Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Echoes of the Past

Third Person

The night was eerily quiet as Damian Wayne perched on the edge of a gargoyle overlooking Gotham City. The moon hung high above, casting a silver glow over the rooftops. The familiar skyline, once a source of comfort and thrill, now felt heavy with memories that refused to fade. As the wind whipped through his hair, Damian felt an unsettling turmoil stirring inside him, one he could no longer ignore.

Ever since he had returned from the League of Assassins, a darkness had settled in his heart. It whispered cruel reminders of the blood he had spilled and the lives he had taken. Each night, when he closed his eyes, he was bombarded with flashes of his past: the sound of a blade slicing through flesh, the pleading eyes of his enemies as they realized their fate, and the icy indifference that had accompanied each kill.

"Damian, do you copy?" Tim Drake's voice crackled through the earpiece, interrupting his thoughts. "You're supposed to be on lookout. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, I'm here," Damian replied tersely, forcing himself to focus on the mission at hand. But his mind was elsewhere, spiraling into memories he couldn't escape.

Damian had been trained to be a weapon, to follow orders without question. Under the tutelage of his mother, Talia al Ghul, he had learned that emotions were a weakness, that compassion was for the weak. But as he matured and began to form connections with the Bat family, he found himself grappling with feelings he had long suppressed.

He had thought he could leave the past behind, but the shadows of his training haunted him. Each time he stood beside his brothers, he felt unworthy. They fought for justice, for redemption, while he fought with the blood of the guilty staining his hands. It was a weight he couldn't shake, no matter how hard he tried.

"Damian!" Tim's voice jolted him from his thoughts. "We need you focused. The target is moving."

"On it," he replied, forcing his gaze back to the street below. The adrenaline surged through him, and he hoped that the mission would distract him from the turmoil within.

As they engaged the target—a minor crime lord with connections to the League—Damian's training kicked in. He fought with the precision and skill he had been taught, dispatching enemies with ease. But every time he struck, a part of him screamed in protest. Memories of the League flooded his mind—their ruthless efficiency, their unforgiving teachings.

After the mission concluded, with the target subdued, Damian found himself retreating to the shadows once again. The thrill of the fight faded, replaced by the familiar guilt that clawed at him. He had done it again—he had hurt people. He had been the instrument of pain, just like he had been taught.

Days turned into weeks, and the guilt consumed him. He distanced himself from the others, pushing away the very people who cared for him. He would sit in silence, watching his brothers laugh and bond, feeling like an outsider in his own family. The laughter echoed in his mind, twisting into mockery. They didn't know the real him. They didn't know the monster he was.

One evening, as the sun set over Gotham, Damian found himself alone in his room, the shadows closing in around him. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, searching for the boy he used to be. Instead, he saw a stranger—a young man burdened with sins he couldn't atone for. The memories of his training played in his mind like a cruel film reel, each scene more haunting than the last.

"Kill without hesitation," his mother's voice echoed in his mind. "There is no room for weakness."

"Stop it," he muttered to himself, gripping the edge of the sink as anger surged through him. "You're not that person anymore."