy.”
He watches you go with Dinah and Ollie, something in his chest ripping open all over again.
Bruce drives home in silence.
The city lights blur past, reflections ghosting across the windows. His hands are steady on the wheel, but his thoughts are anything but.
Alive.
Not his.
Dead here.
Alive somewhere else.
The manor looms ahead like a mausoleum.
Inside, the lights are on.
Alfred opens the door, welcoming him.
He walks ahead, trying to figure out a way to break the news to his children.
Too many of them. Voices carry faintly from the living room—irritated, confused, restless.
He steps inside and all of them turn at once.
Cass's head perks up first, she nudges Duke who stops talking
“Bruce?” Dick says immediately. “What the hell is going on?”
Jason pushes off the wall. “You disappear and drop that line about Y/N like it’s nothing—”
Steph and Tim are already standing, eyes sharp, scanning Bruce’s face. “Is this about the Watchtower alert?”
Bruce turns his head because how did he have Watchtower alerts?
Damian is quiet.
Elizabeth Taylor sits at his feet, tail thumping nervously, like she knows what's up. “Father,” he says. “Explain.”
Bruce closes the door behind him.
He doesn’t take off his coat.
He walks to the couch and sits.
That alone shuts them up.
“I need you all to listen,” Bruce says. “And not interrupt.”
That earns him a few looks, but no one speaks.
He swallows.
“Y/N is alive.”
The room explodes.
“What?” Steph blurts.
Tim stumbles forward a step. “That’s not—don’t do that.”
Jason laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s sick, man.”
Damian’s breath hitches. “Father—”
Bruce raises a hand. “She is alive. But not our Y/N.”
Dead silence.
Dick’s voice is barely audible. “…What?”
Bruce exhales. “She’s from another universe. In her world, I died. Same mission. Same explosion. They covered it up as a suicide.”
Tim pales. “Like we did to her here.”
“Yes.”
Cass steps closer to Steph instinctively. Duke’s hands curl into fists.
“So she just—what—shows up?” Jason demands. “Wearing her face?”
Bruce’s voice breaks despite himself. “She called me dad.”
Damian’s composure fractures. “You saw her?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?” Damian asks immediately.
“They're on their way to the Watchtower, her, Dinah and Ollie. They were the ones who found her.” Bruce says. “She’s unstable. Barry’s working on something to stop the dimensional decay.”
Dick runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. “You didn’t bring her here.”
“It’s not safe yet.”
“For who?” Jason snaps.
Bruce looks at all of them. “For her. And for all of you.”
No one has an answer to that.
Only Elizabeth, who whines softly.
"Can we see her?" Duke asks,
"Eventually, I promise, let them get to the Watchtower, then we'll go." Bruce replies.
The Zeta-tube opens with a sound like the universe holding its breath.
Cold hits you first.
Not wind—there’s no air moving like that—but the kind of sterile, metallic chill that seeps straight through bone and settles behind your eyes.
The Watchtower always felt distant, even when you belonged here. Now it feels… vast. Hollow. Like a cathedral built for gods who forgot how to pray.
Below the transparent curve of the station, Earth hangs in silence.
Blue. Whole. Untouched by the fact that you died on it.
You take a step forward and your boots echo too loudly. Ollie’s already scanning the corridor, hand loose near his bow. Dinah walks just ahead of you, deliberate, protective without being obvious.
“You good?” Ollie asks, glancing back.
You nod, even though the static under your skin prickles in warning.
“Yeah,” you say. “Just… colder than I remember.”
Dinah hums. “It’s always like that your first time back.”
Back.
You swallow.
The corridor stretches long and white and impossibly clean. As you walk, doors slide open. Heads turn.
John Stewart—freezes mid-conversation, eyes widening as they land on you.
Hal stares like he’s seen a ghost. Because he has.
Zatanna’s hand flies to her mouth.
Shayera stiffens, her wings twitching.
Martian Manhunter’s gaze sharpens instantly, unreadable but heavy with recognition.
You catch Victor Stone’s reflection in the glass—Cyborg’s systems visibly lag for half a second as he recalibrates what he’s seeing. Even Aquaman, regal and unshakable, pauses.
Every step forward feels like walking through your own funeral. Whispers ripple behind you.
“That’s—”
“Didn't Bruce's kid pass?”
“Wait what-.”
“Is this some kind of—”
Ollie clears his throat loudly. “Eyes forward, folks. Multiverse emergency. Nothing to see here except your own business.”
That gets a few embarrassed looks, but the staring doesn’t stop.
You don’t really blame them.
At the end of the hall, the doors to the Flash’s lab slide open.
Barry’s voice spills out first. “—telling you, the math doesn’t lie, if she destabilises again—”
He stops mid-sentence. Clark turns. Diana looks up.
For half a second, none of them move.
Clark is the first to break.
He tries. You can tell he tries.
His shoulders square. His expression smooths into something neutral, professional. Justice League Superman.
“Nightingale. Y/N,” he says carefully. “It’s… great to see you.”
"Hi Uncle Clark" You reply softly
You barely have time to smile before he fails spectacularly.
In two strides he’s in front of you, pulling you into a hug so careful it almost hurts more than if he’d crushed you.
“Oh,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Oh, kid.”
Your arms come up automatically, pressing into his chest.
He smells the same. Sun-warm and familiar and devastating.
“Jonathan really misses you,” he says softly into your hair. “He keeps asking how your doing, forgetting that your uh-.”
Your throat closes, you cut him off. “I miss him too.”
Diana steps forward next, hands gentle as she cups your face, searching you with ancient eyes.
“You are weary,” she says quietly. “More than you should be.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. That tracks, thanks Aunt Di.”
Barry doesn’t even pretend to be calm. He darts in, hugging you quick and tight, then pulling back just as fast, hands already hovering like you might fall apart if he blinks.
“Okay,” he says, voice wobbling. “Wow. You look—wow.”
“Bad wow?” you ask.
“Tired wow,” he corrects immediately. “Like you’ve been carrying grief in a backpack with no straps.”
That hits harder than anything else.
Clark frowns. “She’s dimmer.”
You blink. “Dimmer?”
Barry nods. “Not in a bad way. Just… less light. Our Y/N was—” He gestures vaguely. “Sharper. Louder. You feel like… aftermath.”
You smile thinly. “Yeah no shit. I watched my dad die.”
That does it.
The static spikes.
It starts in your fingers—white noise crawling up your hands, your vision stuttering like a corrupted video file. The floor feels too far away, then too close.
Dinah swears. “She’s glitching.”
Your body flickers. Once. Twice.
“Hey—hey—hey,” Barry says quickly, hands on your shoulders. “Stay with me. Don’t fight it.”
You try to breathe and fail spectacularly as the world fractures.
“I need time,” Barry says sharply. “I can build something, but I need her stable now.”
“I’m trying,” you choke, and then your knees buckle.
The room dissolves into static
When sensation comes back, it’s softer.
There’s a band around your wrist—warm, humming faintly, like it’s alive. The static is still there, but muted. Padded.
Barry sits in front of you, goggles pushed up into his hair, eyes red-rimmed but bright with relief.
“Particle stabiliser,” he says proudly. “Temporary, but it’ll hold you together.”
You flex your fingers. They stay solid.
“Oh,” you whisper. “That’s… better.”
He grins, exhausted. “Yeah. Thought you’d like that.”
Dinah squeezes your shoulder. Ollie lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding for a while.
Across space, a notification lights up on Batman's display.
GLITCHING STABILISED. SUBJECT SAFE.
His hands tremble.
Wayne Manor is silent in the way only grief makes things silent. Bruce stands in the Cave, staring at the message like it might disappear if he looks away.
“She’s stable,” he says finally.
Every head snaps up.
Dick’s breath catches. Tim and Cass are already moving. Jason swears under his breath. Damian looks at Duke and Steph, his eyes shine with something dangerous and hopeful.
“We’re going,” Bruce says, voice ironed flat. “Suit up.”
And somewhere, kilometres away, your laughter rings down a Watchtower corridor—
and the silence that follows it is so loud it hurts.
A/N: Praying that this doesn't flop (it probably will ngl) , it def needs a part 3 sorry guys, i was actually gonna include a scene where AU!Batsis meets the batfam of this universe, but i couldn't be bothered i was cracked out while writing this. also does anybody want a fic of batsis with uncle ollie and aunt dinah, also ik this shit is so ass but I'm so proud of myself for conjuring up 10000 words
Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!
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