"áááá áá áááááááááááááá áá á ááá"
18 y.o. Filipino
Amateur Writer/Poet; Theme: Feminism, Existentialism, Symbolism, etc.
Artist that draws sometimes
Yâknow what? I feel like making people cry today.
You know the âPeter Parker in Gothamâ fics where Dick and Richard Parker are the same personâąïž and Jason and Uncle Ben are the same person?
Hear me outâŠ
You know how some iterations of Uncle Ben say that he was part of the military at one point?
You know the whole âJason was a good soldierâ bullshit that Bruce and Alfred pulled when he died?
What if, Jason finds out that alternate himâs headstone or eulogy never described him as a âsoldierâ in any way. At absolute most, Uncle Benâs previous military superiors said that he was a great soldier in a one-off speech at his funeral and that was that.
What if, Jason found out that, the words enshrined on Uncle Benâs headstone for all eternity, were as follows:
Here lies Jason Benjamin âBenâ Parker
Beloved Son,
Brother,
Friend,
Husband,
Uncle,
And Father
How do you think he would feel? Knowing that a different, alternate version of him who was actually a soldier received more acknowledgement and respect for his personhood and life outside of the âsoldierâ title than him? Knowing that his wife, nephew, friends, and loved ones truly acknowledged, saw, and loved him outside of his âsoldierâ title, even if itâs an alternate version of him? That the words forever immortalized on his tombstone werenât âgood soldier,â but beloved friend and family member? That when they looked into his eyes, they didnât see him as their âgreatest failureâ like Bruce did, but instead, saw their beloved son, brother, friend, husband, uncle, and father?
Even if those titles belonged to an alternate him, even if those titles were given to an alternate him from people in an alternate universe⊠To Jason, perhaps they described him much better than âsoldierâ ever did.
Hot take: But Jason's other runs where he is more "magically" inclined is honestly so cool and underused. You want him to be a black sheep type of son? Let him keep his magic because Bruce refuses to use it and makes a good bonus for him trying to distance from Jason! Jason already had the thing going for him with the magical swords that he was worthy of wielding and the newer writers don't even mention it. Why am I even ranting this to you GG, (I do know why, I have no one to yap about this)
I saw a lot of people complain about his comics and how they are bland or the generic misunderstood sob type shi and it's not even that because he COULD have good runs. And his fans don't even do much, like they just loveeee making it seem like Bruce is the clone of Satan himself. When actually, both sides have good pointsâJason is right that there's people who can't be redeemed and letting them stay would make the damage those people do get worse, but Bruce is right with the whole every human life is sacred and they don't have the right to act like judges especially if Bruce knows in some way that he doesn't have the right to make an ultimatum because he doesn't understand or know what exactly is that criminal is going through.â Moreover, Bruce actually has some right scolding Jason, there are things that Jason did that are out of pocket and he wants to point them out, but Jason's fans make it seem like he's sooo innocent. At some point the debate from Jason fans side is turning concerning-ly sounding fascist.
Now onto my main point because I realized I went over what I should be talking about, sorry.
Why am I mentioning his magical girl abilities? It's because I think it would seem like a fresh perspective if Jason deals with paranormal and eldritch horror type shi. Not only can he relate to the undead, it gives him exposure therapy as well(I know that's diabolical to do but...)! And out of all Robins besides Damian, he believes in sorcery and magic as well! It would be nice if I can see a run of his where he tries to undo all of Gotham's curses and maybe have a duo with Duke. Both can see paranormal shi and are more likely to relate with similar origins in the streets, kids from the most marginalized communities and all that (I sound like a classist, I'm sorry đđ)
For context because this shi is canon but unfortunately underused or barely mentioned, Gotham is cursed with all types of freaky shi, like a Demon Bat sealed under the city and it causes the attraction of everything corrupt, this also makes Gotham sentient in a way because it's built over all these curses. So in some way, Bruce's efforts as Batman are actually in vain in a way, imagine wanting to do good thinking it will get better but because the whole city is cursed, it will be never ending. I'm not saying it's possible to have a 0% crime rate anywhere else in the world, but because of the curse, the whole bat and bird co's efforts don't even make a dent in the whole crime stopping stunts they do because as long as the curses are there, nothing actually changes.
So why Jason and Duke? Mostly Jason. Out of everyone in the family, these two knows Gotham from birth to death. They see it for the whole of it, Dick wasn't born there, Bruce and Tim are sheltered from what truly is going on in the streets until a certain age, Damian especially can't even relate one bit because not only is he not from there, nor raised there, his social status as prince and as an elite makes it difficult for him to fully grasp what exactly should be done for the streets. But Jason and Duke came from the ugliest areas of Gotham, Crime Alley and the Narrows, Top 1 and 2 for most crime ridden areas. The fact both of them were raised there but still came out with the will and hope to help is honestly so beautiful in a way. And a series/run where they return that kindness that they received from the streets by undoing the curse of Gotham is honestly interesting and away from the generic detective, crime fighting, and usual of most Gotham-based comics.
Writing this like I'm getting graded đ
Now Iâm mad itâs not a full run already
Jason leaning into the magical/occult side of Gotham is such an underused lane, especially when it fits him . Like, he literally came back wrong. If anyone in the Batfam should have a complicated, almost intimate relationship with death, curses, and whatever is lurking underneath Gotham, itâs HIM. The All-Blades, the whole only works on pure evil concept? Thatâs a strong foundation and they just leave it there??
And tying that into Gotham being inherently cursed, because it reframes Jasonâs anger in a way that isnât just 'misunderstood angry son' but more like he sees the cycle for what it actually is. Not just crime, but something systemic. Almost supernatural. So of course heâs going to question Bruceâs methods if, from his perspective, theyâre treating symptoms and not the source.
As for your point about the fandom flattening the Bruce vs Jason conflict, SO REAAAALLL. Itâs way more compelling when both of them are right and wrong at the same time. Jason has crossed lines, and Bruce is operating from a moral code that isnât as universally applicable as he thinks. That tension is the story, not picking a 'correct' side.
And Jason and Duke? That EATS (I finally got to sit down and read a few of Duke's comics and MY GOD WHY DIDN'T I DO IT BEFORE-) Theyâre two of the few who actually understand Gotham from the ground level, not just as an abstract 'city that needs saving' but as something that raised them, hurt them, and shaped them. Having them deal with the curse of Gotham instead of just its crime feels like such a natural progression. Duke already has that meta-awareness with his powers, and Jason brings that edge, lived experience and willingness to go places the others wonât.
Also I love the idea that for Jason, this becomes less about control and more about undoing something. Breaking cycles instead of just punishing people caught in them. It gives him a direction that isnât just reacting to Bruce all the time.
If you ever write this Iâm reading immediately. You KNOW occult and magic stuff is MY JAAAAMMM
unfortuantely this is not a whisper of poetry this is an excited teenage girl, which is the next best thing: so i'm in class rn and we have silent reading, so obviously i hopped on ao3 and i was rereading lloyd's robin au bc it's just so peak like that yk? and i always read "entire work" and i was like "hey this is longer than usual" IN WHICH I REALIZED THAT IT UPDATED AND I'M ABOUT TO READ IT RN YAYAYYAYAY ILYSMM :D
AHHHHH HAPPY YAYYAYYAYAYAYAYAYY IT TECHNICALLY HAS TWO CHAPTERS NOW ADDED, IM SO GLAD YOU LIKE MY WORK I appreciate how much you love it and that means Ilyt muah muah muah!!! Wait for Chapter 5 by May 4! YIPPEE
peter's students accidentally find out that their nerdy science teacher is married to THE johnny storm?! member of the ff, the human torch?! and they absolutely freak out just to find out 10 minutes later that he also used to date supermodel/actress mary jane watson
This fanfic is inspired by this fanart by @not-another-robin (fanart above)
Only warning is mentions of gay kissing (joke, it's not really a warning)
It began on a Saturday afternoon in Wayne Manor, when sunlight poured through the tall windows in golden streams, making everything look sereneâdeceptively so. Dick had decided that this quiet was the perfect moment to tackle something he considered critical: updating Bruceâs Brucie persona. Bruce, of course, had no idea what was coming. He sat at the head of the dining table with his usual immaculate posture, hands folded neatly on the polished wood, eyes calm but wary. Tim, however, had come prepared like he was leading a military operation: piles of notes, a whiteboard, a color-coded system, and a laser pointer that somehow elevated his lecture into pure absurdity.
âOkay,â Tim began, pressing his palms against the table like he was announcing the fate of the world, âwe need to update Bruceâs Brucie persona. People are starting to think heâs⊠competent.â
Bruce lifted an eyebrow. âI am competent.â
âExactly,â Dick said with a sympathetic grin, âand thatâs the problem. Brucie Wayne is supposed to be the kind of guy who doesnât know what a spreadsheet is.â
âOr how to pump gas,â Stephanie added, spinning a chair backward and straddling it dramatically.
Damian crossed his arms, unimpressed. âI fail to see why Father must disgrace himself by participating in such trivialities.â
Cass signed, Cover identity is important.
Damian nodded, begrudgingly accepting the point. ââŠFair enough. Continue with your humiliation.â
Jason wandered in last, mug of coffee in one hand, half-eaten muffin in the other, completely unaware of the storm about to hit him. âSo whatâs the plan? Are we making him pull the stunt of not knowing the difference between a toaster and an internet router?â
Tim ignored him. âNo. Today weâre updating him on modern pop culture. Memes, fandoms, conventions, shipping, AUs, tropes⊠everything a man of mystery needs to blend in with the general public.â
Bruce, of course, did not look amused. (He feels like he knows where this is going)
The lesson began. Tim lectured, Dick offered examples, Stephanie provided over-the-top reenactments, Cass made a few comments about slang, and Damian occasionally sketched Bruceâs increasingly baffled expressions.
Then came the part that made everyoneâs stomach drop: fandom terminology.
âSo fandom is basicallyââ Tim began, waving his hands as though the very concept might escape him. (Little did they know... He's an og)
âA community,â Dick offered.
âAn emotional support group but digital,â Stephanie added.
âPeople who write stories,â Cass signed, helpfully.
Jason, mid-bite of muffin, finally spoke up: âSometimes too many stories.â
Damian rolled his eyes. âStories about other peopleâs characters. Often absurd. Frequently inaccurate. Occasionally insulting.â
Everyone stared.
âWhat? Do not pretend none of you have read the bizarre and inaccurate things written about us on the Internet,â Damian said.
Tim groaned. âOkay, yes, but we need to explain fanfiction. Like, what it is.â
Bruce sat with his arms folded, silently waiting.
Tim stuttered. âUh⊠so, fanfiction is basicallyââ
âOh, fanfiction?â Bruce interrupted calmly. âI used to write Grey Ghost fanfics when I was younger.â
Silence fell.
Dick blinked. âYou⊠used to what?â
Bruce waved a hand. âI still do sometimes, if I have the time. Alfred bound a few of them, so they would last. Theyâre in the library.â
Damian looked betrayed. âYou never told me this.â
âIt never came up,â Bruce said simply.
Jason froze. Slowly. Horribly. His muffin half-forgotten, his hands gripping the table, his face pale. âWait⊠you mean⊠those leather-bound manuscripts? The ones on the far left shelf? With the concept art at the beginning of every chapter?â
Bruce nodded. âYes. Those.â
Jasonâs eyes widened. âNo. No, no, no. Thatâs impossible. That canât be yours. Look at thisâthe signature! Parker Oliveâs autograph! Heâs one of the most notable writers on that Grey Ghost run that year. Andâlookâconcept art before every chapter, editorial notes, editing marks, even a timeline marker attached with Scotch tape! This is behind-the-scenes canon work! I⊠I celebrated each panel, I cried when Kirk was losing himself to space sickness and their last kiss had all the grief, agony, and desperation of canon! I⊠I protected it! No stains were allowed because itâs a âlimited editionâ! How could this be you?â
Bruce raised an eyebrow, unbothered. âThat autograph? I asked for it when I started the fic. Parker Olive signed it when I visited a fan meetup in a neighbouring city. I drew the concept art myself. As for the timeline marker, that was purely for narrative reference when I was writing.â
Jason froze, shaking his head. âNo. No. Thatâs⊠that canât be right. Thereâs editing hereâlook at the notes in margins! There are even post-it corrections in my handwriting from discussions with the editor!â
Bruce raised a hand. âThose were my notes for pacing and consistency. Every moment you see a correction or note, itâs because I was treating the manuscript as seriously as any published work.â
Jason flopped back in his chair, clutching his face. âBut the timeline marker! The concept art! Parker Oliveâs autograph! The editing! Every little thing made this feel real! Like canon! I⊠I annotated it⊠in pen! I had opinions, strong opinions! I⊠how could⊠whyâŠ?â
Bruce leaned back calmly. âBecause, Jason, I wanted it to feel real. I wanted the story to exist fully in my imaginationâand apparently, you imagined it too.â
Jason rocked in his chair like the weight of betrayal had physically pinned him there. âYou⊠you wrote this⊠drew it⊠edited it⊠and I thought I was reading history. Canon. Lost, collectible history. And I⊠I⊠How could you? How could you let me suffer like this?â
Tim collapsed into laughter.
Stephanie was wiping tears from laughing too hard. âJason Todd, professional literary critic of his foster fatherâs childhood fanfictionâthis is the greatest day of my life.â
Damian, unusually reflective, said, âWell⊠in fairness, Father⊠your pacing is questionable.â Indirectly admitted that he did, in fact, read it as well.
Bruce gasped. âDamian!â
BONUS SCENE
A few months ago, Jason had proudly brought the leather-bound Grey Ghost manuscript to a comic-con, striding through the crowded hall with Duke and Damian trailing reluctantly behind him. He flexed the book like a trophy, showing off the unmistakable signature of THE Parker Olive, the celebrated writer from that yearâs Grey Ghost run. To the untrained eye, it looked like a genuine limited edition collectorâs itemâand everyone he showed it to believed it.
A small crowd of fans quickly gathered, curious about the content. Jason leaned in, practically vibrating with excitement, and began passionately explaining the plot, highlighting every dramatic turn, especially the fateful chapter where Kirk, stricken with space sickness, shared a final, desperate kiss with Grey Ghost. His animated retelling made the crowd gasp, cheer, and even clap at the emotional weight of the scene.
By the end of the day, word spread. Social media posts circulated with screenshots and clips of Jason holding the manuscript, declaring canon confirmation of Grey Ghost and Kirkâs kiss. Among the attendees, only Jason, Duke, and Damian knew the truth of the storyâbut the internet at large treated it as official Grey Ghost lore.
Content Warnings: Mentions of suicide, the corruption in news media, and social isolation from a community towards a minor.
Characters Included: Lloyd Garmadon, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake, and Alfred Pennyworth. With Jason Todd being mentioned. Word Count: 6k words
Lloyd woke to stillness so complete it felt staged, as though the world itself were holding its breath to see what he might do next. Pale morning light slipped through the tall windows in careful bands, illuminating a room far too large for one boy and far too gentle for someone who had learned, from a very young age, that gentleness was often a prelude to cruelty. His body ached in quiet, insistent waysâbandages tight around ribs and limbs, skin sore where the fall had kissed him too hardâbut it was not the pain that kept him rigid beneath the covers. It was a comfort. The bed was impossibly soft, swallowing him where he lay, the pillows arranged with an almost insulting consideration for his comfort, and the ceiling rose above him in elegant indifference, high enough to escape feeling theoretical rather than practical. Even the silence was wrong, not the tense hush before an ambush, but something deeper and more deliberate, the kind that belonged to old houses that had learned patience over centuries.
Hours had passed since the others had left him alone, since the butlerâAlfred, he remembered, because the name had been spoken with a respect bordering on reverence between the other inhabitansts of the Manorâhad finished scolding him with the calm precision of a man who had seen far worse recklessness and survived it all with his dignity intact (But his patience obviously gone jkjk). That, more than anything, unsettled Lloyd. He was not accustomed to reprimands that came without malice, to concern that did not demand something in return. As the Green Ninja, he was praised until he failed and blamed when he succeeded imperfectly; as Lloyd Garmadon, he was tolerated at best, feared at worst, and more often than not regarded with a suspicion that clung to him like smoke (you know, the kind that lingers on fabric long after the fire is outâthird-hand smoke, the ghost of someone elseâs choices staining everything it touches, it's not even you who tried to light up the cigarette, it's just the residue that sinks into your skin, your hair, your life, making people wrinkle their noses at you even when you swear youâve done nothing wrong). Here, however, there had been no disdain in Alfredâs eyes, no flinch at his nameâwhat name they thought he hadâno sharp intake of breath at the possibility of who his father might be. That absence frightened him more than open hostility ever could. He waited, heart tight in his chest, for the moment when realization would dawn, when the truth would surface like a blade from water, and they would cast him out with the same quiet finality others always did.
The door swung open not with the quiet civility expected of a sickroom, but with the decisive weight of a judge striking a gavel (wooden mallet used by judges)âan announcement, a verdict, a declaration that whatever peace Lloyd had managed to stitch together in the last few minutes was now subject to review. In the doorway stood a figure shaped with the solemn geometry of a fortified wall: tall, broad-shouldered, carved from a kind of moral stone that did not crumble easily. And yet, as the light framed him from behind, there was something in his postureâsome softening at the edges, some quiet, reluctant gentlenessâthat reminded Lloyd not of a fortress, but of a white mulberry tree: towering, dignified, grand in its stillness, but with a trunk known for its fragility, prone to splitting under the right pressure. He carried himself like a man built for restraint, one who rationed his words like precious ink but spent his movements too freely, an overstrung marionette of duty and silent fervor. Lloyd had seen such men before, in the ceremonial Nuo performers (Dance to ward off evilâget it? Because Batman???) who danced behind carved masks of gods and demons, communicating whole epics with the smallest tilt of a hand. (Notice how I brought up the white mulberry tree and Nuo performers? Connecting Lloyd with his Chinese roots. YESSSS)
The air pressed around him as Bruce Wayne stepped inside.
Lloydâs heartbeat fluttered, startled into a panicked rhythm. He shifted on the bed with an anxious stiffness, acutely aware of every motion he made, as though he were a bull precariously placed in a china shop where each breath risked catastrophe. The room suddenly felt too small, too bright, too vulnerable. Every muscle braced for the familiar trifecta of outcomes: punishment, ostracization (the act of excluding someone from society), or the cold dismissal of being told to leave. His fingers clenched the blanket, knuckles pale.
âUh⊠hello, sirâŠâ he managed, voice a fragile note pushed through a constricted throat, soft enough to be mistaken for the sigh of an instrument whose mouthpiece had been stuffed with cotton. The sound wavered in the air like a blocked suona (traditional Chinese double-reed woodwind instrument)âmeant to be bright, loud, defiant, but emerging muted, strained, apologetic.
Bruce paused at the foot of the bed, his expression unreadable, his silhouette both protective and intimidating. For a moment, he said nothing at all, merely observed the trembling boy with the steady patience of someone accustomed to frightened creatures finding their footing.
Bruce let his gaze settle on the boy with a quiet heaviness, as though weighing not only the sight before him but the invisible history stitched into every line of Lloydâs posture. Up close, the boy looked far too breakable for someone who had survived a fall, a night of panic, and whatever unspoken calamities had carved those shadows beneath his eyes. Yet there was a stubborn spark in himâfaint, flickering, but presentâthat reminded Bruce of young bamboo after the storm: still bowed, still trembling, yet refusing to split.
Color had returned to Lloydâs skin in cautious degrees, blooming like a tentative sunrise on a cloudy horizon. It eased a knot in Bruceâs chest that he hadnât allowed himself to name. He had buried enough sons in silence; he would not watch another child fade within these walls, especially not one sleeping in the room that still felt like a shrine to absence. The thought pressed against old wounds he kept locked behind armor even thicker than the one he wore at night. (Lloyd is staying in the guest room where Jason used to be before he properly moved into the family wing btw)
Still, the boyâs presence stirred questions (Knowing Bruce, he has a LOT of those). His injuries, his secrecy, the too-adult vigilance in his watchful flinchesâeverything about him hinted at a life lived in the blind spots of gentleness. Bruce noted how Lloydâs shoulders twitched whenever a floorboard creaked, how his hands hovered close to his torso as if bracing for reprimand, how his gaze darted anywhere but Bruceâs face. There was a learned caution there, the sort that came from being scolded before being spoken to, struck before being understood. (Koko, Lloyd's mom, can only do so much but it won't be enough for her baby :(( )
His eyesâbright green, vibrant enough to belong to someone who should have been carefreeâkept slipping downward, refusing to meet Bruceâs steady blue stare. Not out of defiance, but anticipation. As though he fully expected judgment to land like a blow. As though explaining himself had never mattered because no one had ever listened long enough to let him.
Bruce shifted his stance slightly, softening the rigidity in his frame. He understood fear when he saw it; he recognized the silent calculus of a child deciding whether speaking would bring danger or delay it. And beneath Lloydâs trembling politeness, Bruce sensed something else too: exhaustion, the kind that came from running not from a threat but from a truth.
âLloyd,â he said finally, his voice leveled to something meant to steady, not intimidate. The boy flinched anyway, so small a movement it might have been missed by anyone who hadnât built a life on observing fractures. Bruce resisted the urge to sigh. He kept his tone calm, almost gentle. âYouâre safe here.â
The words hung in the air with the fragile weight of a promise no one had ever made to Lloyd beforeâand one he clearly struggled to believe. Lloydâs breath caught in his throat, a trembling snag of air that seemed to lodge beneath his ribs. He lifted his gaze with the hesitant caution of someone peering over the edge of a precipice, unsure whether he would find solid ground or the familiar plunge into disappointment. Every kindness he had ever known had begun this wayâsoft words, gentle facesâonly to curdle into scorn once the truth of him surfaced. He had grown up bracing for the moment affection soured, much as one might learn to mistrust berries in a hedgerow: elderberry or inkberry, sweetness or poison, life or an aching bellyful of regret. He could never quite tell the difference until it was too late. (Floriography, study of plant symbolism does so much for me. Thank you autism for making me hyperfixated to these kind of things)
Yet something in Bruceâs phrasingâquiet, deliberate, almost too preciseâstruck him like a string plucked out of tune. A realization bloomed slowly, crawling across his thoughts with the reluctant grace of dawn peeking through the curves of valleys like eyes that just opened after sleeping for a long time. It was slight, nearly invisible to anyone who hadnât spent a childhood listening for danger in every syllable, but Lloyd heard it.
âYou know my real name.â His voice wavered, though he fought for steadiness, smoothing each word as though polishing a fragile porcelain cup doomed to crack under the wrong pressure. A single syllable made all the differenceâLoid or Lloydâand to most it would sound identical. But he had heard his name murmured, shouted, weaponized, mispronounced, and dismissed enough times to recognize the genuine version instantly.
Bruce did not look away. âMay I ask,â he said, his tone cool enough to be civil yet pointed enough to cut through pretense, âwhy it is that I find myself hosting a guest who bears an uncanny resemblanceâand the exact nameâof a supposedly deceased teenager from a neighboring island city?â
There was no hesitation in the manâs delivery, no stumble, no softeningâreminds Lloyd of bone marrows that get boiled. His blue eyes, steady and unyielding, regarded Lloyd with the sharp discernment of a magistrate (a civil officer that can also be a judge for minor crimes when the court lacks one) who already knew the verdict but offered the accused a chance to speak regardless. The question did not roar; it merely settled between them like a stone dropped into still water, ripple after ripple revealing just how dangerously close Bruce already was to the truth. (Cause he 'died' in the water so the truth is near the water, giggling while I wrote this)
So Lloyd, caught beneath that unwavering gaze, felt the room tighten around himâas though the Manor itself leaned in, waiting to hear what explanation he would conjure, or whether he would break before he found his voice. Bruceâs silence lingered, stretching across the room like the long shadows of the Manorâs tall windows at dawn, a presence as weighty and deliberate as the walls themselves. Lloyd shifted under that gaze, the green of his eyes reflecting light like twin fragments of jade, wide and wary. His voice, when it came, was soft, hesitant, a fragile thread in a room that felt as though it were holding its breath. âWhoops, my bad gang,â he muttered, the words tumbling out awkwardly, a nervous smirk threading through the timbre. âDidnât know identity twinning is illegal⊠never thought that I actually donât have any original experience. Just⊠you know, chilling. Exploring. Gothamâs streets are so silly, like that. Totally random.â
Bruce, however, did not flinch, did not permit the humor to veil the severity of the circumstances. The dark file in his hand seemed to pulse with history, each page detailing a catastrophe that had gripped Ninjago City, a calamity that had broadcasted the image of a boyâthe youngest of the cityâs protectorsâplunging into waters that glittered with golden reflections. The world had watched, suspended between horror and disbelief, and Lloyd had survived, though it was a truth the public never fully absorbed or even knew. The file suggests that the other ninjas tried finding a body but was unsuccesful. Bruce laid the folder onto a nearby table with a soft, deliberate thud, the sound a punctuation that could have been a gavel striking a bench. âYou were found unconscious, not wandering. Near the shore, not the sidewalk,â he said, voice steady but carrying the weight of authority that had not been eroded by decades of patience or grief. âThis is not some casual stroll through Gotham. You were at risk of death. You still are, whether you see it or not.â
Lloydâs chest constricted, a wave of panic breaking over him in uneven gusts. He shuffled backward, as if the floor itself were conspiring to thrust him toward exposure. Yet even in fear, there was the flash of defiance, a spark of the sardonic wit that had served him as both shield and sword. âWell⊠yeah, okay,â he said, lips pressed tight, âbut I mean, do you honestly think Iâd throw myself into the ocean just to audition for, like, a tragic backstory? Totally over dramatic. Cliche even⊠Maybe I was⊠testing physics?â He attempted a laugh, brittle and hollow. âCompletely scientific, promise.â
Bruceâs gaze, unwavering and measured, softened only fractionally. He let a hand hover over the file, as though inviting Lloyd to glimpse its contents but not yet condemning him with it. âYou understand the implications of what occurred,â he said slowly, âthe world sawâNinjago City sawâa child, entrusted with immense responsibility, cast into mortal danger. And yet here you are, with eyes wide and clever, alive.â His tone did not demand an answer, but implied the weight of truth pressing on fragile shoulders. âYou do not need to explain the circumstances, but I need to know you grasp that this was no mere accident.â
âYou think Iâm clever?â Lloyd blurted, cheeks warming with an expression caught between bashful pride and startled disbeliefâonly to be met with Bruceâs flat, unimpressed stare, the exact look an exasperated father gives a child pretending they definitely did not just steal a cookie. (Broski, being complimented is NOT supposed to be your main priority, the audacity tbh)
Bruce didnât answer the question. His silence alone dismissed it. Instead, he tapped the manila file with two fingersâquiet, deliberate, unyielding. âYou understand the implications,â he said, voice steady as stone. âA child with power, a public catastrophe, and a city that watched you fall. And yet youâre here. Alive. A fact that narrows the possibilities.â His gaze held Lloydâs, cool but not unkind. âThis wasnât an accident. You know that.â
For a moment, the air itself seemed to thicken, and Lloydâs tongue felt heavy, tripping over the careful balance between honesty and defense. His usual sarcasm, his habitual deflection, rose instinctively. âSure, sure,â he said, voice a touch shrill now, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. âBut donât you ever get it? Perhaps sometimes people justâexist in danger without having signed a permission slip. Not everyone gets their life scripted with approval.â The words were sharp, tinged with the bitter taste of accumulated grief and lifelong expectation. He flinched under Bruceâs quiet intensity, knowing too well how truth could be used as a blade.
And then, quieter, almost a whisper lost in the light filtering through the windows, Lloydâs confession surfaced, trembling like a leaf caught in hesitant wind. âWhy⊠why offer me this⊠this safety,â he stammered, voice cracking with the weight of unshed tears, âdespite you knowing that Iâm filthy? Knowing my dad is out there, ruining peopleâs lives with not much regard, that I am his son?â (Future Stephanie Brown, "Why do I feel like someone just mentioned a backstory like mine?")
Bruce paused in the doorway, the pale morning light tracing the hard angles of his jaw, the lines of experience carved into a visage that had endured far too many tragedies to speak of them lightly. His voice came low, measured, yet imbued with a gravity that made the room itself lean in. âBecause,â he said, âyou remind me of someone who never had the chance to ask for help.â He did not name Jason. He did not need to. The silence that followed was a bridge across history, across grief, across unspoken memory. It carried the weight of all the children he had failed to protect, the lives that had slipped through cracks he had only just begun to acknowledge.
Lloydâs eyes widened, shimmering with the first hint of something unfamiliar: relief, fragile and trembling. The boyâs body slackened fractionally, though vigilance still kept his spine taut, his fingers curling into the bed sheet. Words faltered on his lips, unpracticed in the language of trust. âSo⊠youâre not going to⊠yell at me? Or throw me out?â His voice was small, almost comical in contrast to the immensity of the morning and the towering figure before him. Yet beneath the timidity, there was a nascent glimmer of hope, untested but persistent.
Bruce inclined his head, faintly, just sufficient to acknowledge the question without diminishing its gravity. âNo,â he said, each syllable deliberate, âyou will not be judged for the sins of another. That is not my practice, nor shall it ever be.â
So in that room, surrounded by quiet grandeur and the weight of decades unspoken, Lloyd felt something rare: the possibility that, for the first time, he might be allowed to exist without accusation, without expectation, and without fear. The Manor seemed to exhale with him, the pale light softening, revealing a sanctuary that promised safety, if only he dared to accept it.
The stillness that followed was not empty but ripe, the kind of silence that exists only in places where grief has been collected, cataloged, and gently set aside like rare porcelain. Lloyd sat there, small against the vastness of the bed, feeling the air settle around himâwarm now, almost tender, as though the Manor itself had wrapped him in an embrace made of old promises and older regrets.
For a moment, he did not move. He scarcely breathed. He merely looked around the room with the tentative curiosity of someone who had spent his whole life waiting for the floorboards to collapse beneath him. Yet nothing creaked. Nothing recoiled. Nothing revealed itself to be a trap painted with velvet and compassion.
Instead, the doorâstill half-open from Bruceâs departureâshifted slightly as a soft draft drifted by, and Alfred appeared with the unobtrusive grace of a thought one had almost forgotten to think.
The butler approached with a tray balanced in careful hands, the porcelain teapot gleaming like moonlight caught in motion. âMaster Lloyd,â he said, in a tone that carried the firm finality of someone who accepted no argument on matters of care, âyou require nourishment.â He set the tray upon the bedside table with a gentleness reserved only for the gravely wounded or the perpetually skittish. âYou have been running on little more than fear and stubbornness. Both, as you might imagine, are poor substitutes for breakfast.â
Lloyd blinked at the tea, then at Alfred, uncertain if he should apologize or flee or bow. âOh. Uh. Right. Food.â His voice cracked with the gracelessness of youth, but Alfred showed no sign of offense.
âIndeed. Food.â The older man folded his hands behind his back, posture immaculate. âA civilized concept which, I assure you, is neither punishment nor test.â
Lloyd swallowed. âRight.â
He reached for the cup with slow, deliberate movements, as though it were part of some delicate ritual he had only ever read about. His hands trembled slightly, but Alfred did not comment; he merely adjusted the trayâs position by an inch, making the reach easier without drawing attention to the accommodation.
The first sip startled him. Warmth spread across his tongue, gentle and floral, a soft unfolding of comfort he had not expected. He stared down at the cup, brow furrowed, as though suspicious that anything could taste this soothing without concealing an ulterior motive.
âIt is chamomile,â Alfred said, watching him with a measured calm that could steady the tides. âFor the nerves.â
Alfred inclined his head. âYour gratitude is appreciated but unnecessary. You are a guest, and guests are cared for.â
Lloyd let that sink inâcared forâa phrase he had always associated with fleeting moments or conditional warmth. Here, it felt⊠different. It felt like the kind of phrase that might actually be true. (HIs lack of adoration from the people around him is showing and reeking)
And then, before he could fully settle into the novelty of comfort, footsteps approachedâlight, hurried, and distinctly chaotic. The unmistakable rhythm of someone sprinting down the hall as though their thoughts outran their body.
Tim.
The door flew fully open, nearly ricocheting off the wall, and the boy wonder burst inside with the frenetic enthusiasm of a scholar who had just discovered an ancient conspiracy. âLloyd!â he announced, breathless. âGood, youâre awake. Excellent. Perfect timing. Because I have seventeen follow-up questions, two concerns, and at least one theory that will absolutely blow your mind.â
Alfred exhaled with the resignation of a man who had long accepted that certain storms must simply be endured. âMaster Timothy,â he said with the patience of saints and martyrs alike, âthe young man has only just awoken.â
âYes, but consciousness means heâs ready for interrogationâuh, friendly conversation,â Tim corrected, sliding into the room like a whirlwind wrapped in detective theories and caffeine. âAnyway, Lloyd, do you remember anything odd? Strange? Suspicious? Any dramatic music before blackout? Any enemies? Secret enemies? Potentially vengeful ballet competitorsâ"
Lloyd stared at him, exhausted already, tea cup halfway to his lips, discreetly hiding the small smile that he has for the older teen.
Tim leaned in, eyes gleaming. âDid you maybe anger a deity? No judgment if yes. Happens to the best of us.â
âTimothy,â Alfred cautioned sharply.
Tim paused. âRight. Sorry. Iâm being overwhelming. Butâto be fairâIâm very good at being overwhelming.â
Lloyd set the tea down with trembling care, then gave Tim a look that was half bewilderment, half reluctant amusement. âYouâre⊠a lot,â he said softly, but there was no malice, just a startled honesty. âLike⊠a grey ghost, those are known to be clever and mischievous.â
Tim lit up, delighted. âThatâs the nicest thing anyoneâs ever said about me.â
Alfred cleared his throat. âMaster Lloyd requires rest.â (Notice how Lloyd is being called Master already? Bro is NOT getting out of that house)
Tim nodded, serious for exactly three seconds. Then: âSo Iâll just sit here quietly until he trusts me enough to answer questions. Statistically speaking, silence does breed intimacy.â
âOut,â Alfred said.
âButââ
âOut,â Alfred repeated, with the finality of a man who had raised vigilantes from infancy.
Tim sighed dramatically but obeyed, retreating with all the dignity of a cat pushed off a sofa.
The door had barely begun its slow swing toward closure when a small, wavering voice slipped into the narrowing space like a hand catching the edge of a curtain.
âWaitââ
It was soft, almost swallowed by the room, but Tim reacted as though someone had pulled a cord in his spine. He froze mid-step, shoulders tightening, head tilting back toward the bed with the hopefulness of a cat who had just been told he might, in fact, be allowed on the bed and possibly leave fur all over the sheets. (I just love making Tim cat-like)
Alfred paused too, one hand still poised toward the door handle, the other already halfway into a disapproving fold. His gaze drifted back to Lloyd, measuring whether the boy understood the significance of what heâd just requested.
Lloydâs fingers flexed nervously against the blanket, gathering courage as though plucking fragile petals. âIâI donât mind if he stays,â he murmured, eyes dropping before darting up again in small, reluctant glances. âIf⊠youâre okay with it.â (You're digging your own grave of getting adopted, Lloyd)
The admission hovered there between them like a fledgling bird unsure whether it had just leapt or been pushed. Alfred regarded him with a gentle, searching scrutiny, the kind reserved for children who rarely asked for anything unless cornered by loneliness itself.
âVery well,â the butler said at last, inclining his head. âIf that is your preference.â
Tim did not walk back into the room so much as materialize, propelled by a mixture of triumph and restraint he triedâunsuccessfullyâto hide. Practically vibrating with excitement. âHe means I can stay,â Tim said, half-whispered, half-sung, as though the moment required reverence.
âYes,â Lloyd answered, though the word trembled timidly at the edges. âYou can.â
Tim slid into the chair at his bedside, but even while sitting he seemed incapable of stillness; his legs bounced, his fingers twitched, and his eyesâbright, analytical, electricâkept flicking toward Lloyd as though cataloguing every breath the boy took. (That's a whole ass 50 yard stare from Tim)
And Lloyd watched him in turn. His gaze, unsteady at first, stabilized with a strange and quiet curiosity. There was something uncannily familiar in Timâs presence. The sharp brightness reminded him of Blue, the lightning ninjaâalways talking, always thinking three thoughts at once, words sparking out of him like wayward electricity. Yet beneath that was the cool, composed, careful cadence of White, the ice ninjaâobservant, controlled, often too perceptive for anyoneâs comfort.
A strange fusion of warmth and chill, exuberance and intellect. Loudness stitched delicately with restraint.
For a moment, Lloyd wondered if this was what fate looked like, a simple recognition of traits one had trusted before, reflected now in the face of a stranger. (The instincts of the baby dragon in him (which is still him btw, he just seperates his 'human'Â half to the other one) is imprinting on a trusted older teen, who would have thought)
Tim, oblivious to the growing tenderness of the moment, leaned forward with an eagerness that teetered on the edge of impolite enthusiasm but stopped short of falling over. âSo,â he said, voice hushed but vibrating with barely-contained excitement, âdoes this mean Iâm allowed to ask follow-up questions? Not the big ones, just small ones. Polite ones. Micro-questions.â
âMaster Timothy,â Alfred warned.
Tim raised both hands, palms out in surrender. âRight. No interrogations. Iâm⊠sitting. Quietly. Respectfully.â After a beat, he added, âBut if he voluntarily talks, then thatâs technically not me interrogating.â
âTim.â Alfredâs voice sharpened.
âIâll be good,â Tim promised quickly.
Lloyd pressed his lips together in a hesitant smileâsmall, lopsided, but real. He studied the older teen the way a diver studies new water: wary, but longing for the buoyancy (the ability or tendency to float in water or air or some other fluid) of trust. âItâs okay,â he said quietly. âYou can⊠ask. A little.â
Tim brightened like a lantern catching flame.
âMaster Lloyd,â Alfred tried, already knowing he had lost the battle.
Lloyd shook his head. âI donât mind,â he repeated. This time his voice had a faint, steadying core behind itâlike the first true note of a song that has a several false starts after not practicing the instruments for so long.
Alfred sighed with the weight of acceptance, then stepped back. âVery well. I will return shortly with proper breakfast. Master Timothy, you are responsible for ensuring the patient remains calm.â
âOf course,â Tim said, nodding vigorously. âCalm is my middle name.â
âIt is not,â Alfred replied, exiting with the elegance of a man accustomed to long-suffering truths. "It's Jackson if I recall clearly, as I have been the one to pass your adoption papers to the district after Master Bruce signed them."
Now alone with him, Tim shifted forward, visibly restraining the gale-force storm of his curiosity. âSo⊠thanks,â he said, voice dropping into something gentler, more genuine. âFor letting me stay. I know I come off as⊠a lot. Most people need, like, a grace period in minecraft 100 players hunger games.â
âThat's oddly specific and niche⊠but youâre not⊠bad,â Lloyd admitted, fingers twisting in the blanket. âJust loud and quiet. At the same time. Which doesnât make sense.â
âAh,â Tim said, smiling proudly. âThen Iâm exactly as intended.â
Lloyd huffed out a tiny, surprised laughâthe kind that escaped before he could stop it. He wanted to catch it, to reel it back in, but the sound was already there between them, bright as sunlight glancing off a blade.
Timâs expression softened. âSee? Thatâs good. That means youâre feeling a little better.â
Lloydâs posture tightened again, instinctively defensive, as if joy were a contraband emotion. âDonât⊠assume that.â
âIâm not,â Tim said, leaning back but keeping his gaze steady. âIâm observing it. Itâs different.â
Lloyd stared at him, unsure whether to be comforted or unsettled by the precision of that statement. The tea cooled between them. The room settled. And slowly, the tension in Lloydâs shoulders easedânot fully, not yet, but enough that he no longer looked like a bird poised to fly into a window. For the first time, he let himself believe that Tim might be someone he didnât have to run from. Someone who could be loud without hurting him, and sharp without cutting him. Someone who felt familiar in a way that didnât ache. The Manor breathed around them, as though acknowledging the small, strange, fragile beginning of somethingâtrust, perhaps, or understanding, or the quiet promise that neither boy would have to face their shadows alone. Tim, ever the restless scholar of other peopleâs mysteries, had been inching forward in his chair, mouth already half-open with the next barrage of questions forming behind his teethâwhen Lloyd beat him to it.
The younger boy inhaled, shaky but determined, as though he were about to dive into water he was still learning how to trust. âCan I ask you something?â he said, voice soft but not quite as fragile as before. âActually⊠a few things.â
Tim blinked in astonishment, then leaned forward with the reverence of a man who had just been handed an unexpected pop quiz he very much wanted to ace. âYou⊠want to ask me a few questions?â he said, the number slipping out with delighted certainty.
Lloyd nodded. âEight.â He didnât know why eight felt rightâonly that it was fair, balanced, a small act of defiance against the endless asymmetry of his life. âIf youâre going to ask me things, I want to know things too.â
âDeal,â Tim breathed, folding his hands like he was preparing for the worldâs most polite duel.
Lloyd studied him, gathering each question like stones laid carefully along a path. âWhatâs your favorite color?â he asked first, surprising even himself with the simplicity of it.
âBlue,â Tim answered instantly. âSpecifically that pale, icy kindânot because itâs cold, but because it looks sharp. Intelligent.â
Lloyd nodded, filing that away. âDo you like being here? Not just the Manor, but⊠being part of this family?â
Tim paused, then answered with a softness that cut through his usual brisk cadence. âYeah. I do. Theyâre weird. And loud. And sometimes very bad at communicating. But they try. Itâs more than I expected.â (Ahem Him and his doubts with his place in the family Ahem)
Lloydâs fingers twitched. âDo you dance?â
Tim blinked. âDo Iâno. Not well. I mean, I trained a little for acrobatics, but actual dancing? I look like a malfunctioning marionette.â
Lloydâs lips quirked, amused despite himself. âDo you get scared?â
âAll the time,â Tim said without hesitation. âJust not always of the things people expect.â
That answer made something warm flicker in Lloydâs chest. âDo you get angry?â
âOnly when people I care about get hurt.â Timâs voice was gentle but threaded with iron.
Lloyd swallowed. âDo you feel alone⊠even when youâre not alone?â
Timâs expression shifted, subtle and raw. âYeah,â he said. âMore often than I want to admit.â
Lloyd nodded slowly, as if each answer was stitching something unfamiliar and important into the space between them. Then he asked the eighth and final question, voice barely above a whisper. âDo you hate people easily?â
âNo,â Tim said. âI observe first. Sometimes to a fault. But hate? That has to be earned.â
Lloyd bit the inside of his cheek, relief and confusion tangling in his chest. âOkay,â he murmured. âThatâs⊠good.â
Tim relaxed back in his chair, but his eyes were bright, earnest, and impossibly attentive. âYour turn,â he said, voice light but expectant. âWhenever youâre ready.â
Lloyd let out a slow exhale, feeling his pulse skitter as he recalled Timâs earlier onslaught of questionsâa chaotic catalogue of everything from the mundane to the metaphysical. Still, he answered with painstaking care, determined not to let anyone feel the sort of neglect heâd known too intimately. âDo I remember anything odd?â Lloyd began. âNot really. Just⊠the sea. It felt wrong. Like something dragging me down.â
Tim nodded rapidly, as though this aligned perfectly with several theories only he knew about.
âStrange or suspicious?â Lloyd continued. âThe storm. It came fast. Too fast. And I heard somethingâlike metal. Or chains.â
âAny dramatic music before blackout?â Tim prompted, leaning forward.
Lloyd huffed a tiny, incredulous laugh. âNo, I donât⊠think thatâs how real life works.â Tim made a note anyway.
âEnemies?â Lloyd said, and his eyes flickered with something older than he should have carried. âYeah. Plenty. Too many.â Timâs expression shifted but he didnât pry deeper. âSecret enemies?â Lloyd added. âProbably. I lose track.â
âPotentially vengeful ballet competitors?â Tim pressed, unable to resistâhe's aware of how brutal ballet dancers are when wanting a role so badly.
Lloyd scoffed, rolling his eyes. âI wasnât that good.â Timâs grin was immediate and delighted.
âAnd did I anger a deity?â Lloyd repeated, tone flat and dry as winter stone. âI⊠hope not? But honestly? I wouldnât be surprised.â
Tim stared at him with the awe of someone meeting the protagonist of a saga heâd only heard whispered around campfires. âYou,â he said reverently, âare fascinating.â
Lloyd flushed, ducking his head. âIâm really not.â
âYou really are,â Tim insisted, but his voice held no mockeryâonly admiration threaded with the soft thrill of discovering something rare.
The room settled again, warm and quiet, the tension that usually coiled beneath Lloydâs ribs easing as though soothed by invisible hands. For the first time in a long time, he didnât feel like an intruder or a burdenâjust a boy sitting in a room with someone who wanted to understand him.
And in that golden, tentative calm, Lloyd allowed Tim to stay.
"The lives of those who are complacent to change are more likely to learn how to grow and bear fruit." -I made that up, March 2026
The title of this chapter came from the lyrics of The New Romans by Nero's Day at Disneyland
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