Trickery (A Damian Wayne Story)

Blood Son

Bruce takes the computer and opens the email. There are no words, just a video attachment titled 'Blood Son.'

For a moment Bruce thinks it might be a joke. A video concocted by Damian to fool him, to make fun of him, or even to deny his birthright. He opens the video and everyone around him leans in. Damian hangs, suspended in the air by chains, in the middle of a well-lit room. Slade steps in front of the camera, obscuring the boy from view, then starts to speak.

"Since the bastard doesn't seem to want to talk I guess I'll have to contact you directly." Slade smiles. "Come find your son already, Batsy. He's in an awful lot of pain."

"Father don't listen to him," Damian says. His voice is choked, rough. "Don't come. It's a trap."

Slade swings around, wielding a bat which he crushes into Damian's side. The kid screams, then slumps, heaving, in his restraints, chains rattling around him. Slade faces the camera once again, "I'm getting my revenge on the boy. Don't make him part of the revenge I'll have on you, too. You have 24 hours."

The video ends and Bruce immediately turns. "Tim?"

"Got it. He's in Montreal. It looks like some sort of mansion."

"Let's go."

-

Slade punches me, straight in the nose. Blood drips down over my lips, sliding into my mouth. I work up a glob of spit and aim it at his good eye. It hits true and Slade lets out a cry of anger, swiping at the liquid in a blind fury. He grips the bat tightly between both hands and sends it into my ribcage with a renewed strength.

My bones crack, the chains keeping me stable enough to feel the full force of the blow. My vision blurs in front of me. For some reason I feel closer to the ground. "You hit like a girl," I tell Slade. He stomps on my shin, snapping it in half. My eyes focus for a moment. The ground is hard beneath me. I catch one, fleeting glimpse of the bone that sticks out of my skin, blood gushing from the wound. I think I'm screaming. I don't know. I can't hear anything. I can't see. There is only pain.

Clarity returns slowly, like a fog lifting away from my consciousness.

I blink open my eyes. Mother stands in front of me.

"So what's the plan then?" I ask. My voice is rough, my throat feels sore. I keep hearing a phantom snap as Slade drives his foot into my leg. An ominous crack as the bat makes contact with my ribs. I involuntarily flinch, imagining Slade's fist aiming for my nose. I shake the thoughts out of my head. I have to stay strong. I have to keep focused, even if I'm diving straight into this conversation blindly. "Are you gonna steal Father again so you can mess with his memories?"

Mother shakes her head, "Not at all. I've been watching you, Damian. From a distance, but still keeping track of you. I want him to watch as I alter your memories. As I turn the very thing he's created against him, just as he has done to me."

"You turned against me!" I yell at her. My voice cracks and I taste blood inside my mouth. "You ruined the trust I had in you. That was you!"

To my surprised Mother keeps her calm. "If that's what you want to think," she says, "then think it. You won't have much more time for free thoughts anyways."

She starts to walk away. "How are you even gonna do it?" I ask her. "Your little memory sidekick got his head blown off."

Mother turns around, "Right," she says. "Just like Slade drowned at the bottom of the ocean. And just like my escape plane blew up." She turns back towards the door, "Things are not always what they seem."

She leaves me alone then, all by myself in the large room. The ceiling is high, it seems to stretch upwards for an eternity. Bright, overhead lights illuminate the space well. The floor is dirty, dingy, uneven and rough, but the walls are stark white, smooth.

What does she want with me?

My mind is clouded. My head pounds incessantly behind my eyes and no amount of rest helps. It's difficult to think. My train of thought is sluggish, as if moving through a gelatinous substance. I try to sift through my brain, figure out where my memories went wrong. Connect the dots between that exploded plane and the healthy, untouched figure of my Mother.

My thoughts, bitterly, find themselves directed on Todd. Jason. His name is like a curse inside my head. I recognize the irrational hatred I have for him, know I shouldn't really be this angry, but my body aches in ways I don't remember, and I can't help but blame him. Then again, if I hadn't snuck out, like Father and Grayson always told me not to do, none of this would have happened. On the other hand, if Mother and Slade wanted me this badly, I don't think any hiding or extra protection could have helped.

I've always viewed Jason Todd as a complete imbecile, so his actions a few nights back don't surprise me as much as they annoy me. After dying and being brought back to life, forgiven enough by Father to be allowed to come and go as he pleases, like Grayson, he's certainly chosen a dangerous path. I envy him. I wish Father would accept me for who I am, who I grew up as. Often times I feel lost, insecure in who I am and what I'm doing. Grayson has moved on to Nightwing. Jason is the Red Hood, doing good work through unsatisfactory methods. But me? I'm constantly failing. Constantly treading lightly around Batman because everything I do is wrong. And while Father will always love Todd for the boy he'd once been, I've been a mistake from the start.

The door opens in front of me and, as if in a sudden blast of memories, I watch Slade lunge forward, swinging out his fist to slam into my face. In one swift motion he grabs my shoulder and yanks at my elbow, snapping it in the opposite direction.