Damian was already waiting at the Batcave. Still in full gear—mask off—arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed.
"You weren't supposed to be out tonight," Batman said, his voice calm but edged with warning.
"I finished early. Figured I could back you up."
"Well... he got away." Nightwing said, peeling off his mask. Batman's glare silenced them both. "You disobeyed orders."
"I—"
"Enough."
Batman turned to the computer and pulled up the night's footage.
They all watched in silence, this ti catching details they'd missed during the chase.
"Look at that spacing," Nightwing pointed out. "He's leading us."
Batman squinted at the screen, pausing right when Jason twisted and cut the cable mid-air.
"He's fast," Robin muttered. "Too fast for the average man. You think he's a ta?"
"It's possible," Batman admitted.
"It's clear our boy here has so skills. He's been trained, really well I must say." He said, watching as the footage showed when Batman almost had him at the ends of bis cables.
"Like right there." Dick pointed out as the footage slowed down just in ti to show Red Hood cutting off Batman's cable.
"He sliced that cable off his ankle before it tensed around it," he emphasized. "You don't just do that it has to be practiced."
"He's not just skilled, but well equipped too." Batman added.
"What do you an?" Dick asked. Batman turned to him as he looked at Dick dead in the eye; "How many knives do you know that can cut my cable?"
Everyone slowly turned and stared at the paused screen. A new realization settled in.
Red Hood wasn't just dangerous. He was prepared. Every move must have been deliberate.
"I'm off," Batman said, grabbing his coat. "Damian, bed. You need rest."
"As if. I could present my project half-asleep."
Batman stared. Deep down, he wanted to throw the kid over his knee and introduce him to the disciplinary side of a utility belt.
"Alfred's prepared your room," he told Dick.
With that, Batman disappeared into the shadows, but one thought kept turning over in his mind.
Sothing about tonight didn't sit right.
And until he figured it out, he'd be watching that tape over and over again.
No matter how long it took.
Even after Bruce had left the Batcave for the night, the space didn't fall into silence. Instead, the subtle hum of technology and the faint tapping of fingers on a keyboard echoed through the cavernous underground.
Massive screens lit up the cave's otherwise shadowy vastness in a cool blue hue. The scent of motor oil, aged stone, and reinforced rubber filled the air. It was Gotham's subterranean heart, and tonight, it still had two occupants.
Damian sat hunched in the main chair, face illuminated by the glow of the central monitor, fingers gliding across the keyboard as he scanned live security feeds and chatter.
The youngest Robin's brow was furrowed in fierce concentration, his lips set in a hard line—still pissed about how he screwed up his chance at getting Red Hood even after he disobeyed his father to take that action. The thought of them dancing to the tune of soone else was quite…prickly.
But the silence didn't last long.
Footsteps approached—light, casual, rhythmic. Then ca the familiar voice.
"I know he can be restrictive at tis, but you really should learn to follow orders," Dick Grayson said as he casually leaned against the side of the Batcomputer console. "He is your father, Damian. Bruce only does what he thinks is right… especially when it cos to you."
Damian didn't even glance at him. He rolled his eyes with a groan and folded his arms across his chest, spinning the chair around slowly to face his older brother. "Oh, please. Spare the parent-teacher conference, Grayson."
Unbothered, Dick chuckled and stood upright. "You know what? Since you've got so much attitude and apparently energy to burn, how about we put that to good use?" He pulled out his escrima sticks with a casual flourish. "A little sparring session, for old tis' sake."
Damian raised a single brow, unimpressed. "You want to waste ti playing with sticks?"
"You could think of it as training," Dick shrugged. "Who knows, maybe it'll help remind you that you're not nearly as good as you think you are."
A dry, unimpressed scoff escaped Damian as he turned back to the monitor. "Pfft. As if."
Dick smirked, stepping closer, and lightly tapped one of the escrima sticks against Damian's shoulder. "What's the matter? Scared you'll lose again—for the hundredth ti?"
The stick didn't even hit that hard, but it struck exactly where it needed to. Damian's jaw tensed. He spun around fast, drawing his blade in one fluid motion. "Fuck off."
He swung, fast and clean, aiming to slice across Dick's midsection. Dick barely stepped back in ti, bringing one escrima stick up to deflect the blade's edge with a sharp clack. He danced backward a few feet, keeping space between them.
"I don't need to be trained by a circus clown," Damian spat, adjusting into a sharp combat stance. "My grandfather trained . I was raised by the League of Assassins. My training is beyond anything you've ever—"
Before he could finish that declaration, he lunged, sword cutting through the air in a silver blur aid at Dick's torso. Dick pivoted, sidestepping with easy nonchalance, and flipped backward. Damian was fast to follow up with a low strike toward the legs, but Dick vaulted over it with a clean, aerial backflip and landed light on his feet.
The fight kicked off in earnest. The sound of steel eting hardened polycarbonate echoed in the Batcave, sharp and rhythmic like a deadly trono.
Dick kept a playful grin on his face, spinning his escrima sticks between his fingers like batons at a parade. His footwork was light, agile and graceful like a dancer. The more amused he seed, the more visibly furious Damian beca.
It felt like mockery. Like a deliberate insult to everything Damian believed made him lethal.
He was the heir of the Demon. He had been molded from birth into a weapon sharper than any blade in the League's armory. He had fought in snow-covered wastelands, survived blood trials in deep mountain caverns, and had taken life before he had lost his first baby tooth. He was danger.
And here Dick was—laughing.
Damian's face twisted with rage. He swung for Dick's torso, aiming to end the dance. But Dick dived low, rolled across the floor, and Damian wasted no ti. He reacted imdiately, leaping after him and bringing his sword down in a brutal overhead arc, fully intending to split Dick's head open if he didn't move.
But Dick moved. His escrima sticks ca up in a flash and caught the descending blade with a loud crack, halting it just inches above his skull.
"Well, I was trained by Bruce Wayne," Dick said with an easy grin as he slowly pushed upward from his crouch. "And every ti your grandpa squared up with him, Bruce handed Ra's al Ghul's five-hundred-year-old ass back to him on a silver platter."
The smugness in his voice only pushed Damian deeper into fury.
"Just like I'm handing yours to you now."
"You—!" Damian snarled.
His foot lashed out and caught Dick in the ribs. The strike forced a grunt out of him and made him stumble sideways.
"We'll see about that," Damian growled.
He broke their locked weapons and moved in, his elbow rising swiftly in an uppercut. Dick bent backward in a limbo-like motion, barely dodging. He dropped to his hands and executed a sweeping leg kick, catching Damian's ankles and knocking him to the floor.
A sly smirk crept across Dick's lips. "Careful. You've got school in the morning. Let's not get too bruised up or Alfred's going to have a hard ti doing makeup."
Damian, already back on his feet, growled and raised his sword again. "Hold," Dick said, stepping off toward the combat platform in the cave—a circular ring raised above the cave floor, used for more focused training.
Damian followed, his face a picture of annoyance, eyes narrowed with focused irritation.
They circled each other in the arena like wild cats. Damian moved first, sword arcing through the air. Dick parried with his escrima sticks, blow for blow, matching his speed. A swipe aid for Damian's head missed by inches as the boy bent backward. Dick followed with a sweep for his feet, but Damian flipped backward out of reach.
Dick went airborne, descending with an overhead strike, but Damian blocked with his blade, sparks flying from the impact. Using his compact fra to his advantage, Damian launched forward, foot aid directly at Dick's throat.
Dick raised both sticks in a cross, catching the kick and deflecting it. Damian sprang off the blocked kick and aid a spinning side-kick at Dick's face.
Caught off guard by the speed, Dick ducked, twisted, and shot out a kick from his crouched position. It was aid for the solar plexus, fast and brutal. Damian blocked with the flat of his sword, bracing himself—but the sheer force knocked him back.
Dick advanced, arrogant strides telegraphing every bit of the confidence he had.
"You're sloppy," he said, twirling his sticks like a showman.
"No, I'm uninterested," Damian snapped.
'This fucking brat,' Dick thought with a tight jaw.
"Well, better get your head in the ga."
Dick ca at him again, strikes flowing with fluidity, relentless. Damian blocked and parried, but the pressure kept building. Soon, he was cornered at the edge of the platform. With a grunt, he leapt off. Dick followed without hesitation, chasing him across the Batcave.
Their duel snaked around the cave's massive stair rail system. Damian moved with the likes of an assasin, agile and unpredictable, his sword dancing with precision. Dick matched him beat-for-beat, running the rail like it was a balance beam.
Back on level ground, they clashed again. Dick swung a kick into Damian's side, but the boy caught it mid-air and retaliated with a strike to his other leg. Dick hit the ground with a hard grunt, only to be slamd into the cold, reinforced steel floor as Damian pressed his advantage.
Grabbing Damian by the collar, Dick pulled him close with a kick to the chest and tossed him overhead. Damian rolled on landing and sprang up like a cat.
But Dick was faster. He lunged with a direct blow, missed, but with that montum he transitioned into a cat wheel and grabbed Damian's cape. With a quick backflip, he yanked the cape forward and covered his face.
This led to Dick catching Damian in a chokehold and slamming his face into the nearby glass casing—the one holding Dick's original Robin suit.
'Fuck avoiding his face, nothing so ice pack and a lot of makeup can't cover.' The thoughts that marinated in the darkest parts of Dick's mind.
With that, punch after punch landed into the fabric-covered face. Then he twisted Damian's arm behind him, pressing his face harder against the glass.
"You really are just a ball of ego, aren't you?" Damian shot at him, pissed and irritated as fuck. "The pure and perfect Dick Grayson. The first Robin."
Dick pressed harder, forcing Damian to look directly at the red, green, and yellow costu behind the glass.
It wasn't just a beatdown anymore—it was a ssage: 'You'll never asure up.'
He leaned in, voice low. "Based on everything I'm seeing… I'm the only real Robin." Dick said.
That one hit Damian where it hurt.
"You're just so lost little orphan he took pity on," Damian hissed, voice sharp with venom.
Dick blinked. That landed deeper than it should've. His grip loosened.
"But I'm blood."
In one fluid motion, Damian stepped on the glass casing, kicked off it, and flipped over Dick's head. He spun in the air, struck Dick's hip mid-rotation, and ca down swinging.
Dick blocked, but Damian landed a punishing blow—right to his groin.
"ARGH—!"
Dick staggered, eyes wide, pain blooming from his gut as Damian followed up with a brutal combo. Left. Right. Knee to the chin.
Then—bam—a tiger claw technique, straight under the chin, snapped Dick's head back and sent him flying over the rail, crashing down onto the floor below.
"I'm his son," Damian declared, chest heaving as he turned and walked away, leaving his blade behind.
Dick lay groaning, one hand on his jaw, the other clutching his ribs. "You certainly are," he muttered under his breath.
As Damian passed by the stairwell, Alfred appeared, holding a cold drink and a cloth napkin. He gave a slow clap. "Excellent form, Master Damian. Though I dare say, a bit excessive."
Dick sat up, rubbing his jaw. "It's been a couple years, but I still can't believe Bruce actually has a kid. I an—after all those lectures about using a robber, he ends up with a child."
Alfred gave a dry smile. "Well, Master Dick, he is the offspring of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul."
"Right. Exactly." Dick deadpanned, catching the sarcasm.
Damian still hadn't gone through the full extent of Bruce Wayne's training—not yet. But what most people didn't realize was that Ra's al Ghul had already forged a soldier in him. A weapon sharp enough to go toe-to-toe with Batman in hand-to-hand combat, maybe even better than Bruce himself could've imagined.
But the real kicker? There was soone else out there who had the best of both worlds—trained by Bruce and by Ra's. That was Red Hood. A soldier crafted in trauma and fury, and molded by the two most dangerous n in his life.
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