Advanced chapters and more on my P@treon.com/Saintbarbido.
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The heavy double doors to the Demon's Head's private chambers slammed open with a force that echoed down the marble corridor.
Ra's al Ghul barely glanced up from his desk, but the ancient parchment in his hand curled faintly in his fingers. Ubu stood to the side, ever vigilant, until the limp body of Bane thudded onto the floor before them like discarded luggage.
Behind Damian, Talia entered, face tight with restrained fury. Behind her still, Shiva, arms folded, wore a slight smirk.
"Boy," Ra's said without looking up, "have you forgotten the meaning of restraint?"
Ubu stepped forward to intercept—too slow.
In a flash of movement, Damian twisted the giant's wrist back at an unnatural angle, spinning him to his knees. The big man grunted in pain, his face twisted, held fast and humiliated.
"I'm going to Gotham," Damian said flatly, eyes on Ra's. "Starting now."
Ra's set his parchment down slowly. His green eyes rose, calm but faintly glowing with annoyance. "Talia," he said, voice clipped, "have you not taught your student basic etiquette? This level of disrespect will not go unpunished."
Talia bowed deeply. "I accept all responsibility, Father," she said. "And whatever punishment you deem fit for me… but I ask you first to consider Damian's request. He was born in Gotham. Raised there. He knows its underworld and its rhythms better than anyone here. If anyone can move through that city unnoticed and find Cassandra—it's him."
Ra's turned to Shiva.
Shiva gave a single nod. "The boy has the strength," she said. "And the instinct. He's earned the right to hunt."
For a long moment, Ra's was silent.
Then he exhaled softly through his nose. "Unhand my bodyguard, Damian."
Damian let go of Ubu's arm without a word. The larger man backed away quickly, clutching his wrist and shooting a glare at the boy.
Ra's steepled his fingers and leaned forward. "Do you even know the full scope of this mission?"
"No," Damian said honestly. "But I know Cassandra's missing. That's enough."
Ra's shook his head slowly and looked to Talia. "Brief him. Then both of you get out of my sight."
With a snap of his fingers, the guards at the door pulled the chamber open again. Talia bowed once more. Shiva simply turned and walked.
Damian followed them out.
The three of them walked side by side down the grand hallway of the citadel, silent but for the echo of their footsteps. Torchlight painted the walls in gold and red.
Talia broke the silence. "You're worried about her," she said gently. "I understand. She's more than just a fellow Shadow to you."
Damian didn't answer.
He kept walking, his eyes focused forward.
But inside?
He wasn't worried.
He was thrilled.
Someone had taken Cassandra bloody Cain.
Someone had outplayed the League.
Someone was waiting out there who could match them. Someone worthy.
And Damian Wayne couldn't wait to find out who.
(24 hours later)
Gotham hadn't changed.
Even after almost five years away, Damian recognized the city's sickness. It was in the thick fog curling around broken streetlights. It lingered in the way rain slid down the alley walls, as if the city was weeping in slow motion. The clouds overhead looked as bruised as the pavement.
From the rooftop of a rusted tenement, he crouched still as a gargoyle, the drizzle dripping off the shoulders of his cloak. His breath fogged faintly as he adjusted the weight of the Yautja helmet cradled in his hand.
He slid it on.
The world changed.
The rain became filtered dots of motion. The building across the street lit up in his HUD, each floor outlined in thermal readings and wireframe overlays. Neon pulses mapped the structure—its weak points, escape routes, and security networks.
The first floor: a crowded nightclub. Loud, bright, irrelevant.
The second floor—Jason Todd's supposed apartment—was dark. No lights. No motion.
Damian toggled through vision modes.
With a soft pulse, the X-ray function activated.
The second floor bloomed to life in skeletal outlines. No bodies. No movement. A vacant shell.
Damian frowned.
Jason Todd—Hanzo, as the League knew him—had gone dark. He was assigned as Cassandra's handler, due to her unfamiliarity with Gotham. If she had vanished, he was the first and most important thread.
Something was wrong.
Damian activated the helmet's cloaking field, blending into the misty skyline. The shimmer of invisibility rippled over him, adapting to the dim streetlights.
He didn't hesitate.
With a flick of his wrist, his tattoos stretched and hardened, becoming a zipline. In a silent blur, he crossed the street and landed on the apartment's narrow balcony. The rain glistened off the glass window, streaked with grime and soot.
A click, a twist—he silently unlatched the lock.
Lightning cracked behind him as he slipped inside, thunder rumbling over the city.
Glass crunched under his foot.
Damian looked down to see a broken vase, shards glittering in the strobe of lightning.
The whole apartment was a wreck.
Furniture overturned. Cushions gutted. Books and picture frames shattered across the floor. Blood stained the wall in thin sprays—more than one spatter.
This wasn't a robbery.
It was a search.
Someone had come looking for something.
And they'd fought for it.
Damian knelt by a sliced pistol, its halves cleanly separated by something sharp. Too precise for a bullet. Not chaotic enough for a brawl.
Professional.
He stood, scanning the room slowly. Whoever had come here… knew what they were doing.
But if Jason had been taken too, there'd be—
There.
A faint glint of silver beneath the collapsed bed.
Damian crouched and reached under the debris, fingers brushing something smooth.
He pulled it out.
A sword scabbard.
He knew it instantly. Lightweight, reinforced. Custom design. Cassandra's.
His eyes narrowed. "She was here."
His grip tightened on the scabbard's cold surface.
Suddenly, his horn vibrated.
Damian froze.
Danger.
Without hesitation, he dove to the side—just as a dark figure dropped from the ceiling, a gleaming blade stabbing the floorboards where he'd been.
The floor cracked.
Damian rolled, snatching a fallen chair and hurling it at the attacker.
The figure slashed it in two with a single strike.
Another object flew—the broken bed frame.
Split again.
Damian was already moving.
He lunged low and fast, driving his shoulder into the attacker's midsection. The figure grunted, caught off guard as they crashed through the apartment window in a shatter of glass and steel.
Rain howled around them as they tumbled down two stories.
In the momentary freefall, Damian caught a glimpse of his attacker's mask.
Ebony with glass lens. Etched. An owl.
His eyes narrowed.
A Talon of the Court of Owls.
This mission just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
Damian didn't scream as gravity yanked him down.
Mid-air, his tattoos lashed out of his sleeves, hardening into taut lines, snaring the side of the building. They dragged against the slick brick as he swung wide, cutting velocity before flipping onto a neighboring ledge in a three-point crouch.
Below, the Talon crashed into the pavement, the impact scattering partygoers outside the nightclub. Gasps and shrieks filled the air—only to grow louder as the Talon slowly stood, back hunched, Cassandra's scabbard clutched tightly in one hand.
Not even a limp.
No pain.
The assassin staggered once, then moved briskly down the street, vanishing into the mist and drizzle like a ghost with a purpose.
Damian's eyes narrowed beneath the Predator helmet.
The scabbard. That's what it was about.
He pursued silently from above, cloaked, darting across rooftops in seamless bounds. The helmet fed him tracking data— but they were off.
The Talon's low thermal residual, stiff muscle vibrations and the strange liquid circulating through his internals were inhuman. Ironically making him easier to track.
Soon, the figure ducked into an alleyway, lifting a manhole cover with one arm and disappearing underground.
Damian didn't follow immediately.
Too obvious.
Instead, he scanned the tunnel grid with his X-ray vision, tracing the Talon's steps. Calculating. Anticipating.
He moved four blocks over and slipped into the underworld through a separate grate.
And immediately regretted it.
The smell.
Pungent filth and decay. Waste water sloshed around his boots, thick with sludge and more than he cared to think about.
His enhanced senses recoiled, a stabbing pressure forming between his eyes.
"This city…" he grumbled, "and I thought jumping into shark-infested waters was bad."
Every step squelched. But his pace didn't slow.
If the Court of Owls really had Cassandra, this wasn't just another League mission.
The Court. Whispers of them had circled every Gotham orphanage like bedtime ghost stories. Owl-masked men who spirited away the disobedient. Even the League of Shadows had been wary of confirming their existence.
And here they were.
Real. Operative. Dangerous.
Eventually, the tunnel widened—arching into an old, unused subway line. Rusted rails glinted in the helmet's optics, leading toward an iron gate. Beyond that gate, Damian saw it.
A massive underground chamber, shaped like a ballroom. Marble cracked beneath scattered gold decor. Velvet banners hung limp across the curved ceiling. And gathered there… a crowd.
Dozens of owl masks. Watching. Murmuring.
The Talon he'd tracked entered first, walking to the center and presenting the scabbard like a holy relic.
Damian emerged last, climbing from the ladder, eyes scanning every shadow.
They saw him.
All of them.
From among the crowd, a man in a pale gray suit stepped forward. His porcelain owl mask had gold filigree across its edges, feathers flaring like a crown. He raised a gloved hand in greeting.
"Welcome," he said smoothly, "Damian Wayne. We've been expecting you."
Damian said nothing despite the man knowing his identity. He was already cataloging threats. 7 Talons and a dozen bodyguards/henchmen.
The man gestured with one hand—directing his attention to a large screen built into the chamber's stone wall.
The image hit harder than the stench.
Cassandra. Jason.
Bound to twin execution platforms.
Each platform had a Talon behind it, holding an oversized axe. Silent. Patient.
"Your friends," the man said with calm finality, "await their judgment. But perhaps we can avoid a bloodbath… if you comply."
He extended a hand.
"Relinquish your weapons. Your armor. And of course, that helmet. Do this… and they live."
For a moment, everything froze. The crowd. The masked Talons. Even the flickering screen.
Damian didn't move.
Then—he smiled. Faintly.
So that was it.
The scabbard wasn't just a token. It was bait. A perfect trap designed to reel in a killer like him. No not just a killer, a Shadow sent by the League. The fact they knew it was him who showed up, was a point to the effectiveness of their information network.
He reached up slowly.
The helmet hissed as he disengaged it and pulled it off.
The sharp, red gleam of his horn was the last thing visible before he handed over the helmet… followed by his twin daggers, his utility belt, and even the reinforced bracers around his wrists.
To the same Talon he'd followed.
"You wanted my attention?" Damian said quietly, stepping forward. "Well you've got it."