30 Days of Demonfire

Batman

I run, my breath fogging in front of me, but the walls around me are alive. They shift as I run, always so close that if I reach my arms out, I'd touch both sides. They're leading me somewhere.

The walls stop moving, finally; they stretch in front of me and let out to a busy street. I'm at the back of an alley. A man stumbles toward me, but I don't think he sees me. He's holding his stomach like he's in pain.

"Hello?" I call, and I flinch as the man pitches forward and lands on the pavement face-first.

I hesitate but I run to him, and all at once I see the puddle of blood beneath him and the familiar bat-ears on the cowl that covers his head.

"D-dad?" I call, and I crouch next to him. "Daddy?" I lift the cowl and his hair is matted with blood, his face beaten in.

I gasp and turn, retching, and I'm not even sure where to go. Steph—Leslie—Damian—one of them will help me. I lift into the air, but a wave of bats flies in front of me, screeching, and the air is so full of them that I can't go any further, and they're hitting me with such force that I fall into the pavement, cratering it around me. A group of bats surround me and flap their wings furiously, and when I look down at myself I'm not in the Nightstar uniform anymore. I'm in a weird version of the Batsuit, the cowl tight around my eyes and the emblem gleaming on my chest.

My dad, Nightwing now, is walking away, his head slumped. "Wait, dad," I call, and I grab his elbow.

But he flinches back and I drop my hand. "I'm sorry, Starshine," he says, his voice cold. "Batman doesn't love anyone. Batman lives alone. With the bats."

"No, daddy," I whisper, tears filling my eyes. "Please—"

"Mar'i," I hear like an echo, and I turn away from my father. The voice is coming from past the swarm of bats. "Ri, wake up."

I gasp and spring into a sitting position, where Damian is waiting to pull me against him.

"It's okay," he soothes, and he cups my face between his hands. "You were dreaming."

My heart is pounding so loudly I can hear it. "I was having a nightmare. The same nightmare."

"Your father is fine." He assures me as he crawls off the bed and reaches for his dresser. He's tired, but it's not because of me.

Bruce was shot about a week ago. It was hell to deal with. So much worse than when my father got shot back in January. He took a bullet to his back, which was terrible because we had to brace his back and neck while worrying about bleeding out, and he took another to his leg.

Thank X'hal, his back is okay. But he's already had two surgeries on his knee and he's going to need so many more. I'm sure he'll be okay, though. He's the wealthiest man on the east coast. If there's a way—and I'm sure there is one—he'll find it.

What's got me so upset, though, is that my father's been taking on the role of Batman in Bruce's stead. I really, really hate it when my father has to be Batman. Yeah, he's Nightwing all the time, but being Batman is different. When you're Batman, you've got a bat-shaped bull's-eye on your chest. People will not fight you; people will try to kill you.

I wasn't on patrol today because it's Friday, and on Monday and Friday I have morning classes. I'm still sorta doing the vigilante thing full-time, but I get those days off.

Damian changes into pajamas, a t-shirt and sweatpants, and then he crawls onto the bed. He usually sleeps flat on his back, creepily still and with his arms at his sides, maybe bringing one arm up to rest on my back but usually not. Since Bruce got shot, though, he's been more... cuddly, I guess. Tactile.