[Un] Fair — Chapter III: Dark Sunlight.
⸺ SINOPSIS ⦂ Are you Good?
✿ ⸺ Platonic! Yandere! Batfam × Neglenced! Meta! Reader.
✿ ⸺ Chapters Guide! ; Prologue ; Chapter I, Prt 1 ; Chapter I, Prt 2 ; Chapter I, Prt 3 ; Chapter II ; Chapter III ; Chapter IV, Prt 1 ;
✿ ⸺ Previous ; Next!
⸺ WARNINGS ⦂ Depression ; Yandere Themes ; Blackmail ; Obsesion ; Mentions of injury; Death ; Murder ; Delulu ; Stalking ; Fem Reader ; Use of Y/N.
✿ ⸺ MDNI !! I'm serious.
✿ ⸺ Words Count ⦂ 8.235
You bit the inside of your cheek hesitantly, Lex’s words echoing in your head.
“They asked me for underground architecture in Finland, at least 40 meters underground, in the middle of nowhere.”
“In the center of that underground fortress, there’s a massive bulletproof glass habitat, reinforced and equipped for either a person or a large plant, if you ask me.”
No… you didn’t want to follow that line of thought—or rather, you felt guilty for even doing so.
After everything they’d done for you? After taking in a girl so abandoned, broken, and clumsy like you? After giving you training, shelter, food, and love?
The mere thought, the bare suspicion about them churned your stomach, tightening in your throat.
But like a worm burrowing into your brain (no—better drop that expression, it still sent shivers down your spine and, with some luck—and therapy—you no longer hyperventilated at the thought), the doubt lingered, circling and pounding you with the same questions, a constant reminder that no matter how guilty you felt, uncertainty would keep tormenting you.
They would never do anything to hurt you. They loved you.
You remembered going to the aquarium with Ra’s, when Talia comforted you and showed you the true face of your mother—the real one you’d blurred and distorted, erasing the most traumatic memories of what she had done to you, excusing her, stripping away her responsibility, and instead blaming yourself for not being smart enough, careful enough, for being so clumsy, needy, or whiny whenever she was “busy.”
But that day, at fourteen, Talia opened your eyes and tore out the sick attachment you had to that… monster.
You weren’t “not smart enough”—your mother had simply never bothered to teach you anything.
You weren’t “not careful enough”—you had just been a little girl discovering the world on your own.
You couldn’t help being clumsy—sometimes your missing eye altered your perspective, made you misjudge your surroundings, and sometimes it was simply too hard to keep up playing tag with your siblings when you only had one leg, or climbing trees when you were missing an arm. All courtesy of your mother.
You couldn’t help needing affection, not when your mother would show up at random with caresses, praise, and sweet words. When she rocked you so gently you wanted to melt into her arms, when she held you to her chest and swayed you to sleep.
But the next day, when you went looking for her—hoping for more affection or just her company—you’d want to cry at her indifference. At the way she’d glance at you with disgust, shove you out of the room, and vanish for days, sometimes weeks. Leaving you wondering what you had done wrong, what you had said to deserve that glare, what had changed in you that made you unworthy of her love—that made you feel like you didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air.
Your siblings always paid the price, staying with you for days to piece you back together after she shattered you again.
And when she finally returned, you were desperate for anything she might give you, at any cost. You’d let her test new drugs on you in exchange for her sweet fingers stroking your hair; you didn’t mind when she locked you in the basement with fear toxin, so long as she calmed you afterward with soft words that made you feel safe at her side; you didn’t mind giving her your arms, your eyes, your legs—or whatever she wanted—in exchange for an embrace and the chance to whisper how much you loved her.
Back then, you couldn’t stop thinking about how much you needed her just to survive.
You didn’t even realize when your steps carried you toward Talia’s chambers, determined to search every corner until you found those blueprints—if they even existed.
If your suspicions were false, you had nothing to fear. A sincere apology would be enough for her forgiveness, and it would teach you a lesson: never trust Luthor again.
But if they turned out to be true…
...
…Well, you wouldn’t know what to do until that moment came. The only choice was to rip the uncertainty off quickly, like tearing a bandage from your knee.
You forced yourself to act indifferent as you walked, careful not to draw the guards’ attention until you were inside.
Talia was in a meeting now—one you weren’t part of, by the way—but you knew it could end at any moment.
You started searching everything in sight. Wardrobes, desks, shelves, nightstands, even her bed. You knocked on the walls, tested the floorboards for hollowness, checked if anything triggered a hidden chamber—but there was nothing.
Moving to the corner of the room, you stepped back to take in the bigger picture, scanning for something you might have missed, any clue that could lead you closer.
Exasperated, you let out a sharp breath and glanced upward, trying to clear your head before resuming. But something caught your attention immediately.
Between the wooden beams of the ceiling, there were tiny slits of light seeping through—except in one area. And if sunlight wasn’t coming through… something was blocking it.
With a new goal in mind, you extended your vines toward the ceiling, probing for a loose beam, a sign of an attic.
Your heart clenched in your chest when you discovered a trapdoor leading upward—your entrance to the truth.
Maybe it was your mind finding excuses to climb, or maybe self-sabotage, but you couldn’t help remembering the week Talia had taught you parkour on rooftops; the way she ruffled your hair for doing well, laughed at your sarcasm, and how the nights ended with pizza dinners…
None of it would matter if your suspicions were confirmed in that “attic.”
Your vines wrapped around the beams, and in a blink you were up there.
The “attic” looked more like an office than anything else—not what you expected.
There was a desk with drawers and a large cabinet dominating the room.
With the minutes ticking in your head, you dug through drawers and loose panels, searching for any sign of your suspicions.
Not much. Just some blueprints for future renovations to the compound, a few weapons, and some files hidden in a drawer about assassins close to Talia and Ra’s.
You couldn’t stop your hands from freezing on the folder with your name on it.
Part of you screamed to stay focused on your real goal before it was too late.
But your head was too curious, too anxious, to see what Talia had written about you.
You hated yourself for still seeking validation from others, even here. But you didn’t resist.
In a rush, you opened the folder, flipping through quickly until one section caught your eye.
“The subject has motor impairment in arm coordination and reaction time.
Like any plant, her greatest enemy is fire. Though she doesn’t seem to have any particular fear of it.
Her regeneration time is not what it should be. Could this be due to severe malnutrition in early childhood? Needs further investigation.”
You knew these were notes on your weaknesses—observations she made about all assassins, ways to stop them if they ever betrayed the League. You had assumed you wouldn’t be the exception.
Or maybe you were.
Because you soon realized none of these “weaknesses” were real threats anymore.
Your motor coordination, caused by your defective eye, had been corrected years ago—the League made sure of it almost immediately after you arrived.
Your so-called “weakness” to fire? Sure, it could be dangerous, but you had mastered countless techniques to deal with it. Roots that absorbed underground moisture, hidden wells you could tap into to extinguish flames—you had ways.
And your regeneration? It had been stabilized once your malnutrition was addressed.
Nothing here was truly exploitable. And it wasn’t like you had no weaknesses—you had several that could easily be used to take you out.
Talia could have written that even the slightest contact with pesticide is lethal to you.
She could have noted your reluctance to kill—fatal in a place like this, where an assassin who can’t kill is already dead.
She could have recorded how extreme cold forces you into hibernation against your will, leaving you completely vulnerable. Or worse—no killer needed, you’d simply die, your body incapable of storing energy for hibernation.
She could have exposed your extreme fear of worms. As ridiculous as it sounded, just being near one paralyzed you, dragging you back to when you were five, begging for someone to pull them out from under your skin before they burrowed through your eye into your brain.
She could have added any of those things—but she didn’t.
And it wasn’t because the file was old. The photo was recent, the paper crisp, the ink and Talia’s handwriting fresh.
At the back of your mind, you realized: if any enemy ever got hold of your file, there was nothing in it that could really hurt you. Unlike the others.
It was as if… Talia had gone out of her way to protect you.
A piece clicked into place, and your mind raced to gather the other inconsistencies.
It had been too easy to get here. You had expected alarms, endless locks, traps upon traps before gaining access.
But everything was just… neutral. Not suspicious to anyone else—but you knew Talia. Something was off.
Weirdly enough, outside of your file, everything else matched your expectations perfectly. To anyone else, nothing seemed wrong.
Your brow furrowed. One thought took root: a decoy room.
Following your instincts, you searched the most unexpected places—or maybe the most obvious. Looking for a key.
Your suspicions proved right when you found a worn key behind the massive cabinet. Continuing the thought, you opened the huge piece of furniture to find the most disappointing recreation of Narnia ever made.
Behind the false backing, a reinforced door waited. Modern, sleek. Hard to believe the half-rusted key in your hand matched it.
But Talia was a master of confusion—making you doubt your own judgment. Not this time. Not now.
Unsurprisingly, the key worked, and the door clicked open, granting you entry.
Now, this could be seen from two perspectives: yours, and Talia’s.
You hadn’t been entirely wrong about the Narnia comparison—this was as close as Talia would get.
To you, though, it looked like an entire museum dedicated to your life. And not in a good way.
The walls were plastered with Polaroids of you, taken in moments when you weren’t aware Talia was even there. The most disturbing part? Some were from long before you’d ever entered the mansion.
Your eyes froze on a photo of you at three years old—sitting in the garden of one of your mother’s many squatted houses, playing with butterflies, oblivious to Talia’s presence behind the camera.
At the bottom, a post-it note read:
“She seems to like butterflies, they really catch her attention. Must remember to build an enclosure for her. Can’t wait to see her reaction.”
Your mind jumped straight to your twelfth birthday, when Talia had taken you to a butterfly reserve in Mexico. Now you weren’t sure how much of that day had been real.
The longer you looked, the more horrified you became.
Photos of you distracted, watering your siblings, sewing dresses in the mansion. Photos even after they had “taken you in”: in your office, training, sleeping… Recent photos too. You were sure the latest was just a week ago—when you were showering.
With every new discovery, your movements slowed, the lump in your throat grew, your face twisting with helplessness and disgust.
It didn’t feel good to be right anymore. They loved you, yes… but they loved you too much.
God, you wished it had all stopped at photos—until you recognized baby teeth displayed at a distance.
Your mind went blank when your eyes caught a silhouette you hadn’t seen since childhood.
Still blackened by ash and burns, you’d recognize Doodle anywhere.
Your breath hitched with every step closer until you had him in your hands again. He was real. Not a dream.
But you had no time to feel moved—your blood ran cold at the new presence in the room.
For a moment you felt like an idiot. Of course there were motion sensors. This was Talia al Ghul.
Your survival instincts screamed at you to run.
But how could you, when Talia herself stood blocking the door?
You had to hold back the overwhelming urge to take a long drag from your cigarette right then and there.
In front of you stood the new kid under “Mr. Wayne,” with his shiny armor and that huge grin—the kind you wanted to wipe off his face forever.
But your trained eye caught something most civilians wouldn’t. You clearly noticed the tension in his muscles. You didn’t miss the way his legs were spread, his center lowered, his body leaning ever so slightly toward you.
He was ready to lunge at you any second.
With the unspoken threat in his stance, you shifted where you stood, trying to “level the playing field.”
Signal’s smile stiffened, and you watched as he cautiously stepped closer, arms outstretched.
“Hey… how about you, like, come down here, and we just talk for a bit?”
Oh.
Ohhh.
Your eyes flicked to the edge of the rooftop, where just one step would send you plummeting to a pretty painful fall—if you survived it at all.
For a moment, a part of you—the most selfish one, no doubt the part the League had fed so well—had the sudden impulse to just throw yourself off without hesitation.
With that, this wannabe hero, this wannabe sun, would be stained for life.
You’d be lying if you said the thought didn’t tempt you. Maybe then the city would see him differently; Batman, ohhhh… he’d be so disappointed. How could he have let a homeless teenager kill herself right in front of his eyes?
Your spite softened at the idea; when they found out it was you, they might even congratulate Duke for taking down Tim’s killer. Damian and Jason would be the first to cheer him on, and your sperm donor of a father would downplay it, maybe brushing it off with nothing more than a warning to be more careful next time.
Now furious, you clenched your teeth and pushed the thought away. No. You wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, not that easy…
But maybe you could make the golden boy suffer a little.
With a mischievous grin and steady posture, you calmly stepped back until you were balanced on top of one of the gargoyles. An unstable base with barely anything to stand on—of course it set off every alarm in Duke.
In an instant, his stiff smile vanished, replaced by a grimace of despair. Clenched teeth, trembling limbs, a faint tic in his eye from the stress.
This was fun. This… feeling of power over him was fun; maybe fun wasn’t the right word. Pleasure.
It was pleasurable to hold his reputation, his conscience, his calm, in your hands.
With just a few moves, you could ruin his life. You could destroy Bruce’s golden boy, his attempt at redemption, the new brother in that family.
“Please… you don’t have to do this. I promise this rough patch won’t last forever.”
“A rough patch? Feels like my whole life’s been one big rough patch. You think you can fix that?”
You didn’t know what had triggered this sudden surge of anger. Was it because he was trying to offer you hope? Because the family he was part of was the worst hell you’d ever gone through? Because they were the main reason you were even here, and still had the nerve to tell you, “Hey, it’s not that bad, you’ll get through this”? All of it?
Yeah. All of it.
But the worst part was the helplessness that came with being aware—aware that the new vigilante in front of you didn’t deserve to be the target of your wrath; that he didn’t know who you were, maybe didn’t even know what those who adopted him had done to you. Aware that he was innocent of your pain and genuinely just wanted to help.
You had no real reason to hate him, and hell, if the family had left you with anything, it was envy—engraved deep enough that you could recognize it even before it hit you. Like now.
And even worse, you were painfully aware of his feelings and your own, and still recognized that a big part of you just wanted to be selfish and make him suffer—physically or mentally—simply because you knew it would hurt Bruce, or his family.
No matter how much you tried to look away from it, it was excruciating how aware you were of everything.
The side of your face began to itch—the same side Jason had slapped once, and you swore it’d be the first and last time. It was like a cruel reminder of your awareness.
Or maybe self-sabotage was more accurate…?
But wait, you weren’t planning to physically hurt him. You just wanted to leave him with a little scar on his conscience—
You knew what it was like to carry a death on your conscience. Would you really wish that on someone else? On him?
… … …
…
Shit. No. Definitely not. Well… maybe on Mr. Wayne… but that’s not the point.
“I can’t change what’s already happened… but I want to help you face it. Get through it.” Slowly, carefully, Signal kept walking closer, hand extended. “Please, if you’d just let me…”
You straightened up and drew the line by leaning even further over the ledge—a silent warning.
“I want you five steps back, I mean it.” You didn’t mean it.
Signal pressed his lips together in frustration, but he didn’t want to test your limits, so he obeyed.
You took a long breath, one you knew the vigilante could’ve mistaken for a sob, but you didn’t clarify and he didn’t call it out.
So… now what? Had you gone too far to back down? Your urge to hurt him had been rationalized, tamed, but still…
How the hell were you supposed to get out of this…?
The time for explanations had already expired the very moment you walked into that room, and Talia knew it; maybe the wrecked place, or your out–of–control demeanor, were signs enough…
But you were still breathing. And with your mind dazed and spiraling, there was a slim, almost nonexistent chance left — but it was still there.
And she had to act now, because the longer she waited, the more certain she was that you’d start piecing together the true meaning behind her actions…
“Y/N, you’re acting hot-headed. Calm down, don’t rush into this…”
Your eyes shifted toward the almost burnt remains of Doodle. Doodle — the one you were sure had turned into nothing but ashes in the fireplace… The one only a handful of people knew about, and even fewer knew how deeply attached you were to him.
“Trust me, I’m a lot more controlled than I actually want to be…” You gritted your teeth as your mind tried to claw its way toward an escape from this situation.
Did Ra’s know about this? Did they plan it together?
What could you possibly do after this? If it wasn’t them… then what else did you have left?
They were literally all you knew, all you had. You had no money, barely any knowledge of the outside world. Even if you ran… out here, there was only sand, no vegetation, no water for miles. Running away would be nothing short of suicide.
Had they even planned that?
Of course they had… you shouldn’t even be surprised. They always had every angle covered, those bastards.
“Y/N, why are you angry, exactly?” Talia’s sharp tongue struck again. “For loving you? Is that a crime now?”
As she stepped closer, the knot in your throat tightened with every word, every step.
“Oh, darling. Maybe you don’t see it now, but I only want — we only want — what’s best for you.” You weren’t quick (or clearheaded) enough to escape her embrace. “Isn’t this what you wanted? An unconditional family? Well, here we are, sweetheart.” Each stroke of her hand on your head drew another tear down your face. “This room is proof that you were loved and wanted from the very beginning. You were chosen, Y/N. We chose you long before you could even speak. We chose you simply because you’re you. Isn’t that what you’ve always been searching for? A family who loves you for who you are, not for what you can offer?”
How naïve you were to think you could stand against your mother. The one who had been raising and shaping you all these years, who now knew every weakness, every thought pattern you had. Everything. She knew absolutely everything about you.
Talia’s warm hand against your cheek didn’t feel uncomfortable, like you wished it would. You didn’t recoil from her touch the way you wanted to.
How desperately you wished to be wrong. To find, somewhere in this room, a reason to leave; evidence of evil schemes using you as a pawn, something that would prove you had been nothing but a tool all along.
You wanted that instead of undeniable proof that they loved you.
“Y/N.” She guided your eyes to hers. “Just think about it, love. Here you’ll never lack anything — not food, not a home, not luxury. And above all, you’ll never lack love.”
“With us, you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. We can go anywhere in the world, we could even exclude you from the mission if that’s what you wish. We’ll start over, wherever you want, with nothing out of your reach.”
“Y/N, just imagine it. We could be a real family. I’ve only been pretending all this time because I was afraid — afraid of this exact moment, of what you’d think of me once you knew. But now I realize this is the perfect chance! I could make your adoption official. You’d carry our name!”
Every tear that streamed down your face was another inch of ground Talia gained. Your tormented mind could no longer form a coherent thought, only the words she was planting inside.
At some point, her crude attempt at manipulation started to sound… logical.
Didn’t you want a full life?
Didn’t you want a loving family?
Didn’t you want a mother?
Talia could almost cry with relief as she felt your arms slowly returning her embrace.
You weren’t naïve enough to ignore that if you didn’t get down in the next thirty seconds, he’d call for backup.
And that would be your real end.
“What…? What if we just talk?” Signal offered. “What if you tell me your name?”
“What if you tell me yours?” you shot back warily, almost reflexively, and then immediately scolded yourself.
“…” The silence that followed sent a deeper chill through you. Keep this up, and not even talking would save you.
“Ahh… A-Abby. My name’s Abby…?”
Idiot. Are you telling him or asking him? Another round of self-reproach.
You didn’t know why, but the name of one of your bullies was the first thing that popped into your head.
“Abby… Alright, Abby. Whatever you say stays between us, I promise.”
You wanted to spit back a sharp comment at his cheap psychologist attempt, but bit your tongue and stayed quiet.
“… I… Uhm…” And now, you had to come up with something convincing. Not just convincing — something that would hold up when he inevitably tried to fact-check your story.
God, if only you had walked away when you could.
Screw it. I don’t have a choice.
“Years ago, I used to bully someone… They were definitely weaker than me, but I didn’t care — in fact, that was exactly why I acted so confident doing it.” You took his silence as a cue to continue. “…”
“Please, do whatever you want to me, but leave my wife and kids out of this…”
“I’m begging you… I—”
BANG!
…
“… Everyone told me what I did wasn’t wrong. That somehow, that person deserved it. That they needed to be taught a lesson…” The images of their dead bodies, and Ra’s words, drilled into your skull.
'You did the right thing. If you didn’t wipe them out, their bloodline would come for revenge. Do I need to spell out what a child is capable of doing to avenge their parents?'
“But… you didn’t really believe that, did you?” Signal pushed, trying to get you to go on.
“For a long time I did. I convinced myself they were right. But the guilt never left me alone — my subconscious would remind me at night.”
“Clearly, you feel guilty about what you did… Sometimes, an apology can make a difference, you know? Try talking to that person.” Signal tried to step closer. “I think they’d value an honest regret more than… this.”
“…”
Your throat locked tight as you remembered Abraham — 8 years old — begging, trying to push you away. Trying to push the knife out of his chest.
“… I can’t.”
“It takes wisdom and courage—”
“She’s dead. She died from the violence I inflicted…” You took a deep breath. “It was a long time ago.”
“…” For several long seconds, Signal didn’t know what to say, or how. Hesitantly, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. “… If it was so long ago, then why now…?” He gestured toward you.
“Who knows? No particular reason.” If at any point during the talk your expression had softened, if you had lowered your weapons, now you reloaded them. “Back then, I didn’t have a real reason to bully that person either. I did it because I wanted to.”
“But still—!”
In the middle of his rambling, a small laugh slipped out of you.
“Sorry, but if there’s a victim here, it’s not me. What’s funny is how hard you’re trying to twist things to make me the victim somehow.”
Duke couldn’t stop himself from wincing, caught somewhere between irritation and unease. Just moments ago, you looked so drained, so lifeless.
What the hell did you find so funny that you were smiling at him like that?
“… What happened to that person? Their family never pressed charges…? Nothing?”
I wiped them out too.
“No, nothing. I guess they were a really negligent family… or maybe I did them a favor. Who knows.”
You remembered vividly Damian’s cold, hollow stare when he found you that day in the bathrooms. So broken, so fed up, so… you.
And the next day, it was as if nothing had ever happened.
“Hard to believe families like that exist, huh?” you joked lightly, testing his limits.
Not much happened. Duke only tensed further. Whether it was out of anger or uncertainty, you couldn’t tell.
“What’s wrong, hero? Cat got your tongue?”
“…”
A dry, humorless laugh escaped you.
“Is it hard for you to save someone who isn’t a victim? Does that go against your code?”
“How…? How did the person you bullied—what was their name?”
Your smile faded, and you sat in silence for several seconds.
“I don’t remember.”
It was the best option, wasn’t it?
I mean, it’s not like you really had many choices; or opportunities would be more accurate…?
Whatever… Now your life was supposed to be better. Before the week was over, you’d be an Al Ghul, moving with Talia to Kansas. Ra’s would join later, once he was done (and quoting Talia) “taking care of some business with the League.”
You figured that made sense — they couldn’t just abandon the base, not without someone in charge. They had agreed to take turns watching over you.
It was incredible how much they were willing to give up just to keep you from leaving. How much your—… ahem, their lives had changed in the blink of an eye.
Maybe now you should focus on what you’d do once you got to Kansas. Would you go back to school…? But you didn’t even have the faintest idea of what they taught in elementary. Homeschooling might be a better alternative…?
A shame, really — Kansas was known for being peaceful, warm, wide open, with plenty of greenery.
You weren’t stupid. You weren’t going to let them even suggest moving somewhere urban or cold. If you were moving, it would be on your terms, on your turf (and maybe the memory of a friendly Jon had influenced that decision a little).
Wait… Ra’s and Talia wouldn’t be against you having friends, right? You weren’t an assassin anymore. This was supposed to be a fresh start, with more opportunities, more freedoms.
Talia hadn’t said explicitly that freedoms part, but still…
…
You decided it was best to talk things out, set the new terms straight so there’d be no confusion — and definitely no arguments — once you were in Kansas.
Ideally, you’d go to Ra’s. You hadn’t spoken to him since your run-in with Luthor, and you didn’t want that silence to be taken the wrong way…
Besides, with a little persistence, you knew he’d give in to whatever you asked for.
Tangled in nerves, you made your way to his office. He’d probably be busy, but you planned not to steal too much of his time.
This was something that had to be settled before you moved off-continent and started over, wasn’t it?
Ra’s’ guards let you into his office — but he wasn’t there.
If you sharpened your hearing, though, you could pick up his voice in the distance, clearly speaking to someone. Did he have visitors today?
“And this weapon of yours, will it be willing to cooperate? Wiping out the League isn’t a simple task; convincing someone to do it comes at a cost. And from what I know, your investments lately haven’t been very… practical. How can you be so sure they’ll accept?”
It was a voice you’d never heard before, distorted and robotic, clearly filtered through some kind of microphone.
“She will,” Ra’s replied. “I just need time to prepare her infiltration. There can’t be any margin for error in this plan.” You crept closer toward the door, careful not to make a sound. “My granddaughter will succeed where my grandson dishonored me. I can assure you of that.”
“She will redeem herself by bringing me Batman’s head.”
…
..
.
Traitor.
You leaned your back against the wall and let yourself slowly slide down until you were curled up on the cold floor.
Escaping from Signal hadn’t been that hard. You went down the stairs from the rooftop and wandered the area until you were sure there were no signs of the vigilante anywhere around.
That gave you time to think. To try and process what might happen next.
You’d basically confessed a crime—between the lines, but still—to a vigilante, and nothing had come of it. For now. The smartest move would be to leave the area and lay low for a while, before they tracked you down and… and what?
They couldn’t actually find concrete evidence of your crime. Theoretically, you were untouchable. But even so, it would be pretty bad if anyone around here figured out who you really were while they were sniffing around. You didn’t want to see them, let alone be within five feet of them.
That’s when it hit you: staying here was too risky. Sure, you knew the rhythm of life here, the local vigilantes’ patrol patterns—something that worked in your favor—but that was nothing compared to the risks. An entire family of detectives. You’d made the mistake of getting too comfortable, and when one of them showed up—you’d let your guard down. Of all of them, he was the least dangerous to run into, but still, you’d slipped up and talked to him. Because of your own carelessness.
Now there was no doubt. You’d be on their radar for a while.
Moving to another district sounded reasonable. If they were going to look for you, this place would be the first they’d check.
Maybe you should wipe your fingerprints and any DNA traces, just in case… Ugh. Another thing to add to the to-do list.
Right now, though, you weren’t in any condition to do anything. Your pulse was racing, your breath shaking (nerves or cold?), both clear signs you shouldn’t move until you calmed down.
A few days ago, you could’ve slipped out of this situation easily using one of Talia’s tactics. But just thinking about her still gave you chills, and letting those thoughts linger too long brought on nightmares.
You were so tired of feeling like this—unprotected, betrayed, unsure. It was a cycle on repeat. Tired of feeling awful. Tired of having to start over again and again.
Tired of living with loneliness. Of feeling so alone.
You hated that the people you cared about always hurt you. Hated even more that you blamed yourself for it. You hated missing the ones who left—or worse, the ones who abandoned you. Because missing them didn’t just mean letting go of the past; what hurt the most was tearing yourself away from the future you had planned with them. The version of your life where they stayed by your side through every stage, where your bond grew stronger, where you finally found a place in the world that was unconditional, where you weren’t obsolete or replaceable. A home.
Look at Y/N. No one to protect her. No one to defend her. Doing anything and everything under the gentle lie of “for the good of the family.”
You hated that you couldn’t get them out of your head. How could you fear someone in your dreams and miss them at the same time?
Did you miss that person? Or did you just miss the possibilities of what you could’ve had together?
Most of all, you hated that this feeling was one-sided. That the other person could toss you aside like trash—with no guilt, no hesitation, no love.
No consequences.
Why did all your relationships end this way? Why did you always end up isolated? Were they really the problem?
Or was it you? Something you said? Something you did? Something you thought?
What the hell made people see you as a tool, a resource, an object—but never as a person?
You wished—just once—that they could step into your shoes. That they could feel what it was like, not to be considered for even a second. No mercy, no break. Used. A punching bag. A weapon. You wished they could all rot in the same place they had forced you into.
You wanted to ruin them the way they ruined you. You wanted to ruin him—that meta. Take away his shot at redemption.
...
But you didn’t. You stopped yourself.
You curled up tighter against the wall, rocking yourself back and forth.
“I’m better than them.” You hid your face in your knees and kept repeating. “I’m better than them.”
You are better than them.
“You know your mother’s a bitch, right?”
You are better than them.
“I’m better than them.”
“In public, call me Mr. Wayne.”
You are better than them.
Then why are you crying?
“Dude, please tell me you’re not crying.”
Duke recognized Dick’s friendly tone behind him.
“Nah, just… thinking. You know, the usual.”
Duke’s faint smile was enough to kill any cheer in Dick, and once he read the gravestone behind him, the weight of the moment only grew heavier.
He knelt beside Duke, placing a hand on his shoulder for comfort.
“If you ever want to talk about it—about anything—you know I’m here for you, right?”
There it was again.
Duke rolled his eyes and forced a smile, trying to ease him.
“Yeah, Dick. Pretty sure you’ve made that clear the twelfth time you said it.” He glanced at the gravestone, the name carved into it, then back at Dick. “But… do you think you could give me a minute alone? I need some time with her.”
Dick hesitated, then gave in with a sigh.
“I’ll be in the kitchen with Alfred if you need me.” He stood, still watching him carefully. “Don’t stay out too long, it’s cold.”
Duke stayed in silence for a while, caught somewhere between presence and absence, unconsciously listening only to Dick’s footsteps fading away and the wind whistling past.
“What do you want me to do…? Would you have forgiven her?” He brushed his fingers slowly over the name carved into the stone, as if searching for some kind of guidance, a sign, anything.
He read the inscription carefully: “Y/N Pennyworth, beloved daughter and sister. No garden full of flowers will ever be enough to make it up to you.”
“Y/N… are you angry… at her?”
“She’s dead. She died from the violence I inflicted…”
“At me…? I let her run, after all. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
In that moment, when Duke connected the dots, he almost lost control. His armor, the vigilante persona this family had welcomed, the memory of Bruce—Batman—already tired, was the only thing holding him back. He couldn’t dishonor everything Batman had taught him as a crimefighter. Not after all Bruce had done for him…
And yet, part of him felt like he was betraying you.
“Do you want revenge? Do you want me to save her? To stay out of it…?”
Was it really just a coincidence that Abby—the Abby who’d nearly driven you to suicide—just happened to cross paths with him today? During his patrol, of all times?
Why did it feel like being okay with his family and being okay with you meant walking two completely different paths?
“If I go after her, I’m unworthy of this family. If I don’t, I’m unworthy of being your brother.” He pressed his forehead against the gravestone’s edge. “Please, Y/N, tell me what to do…”
Meanwhile, in the manor kitchen, Dick couldn’t stop worrying about how long Duke had been outside.
Maybe he should check on him anyway…? His patrol was coming up, and he didn’t want this to slip away. It felt like they needed to talk.
“I believe he’s drowning in a teacup, Master Richard,” Alfred advised, sharp as always.
“No, no… something’s off. He’s acting weirder than usual.” Dick bounced his leg anxiously, not even realizing the tic. “Is it patrol? College? Both?”
Dick kept staring off toward Duke, searching for a clue.
Ever since… Y/N, he’d tried to be more observant, more careful; more present, he liked to say when people asked.
'What? I just want to be a good brother, not a stranger in their lives.'
If only he’d been that way with her—if he’d just paid a little more attention…
“I know you’re only worried for Master Duke, but I don’t think overprotection is the right answer. Trust him; if he’s in real trouble, he’ll come to you or to someone else in the family.”
Alfred handed him a glass of water.
“You must accept that Duke, like all of your siblings, will have problems he needs to solve on his own. Personal growth is an important part of human development, you know?”
Dick reflected for a moment. He knew Alfred was right, and that his overprotectiveness was… well, at the very least, excessive.
He inhaled and exhaled, trying to push away the urge to intervene.
“Fine… fine. You’re right.” He rested his forehead against the kitchen table. “I’ll give him space.” He muttered through his teeth.
“I’m glad to hear it, Master Dick.” Turning, Alfred handed him a silver tray with dinner on it. “Now, please do me a favor and bring this to Master Damian. Honestly, I dislike how much he locks himself away in his studies. He tends to push his learning further than he should…”
Taking the tray was a silent acceptance of the task.
Dick knew exactly what Alfred meant.
If Damian wasn’t in Y/N’s room, watching her video diary like a sacred ritual, then he was at school and afterward burying himself in homework until exhaustion. Anything to avoid facing the guilt.
None of them could really scold him—they were all just as broken. The only thing they could do was hold each other up enough to keep the family from falling apart.
As Dick walked the second-floor hallway, eyes on the tray in his hands (careful not to spill anything), he caught sight of sneakers sticking out against the monotone carpet. Sneakers planted at Damian’s doorway.
“Tim?” Dick called, half-confused, half-questioning.
Timothy just gave him a quick wave to stay quiet, then turned back to staring straight ahead.
Dick frowned and stepped up beside him, looking in the same direction.
“Okay… yeah… yeah. What—? No! I’ll… I’ll clear my schedule…”
In the middle of the room, Damian was on the phone. He was agitated, noticeably stressed—not the restless kind that usually kept him pacing like a caged lion, but something heavier. Serious. Dick thought, watching the youngest Wayne pressing his temples as he leaned against his desk.
Damian ended the call, tossed his phone aside, and buried his face in his hands, feeling the migraine already coming.
Tim cleared his throat.
“Uh… Damian? Everything good, bro?”
“Something happen…?” Dick followed up.
Damian stayed quiet for a moment, either processing or searching for the words.
“My mother called… said my grandfather is dead—or murdered, rather.” Damian still couldn’t say it out loud without it sounding unreal.
Tim frowned.
“Who? Ra’s?”
“Do you think I have other grandfathers?”
“What Tim means—” Dick cut in. “It’s hard to believe. After all this time, Ra’s has dodged death more times than we can count, you know?”
Damian let out a contained sigh.
“I know. I know that better than anyone. But this time… my mother said there wasn’t enough of him left to throw into the pit.” The mental image that flashed in Damian’s head made his skin crawl.
“For someone to take down Ra’s to that extent…” Tim muttered. “Who was it? Deathstroke?”
“My mother dodged the question.” Damian’s expression darkened. “But she’ll be here in the morning to discuss it. More importantly—she wants to talk to Batman.”
Being honest with himself, at first he wasn’t on board with the idea of taking in Bruce’s bastard.
But after Talia’s relentless insistence, and driven by his usual desire to please his daughter, he agreed to indulge her whim.
At the very least, this desire had worked Talia’s patience; it forced her to wait diligently for years—watching, waiting, planning.
He wasn’t ashamed to admit that the League had played a role in the growing neglect of that girl. But in the end, they hadn’t done much; the seed was already planted, and they only fed it casually.
When the day finally came, Talia was happy to gain a daughter, and he was pleased to gain a potential weapon.
With a little cultivation, security, and guidance, she could surpass her mother by far. She could dominate the best of both worlds, with a little patience—
He expected a weapon in return, but to be honest, he hadn’t thought it would come so easily.
He quickly grew bored. The ease with which she accepted her fate, the docility she displayed…
Don’t get it wrong, that was extremely beneficial—he knew it. But for some reason… it didn’t please him. When she offered her blind obedience, when she did it with such a resigned, uncertain face, he couldn’t help but feel disgusted.
And as the first months passed, he learned to avoid her unless it was absolutely necessary for them to be in the same room.
He couldn’t stand her for long periods of time; her naïveté, her submission, her dependence.
He hated how disgustingly docile she was.
But even more, he hated how deeply it affected him.
Emotions beyond ambition weren’t common for him, and inner conflict between them was even rarer.
But somehow, that changed two years later—during the Aquarium mission.
The insecure, dependent girl he was certain was walking beside him revealed more layers than he had planned for.
It both amazed and unsettled him to find not just a dull, blunt weapon—but a girl as human as any other, yet more extraordinary than all of them.
Suddenly, the blind obedience he thought consumed her turned into a genuine loyalty—to him, to his purpose—that he had only ever seen in his own daughter: Talia.
She understood. She understood him.
The dependence she showed toward them soon became reciprocal, though no one ever noticed.
Every small act of kindness only drew him in deeper and deeper, until he realized his unusual affection far too late to turn back.
The moment he recognized his feelings, he didn’t hesitate to accept them and confide in his daughter, immediately working to lock her away, to keep her.
She was so young, so sharp, and so naïve all at once. She didn’t need weapons handed to her—she needed protection.
And that often meant hiding what he felt, even from her.
When you want something, it’s inevitable that others will start to see what makes it so desirable. That’s why you must take it and hide it before it’s stolen.
Sadly, it had become normal for him to disguise his affection with scorn and dehumanization before his “allies.” Sometimes it disgusted him to dehumanize his only granddaughter so much, but if that was what it took to protect her—if that was what it took to conceal the fact that she was his greatest weakness—then he was more than willing—
What? Is there someone behind the door?
Someone foolish enough to think he wouldn’t notice—?!
Huh?
“Y/N? What are you—?”
Before he could finish his words, three pairs of vines struck him, sharp and piercing like spears.
They quickly branched out from within, exploding horrifically in every sense.
Soon, there wasn’t much left of Ra’s to recognize or recover.
The next thing Nanda Parbat felt—along with almost the entire League—was a massive underground tremor, sealing their end.
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