Demons (Damirae)

Chapter Forty-Nine

"Lost him. The Gotham sewage system. City outskirts.", Batman melted in to his chair, swivelling away from the Batcomputer.

"Damnit!", Dick cursed, twirling his escrima sticks in aggravation, the electric rods sparking in midair as he tossed them again and again and again. "What actually happened anyway? All I know is that Damian and Donna, ", he nodded at the Titans, "picked up Quinn, and then The Big Bat over here lost the Joker."

Nightwing's eyes (matching the Blue design of his uniform) fell to the villain, (unconscious and lain over a gurney-like bed, her tangled spaghetti of blonde hair strewn over the pillow like a zombie Sleeping Beauty). It was hardly the first time that Batman and Nightwing had witnessed the Queen of Crime in this position: broken and bruised, hollowed and hurt -her throne burnt to ash- by the mad King Joker.

The last time was messy. Oh, gods was it messy.

Blood. Blood. Blood. Streets drenched in the stuff.

And a surging river of hysteria flowing with it.

"Jason and Tim can't know.", Batman ordered, posture righting itself.

"We don't need to know what?", came the accusatory tones of one RedHood.

***

Cold.

It gushed over Damian's skin. Torrents of icy liquid cleansing his flesh, running over his face and down his back. A shower of relief. Coating his form in sterilising waves and leaving murky, pinkish water disappearing down the drain.

Damian blew a sigh of release, sending the water droplets that had accumulated along his nose flying. Running his fingers up through his soaked hair- so as to see better- Damian switched the showed off, rivulets of water still tricking down his body.

Feet leaving the surface of the shower cubicle, they found the plush bathroom rug in front of the sink, reaching out for the towel hanging besides him. Securing the plain material around his waist, Damian looked up, staring back at two green eyes.

In front of him, stood a boy: around fifteen; wet, black hair; light tan skin; piercing green eyes; neatly sculpted chest; harsh, angular face; torso littered with silver, twisted lines. Damian regarded the boy in the mirror. The reflection of a self he hardly knew.

Who was this person?

It was Damian, but didn't feel like him. Not in a sinister way, but in an puzzling one.

He recognised each shadow and bruise darkening his skin, and each scar and line. But something within, something at the heart of his being, had fundamentally altered.

A war of identity waged in his centre.

A Titan, a hero, Robin.

An assassin, a murder, the Heir.

A demon, a blood-thirsty monster, an Al-Ghul.

A person fueled by love?-or a person fuelled by lust?

Momentarily, his eyes sparked a furious red, his demonic heritage forcing its acknowledgment. Rouged orbs narrowing decidedly, the teen fixated his thoughts along a single line.

I am Damian Al-Ghul Wayne, Heir to the Demon and Batman, master assassin and flame of Hell's rightful ruler. Nothing will change that.

Nodding to his reflection, Damian strode out of the bathroom, assured in his beliefs. Proceeding to make short work of getting dressed. As the teen picked up his shirt- with all the intention of slipping it on- a light, melodic rapping issued from his door.