Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Blood On My Hands

Third Person

The night was thick with tension as Damian Wayne crouched atop a gargoyle overlooking Gotham City. The wind whipped through his dark hair, stinging his cheeks with the sharpness of the cool air. Below him, the streets pulsed with life—a chaotic symphony of honking horns, shouting pedestrians, and the distant wail of sirens slicing through the stillness. Neon lights flickered intermittently, casting a garish glow on the grimy asphalt and illuminating the faces of those scurrying through the night. Damian breathed in deeply, the city's familiar scents of rain-soaked concrete and exhaust filling his lungs, trying to calm the storm brewing in his mind. He was a warrior, the son of Batman, and tonight's mission was simple: take down a small gang that had been terrorizing the streets, leaving fear in their wake.

Gotham was more than just a city to Damian; it was his playground, his battleground. He felt a certain thrill when prowling its rooftops, the exhilaration of being part of something larger than himself coursing through his veins. The night felt alive, and so did he, but tonight felt different. A sense of foreboding settled over him like a heavy cloak, an unshakeable dread that churned in his stomach like a lead weight. Shadows seemed to dance more menacingly than usual, twisting into grotesque shapes that teased the corners of his vision. It felt as though the very air around him crackled with anticipation, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was looming on the horizon.

Damian had been haunted by dark thoughts in the days leading up to this mission. Nightmares had invaded his sleep, dreams filled with failure and disappointment. He could still hear the echo of those dreams in his mind—the voices of those he had failed, the faces of those he had let down. He clenched his fists, pushing away the doubts that gnawed at him, willing himself to focus. He had trained hard for this moment; he couldn't let his fears dictate his actions.

"Damian, do you copy?" Tim Drake's voice crackled through the earpiece, pulling him from his reverie. The tone was urgent, but there was a hint of familiarity that grounded him amidst the rising tide of anxiety. "You're supposed to be the eyes on this one."

"Yeah, I'm here," Damian replied, his voice colder than he intended. He shook his head, as if to physically dismiss the nagging doubts that crowded his thoughts, and focused on the alley below, watching as shadows moved in the darkness. "I see them. Just waiting for your signal."

"Alright, let's move in. Stick to the plan."

The plan was straightforward, a well-rehearsed choreography. Tim would create a distraction while Damian slipped in from the back to take down the gang members silently. He felt a rush of adrenaline at the thought, a spark of anticipation igniting within him. He wanted to prove himself, to show that he was more than just the boy who wore the mantle of Robin. But deep down, the fear of failure lingered, twisting like a knife in his gut.

As Tim tossed a smoke bomb into the alley, it exploded in a cloud of gray, shrouding the gang in confusion. Shouts and curses erupted from the thugs, their voices echoing off the brick walls and mingling with the distant sounds of the city. Damian felt the familiar thrill of adrenaline surge through him as he leaped from his perch, landing silently among the chaos. He was a shadow, a predator stalking his prey, and for a brief moment, he felt invincible.

He moved quickly, dispatching two thugs before they even knew he was there. His training kicked in, and he executed each move with precision, striking with a mixture of grace and brutality that had been honed over years of relentless practice. The thrill of the fight ignited his senses, momentarily drowning out the unease that had plagued him. Each punch landed, each kick delivered, seemed to push the darkness further away, if only for a moment.