Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Shadows Of The Mind Version 1

The gas hit Damian like a punch to the gut. He'd been ready for Scarecrow's usual fear tactics—clouds of toxin designed to rip open a person's mind and show them their worst nightmares. But nothing could've prepared him for this.

At first, it was just a fog in his head, thick and suffocating. Damian staggered back, coughing into his sleeve as the greenish mist swirled around him. The faint voice of Bruce crackled through his comm, barking orders Damian couldn't quite process. His vision blurred, and suddenly, the world felt wrong. Too loud. Too quiet. Too empty.

Then it started.

Damian found himself standing in Wayne Manor's great hall, the high ceilings stretching endlessly above him. But the usual warmth of the manor—the low hum of Alfred's teapot, the faint sound of Dick's terrible pop music—was gone. The silence felt heavy, like the weight of something unspeakable pressing on his chest.

"Hello?" His voice echoed, fragile and small, swallowed by the emptiness.

No answer.

Damian's stomach churned. His hand instinctively reached for the katana strapped to his back, but it wasn't there. Neither were his gloves or his utility belt. He was stripped of everything that made him Robin, standing in nothing but a plain black hoodie and sweatpants. He felt exposed.

"Father?" he tried again, louder this time. But the silence remained, so deep it made his ears ring.

And then he saw it. A figure lying on the floor near the staircase.

"Father!"

Damian sprinted toward Bruce, his heart hammering. As he got closer, the details sharpened—the blood pooling beneath Bruce's body, the unnatural angle of his neck. Damian skidded to his knees, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch his father's shoulder.

"No. No, no, no..."

Bruce didn't move. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, lifeless and cold. Damian's breath hitched, and a sickening dread settled in his chest.

"This isn't real," he whispered, trying to convince himself. "It's the gas. It's not real."

But the world around him didn't waver. The fear toxin made everything too real—every drop of blood, every shadow, the smell of death hanging in the air.

From the Batmobile, Bruce's knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he raced toward Damian's last known location. "Status?" he demanded, his voice sharp and urgent.

"He's not responding," Tim said, his fingers flying over the keyboard of the Batcomputer. "His comm's still live, but he's not saying anything."

"Damian's tough," Dick said from the passenger seat. His tone was firm, but there was a crack in it, a hint of worry he couldn't hide. "He's been through worse."

Bruce's jaw clenched. "Not like this."

Back in the nightmare, Damian stood frozen as the scene shifted.

Bruce's body vanished, replaced by Alfred's crumpled form in the kitchen. Then Jason, face pale and lifeless, sprawled in the alley where Damian had first met him. Dick, Tim, Stephanie—the bodies kept appearing, one after the other, all of them staring up at him with cold, accusing eyes.

"You weren't fast enough," a voice whispered, low and venomous.

Damian spun around, searching for the source. The shadows twisted, taking shape until they formed him. A twisted version of himself, taller and older, wearing a bloodstained version of his Robin suit.

"You're the reason they're dead," the doppelgänger hissed, stepping closer. "You think you're a hero, but you're just a selfish little boy playing dress-up. You're weak. A failure. And now they're gone because of you."

"No!" Damian shouted, his voice cracking. "I—I tried! I—"

"You're nothing without them," the shadow Damian sneered, circling him. "And now you're alone. Just like you were always afraid you'd be."

Bruce found Damian slumped against a crumbling wall in the old warehouse. His breathing was shallow, his eyes wide and unfocused.

"Damian." Bruce dropped to his knees, shaking the boy gently. "It's me. You're safe now."

But Damian didn't respond. His lips moved, forming silent words, and tears streamed down his face.

"Father..." Damian whispered, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" His head jerked back as though he was seeing something horrifying, and he let out a strangled sob.

"Tim, I need the antidote!" Bruce barked into the comm, his voice tight with panic.

"On my way," Tim replied, his voice shaky.

It took hours for the antidote to fully clear Damian's system, but the nightmares didn't leave him. Even after he woke up in the Batcave, surrounded by the familiar hum of the computers and the concerned faces of his family, the images haunted him.

"I should've been stronger," he muttered, staring at his hands.

"Hey," Dick said softly, crouching next to him. "What you went through—it wasn't real, Damian. It was the gas messing with your head."

"It felt real," Damian snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and brimming with tears. "You were all dead. And it was my fault. I could've saved you, but I didn't. I wasn't enough."

Bruce stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "You're more than enough, Damian. The gas preys on your deepest fears—it's not a reflection of reality. None of what you saw was real."

Damian shook his head. "But what if it is? What if I fail you all one day? What if I'm not strong enough to protect the people I care about?"

For once, Bruce didn't have an answer. He placed a hand on Damian's shoulder, his grip steady. "You're not alone in this. You never will be."

Damian looked at him, the fear still lingering in his eyes, but he gave a small nod. Deep down, he knew Bruce was right. But the shadows of his fears would take time to fade.

And maybe, just maybe, they never fully would.