Chapter Text
The wind cuts through Gotham’s corpse like a blade. It bites through the shredded edges of my cape, what’s left of it flapping behind me—a joke of a symbol now. Gotham smolders in the distance. Ash. Dust. Rot. That’s all that’s left. The skyline’s a graveyard of steel and stone, the echo of a city that used to be alive.
I fold my arms, staring down from the rooftop. What’s left of Wayne Tower barely stands beneath the rubble. A monument to my father’s legacy, now just a pile of wreckage no one’s around to mourn.
Tch. I should’ve stopped this. Should’ve seen it coming.
Should’ve. What a useless word. Hindsight, guilt—weakness, right? That’s what Mother taught me. What Grandfather drilled into him. And yet here I am, choking on the same bitterness. Gotham’s death is my failure.
I’m the failure.
A loud crash in the distance—rubble caving in on itself, like the city’s eating itself alive. I shake off the fog in my head, but it never really goes away. I step off the ledge, drop down, roll onto the street below. Not like the view up there was any better.
I walk. Boots crunch over shattered glass, broken concrete, the filth of a city long past saving. My hands twitch at my sides, itching for something to hit, but there’s nothing left to fight. Darkseid saw to that. Gotham folded like paper. No warning, no mercy. Just absolute destruction.
Was it inevitable? Probably. Gotham was always one step from the abyss. Darkseid just gave it a push.
Still, I wonder. Could I have done something? If I’d been faster, smarter—less obsessed with proving myself. If I hadn’t wasted time chasing ghosts, playing the role of the perfect heir. Would it have mattered?
The wind kicks up, swirling dust and ash into the air, like the city itself is mocking me.
"This is what you are," it whispers. "Ruins. Destruction."
My fists clench. Knuckles crack. "Shut up."
But the voice doesn’t go away. It never does. Gotham’s fall isn’t just the city breaking. It’s me. It’s all of us.
I kick a piece of debris, sending it skittering into the silence. Even the buildings sound like they’re ready to collapse. Just waiting, like me.
And then it hits me again, the punch I’ll never be ready for. I’ll never be ready to accept that my family is gone.
That Grayson is dead.
He’s been gone for a long time. One of the first to fall when Darkseid came. He died before I ever called him my brother.
No—that’s wrong. He died before I ever let myself admit that he was my akhi.
I rub my temples, trying to press the thought out of my skull. I can almost hear him, see him, standing there with that damn patient expression, like he was always trying to understand me—even when I didn’t want to be understood.
But he’s not here. None of them are. Just me. Just my brain playing tricks.
Because you can’t let go, can you, Damian?
I grit my teeth. Shake my head. Doesn’t help. Nothing ever does. They’re all gone. Grayson, Father, Alfred—every damn person who mattered. And I’m the one still standing.
The last Bat.
The idea of being the last one standing, to be the one that outlasted them all, used to mean something. Used to make me proud. Like I was worthy of it. Now? I look at this wasteland, at everything we fought for turned to dust, and I feel nothing.
My family died believing in this mission. In me. They thought I could carry it on. And what do I have to show for it? A dead city and a guilt so deep I don’t think it’ll ever leave me.
I keep walking. Slower now. The weight of it pressing down with every step. The streets are silent. No screams, no sirens, no shadows waiting to strike. Just the wind, whispering through the ruins, carrying the ash of a city that never really had a chance.
I close my eyes and see them. Father, standing tall even when everything was falling apart. The last time we spoke, we fought. Of course, we fought. I wanted to prove I was ready. He wanted to protect me. From what? The truth? From ending up like him?
Too late for that.
And now look at you. The last one standing.
Some great legacy.
The wind howls through the wreckage like it’s laughing at me. Mocking me. Gotham's dead, and here I am, standing in the middle of its corpse, still pretending any of this mattered.
I exhale, slow. Controlled. My hands are shaking. I force them to be steady, but the tension doesn’t go away—it’s coiled too deep in my muscles, in my gut, in the back of my skull where it festers like an old wound. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion, just the cold seeping in. A lie. But it’s easier than admitting what it really is.
I drag my gaze back to Wayne Tower. Or what’s left of it. The once-bright "W" is hanging by a thread, swaying like it's deciding whether or not to let go.
I should let it. Let it all go.
The thought lingers longer than it should.
Wouldn’t be the first time I ran, would it? I used to think I was better than Father. That I’d never make his mistakes, never get caught up in the same endless cycle. That I wouldn’t let Gotham own me the way it owned him. That I wouldn’t allow myself to drown in the guilt like him.
And yet, here I am. Still trapped.
The laugh that escapes me is bitter, humorless.
Alfred would’ve had something to say about that.
I can almost hear his voice, see him standing there in that perfect posture, hands behind his back, giving me that same tired but patient look he always had when I was being difficult. “You are not your father, Master Damian. And you are not your grandfather either.”
He was wrong.
I crouch down, picking up a charred piece of rubble, turning it over in my palm. Just another broken fragment of a city that isn’t worth saving. A legacy that isn’t worth carrying.
I should’ve told him. That I listened, even when I pretended not to. That his words stuck with me more than I let on. That, out of everyone, he was the one I trusted most.
I should’ve told a lot of people a lot of things.
But I didn’t. And now it’s too late.
The shard of rubble snaps in my grip, breaking in half. My chest tightens, the pain is sharp, suffocating.
I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.
Grayson would’ve known. He always knew what to say, what to do. Even when I was impossible, even when I pushed him away, he still... tried. He never gave up on me, even when I gave him every reason to.
And what did I do? I spent years convincing myself I didn’t need him. That I didn’t need anyone. That all that "family" talk was just another distraction, another weakness.
I was wrong.
But I figured that out too late.
Just like with Father.
Just like with Alfred.
Just like with everyone.
Gotham was supposed to be better than this. I was supposed to be better than this.
But here I am.
The last Bat.
A voice creeps into my head, one I thought I’d never hear again.
“Waynes don’t quit, Master Damian. We may falter. We may fall. But we do not quit.”
Alfred. Steady, calm, always there. He said that to me once after one of my legendary fights with Father. Found me in the training room, bleeding all over the floor. Didn’t scold me, didn’t try to fix it. Just stood there and reminded me I wasn’t allowed to quit.
It pissed me off then. Pisses me off now.
I push myself up, forcing my legs to work. Every step is a challenge, but stopping isn’t an option. I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking off the memory. I don’t need reminders. I know exactly how far we’ve fallen.
I shouldn’t have come back here.
When I finally make it back to the Batcave, the place is too quiet. No hum of computers, no voices over comms, no presence bigger than life calling the shots. Just empty, hollow silence. My boots echo against the stone, mocking me, reminding me just how alone I am.
The cave that once felt like a fortress but now feels… hollow. It used to feel like something. Purpose. Direction. Now it’s just a tomb.
The Batmobile’s gone. Probably buried under Gotham’s remains. The computers are dead, screens cracked like broken bones. The whole place is a corpse.
Just like them.
I move deeper in, slow, deliberate. If I stop, I might not start again. Every inch of this place is haunted, pressing down on me with every breath.
And then I see it.
The display case.
I stop cold. My stomach knots. The glass is shattered, shards scattered like jagged pieces of regret. Inside, the remains of Father’s Batsuit hang limp, torn apart during the attack. It used to be pristine, a symbol of control, of strength.
Now? It’s a relic. Just like me.
I stand there, staring, anger and grief clawing at my throat. My fists clench. My hands shake.
Father’s gone. The man who trained me, pushed me to be better, to be more. And in the end, I wasn’t enough.
I wasn’t enough to save you.
My eyes burn. I blink hard. Wayne men don’t cry. Father didn’t, and I won’t.
But the anger? That’s harder to kill. It simmers, hot and raw, crackling under my skin. My muscles are tense, my breath sharp.
I slam my fist into the case. The impact echoes through the cave, loud, sharp. The suit doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just hangs there.
Mocking me.
“Damn it…” The words scrape out, rough, useless. My throat is tight, whether from rage or something worse, something I refuse to name.
And the silence swallows me whole.
I should be wearing that suit. Carrying on the mission. But I can’t. Not after everything. Not after letting this city rot, but after watching my family die one by one. After failing.
I step back, breathe tight, and that’s when I see it. The photo.
It sits on the workbench, covered in dust but untouched. Like it’s waiting for me.
I move closer, my heart pounding. It’s us—Father, Grayson, Alfred, and a younger me. I remember that day. We weren’t a family, not really, but for a second, it almost felt like we were. Grayson’s grinning like an idiot, Alfred’s got that patient smile, and Father—he’s doing that barely-there smirk, the one he thought no one noticed.
And me? I look… young. Lighter. Like I didn’t have the weight of the world crushing me yet.
I hovered a hand over the photo but stopped short. It feels fragile. Like everything else that’s broken.
Like my family.
I pull my hand back, clenching it into a fist. A bitter laugh escapes. “What would you think of me now, Father?” I mutter, sarcasm barely covering the rawness underneath.
Would he be proud? Or just see the wreckage, see me for what I really am?
A failure.
“What am I even doing here?” The words bounce back at me from the empty walls. “There’s nothing left.”
And I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do next.
I pull my hand back. Can’t touch it. Won’t. It doesn’t belong to me anymore—it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn’t standing in this cave, surrounded by ghosts and failure.
Grayson would’ve laughed at me for being this dramatic. He’d call me out, tell me I was acting like a brooding cliché, and then flash that stupid grin of his like it was supposed to fix everything.
I can hear him now, the phantom of his voice in the back of my mind. “You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself, Damian. The whole ‘lone wolf’ thing? It’s not working for you. It’s never worked for you.”
And I’d shoot back something sharp and sarcastic, tell him to shut up, tell him I didn’t need him. Like an idiot. Because deep down, I did.
Grayson knew me better than anyone, even when I didn’t want him to. He saw through the walls I built, the act I put on, and he called me out every damn time. And now, when I need someone to do that more than ever, he’s not here. None of them are.
I grab the photo anyway. Screw it. My fingers tremble as I wipe the dust away. I stare at it like it’s going to give me answers, like it’s going to tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do now. But all it does is remind me of everything I’ve lost.
I toss the photo back onto the workbench, but it lands awkwardly, tilting against an old wrench. It doesn’t shatter—too bad. A clean break would’ve been nice for once.
I step back from it and run a hand down my face, trying to shove everything back into the box it keeps bursting out of. But it’s too late for that. The box is long gone.
“This city...” I whisper, my voice low and sharp in the cavernous space. “This family... it was all doomed from the start, wasn’t it?”
It’s not like anyone’s here to argue with me. The cave stays silent, as always.
I glance at Father’s empty suit again, then back at the photo, then at the shadows stretching out across the cave.
Wayne men don’t quit, huh? That’s what Alfred said. And he was right, I haven’t quit. I’ve failed, sure. Over and over again. But I haven’t quit.
Even when I wanted to. Even when I probably should have.
My jaw tightens as I turn away from the display case, my boots scraping against the stone floor. The air feels heavier, like the cave itself is trying to crush me under its weight.
Maybe it’s right. Maybe I deserve it.
But I keep walking.
With every step, I feel the ghosts pulling at me, trying to drag me back, but I don’t stop.
Because I can’t.
Not yet.
There’s nothing left to save in Gotham. I know that. The city’s gone, and so is everything I fought for. But as much as I hate to admit it, Grayson was right. The “lone wolf” thing isn’t working.
It’s never worked.
So maybe it’s time to stop pretending it has.
Climbing into the Batplane, I strap in, fingers brushing over the controls. Familiar, yet foreign—like everything else in my life. The engines growl beneath me, matching the noise in my head. With a flick of a switch, the Batplane roars to life, and I leave Gotham’s ghosts behind.
The city shrinks below, a patchwork of memories I’d rather not sift through. Regret? Relief? Who the hell knows. I set the coordinates—Himalayas. Nanda Parbat. A place I swore I’d never crawl back to. Yet here I am, trudging toward it like it holds some answer, some fix to everything broken.
The mountains stretch out, jagged and unwelcoming, cutting into a sky as cold as I feel. The thrill of flight fades fast, leaving only the weight in my chest. I grip the controls tighter, metal biting into my palms as I descend.
The moment I step out, the cold slams into me, biting through my armor. My cape whips at my shoulders, like it’s trying to drag me back. Maybe I should listen.
“Tch.” I shove the thought down and push forward.
The climb is brutal. The kind that burns through muscle and forces every breath out like a struggle. Good. I need it. I need the pain, the exhaustion—something to drown out the mess in my head.
The last time I was here, I was a different person. Smaller, angrier. Still convinced I had all the answers. That I was better than the people who raised me, better than the ones who tried to love me. That I didn’t need anyone.
And now? Now I’m just... tired.
Every step up this cursed path feels heavier. This climb isn’t new, but for the first time, it feels like I’m carrying a mountain on my back. Physical exhaustion? I can handle. The rest? That’s the real fight.
My mind won’t shut up. Gotham—silent, ruined. Father’s smirk in that old photo. Grayson’s laugh. Alfred’s knowing glances. Gone.
And what’s left?
Me. The last Wayne. The last Bat. Instead of rebuilding, I’m halfway across the world, about to do the one thing no one in my family would ever forgive me for.
The wind howls through the pass, slicing through my armor like it’s trying to carve through flesh, but I don’t slow down. Nanda Parbat has never been kind, and I wouldn’t respect it if it was. The League made sure I could survive conditions worse than this. But surviving isn’t the problem, is it?
I scoff under my breath. Tch. If Father could see me now—dragging myself up this frozen nightmare like I’m looking for some grand revelation—he’d probably cross his arms, give me that disappointed look, and tell me I already know the answer.
And if Grayson were here? He’d make a joke. Probably something about me finally taking a vacation.
The thought almost makes me smirk. Almost.
I reach a ridge and stop, bracing my hands on my knees for a second. The air is thin up here, and the ache in my legs is starting to creep into my chest. I shake it off, forcing my body forward. The temple isn’t far now.
I don’t know what I expect to find at the top. Enlightenment? Peace? Redemption?
I came here because I didn’t know where else to go.
Because Gotham is dead. Because my family is dead. Because no matter how much I claw and fight, I can’t seem to outrun the ghosts pressing in on me from every side.
So maybe I need to stop running.
Maybe I need to listen.
The temple comes into view, its stone walls carved into the mountain like it’s always been here, waiting for me to come crawling back. The entrance looms ahead, dark and silent. No monks greeting me, no guards watching from the shadows. Just the wind, the ice, and the weight of everything I’ve lost pressing down on me.
If I’m going to find anything here, it sure as hell won’t be peace. But at least I won’t be drowning in Gotham’s ashes anymore.
I take a slow breath, then step forward.
The silence is loaded. Not the peaceful kind, the kind that waits for something to happen. The kind that makes your muscles coil, ready to strike.
I keep moving, slow and deliberate, my boots barely making a sound against the stone. I trained here. I know the way this place breathes, the way it watches. The League has eyes in every shadow.
They know I’m here.
Good.
I take another step, and there it is—movement. Just the faintest shift in the dark, the kind most people wouldn’t catch. But I do. A whisper of fabric. The smallest scrape of a blade being drawn.
I don’t stop walking.
They won’t attack yet. Not until they’re sure I’m alone. Not until they’ve made their little assessments, run through their tactics. They’re disciplined, methodical—just like I used to be.
I step into the center of the hall and finally stop, crossing my arms like I’m bored.
“Well?” My voice echoes, sharp in the empty space. “Are you going to just stand there, or is someone actually going to say hello?”
Silence.
Then—movement.
Three figures emerge from the shadows, their faces hidden behind those familiar, expressionless masks. Two take flanking positions, weapons drawn but lowered, waiting for a command. The third steps forward, taller, broader.
I recognize him instantly.
Ubu.
Of course.
His eyes narrow, he was studying me. It’s been years since we stood face to face, but nothing’s changed. Same towering presence, same arrogant stance, like he thinks he’s above me. He never took orders from me well. Probably still doesn’t.
“Little Prince,” he says, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. “You look lost.”
I scoff. “And you look older. Guess being an assassin doesn’t do much for skin care.”
A flicker of irritation passes over his face, gone as quickly as it appears. But I saw it.
Good.
I shift my weight, rolling my shoulders like I don’t have a care in the world. “Let’s skip the part where you act surprised to see me. You knew I was coming. The League always knows.” I glance at the two assassins still holding formation. “And you brought backup. Cute.”
Ubu doesn’t react. Of course he doesn’t. He just stands there, letting the silence stretch, probably thinking it’s intimidating.
It’s not.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he says finally.
I smirked. “Yeah? And yet, here I am.”
His jaw tightens. I can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. I raise an eyebrow. “What, no warm welcome? No assassins dropping from the ceiling? I’m almost insulted.”
“Still the arrogant little prince, I see,” Ubu hisses, drawing his blade with a slow, deliberate motion. “You were always too soft to lead the League. Too much of your father in you.”
I rolled my eyes with a huff. Was that supposed to insult me? Ubu was never a smart cookie. “Look, if we’re doing this, let’s do it. I don’t have time to stand around listening to a bunch of second-rate assassins try to psychoanalyze me.”
Ubu’s grip tightened on his blade. The others shift, weight balanced, fingers twitching near their weapons. Finally.
“Have it your way,” he mutters.
He lunges.
I don’t hesitate. My blade is already moving before his foot even leaves the ground. He slashes high—I duck. The second one goes low—I pivot, deflecting the strike with a sharp clang of steel against steel. Another attacks from behind, but I twist, using his own momentum to send him stumbling forward, my elbow slamming into his spine.
They’re fast. Efficient. Trained well.
But not well enough.
I parry a strike aimed at my ribs, sidestep another, and drive my knee into the gut of the nearest assassin. He doubles over with a grunt, and I spin, bringing my sword up in a tight arc, slicing through the fabric of his sleeve, just barely missing flesh. A warning.
The others aren’t as lucky.
I drop low, sweeping a leg out, and one of them crashes to the floor. Before he can recover, my boot slams into his chest, pinning him down. Another rushes in from the side, aiming for my throat, but I catch his wrist mid-air and twist—hard. He yelps as his dagger clatters to the ground, his arm bent at a sickening angle.
Two left.
They hesitate now. Good.
I face the last assassin, Ubu, my breathing steady. He’s the leader, the one who started this mess. His grip tightens on his blade, shoulders coiled.
“Still think I’m too soft?” I ask, dripping with sarcasm.
He hesitates. Then, with a snarl, he charges.
Two moves. That’s all it takes. I block, twist his arm, and slam him face-first into the stone. His blade skitters away, and I press my boot into his back.
“Don’t think for a second I won’t end this,” I say, voice cold.
He groans, trying to rise. I press down harder.
“You’re the heir to nothing,” he spits. “Too weak for the League. Too ruthless for your father’s legacy.”
I crouch, voice low. “I’m done letting people like you tell me who I am.”
I kick him aside, his body hitting the stone with a thud. No one moves.
My gaze shifts to the Lazarus Pits. My fists unclench as I step forward, the assassin’s words echoing.
Caught between two worlds.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t care.
The room reeks of blood and incense. Ra’s loyalists are being dragged away by Talia’s assassins. They recognize me. They bow—not out of respect, but acknowledgment. Like they’ve already decided what I am.
I hate it.
The room clears, leaving me alone with the green glow of the Lazarus Pit, pulsing like a sick heartbeat. The power hums in the air, clawing at me, promising everything I’ve lost—just within reach.
“Master Damian.”
Omar steps from the shadows, head bowed. He’s old, older than my mother even, his face carved from stone. “The men are dealt with. We await your orders.”
“Orders?” I scoff, sharp, biting. “You think I’m here to play Ra’s? To sit on a throne and bark commands?”
He doesn’t flinch. “You are the last of the al Ghul line. The League is yours, if you want it.”
If I want it.
My fist tightens, leather creaking under my glove. The League has always been there, lurking, waiting for me to claim it. But that’s not why I’m here.
I step closer, locking eyes with him. “I didn’t come here to lead your little death cult.”
Omar hesitates but doesn’t argue. “Then what do you seek, Master Damian? Perhaps we can help.”
I almost laugh. The League doesn’t help—they control, they kill. And I don’t need them. I don’t need anyone.
I turn away, my eyes locking on the Lazarus Pit. That eerie green glow, the thick air, the promise of what it can do. What it’s done before.
It could bring them back. Father. Grayson. Alfred.
My steps are slow, measured, but my heart hammers in my chest. The liquid bubbles just inches from my boots, sulfur and metal stinging my nose. The Pit gives life, but it takes something, too. It twists. Corrupts.
But what if, this time, I could control it?
I can feel them behind me—Father’s relentless discipline, Grayson’s stubborn hope, Alfred’s quiet patience. Watching. Judging.
They’re gone.
And I could bring them back.
I stare into the Pit, my reflection warped in the green glow. “You are the last of the al Ghul line,” the assassin’s words echo. Ra’s used this place to cheat death, to build an empire. And now, it’s mine.
But at what cost?
My hand hovers over the water. I can feel it—energy crawling over my skin like static. One step, one plunge, and I could undo everything. Bring them back. Fix what I couldn’t save.
But at what cost?
I shut my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the flood. Father’s face, unreadable as ever. Did he trust me? Did he believe in me? Or did he see what I see now? A kid in over his head. A failure.
You’re not a failure, his voice whispers in my head. You never were.
I grit my teeth. “Tell that to the city you couldn’t save.”
The Lazarus Pit is real power. I’ve seen it. I know what it can do. It doesn’t just heal—it remakes. I could bring them all back. Father. Grayson. Alfred. Hell, I could rebuild Gotham, make it stronger, better.
But I know the truth. The Pit doesn’t heal—it corrupts. I saw what it did to Ra’s. Every time he used it, there was less of him left. When he came back, he wasn’t him. Not really.
What if that’s what happens to them? What if they return broken? Twisted? What if I use the same poison that turned my grandfather into a monster?
I step closer, the heat of the Pit wrapping around me like a whisper. But what if this time, it’s different? What if I can control it? I’ve always been better than Ra’s. Smarter. More disciplined. What if I’m the one who can make the Lazarus Pit obey?
The thought sends a chill through me, colder than the mountain air. It’s everything Ra’s wanted. Everything he trained me for. The perfect heir. And isn’t that what I’ve always fought against?
Or maybe I’m just tired of fighting.
The anger is there, bubbling under my skin like it always is. That rage that comes with every failure, every time I wasn’t enough. I could use it. The Pit could make me enough.
I just have to step in.
I close my eyes. Grayson’s voice is there, calm, steady. We’re better than that, Damian. Better than vengeance.
Vengeance. The word hits like a punch. Am I doing this because I need them back? Or because I can’t live with the fact that I failed them?
The green light flickers over my face, making everything feel unreal. I stare into the swirling liquid, and for a second, I see them—Father, Grayson, Alfred—waiting. But then it shifts, warps. They come back wrong. Twisted. Cold and violent, not the people I loved. And I see myself, standing there, watching as it all falls apart. Again.
The Pit doesn’t fix things. It just drags them out.
My hands shake. My chest tightens. But I blink hard, pushing it down. No tears. Not here. Not now.
But are you strong enough?
The doubt creeps in, whispers at the edges of my mind. What if I can’t do this without them? What if I’m not enough?
You are enough.
Grayson’s voice again. Steady. Not disappointed. Just... there. A reminder of what he stood for, what I could still be.
I take a breath. My eyes stay locked on the Pit, but slowly... I step back.
My pulse pounds in my ears. My hands tremble. But I turn away. I won’t do it. I can’t. This isn’t the way.
Father wouldn’t forgive me.
Alfred wouldn’t forgive me.
Grayson wouldn’t forgive me.
And neither would I.