✧ MASTERLIST | ✧ INTERLUDE I | ✧ CHAPTER II | ✧ INTERLUDE II
NIGHTWING'S POV:
The factory does not greet him.
It looms.
The massive structure stands silent against the night, its once-bright colors dulled by time and neglect. Paint peels from the walls near the entrance, the cheerful reds and blues now muted into something lifeless. The windows are dark, coated in dust thick enough to block whatever once shined through them. Even the air feels different here, heavier, as if the building itself has been holding its breath for years.
Nightwing pauses only for a moment before stepping inside.
The doors groan faintly as they give way, the sound echoing deeper into the factory than it should. The moment he crosses the threshold, the outside world feels distant. The quiet inside is unnatural, the kind that presses in on the ears until even the smallest movement feels too loud.
His boots land softly against the tiled floor.
He does not rush.
Careful steps carry him further into the lobby, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in from broken windows above. The space opens up around him, larger than expected. This was once meant to impress. High ceilings stretch overhead, and the walls are lined with colorful decorations that have long since lost their shine.
Posters cling to the walls.
Smiling mascots stare out at him from every direction, their bright cartoon faces frozen in permanent cheer. Their slogans promise fun, safety, happiness. The words feel hollow now, especially here, where everything has been left to rot.
Dust coats nearly every surface.
It shifts faintly under his steps, disturbed for the first time in a long while. Nightwing crouches briefly, running two fingers along the floor. The marks left behind are clear, uninterrupted.
No recent movement.
At least not here.
He rises again, gaze sweeping across the room, taking in every detail. The front desk stands abandoned near the far wall, drawers half-open as if someone left in a hurry and never came back. A few overturned chairs lie scattered nearby, their positions just off enough to suggest something disrupted them.
Not chaos.
Just… interruption.
His attention shifts.
At the center of the room stands something impossible to ignore.
Tall.
Blue.
Unmoving.
The figure towers above everything else in the lobby, positioned as if it had once been meant to welcome visitors. Long limbs hang loosely at its sides, ending in oversized hands and feet that look almost comical. Its fur, though dulled by dust, still holds traces of a bright, unnatural blue. A wide red smile stretches across its face.
Its eyes are large.
Round.
Unblinking.
Huggy Wuggy.
The name is printed in cheerful letters on a sign near its feet.
Nightwing studies it for a moment.
At first glance, it looks harmless. Just another oversized mascot meant to entertain children and draw attention. The proportions are exaggerated, the features intentionally friendly in that unsettling way some toys tend to be. It stands perfectly still, exactly where it was placed years ago.
Still, something about it feels… off.
Not enough to act on. Just enough to notice.
He shifts his focus away from it and continues forward.
The rest of the lobby offers little in terms of immediate answers. Doors line the walls, most of them sealed shut. Some have small panels beside them, dark screens that suggest electronic locks. Others are blocked entirely, either by debris or by mechanisms that clearly require power to function.
Nightwing approaches one of the panels. He studies it closely, fingers hovering near the surface without touching. The design is unfamiliar but simple enough to understand. It is meant to read input, most likely from some kind of access device. A scan system, perhaps.
His gaze flicks upward toward the dark ceiling.
No power.
He tries accessing it anyway, pulling a small tool from his belt. The device hums quietly as he attempts to interface with the panel, but nothing responds. Whatever system this place used, it is completely dead.
He steps back, slipping the tool away.
Locked paths.
Limited access.
Whoever designed this place did not intend for people to move freely without the proper equipment. Which means that equipment is somewhere inside.
Nightwing moves again, this time with more purpose. His search becomes more focused as he checks side rooms branching off from the main lobby. Offices, storage spaces, maintenance areas. Most are empty, stripped of anything useful or left to decay under layers of dust.
Eventually, he finds what he is looking for.
A small security room sits tucked behind a partially closed door. The handle resists slightly before giving way, opening into a space filled with outdated monitors and control panels. Screens line one wall, all dark, their surfaces reflecting faint shapes in the low light.
A locker stands against the opposite side of the room.
It is closed, though not locked.
Nightwing opens it carefully.
Inside rests a strange piece of equipment.
He pulls it free, turning it over in his hands as he examines it. The device is compact but clearly engineered for function rather than appearance. Two mechanical arms extend from its base, each ending in a molded hand, one blue and one red. The design is unusual, almost excessive for something that appears to be used for interaction rather than heavy labor.
A label is stamped along the side.
GrabPack.
He studies it for a moment longer before glancing toward the nearby desk.
A cassette tape sits beside an old player.
After a brief inspection, he presses it into place and activates the machine. The tape whirs to life, the sound crackling slightly as a prerecorded voice fills the room. The tone is bright, instructional, overly cheerful in a way that does not quite match the silence surrounding it.
The recording explains the device in simple terms.
Extendable hands.
Remote interaction.
Access to restricted systems.
It is presented as a tool for employees, something meant to make navigating the factory easier. The explanation is thorough, almost too much so for something that should be straightforward.
Nightwing listens without interrupting, committing the important details to memory.
When the tape clicks off, the room falls silent again.
He looks down at the device in his hands.
Weird.
There is no other word for it.
A toy factory that requires something like this to function properly raises more questions than it answers. Still, the logic behind it is clear. If the systems here rely on this kind of interface, then this is his way forward.
He adjusts his stance and begins fitting the GrabPack into place.
The straps settle across his shoulders and back, secure without restricting movement. He shifts slightly, testing the weight and balance. It is different from his usual gear, but not enough to be a problem. His eskrima sticks are removed from their place across his back and clipped securely at his belt instead, ensuring they remain within easy reach.
He flexes his shoulders once.
Then again.
The added equipment settles quickly into something usable.
Nightwing glances once more around the room before stepping back into the hallway.
Now, the factory is no longer completely closed to him.
Now, it has started to respond.
With the GrabPack secured to his back, Nightwing moves with clearer intent. The factory is no longer just a dead space full of locked doors, it is something structured, something built to function in a very specific way. If power is the key to everything, then restoring it comes first.
He follows the layout deeper inside until he finds what he is looking for.
A maintenance room sits behind a reinforced door, filled with old generators and control panels. Everything is still, layered in dust, but not destroyed. Just inactive. Nightwing studies the system for a moment before reaching for the GrabPack, testing its reach and response. The mechanical hands extend smoothly, more precise than they look.
He gets to work quickly. Wires are reconnected, circuits bridged, pathways completed in ways that would have taken far longer without the device. The process feels almost too efficient, like the entire system was designed with this exact tool in mind.
That thought lingers, but he does not dwell on it.
The final connection clicks into place, and for a moment nothing happens. Then the room hums to life. Lights flicker overhead before stabilizing, and somewhere deeper in the factory something shifts as power begins to flow again.
Nightwing steps back, watching for any immediate reaction, then turns and heads back the way he came.
When he re-enters the lobby, he slows.
At first nothing seems different. The posters are still there, the desks untouched, the same layer of dust covering the floor. But as his eyes sweep across the room, something feels off. It takes only a second for him to realize what it is.
The center of the room is empty.
The spot where the tall blue mascot once stood is now nothing but bare floor. There are no marks, no signs it was dragged or moved. It is simply gone.
Nightwing stops, his attention sharpening as the realization settles in. That thing had been impossible to miss. There is no chance he imagined it.
Which means it moved.
His hand shifts slightly toward his escrima sticks as he considers calling for backup. This is no longer just an abandoned factory. Something is active here, something that should not be. The decision hangs for only a moment before a faint noise cuts through the silence.
Metal, distant, coming from one of the side hallways.
Nightwing turns toward it immediately and moves to investigate.
The hallway leads him to a security room, now accessible with the power restored. He unlocks it using the GrabPack and steps inside, eyes immediately drawn to the monitors lining the walls. Most show empty corridors and silent rooms, the camera feeds grainy but functional.
He scans them quickly, looking for anything out of place.
Then one of the screens changes.
A shape moves into view.
Blue.
Large.
Huggy Wuggy.
Nightwing’s focus locks onto the screen as the figure walks through the frame. There is nothing stiff about it now, no sign of it being a simple display. Its movements are slow but deliberate, controlled in a way that makes it clear this is no statue.
It crosses the camera’s view, pauses briefly as if listening, then continues out of frame.
The hallway is empty again.
Nightwing immediately checks the adjacent feeds, searching for where it went, but every screen shows nothing. Just empty corridors, silent rooms, and the same lifeless factory he had walked through minutes ago.
He stills in front of the monitors, the implications settling in.
The factory is not empty.
And whatever is inside it is moving.
Now Nightwing moves with caution.
Before, the factory had been something to explore. Now it feels like something he is moving through while being watched. Every step is quieter, more deliberate, his attention split between the path ahead and whatever might be following behind.
He continues forward, deeper into the building, until he reaches another blocked section. A metal gate bars the way, its mechanism inactive until he studies the slot beside it. It is shaped to receive something specific.
A toy.
Nightwing pauses, glancing between the slot and the surrounding machinery. The realization settles in slowly, bringing more questions with it. This place was not just producing toys. It was built around them. Systems, access points, progression, all tied to something as simple as a finished product.
Did employees have to make a toy every time they needed to pass through here?
What happened to those toys afterward?
The thought lingers, but it does not stop him. He moves through the assembly line, following the process step by step. Parts are collected, fitted together, guided into place with the help of the GrabPack when needed. The motions are simple, almost routine, as if the system expects repetition.
When the toy is complete, he places it into the scanner.
The machine hums briefly before the gate unlocks with a heavy click, lifting just enough to allow him through.
Beyond it is a narrow hallway. Two doors sit on either side, both locked, their panels unresponsive even with the restored power. Ahead, the corridor stretches into darkness, the light from behind him fading before it can reach the end.
Nightwing tests the doors first, confirming what he already suspects, then turns toward the dark passage.
He takes a step forward.
Then stops.
Something is there.
At the edge of the darkness, a shape begins to form. Tall. Blue. Familiar.
Huggy Wuggy steps into the light.
It moves slowly at first, its long limbs carrying it forward with an unsettling ease. The red smile remains fixed in place, wide and unnatural, as its large eyes settle on him. Nightwing shifts his stance slightly, taking a step back as the distance between them closes.
The toy stops near the gate, tilting its head just slightly as if studying him.
For a few seconds, neither of them moves.
Nightwing exhales quietly, then speaks, his tone cautious. “Hey there.”
The response is immediate.
Huggy’s mouth opens wider than it should, stretching into something monstrous as rows of sharp teeth reveal themselves. The illusion of a harmless mascot disappears in an instant. A low, guttural sound follows, something closer to a roar than anything mechanical.
Then it lunges.
Nightwing reacts on instinct, throwing himself to the side as the massive figure crashes into the space where he had been standing. He does not hesitate after that. He runs.
The hallway is tight, forcing him forward with no room to slow down or change direction. Behind him, the sound of heavy footsteps slams against the floor, fast and relentless. Huggy follows without hesitation, closing the distance with alarming speed.
Nightwing pushes forward, slipping into a narrower passage in hopes of losing it. For a brief second, he thinks it might work.
Then he looks back.
Huggy is still there.
Its body forces its way through the confined space, limbs scraping against the walls as it squeezes through without slowing down. The size that once made it seem cumbersome now works against him. It does not need space to move. It just needs to reach him.
He keeps running.
The passage opens suddenly onto a catwalk suspended over a massive drop. The darkness below is too deep to see the bottom, swallowing whatever lies beneath. Nightwing does not stop to think about it. He keeps moving, boots hitting metal as he searches for anything he can use.
The footsteps behind him grow louder.
Closer.
His eyes catch on something above. A large crate hangs loosely overhead, suspended just enough to be within reach.
He raises the GrabPack and fires.
The mechanical hand shoots forward, latching onto the crate. He pulls, expecting resistance, expecting it to hold.
It doesn’t.
The crate breaks loose.
It drops.
At the exact moment Huggy bursts onto the catwalk behind him, the crate slams down between them. The impact shudders through the structure, the already unstable metal giving way beneath the sudden weight.
The catwalk collapses.
Nightwing reacts immediately, twisting his body as he falls, managing to catch onto the lower level and land hard but controlled. Above him, Huggy hits the railing, its massive body sliding forward before disappearing into the darkness below.
The sound of its fall echoes for a long moment.
Then silence.
Nightwing stays where he is for a second, breathing steady as he processes what just happened. Slowly, he rises, glancing over the edge, but there is nothing to see. No movement. No sign of where the creature landed.
Just darkness.
He turns away, focusing instead on finding a way forward.
As he moves along the lower catwalk, the feeling returns.
That same sensation from before.
Being watched.
He pauses, scanning the area carefully, but finds nothing. No movement, no sound, nothing to confirm the instinct. After a moment, he continues on, though the awareness does not fade.
It follows him.
The path eventually leads to a door marked by a large painted poppy flower, its bright red color standing out against the otherwise decayed surroundings. Nightwing pushes it open and steps through.
The change is immediate.
The interior beyond does not resemble the factory at all. The walls are cleaner, shaped like the inside of a house rather than an industrial space. Furniture sits arranged neatly, untouched by the decay outside. It feels wrong, like stepping into something that does not belong here.
He moves through it cautiously, taking in the details as he goes.
The path leads him into a final room, dimly lit by a red glow. At the center stands a pedestal, and on it rests a glass case.
Inside is a doll.
Small. Porcelain. Red hair framing a pale face frozen in a delicate expression. It looks harmless at first glance, but something about it puts him on edge. The stillness is too perfect, too deliberate.
For a brief moment, a thought crosses his mind. This would not be the first time a doll turned out to be something far worse.
He approaches anyway.
Against better judgment, he opens the case.
Nothing happens at first.
Silence stretches for a few seconds as he watches the doll, waiting for some kind of reaction. Then, slowly, its eyes open.
They lock onto his.
Nightwing stills, ready for another attack, expecting movement, expecting something violent.
Instead, the doll speaks.
“You opened my case.”
First of all, I apologize for the wait, classe have been kicking my behind, and I was going to work on this chapter last weekend but I ended up just doing some work ahead of time for university so I would have more time to write
Then Monday I relaxed a bit, then Thursday i was busy the whole day class in the morning, vaccine after that then another class at night, and now today I woke up feeling like shit, since my imune system is terrible the effect vaccine decided to act up, so if this chapter is a little working is because I wrote while I had a fever, so sorry
✧ MASTERLIST | ✧ CHAPTER I | ✧ INTERLUDE I | ✧ CHAPTER II
???'S POV:
Footsteps echo along a hallway that seems too long for such small legs. The floor is polished and bright beneath flickering lights, reflecting shapes that move past in slow stretches of color and shadow. A large hand is wrapped loosely around a smaller one, guiding it forward without stopping. The grip is firm but not painful, steady enough that resistance feels useless.
The child asks questions as they walk.
The voice is small and uncertain. It asks where they are going. It asks where their parents are. It asks for their brother.
The answers are always the same.
Soft voices from adults who do not stop walking.
Words that sound gentle but do not explain anything.
They say the child cannot stay with them anymore.
They say this will be a better place.
They say everything will be alright.
The hallway bends. Another set of doors appears ahead. Bright colors leak through the crack where one of them stands slightly open, spilling light into the otherwise pale corridor.
The door opens wider.
The room beyond is enormous.
It is filled with color.
Walls painted in bright murals stretch high overhead, each surface covered in smiling cartoon mascots with round eyes and wide grins. Some wave cheerfully from painted clouds while others stand beside children who look small and happy beneath them. Red, yellow, blue and green swirl together in shapes meant to look playful. The colors are so bright they almost hurt to look at after the dull hallway outside.
Children fill the room. Some sit on the floor in small groups. Others play with toys spread across bright foam mats. Their laughter drifts through the air in uneven bursts, mixing with the low murmur of adults moving through the room.
Workers walk among them in neat uniforms, bending occasionally to speak softly to a child or guide someone toward a table covered in crayons and paper. Their voices carry a practiced calm, the kind used when speaking to frightened children.
Everyone keeps saying the same thing.
You are safe here.
This is your new home.
Everything will be alright.
The child does not move very far into the room.
Small fingers tighten around the stuffed bird held against their chest. The plush toy is soft and worn in places where it has clearly been held too often, its small wings flattened slightly from years of being carried around. The fabric presses against the child’s shirt as it is pulled closer, held almost protectively.
Children run past, laughing as they chase each other between tables. One nearly bumps into the newcomer before darting away again, drawn toward a pile of bright building blocks on the other side of the room.
The murals on the walls seem to watch all of it with wide painted smiles.
A shadow falls across the floor beside the child.
A hand settles gently on their shoulder.
The touch is light, meant to reassure, though it only makes the child stiffen slightly where they stand. Slowly they look up.
The man standing behind them feels familiar in a strange and distant way. His face stirs something faint in the back of the child’s mind, as if they have seen him before but cannot remember when. The memory slips away before it can be caught.
He crouches slightly so his eyes are level with the child’s.
His expression is warm, practiced into something that looks kind. The kind of smile adults give when they want children to trust them.
His lips begin to move.
The words in the memory are thin and distant, like sound heard from the far end of a tunnel. Most of what he says cannot be heard clearly. The meaning is lost somewhere between the moment it happened and the broken echo that remains now.
Only pieces survive.
Welcome.
Your new home.
The rest dissolves into silence.
At the very end of the sentence the child can see the man’s lips form one last word.
A name.
But the voice that spoke it is gone from the memory.
Awareness returns in uneven pieces, the way the memory arrived moments ago. Dust hangs motionless in stale air. The faint groan of old metal echoes somewhere far above, carried through the vast skeleton of the factory. Pipes stretch along the ceiling like rusted veins, running through dark corridors and forgotten rooms where the lights have not worked in years.
Perched high among those pipes, a figure remains perfectly still.
For a moment it does not move at all, as if waiting for the remnants of the strange dream to settle back into the quiet place where broken memories usually stay. The fragments linger only briefly before fading again into something unreachable.
Then something else presses against its awareness.
A presence.
The sensation is sudden enough to pull its attention completely away from the fading dream. It is not unfamiliar with movement inside the factory. The building has never truly been empty. Shapes move in the dark hallways below, wandering through rooms that once belonged to people who no longer return.
But this presence feels different.
It comes from above.
From the very top level of the factory.
The entrance.
That alone is strange enough to draw attention. The upper floors have been silent for a long time, only the rare sounds that come from the furry blue figure. Dust gathers there without disturbance, and the air rarely carries the sound of footsteps anymore.
The figure tilts its head slightly, listening.
Something has entered the building.
Curiosity flickers quietly where the dream had been only moments before. Slowly, carefully, it shifts its weight along the narrow pipe where it had been perched. The movement is light and deliberate, practiced in the art of remaining unseen even in the open spaces between the rafters.
Nearby, a ventilation shaft sits partially open where its metal cover once hung loose before falling away long ago.
The figure turns toward it.
Curiosity lingers for only a moment longer before the figure begins moving through the vent, heading toward the upper level of the factory to find the source of the disturbance.
And to see who has come inside.
And here we have an the first interlude!
It was a bit short, but all interludes will be this way
Like… Benji writing letters to Dick in a journal while living in Playcare. It's childish, he knows, but it gives Benji a link back to his brother, talking about his day, even if he knows Dick will never read them, keeping the book under his pillowcase to keep his brother close…
Dick discovering the journal in Chapter 3, when exploring Home Sweet Home and finds page upon page of a life his brother was living without him…
God, I'm making myself tear up.
PLEASE keep inspiring me with plots like these.
Okay but can I just say something.
This comment right here actually made me rewrite several parts of the story.
Like genuinely.
When I first read this ask I just sat there thinking “wait… that is actually such a good idea.” It ended up changing how I structured some of the chapters and even how the interludes work.
So when you say “keep inspiring me with plots like these” I have to turn that right back around and say:
You are the one inspiring me.
Seriously.
Seeing readers get invested enough to start imagining scenes, adding ideas, and emotionally reacting to the characters is one of the coolest parts of posting stories online. It makes the whole process feel collaborative in a way.
So thank you for that idea, because it honestly helped shape the story into something better.
And also I’m very sorry in advance for the emotional damage the new added scenes might cause later.
Hiii I genuinely loved your last fic, and I am so excited to read this one too. I was wondering if Birds Of A Feather will also have multiple endings?
Honestly, probably not this time.
When I started planning Birds Of A Feather I really wanted to do the same thing I did with my last fic. A good ending, a bad ending, maybe even a secret one if you made certain choices while reading. I tried for a while to think of different directions the story could go.
But every time I mapped things out, the story kept leading me back to the same conclusion.
There are probably other endings that could exist, but they would only work if the events of the story happened differently from the beginning, and that would change the whole narrative structure I already have planned.
So for now the story will most likely have one ending.
That said, I am still writing it chapter by chapter, so if some wild idea appears while I’m working on it, I’m not going to rule anything out completely.
But as it stands right now, Birds Of A Feather is planned as a single ending story.
✧ MASTERLIST | ✧ PROLOGUE | ✧ CHAPTER I | ✧ INTERLUDE I
DICK'S POV:
The trapeze bar felt familiar in Dick’s hands, smooth from years of use and faintly dusty from the chalk that clung to his palms. He shifted his grip slightly and steadied his breathing the way his parents had taught him. Above him, the ropes creaked softly as they swayed. Below him, the circus floor stretched wide and distant, the safety net pulled tight across the ring like a promise.
Dick leaned forward and let the motion of the swing carry him. His body followed the rhythm easily, legs tucked and then extended as he built momentum. He had done this hundreds of times already, but the concentration never faded. His mother always said the trapeze demanded respect. One wrong movement, one moment of distraction, and gravity would remind you that it was still there.
He swung forward again, eyes focused on the next bar. The air rushed past his ears as the ropes tightened and pulled him upward.
One more swing.
Then another.
The quiet backstage area was filled with the small sounds of preparation. Someone was adjusting lights near the curtain. Metal tools clinked faintly against a ladder somewhere below. The smell of sawdust and popcorn drifted faintly through the tent, mixing with the chalk on Dick’s hands.
For a moment, everything felt exactly the way it always had.
Then a small voice broke through his concentration.
“When can I fly like you?”
Dick nearly missed the next swing.
He caught himself quickly and turned his head toward the sound, one hand still gripping the bar as the trapeze slowed.
Benjamin, or Benji, stood just outside the training net, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. His dark hair was sticking up in several directions, and his small hands were wrapped tightly around the stuffed bird he carried almost everywhere. The toy’s soft wings hung slightly crooked from years of being squeezed and dragged around backstage.
Dick grinned despite himself.
“Hey, Chickadee,” he called down.
Benji’s face brightened immediately at the nickname.
Dick shifted his weight and let the trapeze settle before dropping lightly onto the net below. The woven ropes dipped under his weight before springing back as he stepped off and walked toward the edge where Sammy stood.
Up close, the toy bird was impossible to ignore. The blue plush had faded in places from wear, and one of the stitched eyes sat just a little lower than the other.
Dick knew that toy well.
He remembered the night Benji first got it.
Benji had only been a few months old at the time, and a thunderstorm had rolled over the circus grounds late in the evening. The rain had battered against the canvas tents while thunder cracked across the sky loud enough to shake the metal poles holding everything upright. Sammy had cried and cried in the small trailer their parents used as a dressing room, his tiny fists clenched as if the storm itself had offended him.
Dick had been four then, still small enough that his feet barely reached the floor when he sat on the bench near the costume racks.
He had watched their mother rock Sammy for almost an hour, murmuring softly and trying everything she could think of to calm him down. Nothing worked.
Eventually Dick had wandered over, holding the stuffed bird he had slept with since he was even younger.
He remembered offering it without really thinking about it.
“Here,” he had said, pressing the toy into the baby’s hands.
Benji had stopped crying almost immediately.
Their mother had laughed softly in surprise, and Dick had felt strangely proud as the baby quieted, clutching the toy like it had always belonged to him.
From that moment on, it had.
Benji rarely went anywhere without it.
Dick blinked and returned to the present as Benji shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.
Dick crouched down in front of him so they were almost eye level.
“You’re still too little to fly with us,” he said gently.
Benji’s face fell immediately.
His grip tightened around the bird toy as he stared down at the ground. Dick could practically see the disappointment forming behind those big eyes.
Before the silence could last too long, Dick leaned forward slightly and nudged the toy bird with one finger.
“But,” he added, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret, “that doesn’t mean you can’t practice.”
Benji’s head snapped up.
“Really?”
Dick nodded and stood again.
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
He led Benji toward a smaller training frame set up near the back of the tent. It was a much lower trapeze rig, designed for practice rather than performance, with shorter ropes and bars that hung only a few feet above the ground.
Perfect for someone Benji’s size.
Dick lifted his brother easily and set him on the padded mat beneath the bar.
Benji immediately tried to climb it by himself, though his legs kicked a little wildly in the process.
“Hold on,” Dick laughed, catching him before he tipped backward.
He helped Benji wrap his hands around the bar properly, adjusting his grip the way their father had shown him countless times before.
“Okay,” Dick said, stepping back just enough to watch him. “First thing. You have to keep your hands tight like this.”
Benji copied the motion with exaggerated concentration.
“Like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
For the next few hours, the two of them practiced together beneath the quiet canopy of the circus tent.
Dick showed him how to swing his legs to build momentum and how to shift his weight so the bar moved instead of fighting against him. Benji listened carefully to every instruction, though his excitement often made him rush ahead before Dick had finished explaining.
Several times Dick had to catch him when he swung a little too far.
Each time Benji burst into giggles instead of fear.
Eventually Dick guided him to the second bar hanging just a short distance away.
Benji stared at it with wide eyes.
“You think you can reach it?” Dick asked.
Sammy nodded so hard his hair bounced.
“Okay,” Dick said, stepping slightly to the side while keeping his hands close in case he needed to catch him. “Remember what I told you.”
Benji bent his knees a little and started to swing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The motion grew bigger with every pass.
Then he let go.
For a split second he hung in the air between the two bars.
“Dicky, watch me!”
His small hands closed around the second trapeze with a triumphant thump.
Dick laughed immediately, the sound echoing lightly against the canvas walls of the tent as Benji swung proudly from the bar like he had just completed the greatest act in the world.
“Nice one, Chickadee,” Dick called up to him.
Benji beamed down at him, clutching the trapeze with one hand while the stuffed bird dangled safely from the other.
By the time evening arrived, the circus grounds had transformed completely.
What had been a quiet training space during the afternoon was now alive with movement and noise. Lanterns hung from tall poles, casting warm golden light across rows of game stalls and food carts. The smell of popcorn and roasted peanuts drifted through the air while music from a calliope echoed faintly near the entrance of the main tent. Families wandered between attractions, children tugging excitedly at their parents’ sleeves while performers in bright costumes passed through the crowds on their way to the show.
Tonight was their performance in Gotham.
Backstage, the atmosphere buzzed with preparation. Assistants carried equipment from one tent to another, animals were guided toward their enclosures, and performers rehearsed final movements before the show began. The air was thick with anticipation.
John and Mary Grayson moved through the activity with practiced ease. They paused near the trapeze rig to inspect the ropes and spoke briefly with a stagehand about the timing of the act. After checking a few final details, they stepped away again, heading toward the front of the tent to speak with the ringmaster before the show began.
Dick remained behind to continue practicing.
He hung from the trapeze with both hands, letting the bar sway gently beneath him while he adjusted his grip. Each movement came naturally now, the familiar rhythm of swing and balance guiding his body without much thought.
Not far away, Benji sat cross-legged on the padded mat beneath the rig.
He watched his brother with open admiration, the stuffed bird clutched tightly in his arms. The toy’s soft blue fabric had faded in places from years of use, but Benji carried it everywhere with the careful dedication only a child could manage.
Dick swung forward once more before slowing the bar to a stop.
As he glanced down toward the mat, something unusual caught his attention.
A man had knelt beside Benji.
Dick immediately released the trapeze and dropped lightly onto the mat before jogging toward them.
The man looked well dressed, his coat neatly pressed and his posture straight even while crouched at Benji’s level. He appeared calm, almost amused, as he spoke to the younger boy.
Dick stepped forward quickly.
“Who are you?” he asked, positioning himself beside Benji.
The man straightened at once.
“I apologize if I startled you,” he said politely. “I had a VIP ticket that allowed me to meet some of the performers backstage. I simply wandered a little too far and noticed this young fellow sitting here alone.”
His voice was smooth and friendly.
Dick did not relax.
The man glanced down toward the toy in Benji’s arms and smiled.
“That’s a very cute bird you have there,” he said. “Does it have a name?”
Benji’s face lit up immediately.
He lifted the toy proudly and held it out for the man to see.
“His name is Sammy!”
Dick stepped closer and placed a hand gently on Benji’s shoulder before pulling him upright beside him.
“This tent is for warmups,” Dick said carefully. “If you want to meet the performers, that happens out front.”
The man nodded, accepting the explanation without argument.
“Of course. My mistake.”
Dick turned slightly toward his brother.
“We should go find Mom and Dad before the show starts.”
Benji nodded enthusiastically and waved back toward the man as Dick began guiding him away.
“Bye, mister!”
The man’s smile remained calm and polite.
“Pierre,” he said. “Leith Pierre. Goodbye, Benji.”
Dick continued walking, though he kept glancing back over his shoulder as they moved across the tent. Pierre had not moved from his spot. He simply stood there, watching them leave with a thoughtful expression.
Dick did not look away from him until the man finally disappeared behind a row of stacked crates.
Only then did he turn forward again.
They walked through the narrow paths between tents until they spotted their parents speaking with another performer near the animal pens.
Before Dick could call out to them, a small voice spoke up nearby.
“Excuse me…”
A little boy stood several feet away from them, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He looked about three years old, maybe younger, and clutched the sleeve of his own jacket with anxious fingers.
Dick crouched down slightly.
“Are you lost?”
The boy nodded.
“My parents were here,” he said quietly. “But I can’t find them.”
Benji immediately moved closer to the boy.
“It’s okay,” he said confidently. “Our parents can help you.”
Dick smiled a little at that.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll help you find them.”
It did not take long. After a few minutes of walking through the crowd, they found the boy’s parents near the entrance of the main tent. The moment they saw him, both adults rushed forward with clear relief.
“Tim!” his mother exclaimed as she wrapped him in a tight hug.
His father turned toward the Graysons with grateful relief.
“Thank you for bringing him back,” he said. “We only turned away for a moment.”
Benji beamed proudly.
Dick shrugged slightly, embarrassed by the attention.
“It was nothing.”
Tim’s parents exchanged a quick glance before pulling a small camera from a nearby bag.
“Would you mind taking a picture with us?” Tim’s father asked. “Just so we can remember the people who helped him.”
The request was innocent enough.
They gathered together near the edge of the tent, and the photo was taken quickly before the ringmaster’s voice began calling performers toward the stage.
In the rush that followed, Dick forgot entirely about the strange man he had met earlier.
Hours passed before he remembered anything at all.
By then, it was too late.
The main show began beneath a roaring crowd.
Rows of spectators filled the circus tent, their voices blending into a constant wave of excitement as the performance unfolded. The bright lights above the ring illuminated every act while music from the band echoed across the canvas ceiling.
Dick and Benji stood near the backstage entrance, watching from the side as their parents prepared for the trapeze act.
John and Mary Grayson climbed the ladder with the same steady confidence they always carried. The crowd cheered loudly as they reached the platform and bowed gracefully before stepping toward their bars.
Dick watched proudly as the act began.
His parents swung forward together, their movements perfectly synchronized as they soared through the air. The crowd gasped with delight each time they released the bar and caught the next one, their timing flawless and precise.
Benji watched with wide eyes.
“Look, Dicky!” he whispered excitedly.
Dick smiled.
“I see.”
The final sequence of the routine approached. Their parents prepared for the most dangerous jump, the one that always earned the loudest applause.
Mary released her bar.
John reached out to catch her.
For one brief moment, everything seemed exactly as it should be.
Then the rope snapped.
The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Both bars dropped at once.
The Flying Graysons fell.
They hit the ground before anyone could react.
The entire tent went silent.
For several seconds, no one moved.
Then the panic began.
People screamed. Spectators surged toward the exits. Performers rushed into the ring as the crowd dissolved into chaos.
Dick could not move.
He stood frozen, staring at the center of the ring where his parents lay motionless on the ground. The bright lights above them reflected off the spreading pool of blood beneath their bodies.
His mind refused to understand what he was seeing.
Around him, people shouted and ran in every direction.
Someone tried to guide him away from the ring.
Dick barely noticed.
Then the hand beside his slipped away.
It took several seconds before he realized something was wrong.
Dick turned sharply.
Benji was gone.
The space beside him was empty.
His heart dropped instantly into his stomach.
“Benji?”
He pushed past the performer trying to lead him away and ran into the crowd.
“Benji!”
The noise inside the tent drowned out his voice as people rushed toward the exits. Dick darted between them, scanning every face he passed.
He ran toward the backstage area.
Nothing.
He searched near the animal pens.
Nothing.
“Benji!” he shouted again, his voice cracking with panic.
Other performers tried to stop him, but Dick pulled free every time they grabbed his arm.
He kept searching.
Kept shouting.
But no matter where he looked, his brother was nowhere to be found.
By the time the police arrived, the circus no longer felt like the bright, lively place it had been only hours before.
The laughter and music had vanished completely. The lanterns that once gave the grounds a warm glow now cast long, uneasy shadows across the empty walkways. Most of the crowd had already been escorted away, leaving only performers, investigators, and a handful of workers who moved quietly between the tents.
The large circus ring where the accident had happened was nearly unrecognizable.
Bright white sheets had been placed over two still shapes on the sawdust floor. The spotlights that once illuminated daring performances now shone down on the covered forms in harsh silence.
Dick sat on a wooden bench near the edge of the ring.
Someone had given him a blanket, though he had not noticed when it happened. It hung loosely around his shoulders while he stared across the tent without really seeing anything. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap, the knuckles pale against the fabric.
Police officers walked back and forth across the performance area, speaking in low voices while examining the broken rigging high above the ring. A ladder had been dragged into the center so one of the officers could inspect the snapped rope more closely.
Dick listened without meaning to.
“Looks like equipment failure.”
“Probably old wiring or a weak joint.”
“These things happen.”
Their words drifted through the air like distant noise.
One of the officers eventually approached him.
The man crouched slightly, lowering himself to Dick’s level.
“Son,” he said gently, “we’re going to take you somewhere safe for the night. There are arrangements that need to be made.”
Dick barely reacted.
“My brother is still here,” he said quietly.
The officer hesitated.
“We’re looking,” the man replied after a moment. “But right now you need to come with us.”
Dick shook his head immediately.
“I’m not leaving.”
The officer tried again, keeping his voice calm.
“Your parents…”
Dick’s hands tightened around the edge of the bench.
“My brother is still here.”
The words came out firmer this time.
A second officer approached and spoke quietly with the first. Dick could hear them discussing procedures, paperwork, and arrangements for a minor with no remaining guardians present at the scene.
None of it seemed to matter.
All Dick could think about was the moment he had turned around and realized Benji was gone.
The police had asked him questions earlier.
Where had he last seen his brother?
What was the boy wearing?
Had he wandered off before?
Dick had answered everything as clearly as he could, though the memories still felt tangled in his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the same image of his parents falling from the trapeze, the ropes snapping above them before the crash against the circus floor.
But after that moment, everything blurred.
The crowd had surged forward. People had been shouting and pushing in every direction.
Benji had been right beside him.
Dick knew that much.
Then suddenly he was not.
Dick looked toward the entrance of the tent again.
Several circus performers were speaking with investigators near the opening, their voices tense and quiet. A few of them glanced toward Dick before quickly looking away again.
They had tried to comfort him earlier.
Several had even joined the search.
But hours had passed since the accident, and no one had found anything.
No sign of Benji.
Not his voice.
Not his toy.
Not even a clue.
Another officer approached the bench.
“Kid,” he said gently, “we need to move you somewhere warmer. It’s getting late.”
Dick did not move.
“My brother is still here.”
The officer exhaled slowly and glanced toward his partner, clearly unsure how to respond.
The search continued for another hour.
Flashlights moved through the darker areas of the circus grounds as workers checked behind equipment crates and inside storage tents. The police inspected every corner they could reasonably reach, though the effort had already begun to lose urgency.
To them, the case had been largely solved.
A tragic accident.
Two confirmed fatalities.
A missing child likely lost in the chaos of the crowd.
Dick sat in the same place the entire time.
He watched the search teams come and go.
He listened to the quiet conversations between officers as they packed away equipment and prepared to leave the scene.
Eventually the white sheets were lifted onto stretchers and carried toward waiting vehicles outside the tent.
Dick did not look away.
The blanket slipped from his shoulders and pooled around his feet.
“My brother is still here,” he repeated softly.
No one answered him.
Outside the tent, the flashing lights of police cars reflected faintly against the canvas walls while the night grew colder.
And somewhere beyond the circus grounds, far from the voices and the searchlights, a small boy clutched a stuffed bird while unfamiliar hands carried him away into the dark.
Years passed after that night beneath the circus tent.
The investigation ended quickly. Equipment failure, the police called it. The ropes had been tampered with by Tony Zucco’s men after the circus refused to pay protection money, but the authorities did not uncover that truth right away. For a long time the tragedy of the Flying Graysons remained nothing more than another accident filed away in a city that had seen far too many of them.
Dick did not remain at the circus. With both of his parents gone and no relatives able to take him in, he was placed into Gotham’s overburdened foster care system. There were not enough homes and too many children, which meant Dick spent most of that time in a juvenile facility instead of a real foster house. The building was loud, crowded, and unfamiliar. It smelled like disinfectant and old concrete instead of sawdust and canvas. Every night he lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying the same memory in his mind while wondering if his brother was somewhere out there doing the same.
Eventually a man named Bruce Wayne arrived. The name alone was enough to make people take notice. Bruce Wayne was one of the wealthiest men in Gotham, a billionaire whose company towered over half the city skyline. When he announced that he intended to adopt the son of the Flying Graysons, the paperwork moved quickly.
Dick moved into Wayne Manor not long after. The mansion was enormous, filled with long halls and quiet rooms that seemed too large for the few people who actually lived there. Bruce Wayne tried to give Dick space at first. He offered him a room, food, and the freedom to settle into his new life however he wanted.
Dick did settle in, though not in the way Bruce probably expected.
After only a few nights in the manor, Dick began noticing things that did not quite make sense. Bruce Wayne had a habit of disappearing late at night. Sometimes he returned hours later looking exhausted, his clothes didn't do much to hide some of the ugly bruises he appeared with that he did not have the previous night.
Dick had spent his entire life around performers who trusted their instincts. He knew how to notice patterns, and the strange behavior of his new guardian quickly became impossible to ignore.
Eventually curiosity won.
Dick followed him.
The discovery that Bruce Wayne was actually Batman changed everything.
For the first time since the night of the circus accident, Dick found someone who understood the kind of pain that came from losing a family to violence. Bruce showed him the evidence he had been gathering about Zucco and the criminal network behind the protection scheme that had targeted the circus. The more Dick learned, the clearer it became that his parents had not died because of faulty equipment. They had been murdered.
Dick insisted on helping bring Zucco to justice. Bruce refused at first, believing the boy deserved a chance at a normal life away from danger. Dick would not accept that answer. The circus had taught him how to move, how to balance, and how to trust his instincts. More importantly, if Tony Zucco was the reason for his parents murder, he might also be the one behind Benji's disappearance.
Bruce eventually relented and training began soon after.
Time passed as Dick learned everything Bruce could teach him. He studied detective work, combat, acrobatics, and the discipline required to survive the violent underworld of Gotham. When he finally joined Bruce in the field, he did so under a new name.
Robin.
Together they hunted Tony Zucco until the criminal finally made a mistake. The evidence Bruce had gathered was enough to expose the entire operation, and Zucco was eventually brought to justice for the murders of John and Mary Grayson.
Dick felt satisfaction when the man was arrested.
It did not last very long.
Zucco had nothing to do with Benji’s disappearance.
The investigation into that night ended where it had begun. No witnesses had seen the boy leave the circus grounds. No one remembered speaking to him after the fall. Even the toy he had carried everywhere had vanished without a trace.
But Dick refused to believe his brother had simply disappeared.
Bruce promised he would help keep searching, and he kept that promise. As Dick grew older, their small family began to grow as well. New allies joined their lives, and eventually new children found their way into the manor under Bruce’s care. The name Robin was passed from Dick to the younger ones who followed him while Dick became something new.
Nightwing.
Through every change in his life, the search for Benji never truly stopped. Dick checked every missing person report that matched the timeline. He followed every rumor that suggested a child had been taken or hidden away somewhere beyond the reach of the authorities. Even his friends and siblings knew the story by heart. Whenever they encountered a case that might connect to the past, they kept an eye out for anything that might lead back to the boy who had vanished from the circus that night.
Nothing ever did.
Nearly twenty years passed without a single answer.
Now Dick stood in front of a building that had nothing to do with circuses, acrobats, or missing children.
The abandoned Playtime Co. factory towered above him like a rusting monument to a forgotten era. Its walls were stained by decades of weather, and the massive sign above the entrance had long since faded under layers of peeling paint. Broken windows stared out into the darkness while the surrounding fences sagged where time had weakened the metal.
The place had been closed for years.
The investigation that brought him here was supposed to be simple. A missing person had last been seen near the factory grounds, and the local police believed the abandoned property might be worth checking before they closed the case completely.
It was the kind of routine search Dick had done dozens of times before.
Which was exactly why he had chosen to handle it alone.
Nightwing stepped through the broken entrance and disappeared into the dark interior of the factory.
Behind him, the wind pushed gently against the old doors until they creaked shut.
Hello, everyone!! Magic here!
Now this is a surprise huh? New story coming in!
Now I would like to first inform everyone that this will be a short story, most of the chapters will follow the game chapters, though they will have all the information necessary so you probably won’t need to know everything about Poppy Playtime canon
Also, I’ve already started the new semester in university, so chapters might not come as quickly as they did in my previous story, very rarely will there be more the one chapter a week, I’ll definitely work on the chapters every weekend though
I'm already making fanfiction of your fanfiction in my head.
Please help me.
Honestly? Completely valid.
I do the exact same thing sometimes. I’ll read a fic and suddenly my brain starts going “okay but what if THIS happened instead?” and next thing I know I’ve created an entire alternate plotline in my head.
Fanfiction of fanfiction is basically the natural evolution of fandom at this point 😂
ngl, the first thing I thought of when I saw missing younger brother nightwing, was court of owls lol.
I don't know much about poppy playtime besides random things my friends might mention but I look forward to what you'll be doing with it :3
hope u have a good day!
Understandable, specially with Dick’s ‘connection’ to the Court of Owls.
But don’t worry about not knowing the lore! I’m writing the story in a way where the important parts of the game’s canon will be explained as the story goes. You don’t need to know anything beforehand to follow what’s happening in the factory.
Basically the story will mostly follow as he adventures through the Playtime factory, he will be discovering things at the same time the readers are, so it should stay pretty clear even if this is your first time seeing anything related to the game.
The night the Flying Graysons fell, Dick Grayson lost his family.
Most people only remembered the tragedy above the circus ring — the broken ropes, the fall, the gasp of the crowd as two performers never reached the safety net.
But Dick remembered something else.
A small hand in his.
His little brother’s voice somewhere in the chaos.
And the moment that hand slipped away.
The police searched the tents.
The performers searched the grounds.
No one ever found the boy.
Years passed.
Dick was taken in by a billionaire that dresses up as a bat during the night, became Robin, gained more family, and built a life in a city where crime never slept. Later, he went by a new name — Nightwing.
He solved murders.
Stopped criminals.
Found answers where no one else could.
Except for one.
The brother who vanished that night.
Now he stood in front of an abandoned toy factory, here for a simple investigation.
✧ MASTERLIST | ✧ BAD ENDING | ✧ SPECIAL ENDING | ✧ GOOD ENDING
NO ONE'S POV:
They could only watch as Y/N’s breathing grew more erratic, the air around them trembling in response.
The first crack split through the stone beneath their feet with a sharp, splintering sound that echoed up the cavern walls. Consoles along the perimeter flickered violently, screens distorting into static as the hum of the Cave deepened into something strained and uneven. Dust drifted down from the ceiling in slow spirals, caught in currents of energy that pulsed outward from Y/N’s body in irregular surges. The temperature fluctuated without rhythm, heat flashing across the room before collapsing into an unnatural chill.
Constantine was the first to break the paralysis.
He stepped forward carefully, palms open, voice steady despite the way his coat fluttered in the unstable air. He began speaking in low, deliberate tones, the kind meant to anchor rather than command, telling Y/N to breathe, to focus, to listen to him and only him. He did not raise his voice. He did not rush. He spoke as if he could wrap calm around the chaos simply by insisting on it.
Bruce moved at the exact same time.
He did not raise his hands. He did not soften his posture. He advanced with measured control, gaze sharp and calculating even through the concern tightening his jaw. His voice cut through the cavern with firm authority, instructing everyone to stand down, telling Y/N to focus on his voice instead, to lock onto a single point, to control their breathing through discipline and repetition. He spoke in commands, not requests.
Constantine shot him a look that was sharp enough to wound. Bruce did not look away.
“I know what I’m doing,” Constantine said, irritation threading through his restraint. “This is magical overload. Pushing structure at it will only make it worse.”
“And letting it spiral unchecked isn’t control,” Bruce replied evenly, though his tone was anything but calm. “They need grounding. Clear instruction. Not vague reassurance.”
Constantine let out a humorless breath. “You think this is about instruction.”
“And you think this is only about emotion,” Bruce returned.
The air between them thickened as their voices rose, not into shouting, but into something tighter, harder. Magic flared brighter around Y/N in response, the waves of energy sharpening at the edges as if mirroring the escalation. Another fracture ripped across the cave floor, running toward the Batcomputer before stopping just short, sparks bursting from the console in a shower of light.
They kept arguing.
Magic versus discipline. Emotion versus structure. Responsibility.
Bruce accused him of feeding instability by indulging it. Constantine accused him of treating a person like a malfunctioning weapon. Each insisted they understood Y/N better. Each insisted the other was the reason this was happening. Neither of them stepped back.
Behind them, the others stood tense and uncertain, glancing between the two men as though waiting for one to win the argument and therefore claim the right to act. No one interrupted. No one redirected. No one looked for another approach.
At the center of it all, Y/N’s hands trembled at their sides as arcs of light snapped and recoiled around their fingers. Their breathing came in uneven pulls that dragged painfully through their chest. The cavern distorted at the edges of their vision, shadows stretching too long, sound echoing too far, every raised voice slicing through their skull like a blade.
Another surge rippled outward, stronger this time, slamming into the walls and sending a tremor through the entire foundation of the Cave. Pebbles scattered across the floor. Overhead lights burst one by one in a cascade of shattering glass. The ground beneath Y/N’s feet dipped slightly, as if reality itself had momentarily lost its footing.
Still, the argument continued.
Constantine stepped closer, trying to angle himself between Bruce and the epicenter of the magic, insisting that he needed space to work. Bruce blocked him without touching him, warning that unpredictable magic in a closed environment required containment, not experimentation. The words overlapped. The intent clashed. The volume rose.
And in the middle of their debate over who would fix the problem, the problem was still standing there, shaking, magic clawing at the edges of control, vision blurring as the cavern groaned under the strain, no one actually looking at them as the world around them continued to fracture.
Y/N’s gaze drifted, unfocused at first, then sharpening painfully as awareness forced itself through the noise in their head. The cavern did not look the way it had moments ago. Hairline fractures webbed through the stone floor in widening patterns, some of them still glowing faintly with residual energy. One of the overhead support beams had bent at an unnatural angle, metal warped from repeated shockwaves. The Batcomputer sparked intermittently, arcs of electricity snapping and dying in stuttering bursts that cast erratic light across the room. Dust continued to fall in uneven sheets from the ceiling, settling over consoles and shoulders alike, proof that the foundation itself was straining.
The realization landed heavily and without mercy. This was not abstract destruction. This was not distant collateral. It was happening because of them.
Their pulse spiked again, magic responding instinctively to the flare of guilt, and another tremor shuddered through the cave floor. Y/N forced their eyes away from the spreading damage and toward the sound of raised voices, toward the figures still locked in a battle of certainty. Bruce’s posture remained rigid and unyielding, jaw tight as he insisted on control and protocol. Constantine’s hands moved sharply as he argued back, irritation cutting through his attempts at calm. Neither of them were looking at the cracks creeping closer to critical systems. Neither of them were looking at the ceiling that had begun to shed more debris with each surge.
They were still arguing.
The noise pressed in on Y/N from all sides, too loud, too sharp, each word scraping against already frayed nerves. They could not separate one voice from another anymore. They could not follow the logic of the disagreement. All they could register was escalation, tension feeding tension, the air growing heavier as if the cave itself resented the conflict unfolding inside it. The edges of their vision flickered again, threatening to distort, but this time a single thought managed to break through the haze.
They needed to stop.
Not the argument. Not the accusations. Themselves.
If they did not regain control, the structural integrity of the cave would fail. The fractures were already deep enough that one more uncontrolled surge might bring the ceiling down on everyone standing there. The weight of thousands of tons of stone pressed into their awareness, not metaphorically but literally, as if they could feel the strain in the supports, the microshifts in the rock. The thought of being the reason it collapsed was sharper than any insult, heavier than any accusation.
Their breathing was still too fast. Too shallow.
Y/N closed their eyes.
The world did not go quiet. The voices did not soften. The air did not stop vibrating. But with their vision cut off, they could at least narrow their focus to the rhythm of their own body. They dragged in a breath that scraped down their throat and held it there for a second too long before releasing it slowly, forcing their lungs to empty fully. The next inhale was no easier. Their chest resisted, tight with panic, but they persisted, pulling air in through their nose, letting it out through their mouth, counting silently because numbers were steadier than emotions.
The magic resisted at first. It thrashed against their attempt to compress it, energy sparking unpredictably along their skin as if protesting confinement. Another tremor rippled outward when their concentration faltered, and somewhere to their left something heavy crashed to the ground. The argument did not pause.
They tried again.
Inhale. Count. Exhale. Count.
They pictured the energy not as an explosion but as water, something that could be guided if given boundaries. They imagined it flowing back toward them instead of away, spiraling inward rather than lashing outward. Each breath became a tether, something to anchor the current to their core instead of letting it scatter into the environment. It was not graceful. It was not immediate. Their hands shook with the effort, fingers curling as if physically grasping at something intangible.
Gradually, the tremors lessened.
The violent pulses softened into steadier waves. The air around them, once crackling with static, began to lose its sharp edge. The oppressive weight pressing against the cave eased just enough to stop threatening immediate collapse. The fractures in the stone ceased expanding, the faint glow within them dimming to a dull, harmless sheen.
Y/N’s breathing slowed, no longer ragged but deliberate, each inhale measured, each exhale controlled. The ringing in their ears dulled. The distortion at the edges of their vision cleared. When they finally opened their eyes, the cavern was still damaged, still scarred by what had happened, but it was no longer actively breaking apart.
Bruce and Constantine were still arguing.
Their voices carried across the cave with the same intensity as before, as if nothing had changed at all. The others remained clustered behind them, attention fixed on the confrontation unfolding between the two men rather than on the center of the room. No one had noticed that the tremors had stopped. No one had acknowledged that the air was no longer vibrating violently enough to sting against skin.
Y/N stood there, shoulders no longer shaking, magic contained tightly beneath their skin like a restrained current, and watched as the people who had been so determined to fix them failed to realize that they already had.
At first, the irritation was faint, a quiet heat building behind their ribs. It was not explosive like the panic had been. It was steadier than that, sharper. The cave bore the marks of their near-collapse, fractured stone and scorched metal standing as evidence of how close everything had come to ruin, yet the focus of the room remained stubbornly misplaced. Constantine’s voice rose as he accused Bruce of suffocating what he did not understand. Bruce countered with cold precision, insisting that recklessness disguised as empathy was still recklessness. Neither of them glanced back toward the center of the cavern.
Y/N inhaled once, slow and controlled, and stepped forward just enough for their voice to carry.
“Hey.”
The word was clear. It was not shouted. It did not crack with instability. It was firm and deliberate.
It vanished beneath the argument as if it had never been spoken.
Constantine cut Bruce off mid-sentence. Bruce stepped closer, lowering his voice into something more dangerous. Their words overlapped again, louder now, the sharp edges of frustration no longer hidden behind measured tones. The others shifted uneasily but did not intervene, caught between loyalties, between authority figures, between the illusion that this debate was somehow productive.
Y/N felt the irritation deepen into something heavier. Not hurt. Not panic. Something colder.
They tried again, this time projecting their voice with more force.
“Guys!”
It carried farther. It should have been impossible to ignore. The acoustics of the cave caught it and sent it echoing along the stone walls, reverberating through the open space. A few heads twitched faintly in their direction, but the argument did not cease. Bruce responded to something Constantine had just said with a clipped retort. Constantine scoffed, already launching into another rebuttal. The momentum of their clash swallowed everything else.
For a long second, Y/N simply stared at them.
The magic beneath their skin shifted, not volatile, not wild, but responsive. It pressed outward slightly, testing the boundaries of containment like a muscle flexing under tension. They could feel the cave clearly now, every fracture line mapped in their awareness, every weakened support humming faintly at the edge of perception. They knew exactly how much force the structure could withstand before failing.
So they chose something precise.
A pulse.
Not an explosion. Not destruction. A controlled discharge directed downward rather than outward. The energy traveled from their core to the soles of their boots and into the stone beneath them, compressing for a fraction of a second before releasing in a concentrated wave that shot through the cave floor like a seismic ripple.
The ground cracked sharply between Bruce and Constantine, a jagged line splitting the stone with a deafening report. Consoles rattled violently. Loose debris jumped into the air before clattering back down. The shockwave did not topple anyone, but it forced every person in the cavern to feel it, to register the force of it in their bones.
Silence followed.
Not gradual. Immediate.
Bruce and Constantine both turned at the same time.
So did everyone else.
Their gazes landed on Y/N, no longer shaking, no longer unfocused, no longer lost in spiraling magic. They stood upright at the center of the fractured floor, shoulders squared, hands steady at their sides. The energy around them was no longer thrashing but tightly coiled, visible only as a faint distortion in the air that suggested immense restraint rather than instability.
Their expression was not distant. It was not overwhelmed.
It was furious.
Not the uncontrolled fury of someone on the brink of collapse, but the focused anger of someone who had been ignored one time too many and had decided they would not be overlooked again, and as the echoes of the shockwave faded into the vast cavern, the weight of their glare settled over the room with a pressure that demanded, at last, to be acknowledged.
When they spoke, their voice did not waver.
“You’re all unbelievable.”
The words were not shouted. They did not need to be. The cavern carried them easily, the acoustics amplifying the steadiness rather than the volume. Every eye remained fixed on them now, not because of instability, not because of fear of imminent collapse, but because something in their tone made it clear that this was not another surge of magic. This was judgment.
Y/N’s gaze shifted first to Bruce, then to the others standing behind him, the weight of it sharp and unflinching.
“You call it protection,” they said, the bitterness in their voice controlled but unmistakable. “You call it discipline. Structure. Safety. But it’s control. It has always been control. Deciding what I can handle. Deciding what I’m allowed to feel. Deciding what I’m ready for. You build contingencies for me like I’m a threat assessment instead of a person.”
A faint tremor passed through the cave floor, subtle but noticeable, as if the stone itself responded to the restrained force beneath their words. Several of the bats stiffened immediately, eyes darting toward the spreading cracks as though expecting another collapse.
Y/N did not look away from Bruce.
“You don’t protect me,” they continued. “You manage me.”
The accusation hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable. Bruce’s jaw tightened, but he did not interrupt.
Then Y/N’s attention shifted, locking onto Constantine.
“And you,” they said, voice sharpening. “You act like you’re different. Like you understand magic, so that means you understand me. You don’t. You assume you know better because you’ve seen more chaos, because you’ve survived worse things, because you think experience gives you ownership over how this should be handled.”
Constantine’s expression hardened defensively, but there was something else beneath it now, something less certain.
“You walked in here already convinced you were the only one who could fix this,” Y/N pressed on. “You never stopped to consider that maybe I didn’t need to be fixed.”
The air grew heavier, magic pressing faintly outward from their skin in response to the intensity of their voice. The lights flickered once, twice, and the cave trembled again, stronger this time, a low vibration that rolled outward in a widening ring.
Behind Bruce, a few of the others shifted into defensive stances. Someone muttered their name cautiously. Another reached toward a weapon before stopping themselves. The assumption was immediate and visible. They thought this was another spiral. Another loss of control.
Y/N’s eyes swept across all of them.
“Even just now,” they said, and this time the hurt bled through the anger, not overwhelming it but sharpening it. “Even at my worst, when I was trying not to bring this entire place down on top of you, you chose to fight each other instead of help me. You weren’t looking at me. You were looking at each other. Arguing about who gets to decide what I need.”
The cave shuddered again as their voice rose despite their control, dust cascading from a fractured section of ceiling. A thin crack extended another inch across the floor. The tension in the room spiked instantly.
Constantine moved first.
He stepped forward slowly, hands slightly raised, posture cautious, eyes fixed on Y/N with careful assessment. “All right,” he said, voice low and measured again. “Let’s just bring it down a notch. You’re spiking.”
Y/N saw it then.
Not fear of them as a monster. Not fear of being hurt.
Fear of losing control of the situation.
Fear that the variable was no longer predictable.
That realization landed harder than any accusation had.
They stared at him, something in their expression shifting from anger to something colder.
“I’m not spiking,” they said sharply.
The cave trembled once more in reflex, and several of the others flinched. Constantine took another careful step closer, eyes flicking briefly to the cracks in the stone before returning to Y/N’s face, calculating risk, preparing contingencies.
That was the final confirmation.
He was not seeing them. He was measuring the fallout.
“Stop looking at me like I’m about to explode,” Y/N snapped, the force of their voice striking the cavern walls and sending a ripple through the air. “I am not unstable. I am angry.”
The distinction rang out clearly.
As if to prove it, they inhaled deeply and drew the loose magic inward with deliberate precision. The tremor that had begun to build beneath their feet halted mid-wave, the vibration flattening into stillness. The flickering lights steadied. The dust hanging in the air settled slowly back to the ground. The spreading crack in the stone ceased its crawl as if frozen in time.
Silence followed again, but this one felt different. It was not stunned shock at a display of uncontrolled power. It was the uneasy quiet that comes when a room realizes it has misread a situation entirely.
Y/N lowered their hands to their sides, magic contained so tightly now that the air no longer distorted around them at all.
“I’m not losing control,” they repeated, voice quieter but no less firm. “I already found it.”
Their gaze moved across each of them in turn, not pleading, not asking, but demanding that they understand the difference, and the weight of everything left unsaid pressed heavily into the cavern as the confrontation continued to unfold.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the reactions began, uneven and overlapping, as if the silence itself had become unbearable.
Bruce was the first to step forward, the rigidity in his posture giving way to something more uncertain. “You’re right,” he said, his voice no longer sharp but measured in a different way, as though he were choosing each word with deliberate care. “We should have focused on you. That was a mistake.”
It was not easy for him to admit that. It showed in the tension along his shoulders, in the way his hands flexed at his sides. But the admission did not undo what had already happened.
Constantine exhaled roughly, running a hand through his hair as if frustration could be smoothed down by the motion. “It got heated,” he muttered. “That’s on me. I wasn’t trying to make it worse. I was trying to keep you from getting boxed in.”
One of the others stepped forward, adding something about panic, about not knowing what the right move was, about everyone reacting instead of thinking. Another voice followed, offering an apology that sounded sincere but strained, like it had been pulled out under pressure rather than given freely. Explanations layered over explanations. Justifications wrapped themselves in good intentions.
Y/N listened.
They did not interrupt immediately. They allowed the words to spill out, allowed the cave to fill with attempts at damage control and hindsight clarity. They heard phrases like we were worried, we were trying to help, we didn’t mean to make it about us. Each sentence circled the same core idea without quite touching it.
When they finally spoke again, their voice cut cleanly through the overlap.
“I don’t care.”
The words were not cruel. They were tired.
“I don’t care what you meant to do. I care about what you did.”
The room stilled again, apologies faltering mid-breath.
“I am not a responsibility you argue over,” Y/N continued, the steadiness in their tone more final than any raised voice could have been. “I am not a moral debate about magic versus discipline. I am not a strategic problem to solve or a risk factor to manage. And I am not something you pull back and forth between you like whoever wins the argument gets ownership.”
Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but Y/N lifted a hand slightly, not aggressively, just enough to stop him.
“I’m done,” they said.
The words landed heavier than any shockwave.
Constantine frowned, taking a half step forward again. “Done with what.”
“With this,” Y/N replied, sweeping a hand vaguely toward the fractured cavern, toward the tension still clinging to the air. “With being the thing that sets you off against each other. With being the center of a fight that has nothing to do with me. With having to prove that I’m stable enough to deserve to be listened to.”
“You don’t have to prove anything,” someone said quickly.
“I just did,” Y/N answered.
The crack in their composure did not come from instability but from certainty. The realization had settled fully now, solid and immovable.
“I had to calm myself down,” they went on. “Alone. While you were all arguing about who knows me better. You didn’t notice when the shaking stopped. You didn’t notice when I got control back. You only noticed when I forced you to.”
Bruce took another step toward them, and this time there was something unmistakably urgent in his expression. “We can fix this.”
Y/N shook their head once.
“No,” they said softly. “You can’t. Because you still think this is something you get to fix.”
The words hit harder than any accusation from earlier. They were not fueled by heat now, but by clarity that had settled too deeply to be shaken loose.
Constantine’s expression softened. “Y/N—.”
“I’m done,” Y/N repeated, and there was no tremor in it, no wavering, only decision.
Someone else spoke their name, more pleading than argumentative this time. Another stepped forward as if proximity might change their mind. Bruce reached out instinctively, not grabbing, not forcing, but close enough that it would have become contact if they had not moved.
The air around Y/N shifted.
Not violently. Not explosively.
It folded inward.
Space bent with precise intent, magic threading through the cavern like invisible lines pulling taut. There was no warning surge, no chaotic flare. Just a tightening of reality at the point where they stood.
Bruce’s hand closed on empty air.
In the span of a single breath, Y/N was gone.
The cavern felt larger immediately, the absence abrupt and jarring. The space they had occupied seemed wrong without them in it, as though the center of gravity had been ripped out. The fractured floor remained. The damaged consoles remained. The dust still lingered in the air. But the presence that had dominated the room seconds earlier had vanished completely.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the panic set in.
Bruce spun toward the Batcomputer, barking orders before the system had even fully stabilized. Scans. Thermal. Residual energy signatures. Track the teleport vector. Constantine muttered a curse under his breath and reached into his coat, already pulling out something arcane, eyes narrowing as he searched for lingering magical traces to latch onto.
There was nothing obvious to follow.
No flare. No trail. No distortion left behind.
Only the echo of a decision that had not asked for permission and the dawning realization that this time, they had not lost control of Y/N.
They had simply been left behind, and the cavern, still scarred from what had almost happened, felt colder as the search began.
The first weeks after Y/N’s disappearance were chaos disguised as strategy.
Every system in the Cave ran constantly. Satellite sweeps recalibrated to search for anomalous energy signatures that matched the frequency of Y/N’s magic. Databases were cross-referenced with reports of unexplained phenomena across the globe. Bruce barely left the computer. When he did, it was only to follow leads in person, chasing distortions in space, rumors of sudden tremors, isolated accounts of light bending in places it should not. None of them led anywhere meaningful.
Weeks turned into months.
Months folded into years.
The search did not stop.
It changed.
Gotham remained the center of operations, but it was no longer the only ground covered. Missions that once would have been dismissed as too far removed from their jurisdiction were accepted without hesitation if there was even a remote possibility of magical involvement. Reports of reality fractures in Europe. A village in South America claiming that time had stuttered for a full minute. A monastery in Asia that insisted a presence had passed through their wards without triggering them. The Batfamily followed each thread with the same quiet hope that this time, there would be something tangible at the end of it.
There never was.
They found artifacts. They found rogue sorcerers. They found minor dimensional breaches that had nothing to do with Y/N. Every anomaly was cataloged, studied, eliminated. Every dead end added to a growing archive of absence.
Bruce grew more silent over the years, not in the distant way he had once been, but in a more deliberate one. He no longer argued that they would find Y/N quickly. He simply operated under the assumption that they would, eventually. The Cave’s systems were permanently adjusted to flag anything even remotely similar to the energy signature recorded that night. It became background noise in their lives, the search woven into routine so seamlessly that it almost felt normal.
It never was.
Constantine’s approach differed in method but not in persistence. He followed whispers rather than data. Any rumor that carried even the faintest scent of overwhelming power caught his attention. Coven gossip about a presence that silenced a storm with a word. Demonic complaints about an unseen force that had interrupted a ritual without claiming credit. Occult circles that spoke of balance being restored in places where chaos and order had been teetering on the edge of violent collapse. He chased each story personally, sometimes alone, sometimes dragging members of the Justice League Dark into situations he refused to fully explain.
He found nothing concrete.
Not a signature he could trace. Not a spell residue that felt unmistakably theirs. Not a rift he could confidently say had been opened by Y/N’s hand. It was as if they had stepped sideways out of the known universe entirely, leaving behind no map and no echo strong enough to follow.
There were moments when their paths crossed.
A case in Eastern Europe involving a relic tied to ancient order magic brought both Constantine and the Batfamily to the same crumbling fortress within hours of each other. Neither admitted out loud that the possibility of Y/N’s involvement had influenced their arrival. They worked the case together regardless, tension muted by shared purpose. Another time, a chaotic surge in the American Midwest forced them into an uneasy alliance, Bruce handling the logistics and containment while Constantine handled the arcane fallout. They did not speak about the real reason they were both there. They did not have to.
It became an unspoken rule.
If a case carried even a faint trace of something that could be connected to Y/N, they informed each other.
Not out of trust.
Out of necessity.
Years passed, but the pattern never broke. Missions extended beyond Gotham’s skyline more frequently. Files labeled with Y/N’s name continued to accumulate, thick with analysis and thin on results. The Cave retained its scars from that night, repaired structurally but never fully restored aesthetically, a silent reminder of the last time they had stood in that space together.
The search never became frantic again. It settled into something quieter, more enduring, like a wound that had stopped bleeding but refused to close. Every unexplained event in the supernatural community caught Constantine’s attention. Every fluctuation in global anomaly reports triggered a secondary review in Gotham. Hope was no longer loud or desperate. It was persistent.
And somewhere beyond the reach of satellites and spells, beyond the rumors and the case files, beyond even the dimensions they knew how to measure, something shifted as if aware of the continued effort, as if the search itself had weight that could be felt from very far away.
It was not any recognizable plane mapped in the League’s archives or whispered about in occult circles.
From a vantage point that did not obey conventional space, Y/N observed.
The dimension they occupied did not resemble a world in the traditional sense. There was no defined horizon, no sky in the way mortals understood it, only an expanse of layered reality that folded over itself in quiet gradients of light and shadow. Threads of energy moved through it constantly, some luminous and structured, others fluid and unpredictable, weaving together without fully merging. It was not chaos. It was not order. It was the space between them, the tension that allowed both to exist without annihilating each other.
Y/N stood within it as if they had always belonged there.
Below, through a thinning in the fabric of planes that required no effort for them to access, they watched Gotham. They watched the Cave, repaired yet still marked by history. They watched Bruce reviewing anomaly reports long after the others had left for the night. They watched Constantine dismiss a rumor with outward cynicism only to quietly follow it anyway. They watched missions launched under practical pretexts that concealed older motives.
They saw the way their absence had reshaped routines, priorities, alliances.
And they felt none of the sharpness that once would have accompanied it.
There was no anger rising in their chest at the memory of that night. No echo of the hurt that had driven them to leave. The distance between who they had been in that cavern and who they were now was too vast for those emotions to maintain their original shape. They did not dismiss the past. They did not erase it. They simply held it as information, something that had contributed to a larger trajectory.
Awareness replaced reaction.
From this plane, the balance of forces was visible in a way it had never been before. They could see where chaos gathered too densely, threatening to spiral into catastrophe. They could see where order pressed too tightly, risking suffocation and stagnation. They felt the subtle shifts when one side attempted to dominate the other, the strain it caused in the fabric of existence itself. The search for them registered faintly in that broader awareness, a localized disturbance driven by attachment and unresolved consequence.
It did not pull at them.
It did not anchor them.
It simply was.
Y/N let their gaze rest on Gotham for a moment longer, watching as Bruce paused over a file that had long since yielded nothing new. Watching as Constantine stared into the embers of a dying cigarette, expression unreadable as he considered another lead that would likely end the same way as the rest. They understood what motivated it. They understood the persistence.
Understanding did not require returning.
A subtle shift rippled through the higher plane, a disturbance elsewhere demanding attention. Not urgent in a frantic sense, but significant. A convergence point where chaos had begun to overextend its reach, nudging dangerously close to imbalance. The threads around Y/N responded instinctively, tightening in recognition of their role.
They turned their gaze away from Earth.
Not abruptly. Not dismissively.
Simply because there was somewhere else to be.
The dimension around them unfolded at their intent, pathways forming through layered realities that would have shattered lesser beings to traverse. The observation point closed gently behind them, the view of Gotham thinning until it was no more than a distant impression woven into the greater tapestry.
And as they stepped forward into the next fracture in the cosmic weave, presence expanding to meet the disturbance waiting beyond, the echoes of a search still ongoing continued below, unaware that they had already been seen.
The place they entered existed in the margins of myth.
It was neither fully formed nor formless, a convergence point where archetypes took shape and then dissolved back into abstraction. Vast stone archways drifted in open air without foundation. Rivers of light poured upward instead of down, branching into geometric constellations that rearranged themselves according to unseen equations. The atmosphere thrummed with opposing currents that did not cancel each other out but pressed together in constant negotiation.
They were not alone.
Two presences turned toward them as one might acknowledge the arrival of an equal.
Klarion hovered several feet above the fractured terrain, boots swinging idly as if this were a social call rather than a cosmic intersection. His eyes brightened immediately, mischief and delight intertwining as they locked onto Y/N.
“Well, well,” he said, grin widening. “My favorite interruption.”
Opposite him stood Doctor Fate, luminous and still, golden helm reflecting the shifting architecture of the liminal plane. His posture conveyed composure rather than dominance, the measured restraint of someone who understood the scale of what stood before him.
“You have arrived,” Fate said, inclining his head slightly. “Your timing is precise.”
Y/N stepped fully into the space between them, and the tension that had been rising at the edges of the plane eased by degrees, subtle but undeniable.
The meeting did not require ceremony.
It required context.
Years earlier, after leaving the Cave, Y/N had not arrived here with clarity or purpose. They had fled with control intact but direction absent. The weight of their decision had pressed down heavily once the immediate confrontation was gone. Distance had not erased uncertainty. It had amplified it. They had drifted across dimensional thresholds without anchoring to any single world, debating in quiet moments whether they should return and face the aftermath they had created.
The hesitation had nearly drawn them back.
Then reality had torn open.
Doctor Fate and Klarion had been locked in direct conflict, their powers colliding in a way that strained the boundaries of multiple planes simultaneously. Structured incantations carved precise sigils into the air while chaotic surges fractured them seconds later. The clash was not merely ideological. It was elemental. Order attempting to impose stability. Chaos resisting containment. The space between them had begun to shred under the pressure.
Y/N had arrived in the middle of it, already overwhelmed by their own turmoil, and instinct had driven them to intervene.
They had not attacked either of them.
They had stepped into the collision itself.
Power had surged outward, not in domination but in redistribution. The rigid lattice of Fate’s spellwork and the spiraling entropy of Klarion’s magic had been forced into equilibrium, neither extinguished nor allowed to escalate. The tear in reality had slowed its expansion as if an unseen hand had steadied the seam.
Both had stopped fighting.
Shock had replaced aggression.
Doctor Fate had felt the signature immediately, the unmistakable echo of Wiccan’s magic embedded in the force that had halted them. Yet it was altered, broadened, refined into something that no longer pulsed with raw potential alone but with deliberate structure layered over instinctive flux. Klarion had circled Y/N with open fascination, testing the edges of their aura with flickers of distortion and finding no allegiance to Order within it, no surrender to Chaos either.
“You’re not leaning,” Klarion had observed with keen interest. “You’re holding.”
Fate had extended a controlled wave of ordered energy, not as an attack but as inquiry. Klarion had answered with a ripple of unpredictability. Y/N had responded not by amplifying one side but by adjusting the tension between them until neither could dominate the exchange.
It became clear in that suspended moment that Y/N functioned as something neither Lord of Order nor agent of Chaos had accounted for. They did not erase extremes. They moderated them. They did not weaken conflict. They prevented collapse.
Fate had studied them in silence before speaking.
“You stabilized yourself,” he had said. “In doing so, you aligned with a principle neither of us fully embody.”
Klarion had tilted his head, grin widening further.
“Balance,” he had supplied, as if savoring the word.
Fate had decided then to offer guidance, not out of ownership but recognition. Klarion had announced his own intention to remain involved with far less solemnity.
When Fate questioned his motive, suggesting that his cooperation stemmed from self-preservation rather than goodwill, Klarion had laughed without embarrassment.
“Of course it does,” he had replied brightly. “If Order ever wins entirely, I vanish. Balance keeps him from suffocating everything. Including me. Why else would I help.”
Fate had accused him of selfishness.
Klarion had not denied it.
“To be fair,” he had added, gesturing toward Y/N, “they are fascinating. More fascinating than you. That alone is reason enough.”
From that point forward, the relationship had been defined not by hierarchy but by axis.
Fate had explained the cosmic structure with the clarity of someone who had studied it across eons. Order and Chaos were not enemies in the simplistic sense. They were opposing constants whose tension generated reality itself. When one grew too dominant, correction manifested, sometimes violently. Civilizations collapsed under excessive rigidity. Entire realms dissolved under unchecked entropy. Extremes did not sustain existence. They consumed it.
Y/N had not consciously chosen to align with a new principle. They had stabilized themselves in a moment of crisis. That act had positioned them at the fulcrum between two primordial forces.
Over time, under guidance from both, they refined their role. Not as apprentice. Not as subordinate. As axis.
They learned to sense when Order’s structure tightened too far, calcifying into tyranny that crushed autonomy beneath immaculate design. They learned to detect when Chaos swelled beyond creative flux into annihilation that erased possibility entirely. Their interventions were measured, never erasing either force, only preventing dominance from tipping into devastation.
They did not assist Order in conquering Chaos.
They did not empower Chaos to overthrow Order.
They ensured that tension remained productive rather than catastrophic.
Now, standing once more in the liminal mythic plane with Doctor Fate and Klarion, the disturbance that had drawn them here pulsed at the edge of perception. Lines of structured light strained against spiraling fractures forming in the fabric of the realm. Neither side had yet overwhelmed the other, but imbalance was building.
Meetings like this occurred regularly.
Not summoned by crisis alone, but by design.
Once every cycle of mortal years, when constellations aligned in patterns that allowed clearer measurement of cosmic drift, the three of them convened in this liminal convergence. It functioned less as a battlefield and more as a calibration chamber. They assessed fluctuations across dimensions, evaluated where Order had begun to harden too rigidly or where Chaos had grown too reckless in its expansion. It was, in essence, a universal health check, a review of tension to ensure it remained constructive rather than corrosive.
They did not gather as adversaries or allies.
They gathered as necessary opposites.
Order stood for structure, continuity, law that prevented dissolution. Chaos embodied change, unpredictability, the creative destruction that allowed evolution. Balance existed between them not as compromise but as axis, the fixed point that allowed both to exert force without tearing existence apart.
There were times when Balance moved alongside Chaos.
On rare occasions, when Klarion’s mischief threatened to escalate into something that would unravel more than intended, Balance accompanied him. Sometimes it was for containment, ensuring his games did not fracture entire realms. Other times, it was for the simple experience of motion without restraint, a reminder that Chaos in measured doses could invigorate stagnating systems. Balance did not suppress Chaos’s nature. They redirected it when necessary and indulged it when safe.
There were other times when Balance stood beside Order.
When civilizations faltered under instability, when the scaffolding of reality required reinforcement, Balance lent weight to structure. Not to calcify it into unyielding tyranny, but to restore coherence where collapse loomed. Order did not command Balance. Balance did not serve Order. They aligned temporarily when the scale required correction.
In this meeting space, titles replaced names.
“Chaos,” Doctor Fate said now, golden light coiling around his form as he surveyed the fracture forming ahead. “Your influence has accelerated beyond projected variance.”
Klarion rolled his eyes, boots swinging idly above the shimmering surface. “You say that every time, Order. It is called progress. Things break. They rebuild. It is delightful.”
Y/N stepped between them, gaze sweeping across the fault line that shimmered with unstable potential. “The variance is within tolerable range,” Y/N said evenly. “But the margin is narrowing.”
Klarion grinned at that, sharp and pleased. “See. Balance understands nuance.”
Doctor Fate inclined his head slightly toward Y/N. “Adjustment is advisable.”
The reason they addressed one another this way had not been philosophical at first.
In the early years, any time Doctor Fate spoke Klarion’s name, it carried the weight of condemnation. Klarion responded in kind, twisting the title of Doctor Fate into something mocking and dismissive. The exchanges were less about identity and more about antagonism. Eventually, irritation gave way to simplicity. They began referring to one another by the principles they embodied. Chaos. Order. Balance. The words carried less venom and more recognition. It was difficult to insult someone by naming what they fundamentally were.
Klarion drifted closer now, peering at Balance with unabashed curiosity. “Tell me,” he said, voice bright with anticipation. “If I were to push just a little harder there,” he gestured toward the unstable seam in reality, “would you stop me.”
Y/N regarded him without judgment. “If you push beyond sustainability, yes.”
“And if I do not.”
“Then I will not.”
Doctor Fate observed the exchange without interruption, golden helm reflecting both figures in its polished surface. “The objective remains preservation of function,” Doctor Fate stated. “Neither dominance nor eradication.”
Klarion laughed softly. “You make it sound so dull.”
“It is not dull,” Y/N replied. “It is necessary.”
Silence settled briefly between them, not uncomfortable, but charged with understanding.
The fracture ahead pulsed again, tension increasing by fractional degrees. Klarion’s energy flared in response, eager to test its limits. Doctor Fate’s light intensified, prepared to impose containment. Y/N extended their awareness outward, feeling the exact point at which intervention would maintain equilibrium without suppressing either force.
“Shall we,” Klarion said, smile widening.
Doctor Fate raised a hand.
Y/N stepped forward.
Power flowed, not in collision but in calibration. The fracture stabilized, not sealed entirely, but adjusted so that expansion no longer threatened collapse. Klarion’s surge eased into creative turbulence rather than destructive rupture. Doctor Fate’s structure relaxed enough to allow movement without disintegration.
When it was done, the plane settled into harmonious tension once more.
Klarion exhaled in theatrical disappointment. “You never let it get interesting enough.”
✧ MASTERLIST | ✧ BAD ENDING | ✧ GOOD ENDING | ✧ SPECIAL ENDING
NO ONE'S POV:
They could only watch as Y/N’s breathing grew more erratic, the air around them trembling in response.
The distortion began subtly, a ripple in the air that bent the light above their shoulders, then deepened into visible tremors that traveled outward across the stone floor. The Cave did not fracture yet, but it felt as though it was listening, responding to the uneven rhythm of Y/N’s lungs. Their fingers twitched at their sides, not raised in defense, not clenched in anger, simply overwhelmed by sensation that had nowhere to settle.
Constantine was the first to step forward.
He did not rush. He did not reach for them immediately. He moved the way one approaches a frightened animal, slow enough that the movement itself would not startle. His boots scraped lightly against the stone, the sound grounding in its ordinariness.
“Easy,” he said, his voice low and steady, pitched for Y/N alone. “Just look at me.”
The others watched him.
Dick shifted his weight, instinct pulling him forward, but he hesitated. Jason’s shoulders tensed, jaw tight as he assessed the way the air warped near the ceiling. Damian’s hand hovered near the hilt at his side, not drawing, simply ready. Tim’s gaze flicked between Y/N and the structural lines of the cavern, calculating stress points in real time.
Bruce did not speak at first.
He watched.
He took in the tremor in Y/N’s hands, the unfocused edge to their stare, the way the distortion intensified whenever too many voices tried to rise at once. He measured Constantine’s distance from them and the cadence of his tone. He noticed something else as well, something quieter beneath the panic. When Constantine’s voice cut through the space, the tremor did not worsen. It shifted, uneven but responsive.
Dick took a half step forward.
Jason mirrored him a second later.
Bruce raised his hand.
The gesture was small but absolute.
They stopped.
No verbal command followed. It was not necessary. The signal carried weight because it was rare. Bruce’s gaze remained on Y/N, but his raised hand held the rest of the room in place, a silent directive that this moment was not theirs to seize.
Constantine moved closer, slowly enough that Y/N could track the motion. He crouched slightly to bring himself nearer to their eye level without crowding them. His expression was stripped of sarcasm, of irritation, of anything that might sharpen the edges of the moment.
“You’re here,” he said quietly. “In the Cave. You’re breathing too fast. Slow it down with me.”
Y/N’s chest hitched again, magic pulsing outward in uneven waves that made the lights overhead flicker faintly. Their gaze darted toward the movement at the edge of their vision where the others stood, a semicircle of tension and concern.
Bruce saw it.
He lowered his hand but did not step forward. Instead, he spoke without raising his voice, directing his words not at Y/N but at the others.
“Give them room.”
It was not loud, but it carried.
Jason eased back first, boots scraping softly against the stone as he created distance. Dick followed, hands lifting slightly in a gesture meant to show he was not approaching. Damian released the subtle tension in his stance, posture straightening as he stepped out of Y/N’s peripheral vision. Tim shifted away from the console just enough to open the space visually as well as physically.
The semicircle widened.
Air returned to the center of the cavern.
Constantine extended one hand slowly, palm open but not touching. “Match me,” he said, drawing in a deliberate breath and letting it out just as deliberately. “You don’t have to fix anything. Just breathe.”
The magic shuddered again, but it did not spike higher. It hovered, unstable but waiting.
Bruce watched the shift carefully. Every instinct in him urged intervention, structure, control. He cataloged potential outcomes, calculated risks, measured the distance between Y/N and the nearest unstable surface. And still he remained where he was, allowing the space to exist.
Because as much as it unsettled him to admit it, Constantine was the one Y/N’s gaze kept returning to.
Not to him.
Not to the others.
To Constantine.
Another breath.
Another uneven tremor through the air.
Constantine did not fill the silence with explanations or directives. He simply stayed, steady and present, voice low and consistent as he counted the rhythm for them to follow, and Bruce kept his place at the edge of the widening circle, watching as Y/N’s magic wavered between escalation and control, the outcome not yet certain but no longer being wrestled from their hands.
When Constantine judged the distance close enough, he reached forward slowly and took Y/N’s hands in his.
The contact was deliberate and grounding. Not restraining. Not forceful. His fingers wrapped around theirs with enough pressure to anchor without confining, thumbs pressing lightly against their knuckles as if reminding them that there was something solid beneath the chaos.
“Stay with me,” he murmured. “Don’t chase the noise. Just stay here.”
Zatanna moved to Y/N’s other side, close enough to support but not crowding. Her voice joined Constantine’s, softer but just as steady, guiding the rhythm of breath and focus. She did not chant. She did not cast. She spoke plainly, repeating Y/N’s name, reinforcing presence, drawing their attention back to the present moment instead of the spiraling edges of perception.
The distortion in the Cave shifted.
The cracks that had begun to etch faint lines into the stone did not deepen. The tremors in the ceiling slowed from frantic vibrations into something uneven but stabilizing. The air still shimmered around Y/N, but it no longer lashed outward with the same volatility.
Bruce cataloged every detail.
He noted the pace of Y/N’s breathing as it began, incrementally, to lengthen. He observed the way the warping above them lost intensity when Constantine lowered his tone instead of raising it. He tracked the structural stress points along the cavern walls and saw that they were no longer worsening.
It was not fixed.
But it was no longer escalating.
Behind him, Dick shifted again, unable to remain completely still. The instinct to move closer was written plainly across his face. After a moment, he stepped toward Bruce, keeping his voice low enough not to intrude on the center of the cavern.
“Shouldn’t we be helping?” he asked. There was no accusation in the question, only urgency. “We could at least try.”
Bruce did not look away from Y/N.
“If we go in without knowing how to steady them,” he said quietly, “we risk adding to the pressure.”
Dick frowned slightly. “We’re their family.”
The word hung in the air.
Bruce’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained controlled. “Constantine knows them in this context better than we do,” he replied. “He’s spent more time with them when it comes to their magic. So has Zatanna.”
The truth of it settled heavily.
Dick flinched almost imperceptibly. The acknowledgment was not cruel, but it landed with weight. He looked back toward Y/N, watching the way their shoulders trembled under Constantine’s steady grip, and something like regret flickered across his face. Not for this moment alone, but for all the ones that had led here.
Bruce continued, quieter now. “This isn’t about who cares more. It’s about who can help without overwhelming them.”
Dick did not answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the center of the cavern, where Constantine was guiding Y/N through another measured breath, Zatanna reinforcing the rhythm at their side. Y/N’s posture was still tense, but their chest was no longer rising in frantic bursts. The magic around them had shifted from violent waves to unstable ripples.
Dick’s hands curled slightly at his sides, restrained by choice rather than command. “I hate just standing here,” he admitted under his breath.
Bruce finally glanced at him. “I know.”
He placed a hand on Dick’s shoulder, firm and grounding. “But if we step in because we feel helpless, we make this about us. And that could push them further.”
Dick swallowed and nodded, though the reluctance was clear. He forced himself to take a small step back, creating more space rather than less, even as every protective instinct urged him forward.
At the center of the cavern, Constantine adjusted his grip slightly, drawing Y/N’s hands closer to steady the tremor running through their fingers. Zatanna’s voice remained calm and consistent, reinforcing each inhale and exhale until the rhythm began to match something closer to normal.
The air still shimmered faintly.
The stone still held the memory of strain.
But Y/N’s breathing was slowing, and the violent edge of their magic was dulling into something controlled, even if fragile, as the family watched from a distance that felt both necessary and unbearably far.
Constantine did not loosen his hold immediately. His fingers remained wrapped around Y/N’s hands, firm but not restraining, grounding rather than containing. His voice had lowered into something almost conversational now, no longer counting each inhale but guiding them through steadier patterns, reminding them that the power they carried was theirs, not something that ruled them. Zatanna stood close at Y/N’s other side, her presence quieter yet no less deliberate, her magic woven subtly through the air like a stabilizing thread, reinforcing rather than overtaking, careful not to overshadow what Y/N was reclaiming for themselves. Together, they created a pocket of stillness that felt intentional, practiced, almost familiar.
From where he stood, Bruce observed the shift with a precision that had nothing to do with detective work and everything to do with awareness. He noticed the way Constantine adjusted his tone without hesitation, the way Zatanna anticipated the next tremor before it surfaced, the way neither of them appeared startled by the surge that had moments ago threatened to fracture the Cave. They did not panic. They did not rush. They did not attempt to overpower what was happening. They met it with understanding.
That realization settled heavily in his chest.
They knew what to do.
Not because they were more powerful, and not because they were unafraid, but because they knew Y/N. They understood the rhythm of their magic, the signs that preceded a spike, the tension that built beneath their composure when too many expectations pressed in at once. They recognized the difference between danger and distress. They responded to the latter before it could become the former.
Bruce’s gaze shifted briefly to the fractured lines along the stone floor, to the faint scorch marks etched into reinforced steel, to the way the Cave’s systems were recalibrating after absorbing the excess energy. It could have been worse. Structurally, it would recover. Equipment could be repaired. Reinforcements could be added.
That was not what troubled him.
What unsettled him was how quickly the escalation had occurred, and how clear the cause now appeared in hindsight. The spike had not begun when Y/N entered the Cave. It had not begun when questions were asked. It had begun when the pressure mounted, when too many voices demanded answers at once, when the weight of scrutiny pressed down from every direction without pause.
It had begun with them.
Bruce felt the connection settle into place with uncomfortable clarity. They had wanted explanations. They had wanted control. They had wanted reassurance that nothing was slipping beyond their reach. In their attempt to regain footing, they had closed in rather than stepped back. They had cornered someone who already carried more than they were meant to bear alone.
Dick stood a few steps behind him, silent now, his earlier restlessness replaced with something quieter and far more difficult to dismiss. Jason’s posture had shifted from defensive to watchful, the edge in his stance dulled by a tension that was no longer directed outward. Tim’s eyes were fixed on Y/N with analytical focus, but there was something fractured in that concentration, as though he were revising conclusions in real time. Damian’s hands remained at his sides, controlled as always, yet even he did not move closer.
None of them stepped forward.
Not because they did not care, but because they were beginning to understand that caring was not the same as helping.
Bruce’s jaw tightened as the final tremor faded from the air. Y/N’s shoulders were no longer rigid. Their breathing, though still careful, no longer shook the space around them. The magic that had lashed out moments ago now curled inward, restrained by deliberate will rather than desperation. Constantine eased his grip only slightly, as if testing whether the balance would hold without constant reinforcement. Zatanna’s focus remained steady, attentive but not intrusive.
They were back in control.
And Bruce could not ignore the fact that control had returned the moment the pressure had lessened.
The conclusion was unavoidable. They had not only failed to prevent the escalation. They had been the catalyst for it. Their urgency, their questions, their insistence on immediate answers had compounded what Y/N had already been carrying. They had mistaken proximity for support and intensity for protection. In doing so, they had driven the very reaction they had hoped to avoid.
The Cave felt quieter now, but not empty. The space between the two groups remained, defined not by distance alone but by understanding that had arrived too late to prevent the damage and just in time to prevent something worse. Bruce kept his place at the edge of that space, aware that stepping forward now would not undo what had already occurred, aware that any movement had to be deliberate rather than instinctive, measured rather than reactive, as Y/N steadied themselves under the guidance of those who had known when to hold on and when to simply let them breathe.
Constantine’s eyes narrowed slightly when Bruce moved. Zatanna exhaled as if bracing for another clash. Y/N’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.
Bruce stopped several steps away. Close enough to be heard without raising his voice. Far enough not to crowd them.
“I owe you an apology,” he began.
There was no grand preface. No attempt to frame it strategically.
“You were brought into my home after losing your mother. You were grieving. You were young. And I treated you like something that would adjust on its own. I told myself that as long as you were safe, fed, educated, then I was doing my job. I convinced myself that distance was acceptable because I was busy.”
His gaze did not waver from Y/N.
“You watched me make time for everyone else. You saw me show up for them. And I did not do the same for you. That was not oversight. That was failure.”
The Cave did not echo his words. It absorbed them.
“I should have asked you how you were coping. I should have noticed how quiet you were becoming. I should have stepped in long before it reached this point. Instead, I reacted only when your pain became visible.”
Dick shifted beside him, jaw tight. He did not step forward immediately. He seemed to need a moment to find the right words without hiding behind humor. Heexhaled slowly before speaking. “I told myself it would be cruel to make you feel like part of something permanent if you weren’t staying,” he admitted. “So I kept things light. Surface level. And when I made plans with you and then canceled them because something else came up, I treated it like it wasn’t a big deal and I’d let it slide because I thought, ‘They won’t be here long anyway.’”
His expression faltered. “And every time Damian lashed out at you, I told you to be patient. I told you he didn’t mean it. I made you responsible for managing his anger instead of holding him accountable for it.”
He met Y/N’s gaze fully. “I chose convenience over you.”
Jason’s turn came with less hesitation than before, but the guilt in his voice was unmistakable. “When you showed up, I already had my own mess to deal with,” he said bluntly. “You were quiet. You read too much. You stayed out of the way. I decided that meant you didn’t need anything.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “You tried to talk to me about books. About your projects. I brushed you off because I didn’t want to deal with someone who looked at me like I wasn’t broken beyond repair. I kept you at arm’s length. I told myself you were better off not getting close to me. That I’d only drag you into something ugly.”
He finally looked at them. “I made you feel like you were annoying for wanting connection. That’s on me.”
Tim stepped forward next, more composed but no less remorseful. “When you arrived, I already had my place here,” he admitted. “I had a role. I had purpose. You didn’t. And instead of helping you find one, I dismissed you.”
His fingers flexed slightly at his sides. “You tried to talk to me more than once. I remember snapping at you for interrupting. I remember thinking you were just… there. Not part of what mattered.”
His gaze sharpened with self-reproach. “I didn’t consider that maybe I was supposed to make space. I didn’t consider that you might have needed someone to explain things instead of shutting you out. I never considered that maybe you were just trying to not feel alone. I treated you like background noise in a house that already felt crowded.”
Stephanie’s apology followed, her usual sharpness subdued. “I thought it was safer not to get attached,” she admitted. “Every time you came back, I’d think, ‘Okay, this time it’s really temporary.’ So I didn’t try. I didn’t invite you to things. I didn’t check in.”
She hesitated before adding, “I told myself you liked being alone. That you preferred your projects and your books. It was easier than admitting I didn’t know how to talk to you and didn’t want to try.”
Cass’s voice was quiet but unwavering. “I saw you pack,” she said. “More than once. I saw how you stopped leaving things out. How you never decorated your room.”
Her eyes remained fixed on Y/N. “I knew you were preparing to leave before anyone told you to. I understood what that meant.”
A pause. “I did not stop it.”
Damian’s apology did not come easily, but it came clearly. “I was hostile because I believed you were a variable,” he said. “An unnecessary complication in a house that already carried too many.”
His shoulders remained straight, but there was no arrogance in his tone. “I treated you as though you were expendable. I threatened you. I belittled you. I justified it by convincing myself you would be gone soon.”
His gaze did not waver. “You were not expendable.”
Alfred’s turn carried a different weight. “Master Bruce and I discussed your placements often,” he said. “We told ourselves that keeping emotional distance would make each departure less painful for you. That encouraging independence was a kindness.”
His expression softened with something closer to sorrow. “In truth, I feared overstepping. I feared that advocating too strongly would disrupt what little stability you had. I should have been braver on your behalf.”
Duke stepped forward last, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “You were always nice to me,” he said. “Even when things felt off. I noticed it, you know. The way conversations stopped when you walked into a room. The way plans didn’t include you.”
He looked at the floor briefly before lifting his gaze again. “I figured it wasn’t my place to question it. I was new too. I thought maybe I was reading it wrong.”
His voice tightened. “I wasn’t.”
Through all of it, Y/N stood still. No trembling. No magic flaring. Just the quiet steadiness of someone who had learned how to survive without expecting softness.
“You all keep saying you noticed,” they said. “You noticed I was quiet. You noticed I stopped asking. You noticed I was isolating.”
Their gaze moved from one face to another.
“And none of you thought that maybe I was drowning.”
Their gaze moved from one to the next, not skipping anyone. “Do you know what it feels like to pack a bag and not unpack it fully because you don’t want to get comfortable? To stop calling a place home because you know it doesn’t belong to you?”
The words did not rush. They unfolded deliberately.
“I kept coming back because no one else wanted me. Not because I didn’t notice that you didn’t either.”
The impact of that settled heavily.
“I grew up in that house feeling like a temporary addition. Like something that had been placed there out of obligation. I watched all of you choose each other over and over again. I stopped trying because every attempt felt like I was intruding.”
Their hands clenched at their sides.
“I didn’t know about patrols. I didn’t know about this Cave. I didn’t know any of that. All I knew was that I lived in a house full of people who looked at me like I didn’t quite fit.”
“And when I finally found someone who didn’t hesitate,” Y/N continued, their voice tightening just slightly, “someone who didn’t call me temporary, who didn’t treat me like a placeholder, suddenly I’m family.”
They inhaled slowly, control firm. “You don’t get to decide that now. You don’t get to rewrite the narrative because it’s inconvenient to lose me.”
No one interrupted.
“I’m not angry that you apologized,” Y/N said. “I’m angry that it took me leaving for you to realize I was worth apologizing to.”
The words did not explode. They did not need to. They landed with quiet precision.
“If you want to do better, then do it without expecting anything in return. Don’t call me family to make yourselves feel better. Don’t act possessive because someone else treated me the way you should have.”
Their magic hummed faintly, not volatile but present, woven tightly under their skin.
“You can regret it,” they finished. “You can feel guilty. But you don’t get to decide what that means for me.”
Silence followed, not brittle this time but weighted with understanding. No one tried to interrupt them. No one rushed to defend themselves. The shift was subtle, but it was there. The Batfamily did not look like a unit prepared to argue a case. They looked like people standing in the aftermath of something they had broken with their own hands.
Bruce inclined his head slightly, not in authority but in acknowledgment. “We understand,” he said. “You may never forgive us. You have no reason to. What we did cannot be undone.”
Dick stepped forward just enough to stand beside him, not shielding, not intruding. “We know you don’t owe us anything. Not your time. Not your trust. Not even the chance to try.”
Jason’s voice was lower, rougher. “But we are not asking you to forgive us so we can sleep better at night. We feel guilty because we should. That guilt is not the point. The point is that we do not want to repeat the same harm.”
Tim’s gaze did not waver. “If you never see us as family, that will be our consequence. We will accept it. But we would still like the opportunity to show you that we can do better, even if the relationship becomes something different than what it should have been.”
Y/N listened without softening. The words were careful, deliberate, and for once they were not defensive. That in itself felt unfamiliar.
“You want the opportunity,” Y/N said slowly. “You want the chance to fix it.”
Their eyes narrowed slightly. “And how do I know this isn’t just because you’re uncomfortable? Because you lost control of the narrative? Because the idea that I chose someone else bruised your pride?”
The question was not cruel. It was precise.
Bruce did not answer immediately. “It is uncomfortable,” he admitted. “Watching you walk away is uncomfortable. Realizing we failed you is uncomfortable. But that is not why we want to try.”
His expression did not harden. It steadied. “We want to try because you deserved better when you were here. Whether you remain part of our lives or not does not change that fact. We cannot change the past, but we can decide what we become moving forward.”
There was no dramatic vow, no promise of immediate transformation. Just an acknowledgment that growth would require consistency rather than grand gestures.
Y/N felt the weight of their exhaustion pressing in at the edges now that the adrenaline had begun to fade. Their magic no longer flared, but it pulsed faintly beneath their skin, a reminder of how close everything had come to collapse.
They turned slightly toward Constantine, searching his expression for certainty. He met their gaze with something uncharacteristically honest.
“I don’t know,” he said plainly. “People can change. Doesn’t mean they will. And it doesn’t mean you’re obligated to wait around and see.”
Zatanna watched them both, tired but steady. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight,” she added gently.
Y/N looked back at the Batfamily. They studied each face, searching for something they could not name. Perhaps consistency. Perhaps proof that this was not another temporary performance.
“I don’t forgive you,” they said at last. The words were firm, without tremor. “And it would take a lot for me to even consider it.”
No one flinched.
“But,” they continued, slower now, “I’ve spent most of my life assuming that people don’t change. That if someone shows you who they are, that’s all you get. And maybe that’s true most of the time.”
Their fingers curled slightly at their sides, grounding themselves. “I’m not willing to pretend that the past didn’t happen. I’m not willing to call this fixed because you apologized. But I am willing to see if your actions match your words.”
The admission felt heavy, vulnerable in a different way than anger.
“It will take time,” Y/N said. “And distance. I need to see that you can respect boundaries. That you can treat me like a person instead of a possession or an afterthought. If you can do that consistently, without pushing, without trying to rush me into something I’m not ready for, then maybe I’ll think about forgiveness.”
Relief flickered across several faces, cautious and restrained.
“Don’t thank me,” Y/N added immediately. “You still have to prove you deserve that consideration.”
“We understand,” Bruce replied quietly.
Constantine exhaled, glancing at Y/N more closely now. “Right,” he said. “That’s enough emotional excavation for one evening. You nearly tore a hole through three dimensions earlier. Even if you’re stable, that kind of slip drains you.”
As if summoned by the acknowledgment, the exhaustion hit fully. The sharp edge of adrenaline dissolved, leaving behind a heaviness that settled into their bones. Their shoulders dipped slightly, and they had to steady their breathing to keep from swaying.
“I’m fine,” Y/N began automatically.
“You’re tired,” Zatanna corrected softly.
They did not argue again.
Constantine nodded toward the exit. “Let’s go. You need rest. Everything else can wait.”
The three magic users turned to leave, but footsteps approached from behind.
“Hey,” Duke called gently.
Y/N paused and glanced at Constantine and Zatanna. “It’s okay,” they said quietly. “I’ll be a minute.”
Constantine studied Duke for a brief second before giving a small nod. “We’ll be right there,” he said, stepping back with Zatanna to give them space.
Duke stopped a few feet away from Y/N, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. The tension in his posture was different from the others. Less defensive. More self-critical.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and unlike earlier apologies, this one felt personal rather than collective. “I should’ve done more. I knew something wasn’t right.”
Y/N shook their head slightly, but he continued.
“When you finally got a permanent placement, they thought you were being trafficked,” he admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. “They convinced themselves something shady had to be going on because it didn’t fit their idea of control. I tried to tell them that you seemed… happy. That you weren’t acting like someone in danger. They didn’t listen.”
His jaw tightened. “I should’ve pushed harder.”
“Duke,” Y/N said gently, cutting through the spiral.
He stopped.
“I’m not mad at you.”
The words seemed to catch him off guard.
“You were the only one who treated me like I was already part of the room,” Y/N continued. “You didn’t look at me like I was temporary. You didn’t act like I was about to disappear.”
Their voice softened, just slightly. “When we hung out, it felt normal. Like I wasn’t waiting for something to go wrong. Like I could just exist without proving I deserved to be there.”
Duke’s expression shifted, the guilt easing into something warmer and more fragile.
“You made it easier,” Y/N said. “Even if you didn’t fix everything, you made it easier.”
He stepped forward carefully, giving them enough time to pull away if they wanted. When they didn’t, he wrapped his arms around them in a firm, steady hug. It was not possessive. It was grounding.
Y/N returned it without hesitation.
“Call me,” Duke murmured. “Even if it’s just to complain about something dumb."
A smirk stretched across their face. "Even at three am?"
Duke paused, face twisted into a thinking look. "Well, I usually sleep during that time since I patrol in the morning, so…" he trailed off.
A faint, tired huff of laughter escaped them. “I’ll keep in touch.”
When they separated, the space between them felt less like an ending and more like a bridge that had not completely burned.
Constantine and Zatanna rejoined them, each offering a final measured look toward the others. There were no dramatic declarations. No ultimatums. Just an understanding that the next steps would be defined by action rather than words.
Y/N did not look back immediately. They focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on matching their breathing to the steady rhythm of their magic. Only when they reached the edge of the Cave did they allow themselves a final glance over their shoulder.
Not at the Manor. Not at the legacy carved into stone and shadow.
At the people who had finally realized what they had lost.
Then they turned forward again and walked out, this time not because they were being placed somewhere else, not because they were unwanted, but because they were choosing where to go.
A few months later, the new apartment felt lived in.
Not temporary. Not transitional. Lived in.
Blueprints were pinned neatly to one wall, half-finished spell matrices layered over engineering drafts in careful handwriting. A mug sat abandoned on the kitchen counter, still faintly warm. The hum of contained magic was soft and stable, woven into the structure of the place like a heartbeat that no longer threatened to stutter out of rhythm.
Y/N stood in the middle of the living room, scanning the floor with a faint crease between their brows.
“Where are my shoes,” they muttered to themselves, already dressed and mostly ready, coat half-buttoned and hair only slightly cooperative.
A shimmer of energy rippled near the doorway.
Constantine leaned against the frame a second later, holding the missing shoes by their laces. “Looking for these?”
Y/N turned, relief flickering across their face. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I’m a lot of things,” he replied dryly, handing them over. “Lifesaver depends on the day.”
They sat down to slip the shoes on, fingers moving quickly but with a noticeable fatigue beneath the motion. The case from the night before had stretched longer than expected, and while the threat had been contained, the aftermath had required precision and restraint that left little room for rest.
Constantine watched them quietly for a moment before speaking again. “You sure about tonight?”
Y/N glanced up. “Yeah.”
“You’re tired,” he pressed, not accusing, just observant. “Last night wasn’t light work. And I’m fairly certain the bats wouldn’t implode if dinner got pushed again.”
Y/N tightened the laces and stood. “We already rescheduled last month because of that possession case in Bristol. If I cancel again, it starts looking like avoidance.”
“And is it?” he asked, tone even.
They paused for a second, considering the question honestly.
“No,” Y/N said at last. “It’s not.”
There was no sharpness in the answer. No defensive edge. Just certainty.
Constantine studied them a moment longer, then gave a small nod. “All right. Your choice.”
They walked toward the door together. Y/N stopped just before opening it and patted down their coat automatically, checking each pocket with practiced efficiency. Phone. Keys. Spell focus. Backup focus. Small notebook.
Constantine lifted his hand slightly.
Their wallet rested between his fingers.
They took it from him. “Thanks, Dad.”
The word landed without ceremony, without hesitation.
Constantine did not freeze. He did not make a joke to deflect it. He simply smiled, something warm and unguarded, and gave their shoulder a light squeeze.
“Good luck with the bats,” he said.
Y/N smirked faintly. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”
Magic gathered at their fingertips, bright but controlled, and in the next breath they were gone.
The air shifted again a moment later as they reappeared in front of the main doors of Wayne Manor. The structure loomed familiar in a way that no longer felt suffocating. The stone exterior was unchanged, but the way they stood before it had shifted entirely.
They knocked.
A few seconds passed before the door opened.
Alfred stood there, posture as impeccable as ever, though the warmth in his eyes was less restrained than it once had been.
“Good evening, Master Y/N.” He said gently. “We are delighted you could join us.”
Y/N inclined their head slightly. “Good evening, Alfred. Thank you for having me.”
The Manor felt different now. Not because it had physically changed, but because the tension that once seemed embedded in the walls no longer pressed against their lungs. There were still histories here. Still mistakes. Still echoes. But there was also effort. Consistent, unglamorous effort.
“They are in the dining room,” Alfred informed them as they removed their coat. “I believe Master Timothy and Miss Stephanie are in the middle of a disagreement regarding case methodology.”
Y/N allowed a faint smile. “That sounds about right.”
As they approached the dining room, the sound of overlapping conversation grew clearer. Laughter, irritation, the scrape of chairs. When Y/N stepped into the doorway, the conversation did not die.
It shifted.
“Hey, you’re here,” Dick said immediately, as though they had been part of the conversation all along. “Settle something for us. If a suspect uses an enchanted mirror as a portal anchor, do you disable the anchor first or secure the caster?”
“Anchor,” Tim and Steph said at the same time.
“Caster,” Jason countered.
Y/N stepped further into the room, already considering the variables. “Depends on whether the anchor is self-sustaining or siphoning from the caster’s magic,” they replied. “If it’s self-sustaining and you don’t neutralize it first, you risk destabilizing the entire structure mid-fight.”
Tim pointed at them triumphantly. “See?”
Steph rolled her eyes. “You two are impossible.”
Jason leaned back in his chair, glancing toward Y/N. “Since you’re here, tell Grayson that just because something looks structurally sound doesn’t mean it is.”
Dick frowned. “That is not what I said.”
“You implied it.”
“I did not.”
The argument escalated with familiar rhythm, but it did not exclude. It expanded. Y/N found themselves answering one question while Tim redirected another their way, and halfway through explaining a containment variation to Steph, Jason interrupted to ask their opinion on something entirely different.
“Are you free next week,” he asked, “or are you buried in another occult mess?”
Steph threw her hands up. “Can you not hijack the conversation for five seconds?”
“I’m multitasking.”
“You’re instigating.”
Y/N laughed quietly and moved to take the empty seat beside Duke.
He nudged their shoulder lightly. “You made it.”
“Told you I would.”
The table felt full, but not crowded. The conversation flowed around them, through them, including rather than tolerating. No one lowered their voice when the topic shifted to patrol rotations. No one hesitated to ask for their input when a magical anomaly came up. No one treated them like an observer perched at the edge of something temporary.
Alfred began serving dinner with his usual efficiency, and as plates were passed and glasses filled, the arguments softened into overlapping discussion.
Dinner began in earnest, conversation continuing between bites, threads weaving in and out without ever fully unraveling. There were still disagreements. Still moments of friction. But there was also accountability. Apologies when someone interrupted too sharply. Adjustments when someone crossed a line. Effort that did not dissolve after one successful evening.
Y/N looked around the table, taking it in quietly.
A months ago, they had stood in the Cave and chosen to leave. Not out of desperation. Not because they were being moved like luggage between placements. They had left because they wanted to.
Now they were here because they wanted to.
The difference settled somewhere deep and steady inside them.
They did not know what the future would look like. Forgiveness was not a switch to be flipped, and trust was not rebuilt in grand gestures. It had been rebuilt in small things. In returned calls. In respected boundaries. In dinners that did not end in silence.
Across the table, Dick was laughing at something Jason muttered under his breath. Steph was still arguing with Tim, though the edge was playful now. Duke leaned back in his chair, content. Alfred moved between them with quiet pride.
This was not the same family that had once called them temporary.
And Y/N was not the same person who had believed it.
They reached for their glass, steady and certain, and joined the conversation fully as the evening carried on, no longer a placeholder in someone else’s home, but a presence who had chosen where they stood.
And here we have the good ending!!
I know some of you might not like that Y/N forgave the batfam, but honestly, that had been the plan from the start, and Y/N still hasn’t forgiven them completely, but they do come to dinner sometimes, whether because they want to see if the Waynes really do mean what they said or Y/N is just using the opportunity to hang out with Duke mostly, that’s up to you guys to decide
Anyway, this took a little longer than I wanted, but I’m actually kind of happy with it, thank you all so much for accompanying me in this journey, though I still have one more surprise for you guys on the next post!!
Everyone that voted for Control (me included) having the absolute worst time rn I’m crying 😭😭😭 we intended for Control to be Reader controlling her powers, not the bats controlling Reader I’m fucking crying man
LISTEN.
In my defense.
I probably should have been more specific.
“Control” was such a beautifully vague word and I absolutely took advantage of that.
You all said you wanted Control and I said okay… but I never said who was controlling what.
That one is on me 😜
But genuinely, I love that you all meant internal mastery and I went psychological power dynamics instead. It fits the whole theme of the story though. Control was never just about magic. It was about agency. Who gets to decide. Who gets to choose.
And in the bad ending, the answer was very much not Y/N.
So yes. I hear you. I see you. I apologize for the emotional damage.
THE WAY I HATED EVERY SINGLE WORD THAT CAME OUT OF THEIR MOUTHS WHILE THEY PUSHED OUR REAL FAMILY AWAY
Love your work, queen <3
I’m actually so glad you hated it.
That was the goal.
The bad ending was never supposed to feel satisfying. It was supposed to feel wrong. Heavy. Like watching something precious get mishandled in real time and not being able to reach through the screen to stop it.
Seeing them push away the one person who actually chose Y/N without conditions was meant to sting. Because that’s the tragedy of that route. Not that the bats are villains, but that they are still operating from possessiveness instead of growth. They think they’re fixing something, and in the process they break it again.
✧ MASTERLIST | ✧ BAD ENDING | ✧ GOOD ENDING | ✧ SPECIAL ENDING
NO ONE'S POV:
They could only watch as Y/N’s breathing grew more erratic, the air around them trembling in response.
They stood at the center of the cavern as if the stone itself had decided to rise around them, magic vibrating outward in uneven pulses that bent the air and made the shadows stretch too long across the walls. Their chest rose and fell too quickly, breaths catching halfway in and forcing the next inhale to drag in sharp and unsteady. The computers lining the far wall began to glitch, screens rippling with static before correcting and then faltering again, as though the Cave itself was struggling to decide which version of reality it was meant to display.
No one argued anymore.
The words that had been sharp only moments ago had died in their throats. What remained was the hum of unstable power and the sound of Y/N trying to breathe through something too large for their body to hold. Fine fractures crept along the stone floor beneath their boots, thin as hairline cracks at first and then widening by degrees, following the rhythm of their pulse. The lights overhead flickered in uneven patterns, brightening and dimming in response to a current that no longer obeyed circuitry.
Zatanna felt it before she spoke. The pressure in the air shifted, thick and charged, magic pressing outward in waves that did not follow any recognizable structure. Her fingers twitched at her sides, instinctively reaching for words she had trained herself to shape since childhood. She did not move toward Y/N immediately, but her gaze sharpened, calculating, measuring the instability that was building in layers around them.
Constantine did not hesitate.
He stepped forward as the next tremor rippled through the Cave, boots scraping lightly against stone that felt less solid with each passing second. He did not raise his voice. He did not curse. For once, there was no edge of sarcasm, no defensive smirk. He called Y/N’s name the way one calls someone back from the edge of a cliff, low and steady, as though volume itself might fracture something further.
“Look at me,” he said, and there was no command in it, only urgency carefully restrained. “Don’t listen to the noise. Focus on me.”
Y/N’s eyes shifted, unfocused at first, then catching on him in brief, flickering recognition. The magic around them spasmed in response to that connection, the air tightening as though it had been pulled too thin. A nearby console sparked, lights bursting and then going dark before rebooting in a cascade of corrupted code.
Constantine took another step closer, hand lifting slowly, palm open in a gesture that was not meant to grab but to anchor. “You’re overloaded,” he continued, voice firm but not loud. “It’s all hitting at once. That’s all this is. Stay with me. Breathe with me.”
For a fraction of a second, it seemed as though the trembling might steady.
Then the Cave shuddered.
A deeper crack split through the stone near Y/N’s feet, spreading outward in jagged lines that crawled across the floor like living things. The lights overhead dimmed to a dull, unstable glow. The temperature in the cavern shifted abruptly, the air turning heavy enough that even those standing at the edges felt it settle against their lungs.
Bruce moved.
He did not rush forward. He did not bark an order. He stepped into Constantine’s path with deliberate calm, positioning himself between the magician and the epicenter of the storm without ever breaking the measured rhythm of his breathing. His gaze never left Y/N.
“This is escalating,” he said, and the tone was controlled enough to cut cleanly through the tension without adding to it.
He did not look at Constantine when he spoke. The statement was not accusation. It was assessment.
The next flicker of magic surged higher, rippling outward in a distortion that made the edges of the Cave waver as if reality itself were reconsidering its structure. Y/N’s shoulders tightened, fingers curling slightly as though grasping at something invisible. Their breathing grew more uneven, each inhale shorter than the last, each exhale trembling.
Bruce lowered himself gradually, bringing his line of sight closer to theirs without intruding into their space. His voice remained steady, stripped of anger and stripped of argument.
“This is a safety issue,” he continued, calm and precise. “You are overwhelmed.”
Constantine’s jaw tightened. “They need a stabilizing focus, not a perimeter,” he snapped, the first edge of frustration cutting through his restraint. “You’re crowding them.”
Another tremor answered him, stronger this time. The monitors along the wall flashed with spikes of energy readings that climbed faster than any of them liked to see. Zatanna took a half step forward, beginning to form a word under her breath, but the air around her shimmered oddly, magic bending against something unseen.
Bruce did not raise his voice.
He did not acknowledge the accusation.
He kept his attention fixed on Y/N as the cavern vibrated around them, as the lights flickered again and the stone beneath their feet groaned in protest, and the pressure in the air continued to build toward something none of them could afford to let break.
Behind him, almost imperceptible unless someone knew what to watch for, Bruce shifted his hand and pressed two fingers lightly against the inside of his gauntlet. The movement was small enough to pass as nothing more than a reflexive adjustment, but Tim caught it immediately. Across the Cave, seated at the main console with eyes tracking half a dozen fluctuating readings at once, Tim’s expression sharpened in understanding.
His fingers moved across the keyboard with decisive precision.
The change in the Cave did not come as a dramatic surge. It settled in slowly, like a pressure system lowering over the space. A low hum threaded through the cavern, subtle but persistent, vibrating just beneath the audible range. The air thickened in a way that had nothing to do with Y/N’s magic and everything to do with the infrastructure embedded within the rock itself. The lights steadied, not brighter, but firmer, as if a secondary current had been introduced into the grid.
Zatanna felt it immediately. The hairs along her arms rose as the ambient magical field shifted, turning dense and resistant. She drew in a breath and spoke a quick, controlled phrase under her breath, testing the atmosphere rather than committing to a full incantation.
The words left her lips cleanly, but they warped in the air between her and Y/N. The syllables bent and collapsed in on themselves, dissolving into a harmless shimmer before fading entirely. Her eyes widened, not in panic, but in sharp comprehension.
Constantine swore under his breath and reached for his own counter, shaping a binding reversal with quick, practiced efficiency. The spell formed in his mind, precise and efficient, but when he pushed it outward it met something solid and unyielding. The grid did not snap back violently. It simply refused him. The resistance felt engineered rather than arcane, layered through the Cave in calculated lines that intersected and reinforced one another.
He looked up sharply.
“You’ve got contingencies running,” he said, anger cutting cleanly through his earlier restraint. “You think I don’t recognize suppression tech when I feel it?”
Bruce did not look at him.
The hum deepened by a fraction, settling into place fully now, wrapping the Cave in a dampening field that pressed down on external magic and forced it flat. Constantine tried again, more forcefully this time, and the backlash stung across his palm like static.
“It won’t touch them,” he snapped, gesturing toward Y/N without taking his eyes off Bruce. “You know that. Their magic doesn’t bind. It doesn’t follow wards. This grid won’t do a damn thing to stabilize them.”
Bruce’s gaze never left Y/N.
“It’s not for them,” he said evenly.
The distinction hung in the air heavier than the hum itself.
Constantine stared at him for half a second too long, realization hardening into fury. “You’re locking us out.”
Bruce did not confirm it. He did not deny it. He simply took another slow step forward, careful and measured, closing the distance between himself and Y/N while maintaining the same unthreatening posture he had adopted moments earlier. He lowered himself further, one knee touching the stone so that he was no longer standing over them but positioning himself within their fractured line of sight.
Behind him, the shift in formation was immediate and coordinated.
Jason moved first. He stepped directly into Constantine’s path, broad shoulders squared, stance grounded and immovable. The movement was not aggressive, but it was final. He did not reach for a weapon. He did not shove. He simply occupied the space that Constantine would have needed to cross.
Steph followed without hesitation, sliding into position at Jason’s side. Her expression was tight but controlled, body angled just enough to block Zatanna’s approach without appearing as though she was preparing to strike. She did not draw anything either. She did not need to. The message was clear in the way she planted her feet.
Damian stepped in behind them, posture rigid and precise, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His gaze locked onto Constantine with a focus that was cold and unwavering, not reckless but disciplined. He did not speak. He did not need to. The line had been drawn.
Constantine took a step forward anyway, only to find Jason unmoving in front of him.
“You’re making it worse,” Constantine shouted, the restraint finally breaking. His voice echoed against the cavern walls, sharp and cutting. “They’re reacting to the conflict. To you. You keep crowding them and you’re going to push them over the edge.”
The volume carried.
Y/N flinched.
The magic around them surged in response to the spike in emotion, rippling outward in a visible distortion that bent the air like heat rising from asphalt. The hum of the anti magic grid held steady, containing what it could, pressing down on everything that was not rooted directly in Y/N.
Bruce did not answer.
He shifted closer by another careful step, lowering his voice instead of raising it, his attention unwavering as the Cave trembled and Constantine’s anger reverberated uselessly against the dampened field.
He stopped at a distance that was deliberate, close enough that Y/N would not have to strain to see him, far enough that he was not invading the unstable perimeter of their magic. He lowered himself fully now, both knees on the stone, posture open, hands visible and empty. His cape settled around him in dark folds, no sudden movement, no sharp angles.
“Look at me,” he said.
His tone was not soft in the way comfort usually was. It was controlled, even, the kind of calm that felt engineered. Each word was measured, as if he had weighed the cadence beforehand and chosen the exact frequency that would cut through distortion without adding to it.
Y/N’s breathing stuttered, their vision still swimming at the edges, the Cave lights bending and flickering as their magic pressed outward in uneven pulses. The hum of the anti magic grid continued to wrap around the cavern, suppressing everything external while leaving the epicenter untouched.
“You’re reliving everything at once,” Bruce continued, voice steady. “Every moment you felt cornered.”
The words struck with precision.
It was true. That was the strategy. Truth positioned in a way that redirected.
“You are not thinking clearly while your magic is surging,” he said, not accusing, not sharp. “You’re overloaded.”
Not wrong. Overloaded.
Behind him, the others adjusted their positions. Dick moved first, circling slowly to the left, careful not to cross into Y/N’s direct line of sight but narrowing the open space in subtle increments. Cass mirrored him on the opposite side, steps light and soundless, her focus entirely on Y/N’s breathing pattern. Barbara remained closer to the console but edged forward enough to be present, her voice ready even if she had not yet used it.
Duke stayed back near one of the support pillars, tension visible in the way his shoulders were set. His hands flexed at his sides as if he wanted to intervene but did not know which direction intervention was supposed to take. His eyes flicked between Bruce and Y/N and then toward Constantine, uncertainty written plainly across his face.
Constantine tried to push forward again.
Jason’s arm shot out, catching him across the chest before he could close the distance. It was not violent, but it was unyielding. Steph stepped in immediately after, angling her body to block Zatanna’s attempt to follow. The movement was coordinated without being theatrical, firm without escalating into a fight.
“You don’t get to decide this for them,” Constantine snapped, struggling against Jason’s hold. His voice cracked with urgency rather than rage now. “They are framing this. Can’t you see that? You don’t have to stay!”
The last words cut through the cavern with startling clarity.
Y/N’s head turned.
Their eyes found him over Bruce’s shoulder, confusion and fear colliding in their expression as they took in the sight of Jason and Steph physically steering Constantine and Zatanna back toward the main exit corridor. Damian moved with clinical efficiency to flank Zatanna’s other side, guiding rather than dragging, his posture rigid and uncompromising.
Y/N’s hand lifted instinctively.
It was not a conscious decision. It rose as if pulled by a thread, fingers trembling, palm angling toward Constantine as though reaching across the widening distance. The moment their magic reacted, it reacted violently. The air around them snapped tight, a visible distortion rippling outward in concentric waves. The Cave lights flared white for a fraction of a second, and Tim’s monitors spiked in sharp, climbing lines.
“Bruce,” Tim called, unable to keep the strain from his voice as numbers jumped beyond projected thresholds.
Y/N froze.
The surge frightened them. The power that had once felt like survival now felt like a trap closing in from every side. The distortion around their hand crackled, unstable and unpredictable, and the memory of that alleyway pressed in hard and suffocating. Cold pavement. Echoing footsteps. No one there to anchor them. No one to tell them what was happening.
It's like they were back in that alley over a year ago, terrified and having no idea what was happening.
Their breathing hitched into something dangerously close to panic.
“Stay with me,” Bruce said immediately, and this time there was a subtle shift in his tone. Not louder. Softer at the edges, the steel wrapped in something that mimicked reassurance. “Look at me, not them.”
Constantine was still shouting, his words overlapping with the hum of the grid and the scrape of boots against stone as Jason and Steph forced him back step by step. The noise layered over itself until it became indistinguishable from the roaring in Y/N’s ears.
“They are escalating you on purpose,” Constantine managed, straining against Jason’s grip. “You don’t owe them obedience. You don’t owe anyone control over you.”
The words reached Y/N, but they reached through fog.
Bruce leaned forward slightly, careful not to cross the invisible threshold that would trigger another spike. “You’re safe here,” he said, gaze locked with theirs. “No one is taking anything from you. We’re stabilizing the environment so you can think.”
Dick added his voice, low and even from Y/N’s left. “We’re right here. No one is against you.”
Cass followed, her tone practical and grounding. “You are getting worse because you’re overwhelmed. That’s all this is.”
Each statement was reasonable in isolation. Together, they formed a wall of calm explanation that pressed in from every side, not shouting, not threatening, but narrowing the acceptable interpretation of what was happening until there was only one version left to hold onto.
Y/N’s hand trembled harder.
The magic around their fingers flickered uncertainly, responding to every stray surge of fear. The image of Constantine being forced backward toward the exit blurred with the memory of being left behind before, of power flaring without guidance, of the aftermath that had followed.
“If you move right now, you’ll destabilize further,” Bruce said quietly, as if sharing a simple fact. “You can feel it, can’t you? Every spike gets worse.”
Y/N could feel it.
Every breath felt like a risk. Every twitch of their fingers threatened another surge. The fear of making it worse coiled tight in their chest, heavier than the anger that had started this.
“It’s okay,” Dick murmured. “Just breathe.”
“You don’t need to do anything,” Tim added. “Just let it settle.”
Constantine’s voice grew more distant as Jason and Steph pushed him closer to the corridor, Damian maintaining that rigid, watchful escort beside Zatanna. The grid continued its low oppressive hum, and the Cave held its breath along with Y/N.
Slowly, shakily, their raised hand faltered.
Their fingers curled inward as if the air itself had grown too heavy to push against. The distortion around their palm flickered one last time before dimming to an unstable shimmer. Fear eclipsed impulse. The memory of that alley tightened its grip, and the safest choice became stillness.
Their hand lowered.
Not because they understood.
Not because the conflict had resolved.
But because they were terrified that any movement at all would make everything around them fracture beyond repair, and the cavern continued to vibrate softly as Bruce watched for the next shift in their breathing.
The shift came almost immediately.
As Y/N’s hand fell fully to their side, the visible distortion around their fingers thinned from a violent shimmer to a faint ripple. The cracks that had been creeping like spiderwebs along the far wall halted their advance. Overhead lights, which had been flickering in irregular bursts, steadied into a consistent glow. The oppressive hum of the anti magic grid did not disappear, but it softened, lowering from a grinding pressure to a controlled containment.
Bruce did not hesitate.
“There,” he said quietly, the word landing with careful emphasis. “You see what happens when you ground yourself.”
He did not raise his voice. He did not claim victory. He simply presented the correlation as fact.
Behind him, Tim’s fingers moved rapidly across the console. “Energy output just dropped by thirty percent,” he reported, loud enough for Y/N to hear. “Spikes are leveling.”
Immediate confirmation.
Immediate reinforcement.
Calm equals stability.
Y/N’s breathing remained uneven, but the cavern no longer felt as though it was seconds away from splitting open. The warping along the ceiling continued in faint, wavering distortions, and the air still felt charged, but the imminent collapse had receded into something survivable.
From the corridor, Constantine’s voice echoed, strained and furious as Jason forced him farther back. “This isn’t stabilization, it’s control,” he shouted. “You’re conditioning them!”
Zatanna’s voice followed, sharp and laced with anger, not spells but raw words thrown like stones. The sound carried through the tunnel and ricocheted back into the chamber.
Y/N flinched.
The reaction was small but immediate, shoulders tightening, fingers twitching as the noise cut through the fragile equilibrium. The magic responded reflexively, a thin pulse radiating outward that made the lights flicker once more and the stone floor hum beneath their feet.
Dick closed the distance by a careful step, positioning himself slightly within Y/N’s peripheral vision but not obstructing Bruce. His voice dropped into something almost soothing, almost indulgent. “Hey,” he murmured gently. “Don’t listen to that. It’s just noise. You’re doing great.”
The phrase was deliberate.
You’re doing great.
As though this were an exercise being completed correctly.
Cass shifted closer as well, her presence steady and quiet, reinforcing the semicircle without crowding. She added, “The fluctuations are minor. You’re bringing it down on your own.”
Each voice layered over the last, calm and measured, reframing the spike as insignificant, reframing the distress as progress.
Bruce lowered his voice further, forcing Y/N to focus on him to hear. “You don’t have to respond to anyone right now,” he said. “Not to them. Not to us. Just regulate.”
Y/N’s gaze struggled to stay fixed. Their exhaustion was setting in, heavy and bone deep, adrenaline draining out of them in uneven waves. The alley was still there at the edges of their vision, ghosted over the Cave, but it felt less immediate now, less like it was happening again and more like a memory pressing too close.
Constantine’s protests grew more distant, muffled by stone and distance as Jason and Steph maneuvered him and Zatanna fully into the corridor. The contrast sharpened with every step they were forced back.
Noise receding.
Calm remaining.
Bruce tilted his head slightly, as if observing a patient whose vitals had finally begun to normalize. “You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he said, the words slow and deliberate. “You don’t have to forgive us. You don’t have to agree with us.”
The statements sounded merciful.
Reasonable.
“You only have to stabilize.”
Tim’s voice cut in again, reinforcing the narrative. “Output is holding steady. No new fractures.”
Y/N swallowed. Their throat felt tight, raw from unshed panic. The magic still coiled around them in unstable threads, bending the air in faint distortions, but it no longer lashed outward with violent unpredictability. The Cave continued to warp in subtle places, stone rippling like heat above asphalt, yet it held.
Dick’s tone softened further, almost paternal now. “See? It’s already better.”
Better because they listened.
The association pressed inward from every side until it felt undeniable. Every time they stilled, the environment steadied. Every time they reacted, something cracked.
Y/N’s shoulders sagged.
The fight drained out of them not because they had been convinced, not because the accusations had been resolved or the doubts erased, but because they were tired in a way that made resistance feel impossible. Their muscles trembled with the effort of holding their magic in check. Fear lingered, sharp and persistent, but it was buried beneath fatigue.
Their hands remained at their sides.
Their breathing slowed by increments, shallow but controlled.
Around them, the family maintained their careful formation, not closing in, not retreating, holding the perimeter of calm as the Cave continued its faint, uneasy hum and Bruce watched for the next sign of instability in Y/N’s eyes.
The shouting had faded completely now.
No more echoes from the corridor. No more curses thrown back in anger. No more frantic attempts to break through the containment grid. The Cave felt different in the absence of it, not silent, but steadier, as though the air itself had exhaled.
Bruce did not miss the timing.
“You feel that?” he asked quietly. It was not really a question. It was an invitation to notice what he wanted them to notice. “The noise is gone. The pressure is lower.”
Y/N swallowed, their gaze drifting across the cavern as if searching for evidence to contradict him. The cracks had stopped spreading. The lights no longer flickered. The stone beneath their boots was solid, no longer trembling with the threat of rupture. The hum of the grid had settled into something controlled and almost background.
Bruce waited a full five seconds before speaking again, allowing the cause and effect to settle into Y/N’s nervous system without interruption. “When conflict spikes,” he said evenly, “your magic spikes.”
The statement was delivered evenly, almost clinically, like a conclusion drawn from observable data rather than an opinion. Tim’s earlier confirmation lingered in the air as supporting evidence. Energy output dropped when the shouting stopped. Instability lessened when Y/N stilled.
Cause and effect.
Bruce shifted slightly closer, careful not to crowd, careful not to break the fragile calm. “You were responding to volatility,” he continued. “Not choosing it. Reacting to it.”
There was no accusation in his tone. Only concern shaped into logic.
He did not say Constantine was reckless. He did not call him irresponsible. He did not need to.
“He pushed you into volatile environments,” Bruce said instead. “Over and over. Situations where escalation was inevitable.”
Selective. Precise.
“He normalized chaos,” Bruce added. “He let you operate while reactive.”
What he omitted was just as deliberate. The patrols where nothing spiraled. The nights where Y/N had held steady. The times Constantine had stepped back and let them decide their own limits. Those memories were left untouched, allowed to fade at the edges while the most unstable moments were brought forward and polished into proof.
Dick folded his arms loosely, his expression softened into something sympathetic. “You shouldn’t have had to learn control in the middle of a crisis,” he said. “That’s not training. That’s survival.”
Tim’s voice joined gently from behind the console. “Your baseline readings have always been higher after field operations with him. We’ve seen the data.”
Selective memory, now supported by numbers.
Dick stepped closer, careful to keep his posture relaxed, nonthreatening. “You were thrown into it fast,” he added, tone warm with sympathy. “Anyone would have struggled with that.”
Anyone.
Not you failed.
The structure tightened invisibly around Y/N.
Bruce’s gaze never wavered. “Becoming a hero is not the problem,” he said. “Becoming one before you were stabilized was.”
Y/N’s fingers twitched faintly at their sides, but the air did not warp in response. The hum remained level. The Cave did not crack. The proof surrounded them in stone and steel.
Bruce softened his voice another fraction. “You are not dangerous,” he said. “You are overloaded.”
It was the same distinction he had made before, now reinforced in quieter air.
“And overload responds to environment.”
He gestured subtly around them, not dramatically, simply enough for Y/N to register the steady lights, the unmoving walls, the absence of tremors. “You are safe here.”
The statement settled heavily.
Y/N’s gaze lowered to their hands as if expecting to see something volatile still sparking across their skin. There was nothing. Just the faint tremor of fatigue.
Cass stepped closer, slow and deliberate, offering presence rather than pressure. “We can help you regulate,” she said simply.
“We will,” Dick corrected gently.
Not if you want.
We will.
Tim added, “We can build safeguards that don’t rely on suppression, just stability.”
The word stability repeated, over and over, until it began to feel synonymous with them.
Y/N was still shaking, though less visibly now. The adrenaline had drained, leaving only exhaustion and the residual tremor of fear. Their magic no longer warped the Cave, but it had not disappeared. It lingered beneath their skin like a low fever.
Bruce stepped one final inch closer, stopping at the boundary he had carefully tested all evening. “You do not have to carry this alone,” he said. “Not like you were.”
Again, no direct condemnation. Only implication.
The contrast had been drawn clearly enough that it did not need to be named.
Here, the Cave stood intact.
Here, the hum remained steady.
Here, no one was shouting.
Y/N nodded once, small and exhausted, not in full conviction but in surrender to the simplest path available in that moment. Stability required stillness. Stillness required staying.
Bruce’s expression did not change, but something settled behind his eyes as the decision took root. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment, as though a critical threshold had been crossed.
“Good,” he said quietly.
Around them, the formation loosened just enough to shift from containment to support, hands ready but no longer braced. The Cave stood solid and unbroken, the grid humming in controlled harmony, and Y/N remained at the center of it, breathing evenly now while Bruce began outlining the first steps of what he called stabilization.
Months passed quietly.
Not with dramatic declarations or visible shifts, but with a gradual settling that made the night in the Cave feel distant and blurred at the edges. The fractures in the stone had long since been repaired. The anti magic contingencies had been recalibrated and folded seamlessly back into the architecture. The narrative of that night had been repeated just enough times to solidify into something factual, something almost clinical.
Y/N stayed. They no longer occupied their old room. That space had been cleared with gentle efficiency under the explanation that proximity mattered now, that isolation was not advisable while things were still recalibrating. Their new room was in the family wing, situated between Dick’s and Tim’s, across from Jason’s. The door was rarely closed for long. Someone was always nearby. Someone was always awake.
From the outside, it looked like care.
The Waynes were attentive in the way families were supposed to be attentive when one of their own had nearly fractured a cavern beneath their feet. Meals were shared more often. Check ins were casual and frequent. Bruce asked about sleep patterns with the same tone he used when discussing patrol routes. Dick knocked before entering but never waited long for an answer. Jason lingered in doorways with half disguised concern. Barbara monitored environmental variables under the justification of safety metrics. Tim kept quiet tabs on fluctuations that rarely appeared anymore.
Duke hovered sometimes, still unsure where the line between support and supervision had been drawn.
It all appeared normal.
A family adjusting after a scare.
A household closing ranks around a sibling who had nearly destabilized under pressure.
If anyone unfamiliar with the dynamics had walked through the manor, they would have seen warmth. They would have seen structured routines and thoughtful accommodations. They would have seen a bedroom curated for comfort, soft lighting and neutral tones chosen to reduce overstimulation. They would have seen a support system functioning exactly as intended.
Only someone watching closely would have noticed how often Y/N was gently redirected. How frequently a suggestion followed their decisions. How rarely they were left entirely alone with their thoughts. How every conversation, no matter how casual, carried a subtle undercurrent of assessment.
Not intrusive. Not overt. Just slightly too attentive.
And always framed as care.
It did not begin with rules.
It began with suggestions.
At dinner one evening, the question sounded harmless enough. Dick leaned back in his chair and asked what Y/N felt like eating. The tone was light, casual, the kind of question that implied freedom of choice. Y/N hesitated only briefly before answering. Something warm. Something heavier than what they had been eating lately.
There was a pause.
Not long enough to call out, but long enough to register if someone was paying attention. A glance passed between Bruce and Tim, subtle and silent. Dick smiled, still easy, still warm, and said that might be a bit much tonight. He reminded Y/N that they had seemed fatigued earlier, that heavier food could make them feel sluggish, that stability thrived on consistency. Before Y/N could fully process the shift, another option was presented. Lighter. Healthier. Better for regulation.
It was ordered.
No one asked again what Y/N preferred.
When the food arrived, someone praised the choice as if Y/N had made it themselves.
The next time it happened, Y/N adjusted their answer preemptively.
Clothing became another quiet negotiation.
The first time Y/N was permitted to leave the manor after days of asking, it came with conditions wrapped in reassurance. Of course they could go out. Of course they deserved fresh air. It would simply be wise for someone to accompany them, just in case there were fluctuations. The word unstable was never used directly, but it hovered beneath every sentence.
When Y/N went to change, Jason followed under the pretense of conversation. He asked what they planned to wear. Y/N answered, choosing something sharper than what they had been confined to lately. Something that felt like themselves.
Jason considered it for a moment before gently suggesting something else. Softer fabric. Muted color. Less likely to draw attention or trigger unnecessary stimulation. He explained it carefully, logically, layering practicality over the suggestion until it felt irresponsible to argue. When Y/N’s shoulders tightened and they admitted, quietly, that they liked their original choice, Jason softened further. He reassured them that it was not about control. It was about protection. About minimizing variables. About keeping them safe from overwhelm.
The new outfit was laid out on the bed.
Y/N changed into it.
By the time they stepped outside, the earlier spark of defiance had been reframed in their own mind as immaturity.
The pattern repeated in subtler ways.
One afternoon, after weeks of compliance and carefully monitored stability, Y/N gathered enough courage to bring up patrols. They did not demand reinstatement. They asked what it would take. What metrics needed to be met. What thresholds needed to be crossed.
Bruce listened with full attention, which made the response feel weightier. He acknowledged the progress. He acknowledged the effort. Then he spoke about readiness in terms that sounded clinical and protective. Emotional regulation. Environmental triggers. The unpredictability of the field. He reminded Y/N that hero work was not just about power, but about consistency under pressure. About not spiking when conflict escalated.
He never said they were incapable.
He said they were not there yet.
Dick added that pushing too soon could undo months of work. Tim referenced data trends that showed improvement but not full stabilization. Barbara mentioned how proud she was of the growth they had already achieved, as if the denial itself were proof of faith in their future.
Y/N’s frustration turned inward before it ever had the chance to turn outward. The disappointment settled into self criticism. They nodded. They agreed that more time made sense. They apologized for asking.
The family comforted them immediately.
They promised that it would happen eventually. They assured Y/N that patience was strength. They reminded them that healing was not linear and that everyone was invested in their success. The reassurance was warm, almost enveloping.
Each instance was small enough to dismiss.
No one shouted. No one issued commands. There were no locked doors or raised voices. Only gentle corrections. Soft redirections. Carefully framed alternatives that sounded like collaboration while steadily replacing independent decision making.
Over time, the pauses before Y/N answered questions grew longer.
They began to look at whoever was closest before finalizing even minor choices, searching for cues. Approval became something they anticipated without consciously naming it. The instinct to decide first and justify later faded into the instinct to defer and adapt.
It did not feel like control.
It felt like safety.
And that distinction was precisely what made it effective.
The shift did not arrive loudly.
It revealed itself in pauses.
One evening, long after the Cave had been repaired and the word stabilization had become part of daily vocabulary, Bruce asked a simple question across the breakfast table.
“What do you think about tomorrow?”
There was no trap in the phrasing. No visible pressure. It was open ended, neutral, almost generous in its invitation.
Months ago, Y/N would have answered immediately. They would have suggested training, or research, or stepping outside for fresh air without escort. They would have known what they wanted before the question had fully settled.
Now they hesitated.
The silence stretched, not awkward, but noticeable. Y/N searched inward for something that used to be instinctive. A preference. A plan. A direction. Instead, what they found was static. A low hum of uncertainty that had replaced clarity so gradually they had not felt it happen.
“I don’t know,” they said finally.
The words came easier than they should have.
Bruce nodded once, as though that were a perfectly reasonable answer. “We can keep it light,” he replied. “Maybe some grounding exercises in the morning and a quiet evening.”
Y/N felt it then. Relief. Subtle, but real. The tension of deciding dissolved the moment someone else filled the space.
The next time it happened, it was smaller.
Dick asked what they wanted to do that afternoon. There were options. A movie. Time in the library. A walk in the gardens. The question lingered between them.
Y/N opened their mouth, closed it, and then looked at him instead.
“What do you think is best?”
Dick smiled, warm and approving, as though they had chosen correctly simply by deferring. “Probably something low stimulation,” he said. “You seemed a little overwhelmed yesterday.”
Y/N nodded.
Of course.
That made sense.
It became easier to let someone else frame the day.
The pattern deepened.
One afternoon, Jason asked what they wanted for dinner. Y/N answered quickly this time, almost surprised at themselves.
“Pasta,” they said.
Jason’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Not sharply. Not critically. Just a subtle shift in expression, a measured look that held for half a second too long.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
It was not dismissive. It was careful. Concerned.
The doubt bloomed instantly.
Y/N replayed their own answer in their head as if it had been spoken by someone else. Pasta sounded heavy. Maybe too much. Maybe not optimal. Maybe impulsive.
They faltered. “I mean… what do you think is better?”
Jason’s expression softened. “Something lighter might be easier on you.”
“Right,” Y/N agreed quickly. “That’s better.”
The original choice dissolved without resistance.
It only took a look now.
Not even a correction. Just the suggestion of reconsideration.
The family did not need to redirect every decision anymore. The conditioning had shifted inward. Y/N began to preemptively question their own instincts before anyone else had the chance to. They scanned faces for cues, for micro expressions, for signs of approval or hesitation. They adjusted mid sentence if they sensed uncertainty from the person listening.
Even when the question was explicitly framed around personal preference, the answer rarely stayed personal.
“What would you like?”
The pause. The glance.
“I don’t know.”
Or
“What do you think?”
The relief that followed each time someone else stepped in was quiet but consistent. Decision making no longer felt empowering. It felt risky. If conflict spiked magic, and wrong choices created conflict, then choosing incorrectly carried invisible consequences. Safer to defer. Safer to align.
By the time anyone noticed how automatic it had become, it no longer looked like erosion.
It looked like trust.
And Y/N, sitting at the center of that trust, no longer recognized the absence of certainty as something that had been taken from them.
The new room was warmer than the one Y/N had occupied for years.
It was larger, positioned deliberately within the family wing, its walls painted in muted tones chosen for comfort rather than neutrality. Shelves lined one side, filled gradually over the months with books they had once mentioned liking. The desk near the window held organized stacks of paper and neatly arranged pens, replaced whenever one ran dry without them needing to ask. The bed was softer, layered with blankets in colors that matched the rest of the wing, cohesive and intentional. It looked less like a guest space and more like something curated.
It felt like home.
Y/N sat cross legged near the center of the bed, the door half closed but not latched. The manor was quiet at this hour. Footsteps passed occasionally in the hall, muted and familiar. The sense of being watched was not present tonight, but the awareness of proximity lingered like background noise.
In front of them, resting against the comforter, was a single leaf they had picked up from the backyard earlier that afternoon. It was small and dry, its edges curling slightly inward. Nothing special. Nothing charged.
Y/N stared at it for a long time.
Their hands rested loosely on their knees. Their breathing was steady. The room did not hum the way the Cave had. There were no containment grids active here, no visible safeguards. Just quiet.
They closed their eyes.
It had been months since they had tried.
Not during structured exercises supervised by someone else. Not during guided grounding sessions. Not in controlled scenarios where feedback came immediately. This was different. This was private.
They reached inward for the familiar current, the quiet pull beneath their skin that had once felt instinctive. At first, there was nothing but silence. Then, faintly, a thread of sensation answered, subtle and hesitant.
They focused on the leaf.
The intention was simple. Lift. Just enough to prove the connection was still there.
Concentration narrowed their thoughts, but it did not silence them. Doubt filtered in before the magic had a chance to settle. What if it spikes. What if it warps again. What would Bruce say. What would Tim’s readings show. What if they are right and I am still reactive.
The current flickered uncertainly.
They tightened their focus, trying to push the noise away. The leaf remained motionless. Their chest tightened slightly, frustration creeping in where confidence should have been.
Once, this would have been effortless.
They tried again, drawing in a deeper breath, pressing harder against the internal barrier that now felt less like a block and more like hesitation made physical. The sensation stirred more strongly this time, heat prickling faintly along their fingertips.
Still, the doubt did not leave.
What if I am not ready.
What if I destabilize.
What if they have to fix it again.
When Y/N opened their eyes, the leaf had not lifted.
In fact, it had not moved at all, it stood perfectly still since Y/N put it down in front of them.
They frowned.
That was not what they had meant to do.
Frustration surged sharper now. They closed their eyes once more, trying to again, to lift it from it's place in the bed, even if just a few centimeters, to prove to themselves that they were stable enough to lift a single leaf. The current responded this time, but the hesitation had deepened. Every attempt felt like stepping onto unstable ground.
Something happened this time, but not what was wanted. The leaf changed, the edges were no longer merely curled, they appeared subtly warped, the veins bending in unnatural directions, as though pressure had pressed unevenly against its fragile structure. The distortion was faint but unmistakable.
Y/N did not notice though.
They were too focused on the failure of lift, on the absence of the clean, precise control they remembered. Their breathing grew uneven, not panicked, but strained with effort.
A hand settled gently on their shoulder.
The contact was firm enough to ground but not abrupt. Y/N’s eyes snapped open at once, the current collapsing inward as their focus shattered.
Bruce stood beside the bed.
His expression was not angry. It was concerned in a way that felt measured and deliberate. His gaze moved from Y/N’s face to the leaf on the bed.
Y/N followed it.
Only then did they truly see the distortion. The fragile structure bent and subtly fractured along lines that had not existed before. The surface looked stressed, as though it had been caught between opposing forces and left suspended there.
That was not what they had wanted.
Heat flooded their face, shame rising quickly and quietly. They looked away before Bruce could say anything, their hands curling loosely into the fabric of the blanket.
“I just wanted to try,” they said softly, the words already defensive.
Bruce sat down beside them, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He did not remove his hand from their shoulder.
“You’re not ready to test it alone,” he said, and there was no accusation in his tone. Only certainty.
Y/N swallowed. “I thought maybe it was better.”
“You’ve made progress,” he acknowledged. “But this is exactly what we were trying to prevent.”
His voice remained calm, steady in the way it had been in the Cave months ago. The memory of that night flickered faintly in Y/N’s mind, unbidden.
“You’re still rebuilding consistency,” he continued. “Power without stability bends before it lifts.”
Y/N stared at the warped leaf.
It felt like evidence.
“I’m sorry,” they murmured. “I shouldn’t have tried.”
Bruce’s hand shifted, sliding from their shoulder to pull them gently closer. The movement was natural, fluid. His arm wrapped around them, drawing them into his chest in a way that could be mistaken for simple comfort.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly. “You’re learning.”
The embrace tightened just enough to anchor them fully in place. Not restrictive. Not overtly. But encompassing.
“You have to trust us,” he added. “We see the bigger picture. We only want what’s best for you.”
Y/N did not resist the hold.
They did not try to pull away. The effort of arguing felt distant and unnecessary. The evidence lay twisted on the bed beside them. The leaf had not lifted. It had warped.
“I thought I could handle it,” they admitted, voice small against the fabric of his shirt.
“You will,” Bruce replied. “Eventually. When you’re stable enough.”
The word settled heavily.
Stable enough.
Y/N’s fingers loosened their grip on the blanket. Their body softened against him, the tension draining out in slow increments. The doubt that had once sparked defiance now folded inward, reshaping itself into acceptance.
“I’m not there yet,” they said quietly, more to themselves than to him.
Bruce’s hand remained steady at the back of their head, his other arm firm around their shoulders, holding them close in a way that felt protective and final.
“You’ll get there,” he repeated quietly. “We’ll make sure of it.”
Y/N nodded against him.
They did not look back at the leaf again. They did not try to smooth its edges or correct the bend in its veins. The attempt had already proven what everyone had been telling them for months. The distortion sat on the comforter as silent confirmation, fragile and irrevocable.
“I’ll listen,” they said, the words barely above a whisper. “I’ll do it the right way.”
The right way.
Bruce exhaled slowly, satisfied in a way that did not show on his face but settled in the steadiness of his posture. “That’s all we’re asking.”
Outside the door, the manor was quiet. Footsteps passed once in the hallway and then faded. Somewhere farther down the corridor, a door closed softly. The house stood solid and unmoving, a structure built on stone and certainty.
In Bruce’s arms, Y/N finally stopped fighting thoughts they no longer trusted.
The current beneath their skin felt distant now, quieter than it had ever been. Not gone, but subdued, like something placed carefully on a shelf for safekeeping. They did not reach for it. They did not test it. They let it remain untouched.
The doubt that had once sparked resistance no longer burned. It had been reshaped into compliance, into patience, into trust. If they were unstable, then it was safer to be guided. If they were reactive, then it was wiser to defer. If every spike had followed conflict, then the absence of conflict must mean they were finally doing something right.
Bruce’s embrace did not loosen.
Y/N did not ask it to.
The leaf lay warped on the bed between them, a small, quiet monument to what happened when they tried to act alone.
In the stillness of the room, surrounded by carefully chosen comforts and soft, watchful walls, Y/N let their certainty dissolve completely.
And the manor, calm and undisturbed, held them exactly where they were meant to stay.
And here we have the bad ending!! I think this might be the longest chapter I’ve done so far, almost 8k words!!!
For those that did not understand why Y/N cannot control their magic anymore, it’s because their magic works based on belief, and if they no longer believe in themselves, obviously their magic isn’t going to work the way it should
Anyway, I’ll start working on the good ending soon, this took longer then I thought it would and it might be the same for the good ending
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