Chapter Text
It’s rather well known that Damian has severe problems with Santa. At twelve, Dick had taken him to the mall to sit on Santa’s lap. The man was dilapidated, listing to one side. Damian did not believe someone like that could deliver presents to every child on earth in one night, let alone the rest of the universe. When questioned, the man admitted to not believing in extraterrestrials (which is simply blatant anti-extraterrestrialism) and asked him what toy he wanted. Damian punched him in the throat.
All this to say that Damian does not like Christmas.
Despite this, the entire household is making an effort to celebrate the holiday.
“But you’re Orthodox,” Damian complains, holding the spool of lights as Dick threads them along the roof three stories above the ground. “Why are we celebrating Christmas in December when you did it in January last year?”
“Because I’m Ukrainian,” Dick shouts down. “And Ukraine says it’s on the 25th. At least, this year, they did. Besides, Jason said he’s coming this year.”
Damian frowns. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Dick says, then stubs his toe and nearly falls off the roof. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Do you need to be rescued?” he asks dryly. Dick leans over the edge of the roof to glare.
“Hardy har, Damian,” he says. “Get the ladder. I’m done risking my neck for these lights.”
Despite being a vigilante that flips off of buildings every night, Dick finds Christmas lights to be his limit. Damian grabs the ladder in the time it takes Dick to get down to the second story ledge—meant for window cleaners and the like—and the man clambers back to the icy ground. No snow yet. “I think you only lined half the house,” Damian remarks.
“It’s artistic,” Dick deadpans, then ruffles his hair. “Come on, Robin. I’ve got some shopping to do. And I know you haven’t done any yourself.”
Damian huffs, but follows. They enter the house just long enough to grab Dick’s car keys and then head back out to his vehicle.
The car is a sickly thing, which limps along the road. The driver’s side mirror is held together by duct tape and dreams, and the passenger seat Damian claims is ripped open, stuffing falling out. “Maybe Father will get you a new car,” he says judgementally, poking at the hole in the headrest next to Dick’s ear.
Dick swats his hand away. “This one’s fine.”
Damian huffs and looks out the window as they pass over the bridge. The bay is icy with a wild current. Winter turns Gotham into a wind tunnel, and the water is no different in its manic energy.
It’s a forty minute trip, filled with 2010s rock music and minimal conversation, before they’re finally parked in the trendy, artistic neighborhood of SoGo. Damian gracefully exits the car, and he stretches out his legs on the sidewalk while Dick struggles with the parking meter.
“Just leave it,” Damian says, once Dick figures out the meter doesn’t take coins anymore and must be paid through an app. “We can afford the ticket.”
“Damian!” Dick gasps, scandalized. “That’s illegal!”
Not if you’re rich, which they are. “Father will pay.”
Dick visibly struggles with himself before giving in, grabbing Damian’s upper arm and dragging him away from the residential block onto 81st Street. Crystal shops, vintage stores, and boutiques line the whole way. Damian moves for the single coffee shop—Mayday Coffee, which has excellent lattes, even though he probably shouldn’t be drinking so much caffeine at fourteen—but is dragged back by the collar of his winter coat by Dick.
“Dick,” Damian whines, and the man laughs and messes up his gelled hair. Damian scowls and tries to flatten it back down.
“Come on, Damian,” Dick says, in his Nightwing voice, and Damian straightens up on instinct. “Focus on the mission.”
Damian is petty, which means he only gets gifts for Stephanie, Duke, and Bruce by the time they head back for the manor. He hides them in his bedroom, then sprints down for dinner. Dick is staying in the house for the holiday, since he’s unemployed and has no need to spend vacation days strategically. Tim shows up for once, but Bruce is absent. None of them can cook, so they order takeout.
“Damian and I went shopping earlier today,” Dick says, shoving pizza down his throat.
“Did you get me a gift?” Tim asks, turning to look at Dick on his right. They’ve claimed their usual seats at the giant table, leaving them sitting on one side, all in a line. Damian leans forward to look at Tim properly. His hair has been bleached and dyed a pale, patchy blue, which somehow appears decent against his cool-toned skin. The younger boy sits back and slouches in annoyance.
“Maybe,” Dick says, eyes sparkling.
“Don’t tell me you got me something from SoGo,” Tim says. When Dick says nothing, the boy’s expression drops in horror, and Damian smirks in amusement. “Dick, how could you?”
“SoGo has good stuff,” he says defensively.
“It’s pretentious,” he scoffs in disgust. “Don’t tell me you got me some kind of $300 sweatshirt.”
Dick is silent. Damian, who knows what the actual gift is, looks Tim in the eye solemnly. Tim points at him. “No. No. I refuse.”
“Even if it was,” Dick says, “I couldn’t tell you, because it’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“Return it,” Tim says, gripping Dick’s shirt and sagging against him. “I don’t want it!”
“You should appreciate gifts as they’re given to you, Timothy,” Damian says, picking up a piece of pizza. “No one likes an ungrateful prick.”
“Don’t call Tim a prick,” Dick says, as Tim complains, “Dick, he called me a prick!”
“I didn’t,” he stresses. “I’m just saying he would be.”
“Why do we even celebrate Christmas?” Tim wonders. “Only two of us are Christians.”
“Stephanie is,” Dick argues. “So, that’s three.”
“Stephanie is neopagan,” Damian says. “She celebrates ‘Capitalist Christmas’, but she’s not Christian.” When he looks up, the other two are staring. Self-conscious, he says, “What?”
“How do you know that?” Tim asks.
“It came up in conversation.”
“What’s neo pagan?” Dick asks.
“She believes in pre-Christian deities,” Damian says.
“How is that different from regular paganism?” Dick presses.
“Because it’s reclaiming the practices,” he says, using his pizza to emphasize the point. “After centuries of colonization and forced conversion.”
“So she worships, what, the Greek Gods?” Tim asks. “That’s sensible, I guess. I mean, we’re family friends with demigods.”
“No,” he says. “She read this book about Arthurian legend and believes in the Triple Goddess.”
“How do you know that?” Tim repeats.
“You should just ask her,” Damian says. “She’s pretty open about it.”
“Is this why you bought her crystals from that store?” Dick asks. “Is that a pagan thing?”
“It can be.”
“Why do you know so much about my ex-girlfriend?” Tim asks suspiciously.
“I don’t,” he says, “I’m just friendly.”
“You? Friendly?”
Damian sighs and pushes away from the table. “I’m going to take a shower before patrol.”
“Shouldn’t you do that after?” Tim asks. “Don’t you get sweaty?”
He glares, knowing Tim knows he’s deadly jealous that he’s got that gene that prevents him from sweating like the rest of the plebes. “I’ll also shower after.”
“That’s bad for your skin,” Dick points out. “It’ll get dry.”
“I have lotion,” Damian says. “Goodbye.”
“Don’t be late again!” Tim shouts after him. “Otherwise we’ll stick you with the Westside!”
… He’s late, so he gets stuck with Westside.
There’s nothing exactly wrong with Westside. It’s even pleasant during the daytime. Locals and tourists alike go for ethnic food and thrift stores. Gotham University is even on the East side of the neighborhood.
West Gotham is mostly mixed-use zoning, making it ideal for middle class families on a budget or students living off-campus. It’s not as terrible as the North East part of the city, where Crime Alley and the Barrows reside.
So it’s fine. But it’s also… boring. There’s occasionally a break in, once every year there’s a murder, and when Halloween rolls around they patrol the high-density area. That’s about it. The younger vigilantes hate being stuck with it.
Damian isn’t quite sure he hates patrolling the area or if he’s simply been conditioned to believe he hates it.
He hides his bike in an alley, rappels onto the designated building for early night patrol, and expects to stay put, listening to the police radio, until the sun comes up.
When he lands on the top of the building, he pauses—Jason’s sitting there already.
“What are you doing here?” Damian asks, straightening up.
“I’m copwatching,” Jason says, then spins his baton. “Obviously.”
“Why would you need to—watch cops?”
Jason sighs, clipping the baton to his belt and sitting down on the top of the building. He pats next to him, and after a moment Damian sits next to him. “I’m not surprised Batman never told you this stuff,” Jason says. “Basically, Westside is full of ethnic minority neighborhoods. So a lot of cops are more prone to violence when they’re here.”
Damian stares. “Why?”
“Because… racism?” Jason says, scratching at the stubble that peeks out from under his helmet. “Shit, kid, I don’t want to pop your racism cherry.”
Gross. He wrinkles his nose. “I know what racism is.”
“Do you?” he says knowingly. Damian shifts, uncomfortable. “No offense, Robin, but you’re a rich kid who never had to go to school and has been on the top of the food chain everywhere you’ve lived. And the cape community is pretty equity focused, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Damian says, even though he doesn’t, really.
“Maybe you should go to public school,” Jason says. “I mean, there’s a high school nearby that has a US history teacher renowned for teaching CRT. You could learn some of that.”
“Do I really need to?” he asks. “It doesn’t seem to apply to me.”
Jason snorts. “Trust me, it will.” He stands, cracking his back. “You want a hand patrolling?”
“I don’t need your help,” Damian says, rolling up to his feet. “Go back to… copwatching.”
“Sure,” he says, dry and amused. “I’ll see you around, Robin.”
With that, he steps off the side of the building. Damian hears more than sees the line shoot out, grapple on some sort of anchor, and retract.
Damian hesitates for a moment, and then walks to the other side of the building, and jumps off. Better to find a different building.
Close to dawn, he stops at a 24-hour cafe in Little Punjab.
Damian has never lingered in this neighborhood before, but something about the conversation with Red Hood earlier makes him hesitant to leave. The place is a mix of stale 1980s construction and modern fixtures. A pretty text on the window calls it, quite originally, Little Punjab’s 24-hour Cafe. When he opens the door, a digital chime rings, and Damian looks around at the wood tables and metal chairs. There’s a shelving unit holding merch and teas and ground coffee by the counter, a case full of pastries behind glass, and a staff door to the kitchen. There’s a camera in the corner.
He’s examining the large couches in the center of the building when he hears: “Oh my God! You’re Robin!”
Damian turns his head to the barista, who’s in the middle of watering a giant plant next to the glass door. She has a nose piercing on the left side, faded henna on her hands, and when she nervously pulls at her braid, it’s long enough to touch her legs. Her nametag reads ‘Simran’.
“Yes,” he says, approaching her.
“Wow, my brother is a huge fan,” she says. “You saved his fiancée—ah, wife, from a Poison Ivy attack.”
Damian pauses, but Simran waits for his response with kind, wide eyes. “You’re… welcome?”
She laughs, and he flushes. “What can I help you with? Is there a murder nearby?”
“Um,” he says. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I mean, are you investigating?” she asks, tugging on her hair. A silver bracelet glints around her left wrist before her arm falls back to her side. “Do you need help? Like, I could be your detective sidekick.”
“Do you have experience in detective work?”
“No,” Simran admits. “But I’m really good at spot the difference games.”
Damian can’t help it: he huffs a laugh. Her returning grin is huge. “No murder. But I do need coffee.”
“Of course,” she says, setting down the watering can and walking briskly to the counter. “Fair warning, all our stuff is Indian inspired.”
“That’s fine,” he says, studying the menu. “How about an orange cardamom latte?”
“Sure,” she says, putting grounds in the espresso machine. “I’m Simran, by the way.”
“I know.”
“How?” Simran asks, awe in her eyes. Damian nods to her chest, and she slaps a hand against the nametag. “Oh.”
“Did your brother get married recently?”
“Wow,” she says. “Are you a stalker?”
“It’s simple, really,” he says. “You called his wife his fiancée before correcting yourself. And as you’re likely Indian, I’d assume your henna is potentially from the wedding. I’d estimate the ceremony took place about a week ago, based on how it’s fading.”
“They don’t call you a detective for nothing,” Simran says, and Damian puffs up in pride. She smiles, almost fond, the way Dick does sometimes. “Here.”
She hands him the coffee, in white and orange packaging. Damian holds it between his gloved hands and inhales the unique scent. Bitter orange peel, blonde coffee, and a touch of earthy cardamom. It reminds him of life with his mother, when they lived in Corbett before heading to the League headquarters in the Middle East. He takes a sip, closes his eyes, and imagines the light filtering through the lattice of open-aired windows. Lying on his mother, eyes closed, sleeping. Safe and sound, for the last time.
“How do you like it?”
“The coffee is adequate.”
“Great!” she says. “You’ll come back?”
“Ah… Probably,” he says. “How much?”
“It’s free,” Simran waves him away. “Consider it a thank you.”
“Well…” Damian clears his throat, shifts on his feet. “Thank you.”
“Hey, I need to take out the trash,” she says. “Could I get a picture with you when I get back?”
“Sure,” Damian says, and she grins.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere!”
“I’ll do my best,” he says, because he could be called away, and he doesn’t like to make promises he can’t keep. Damian heads to a table near the window, staring out into the dark, empty street. In the reflection of the window, he sees Simran remove the plastic liner of the trash and exit through the staff kitchen.
The speaker in his ear chirps, and he answers. “Speaking.”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Robin speaking’, buddy,” Stephanie says, her Jersey accent heavy, gum snapping in her mouth. "How else am I supposed to know who I'm talking to?"
“Are you incapable of recognizing my voice?”
He can imagine her rolling her eyes, and hears her pop a bubble. “You were supposed to be back ten minutes ago.”
“I’m having a coffee,” he says. “Is that a crime?”
“You’re gonna get yourself grounded, boy wonder,” she says. “Don’t think I forgot you promised to let me do your nails.”
Damian wrinkles his nose. “I did not promise.”
“You lost a bet. Same thing.”
“I’ll head back once I finish the coffee.”
“Sunrise is, like, thirty minutes away,” Stephanie says. “You need to kick your ass in gear.”
“I promised…” he flushes.
“Promised what?”
“A fan wants a photo,” he mutters.
“Aw,” Stephanie croons. He flushes harder.
“She gave me free coffee,” Damian defends.
“You’re so cute,” she says. “Do you have a crush or something?”
“Don’t be disgusting, Spoiler,” he snaps, then sips his coffee. “You know, the other Robin doesn’t know you’re neo-pagan.”
“Uh…” she says, “Yeah, well. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I mean, isn’t self discovery fluid?” she asks, voice shifty.
“So you’re not neo-pagan,” Damian deduces.
“I found out the author of Mists of Avalon was, like, a horrible human being,” Stephanie says. “Do I really want to believe in something that’s been spearheaded by someone like that?”
“I feel like most people believe in their religions without much intense thought,” Damian says, dry.
“I don’t know,” she complains. “No one’s super open about talking about it, you know? Like, how do you not question everything?”
“Hm,” he says, eyes flicking to the counter, then back to his coffee.
“I’m trying to find something different,” she says. “I think all religions have the same god, or something.”
“Aren’t they all different?” Damian refutes.
“Eh,” she says. “It’s all some form of higher power. Isn’t that pretty much the same idea?”
“I suppose so.”
“Personally, I’d like something flexible,” Stephanie says. “Just like the Avalon books. Like, the triple goddess is also the Virgin Mary, and the horned god is Jesus. Sort of.”
“Sure,” Damian says.
“Never believe in God, Damian. It’s complicated.”
Damian sips his coffee. He’s never thought about what his beliefs are. He hasn’t even read any religious texts—his grandfather banned them from their household. “Whatever you say, Spoiler.”
“Hey, weren’t you supposed to get your photo taken?”
“She hasn’t come back yet.”
“Back? From where?”
“Throwing out the trash,” Damian says, suddenly alert. He stands, abandoning his coffee, and walks to the kitchen.
“You should probably check on her,” Stephanie says, voice grim.
“Already ahead of you,” he says, pushing open the back door and stepping into the alley. Graffiti is on the opposite wall. Damian’s eyes dart right, then drag left, as though they already know what they’ll see.
Simran is twisted on the ground, arms clenched around her stomach, face down. Damian runs over to her, flipping her around and pressing his hands against her stomach.
“I need a—” he begins, and then cuts himself off.
Her hair has been ripped out of its braid, parts of her skull red. Blood flakes her mouth and seeps out between her lax fingers. Simran’s eyes are open, and still.
Damian slowly pulls away, sitting back on his heels. He can’t look away.
“Damian?” Stephanie asks.
“It’s too late,” he says.
“Ah, shit,” she says. “Stay there. I’ll suit up and help out. Case the place.”
She clicks off their call, and Damian nods slowly to himself. Right. Back to work.
He checks her pockets: no money was taken. Her necklace, gold with a jeweled pendant, is still around her neck. No excessive force, beyond the defensive wounds on her fingers and the rips on her scalp, which could be from the struggle.
There’s no motive.
Finally, he notices it: her bracelet is missing.
Damian mulls over this long after the blood dries on his fingers. It’s not as though it was expensive in any way: just a stainless steel, thin and ridged.
The sun’s starting to stain the sky, perfect pink. It will be a sunny day.
Stephanie stands from her crouch and nervously cracks the knuckles in her left hand. “Looks like someone killed her.”
He has no patience for bad jokes. Damian crosses his arms and scowls. “Obviously.”
“You said she had a steel bracelet?” she asks.
“Yes,” Damian confirms. “On her left wrist. She was also left-handed.”
“She’s Sikh, probably,” Stephanie says. “Maybe that’s the motive?”
Sikh. Stephanie pronounces it ‘Seek’. Damian knows that Sikhs occasionally wear turbans, but he’s never properly spoken with one before, or inquired about their beliefs and customs. He knows his grandfather was a convert, several hundred years ago. The man has since denounced all religions. “What does that have to do with the theft?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve seen a few wearing those bracelets. Maybe they’re a religious symbol?”
“But why kill her because she’s Sikh?”
“Because—racism?” Stephanie says. “Like, it might be a hate crime.”
Damian opens his mouth, then pauses. He tries to grasp this. “Ah.”
“We’ll call this in,” she says.
“To the police?” he asks.
“Yeah, who else?”
“We aren’t going to investigate?”
“What’s there to investigate?” she says, turning to look at him. Damian can see the puzzled expression on her face despite the mask. “This is kind of under our paygrade.”
“Right,” he says, nodding absently. “I’ll head to the cave.”
“Alright,” Stephanie says, turning back to the body. “I’ll see you in twenty.”
As he walks away, his hand goes to rest under his chin, and he stops midstep. There’s blood on his gloves.
He stares at it the whole way to his bike.
Damian goes the whole day in a daze. Dick jokes around, Tim acts annoyed, Stephanie goes to college and texts every twenty minutes about the clothes she’s been shopping for instead of taking notes in class, and Bruce is absent, as always.
Like nothing has happened. Like it’s a normal day.
It’s not as though he’s never seen a dead body. Or a hate crime. Damian’s seen a lot at fourteen. He’s aware of that. Still, it feels as though his eyes have been opened for the first time. It’s daylight, and there’s no way to go back.
“Have you ever gotten stuck on a case?” Damian asks.
Dick gives him a look. “Obviously.”
“What did you do?”
The older man sets down the dish he’s washing and turns fully to look at Damian, hunched over his sandwich at the kitchen table. “Did something happen?”
“No,” Damian says. “I was just curious.”
Dick shoots him a skeptical look, then sighs. “Fine, have your privacy.”
So who does he turn to, when his Batman and his Batgirl aren’t understanding?
Rose picks up the phone on the second ring.
“Kinda busy, Robin!” she shouts, the sounds of swords clanging together a noisy soundtrack through the speaker.
“I…” he struggles, gives in, “I need your help with a case.”
“One second,” she shouts, then puts the phone on mute. Damian waits for a minute, and then Rose returns to the call, now calm. “What’s up?”
“I need help on a case,” he grinds out.
“Why?” Rose asks, and he can just imagine her picking at her nails. “I’m not a detective, kid.”
“I…”
“‘I’ what?” she asks, and her voice is as patient as she can manage.
“I don’t know who else to call,” he admits. “That I… trust.”
A long silence. Finally, Rose clears her throat, and in a stilted tone, says, “Oh. Okay. I’ll be there in… 24 hours.”
“Good,” Damian says, nodding wildly. “I’ll meet you at your safehouse.”
“How do you know—? Nevermind. I don’t care.”
She hangs up—no goodbye, how rude—and Damian puts his phone away. He has work to do.
When he returns to the crime scene in the afternoon, the cops are nearly wrapped up. Next to the storefront is a man, early-thirties or late-twenties, speaking lowly with a police officer. Even from here, his eyes are red. There’s only one cop car left, but the alley has been cordoned off with police tape.
Damian pulls out a notebook—a notebook! The things he has to do to avoid being tracked through his phone—and jots down what’s noticeable from the street. Limited exit routes: both ends of the back alley twist around to the front seat. The only other option is scaling the opposite apartment’s fire escape or hiding in a dumpster until everyone’s left.
He pauses. Maybe he should check that option?
No. No, that’s ridiculous. He crosses it off the list.
“What are you doing here?”
A glance reveals a police officer quickly approaching. “Nothing,” Damian says, tucking away his notebook and pen into his pocket. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“What was in the notebook?” the man says, suspicious.
“Nothing,” he repeats.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I’m homeschooled.”
“I need to see some form of ID.”
Damian is in disbelief. “I’m just standing here.”
“I’m gonna have to take you downtown,” the cop says, placing a hand on his gun.
“The closest precinct isn’t in downtown.”
The man’s eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”
“Are you joking?” Damian demands.
“Let’s go, kid.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” He recalls his conversation with Jason, and tacks on, “Pig.”
“That’s it,” he snaps, pulling out handcuffs. Damian takes a step back, scowling.
“I want to call my lawyer.”
“You’re too young to have a lawyer,” the cop says.
“You can’t question me without a guardian,” Damian says. “That’s the law.”
“So?”
Damian stares. The cop steps forward again, and he’s forced to consider his options. Go to the station? Draw his katana? Run away?
“That’s enough,” someone snaps, a deep voice threaded with fury. Damian and the cop both look over in surprise. Hands on his hips is the man being questioned earlier. He has a shock blanket over his shoulders, shiny silver, and cropped black hair against deep tan skin. He has the same metal bracelet as Simran did. “He clearly didn’t kill my sister, asshole. Back off the kid.”
“He’s lurking,” the cop defends himself.
“He’s also, like, twelve,” scoffs the man.
“I’m fourteen,” Damian snaps. The man—Simran’s brother—gives him a quelling look, which only ruffles the boy further. “And I don’t need your help.”
“You don’t have reasonable cause to question him,” he says, deciding Damian isn’t worth it at the moment. “So, back off, and focus on finding the freak who did this.”
The cop glares at them both, then turns and stalks away. The man slumps in relief, then turns to shoot Damian a frustrated look. “I was trying to help you. The mayor passed a law that cops don’t need to wear bodycams anymore.”
“That’s—” Damian bites back an explitive. It’s not classy. “That’s… I didn’t know that.”
He should have, though. Shouldn’t Batman have mentioned it? And Damian had left the scene to these cops. Who knew if there was a crooked one, disposing of evidence right now. “Look,” the man says, “Do you have someone who can pick you up? I don’t think it’s safe to be out right now.”
“I can get home fine,” Damian dismisses. “You said… what happened here?”
The man sighs, eyes flicking away. “Look, I’d feel better if someone picked you up.”
Damian falls silent, considering. “I don’t have a phone on me,” he admits.
“You don’t have one?”
“I didn’t want anyone tracking me,” Damian says flatly. He even sweeped his clothes for bugs twice.
“Okay, I can call someone,” he says, patting his pockets, then freezing. “Uh. I don’t have a phone on me, either.”
Damian can’t help but huff a half-laugh. The man gives him a heatless glare, then sighs. “Look, I can take you to my place.”
“Alright,” Damian says. He has some investigating he wants to do, and it’s always good to start with the family. “I’m Damian.”
“Jay,” he says. Jay doesn’t hold his hand out, but he smiles, a dimple in his cheek. “Come on, I live a few blocks away.”
“Sure,” he says, hands at his sides.
Jay’s apartment is a sweet brownstone from the 1800s. “Do you get air conditioning?” Damian asks skeptically.
“Obviously,” the man says, temper worn thin. Jay takes a deep breath, collecting himself. A lot of adults seem to do this around Damian. “Okay, you can come inside. My wife’s probably home.”
They walk up the stairs in silence, Damian following a pace behind. He adjusts his sunglasses on his nose and aborts a movement to put his hands in his pockets. Jay unlocks the door, and they enter.
The interior is modern, but lived-in. Books are piled along the sides of the hallway, and when Damian sees their living room he can tell it’s because they ran out of wall space. The TV is on a wooden stand, and a 3-seater couch is across from it. Along its back is the kitchen island. A set of glass doors lead to a tiny balcony with three withering plants.
On the couch is a woman, 5’8”, white, long brown hair. Visibly pregnant. Damian would estimate around 8 months. She smiles when catching sight of Jay, then furrows her brow in confusion at Damian’s presence. “Um… hello?”
“Hi, Val,” Jay says. “This is Damian. He was being harassed by the police.”
“At the… shop?” she asks, tone careful.
“Yeah,” he says, picking up his phone from the counter. “Simran… yeah.”
“Do you have any idea who may have done it?” Damian butts in. “Any enemies, grudges, wrongdoings?”
Both adults look at him in disbelief. “How do you know about Simran?” Jay demands, voice hard.
Ah, shit. Time to go into damage mode. Damian shrinks on himself, averts his eyes. “I was… I saw her body. I went to get coffee for my sister, she’s in college. Simran disappeared for a bit, and I went looking. I just… called the police.”
“What were you doing back at the scene?” Val asks, frowning.
“I don’t know,” Damian says, refusing to blink. He needs glassy eyes to sell the deal. When they’re appropriately stinging, he looks up at her. Hopefully her maternal instincts will kick in. “I just needed to know.”
“They…” Jay says, then clamps his mouth shut. A strange look crosses his face, as though he realizes something, or maybe bites his tongue and is trying to hide it. “Nevermind. Why don’t you sit down, Damian?”
Val shifts, so she’s sitting up against one of the armrests. Damian, no longer near tears, sits down opposite. “So?”
“No,” Jay says. “No one that I’d know of.”
Damian considers bringing up the missing bracelet, but he supposes it would probably trigger the couple again. “What’s that bracelet you have on?” he pivots.
Jay looks down, surprised, and raises his hand to show it off. “It’s a kara,” he says. “Do you know about Sikhism?”
“Vaguely,” Damian says. “Fiftth largest religion, right?”
“Yeah,” Jay says, surprised. “You don’t know about the kara, though?”
Damian shakes his head. Jay nods, unsurprised. “It’s fine. There’s a larger population in Gotham than most of the US, but it’s not like they teach anything about us in school.”
“Yeah,” Damian lies. “Didn’t learn a thing in world history.”
“Figures,” Val laughs.
“Anyways,” Jay says, “The kara used to be a full metal bracer. We’d use it to defend ourselves and others in combat. Now, it mostly represents standing up in defense of the weak.”
Sort of like vigilantes, Damian supposes. “Would someone have a reason to steal one?”
“No,” Jay says. “It’s just stainless steel. And we never take it off. Part of the… creed, I guess? Taking it off means forgetting about our need to help others.”
Damian tucks his chin in his hand, brow furrowing. “You never take it off?”
“Simran takes it off for wrestling,” he says, voice pushing through a constricted throat. Val holds out her hand, and Jay grips it tightly. “But that was it. Once, a student stole hers during practice. She had to get a new one.”
“Hm.”
“Anyways,” Jay says. “You need to call someone to pick you up, right?”
“Sure,” Damian agrees. He instantly crosses Stephanie off the list—she’s in class right now. Dick, Tim, and Bruce also aren’t supposed to know. Rose isn’t even in Gotham yet, and Cassandra is seeing a concert in Metropolis. Barbara also isn’t an option—she’s busy hiding in her apartment while Seer stalks her, or whatever’s going on with that. It’s none of Damian’s business.
That leaves him with one option. He sighs, and holds his hand out for the phone. “I’ll call my brother.”
Jason looks utterly out of place in the cozy, Millennial-beige apartment. His biker jacket makes his already bulky frame bigger, and his height towers over even Jay, who is certainly taller than 6 feet. Jason’s eyes always look a bit crazed, too, which puts the civilians on edge. “How did you get here, again?”
Damian bites back a mean comment. “I walked here.”
“Brat,” Jason says, menacing.
Jay clears his throat, intimidated. “Um, he was being bothered by the police. I just wanted to make sure he could get home safe.”
“You shouldn’t follow strangers to their houses,” Jason says. “What if this guy was a freak?”
“I can handle myself,” Damian snaps. “Besides, it worked out, didn’t it?”
“Why didn’t you just call Dick?” says the man, crossing his arms. “I have a busy day today, you know.”
“I…” Damian’s eyes flicker away, a moment of weakness. “Later.”
Jason’s eyes narrow, but he ultimately huffs. “Fine, whatever. Guess I’m on babysitting duty today.”
Damian bristles. “I don’t need a babysitter!”
“Well,” Jay cuts in, clapping his hands. “Damian, it was nice to meet you. If you need anything, your… brother?” Neither vigilante responds to that. Jay clears his throat. “Your brother has my number. And of course, you can drop by my apartment if you’re in the neighborhood.”
Jason and Damian stare at him. “You’re… nice,” Damian says.
“Just trying to help out,” Jay says. “You’re a good kid.”
“You’ve known me for half an hour,” Damian says, horrified, as Jason scoffs, “Damian? Good??”
“I’ll see you around,” Jay says, and Damian knows when he’s overstaying. Val waves goodbye and Jason and Damian leave the apartment.
The pair walks past the block before Jason whirls on him. “Okay, what the fuck was that?”
“What was what?” Damian asks innocently. Well, innocently for him, which mostly means deadpan with wide eyes. “I just ran into a good samaritan.”
“I had class, you know,” Jason snaps.
Damian raises his brows. “You had class?”
He crosses his arms, scuffs his toe against the sidewalk, and looks away. “At GU. What about it?”
Is he… bashful? Damian can’t believe his eyes. “What class?”
“Why are you asking?”
So defensive, and for what? Damian’s just naturally inquisitive. “Stephanie is at GU, too.”
“I know,” Jason mutters. “We’re both taking Intro to Sociology.”
“You are?” Damian asks. “Are you study partners, too?”
Jason, flustered, tries to change the subject. “You’re avoiding the question.”
So is he, the bastard. Damian gives him a break: “I’m investigating a murder.”
“A murder?” Jason asks. “Aren’t you bats a bit too busy for that kind of small-fry shit?”
It’s true they mostly focus on villains and organized crime. Crooked cops and the like. Damian thinks back to the cop who tried to arrest him, or whatever. “Last night,” Damian says. “After we… spoke. I stopped at a cafe.”
“In Westside?” Jason asks. “What was even open past midnight?”
“Little Punjab’s 24-hour Cafe,” Damian recites.
“It was seriously called that?”
“Yes.”
“A bit on the nose, but alright,” Jason says. “What about it?”
“The girl there,” Damian says. “She was murdered. In the alley.”
Jason considers this. “While you were there?” Damian nods, crosses his arms. “You found the body?”
“Yes,” Damian says, through grit teeth.
He sighs. “Look, not to downplay the… trauma—”
“I am not traumatized.”
“––or whatever is going on here,” Jason concedes, “But what does that have to do with you being harassed by a cop?”
“I’ve decided to solve the case,” Damian says. “She was nice.”
Jason stares. Damian refuses to meet his eyes. “Damn. Maybe that guy was right.”
“What?”
“Alright,” Jason breezes past, “I’ll help. What’s the deets?”
Damian wrinkles his nose at the slang. “Her name was Simran. I looked up the file from the police, but it’s barebones right now. Too early in the case. Jay was her brother, and they only just finished questioning him right before I got there.”
“Last name?”
“Singh, with an ‘h’,” Damian says. “She had defensive wounds, but whoever killed her was stronger.”
“Anything noticeable from the scene?” Jason asks.
“She didn’t scream,” he says, after a moment. “No overt violence, just the murder, which means it’s likely not a crime of passion. Knife wound to the stomach. And nothing was stolen, except her kara.”
Jason frowns. “Kara?”
“The metal bracelet,” Damian says. “Her brother said it was a symbol of defending yourself and others against injustice.”
“Maybe you should get one,” Jason jokes. Damian shoots him a flat look, and the man raises his hands in concession. “Alright, so a religious symbol was stolen from her. Not a well-known one, though.”
“Unless you knew something about Sikhs,” Damian agrees. “They don’t take them off. Although apparently Simran once had hers stolen from wrestling practice.”
“She probably needed to take it off so she wouldn’t cause any injuries grappling,” Jason muses. “Are they valuable?”
“Stainless steel.”
“That’s a no, then,” he says. “It was impersonable, likely premeditated, and the killer only took a spiritual symbol. I’m going to assume this means it was religiously motivated.”
“A hate crime,” Damian says grimly.
“Well, kid,” Jason says. “Welcome to the real world. Time to wake up.”
Damian shifts on his feet. How uncomfortable. Jason clearly notices, but doesn’t comment. “This doesn’t explain why you haven’t told Dick,” he continues.
“I need to do this on my own terms,” Damian says. “It’s my case. I don’t want anyone stepping in.”
Jason’s brow furrows as he thinks. “Alright,” he agrees. “But… I can help you out, at least.”
“Why?” he asks. “Why would you help me?”
“Ah, shit,” Jason mutters. “You’re Robin. I’ll help you out.”
Damian blinks. “Oh. Alright.”
“Plus, I can rub it in Dick’s face that you picked me over him,” he says, smug. “Now, what can I help you with?”
Damian, ignoring the spiteful remark, weighs his options. “I need more info on her,” Damian says. “Anything important about her background, her social media. Anyone she spoke to leading up to her death.”
“Excluding you, of course,” Jason jabs. Damian scowls. “Alright, then. I’ll put together a file.”
“Put it on paper,” Damian says. “I don’t want a digital trail, in case someone gets curious.”
“You’re the boss,” Jason says. “I’ll have it for you by tomorrow.”
“Good,” he says.
“You should tell Stephanie,” Jason adds, walking away. “She’ll help you out.”
“I don’t need her.”
“You call the shots,” Jason shouts back, raising a hand. “I’m just saying, she’s from the Westside. Maybe she’ll have the insight you need.”
Damian says nothing.
Gotham University is actually called University of New Jersey, Gotham. But everyone calls it GU, since Gotham is entirely different from the rest of New Jersey. Obviously. It’s a research university, which Stephanie brings up all the time. She’s doing research for course credit, in fact.
The campus is spread out throughout the city, different buildings bought by the University over the hundred years it has been established. Of course, there’s also the university center, where the library and other facilities reside. But the lecture halls and classrooms aren’t all in one place, which means Stephanie (and now, Damian knows, Jason) often has to take the train.
Damian knows her entire schedule, because she texted it to him at the beginning of the semester, and he has an eidetic memory. He’s physically perfect––of course he has a perfect memory, too. Stephanie is mostly taking general education courses: as a freshman, she doesn’t get first pick of classes. But she does have one class for her major: Introduction to Clothed Figure Drawing. He waits for her outside of the building, hands tucked in his jacket pockets.
At fourteen, he’s still infuriatingly short, which means the college students passing by give him strange looks. He wishes he had his phone, or at least manga, so he can pass the time. Instead, he imagines new storylines for the romance comic he’s reading. It involves dragons and political machinations. And a ‘beach episode’.
He spots Stephanie leaving the building, chatting with a classmate. He doesn’t seem especially interested in what she has to say, nodding at the right times and continuously checking his phone. Damian pushes off the wall and approaches from behind them.
“––And that’s why I’m studying fashion,” she finishes. “Anyways, what about you?”
“This is just a GE requirement for me.”
“Oh.”
“Brown,” Damian says, pained. What a terrible failure at social cues. He must save her. Stephanie turns, surprised.
“Oh, Damian!” she says, a smile flitting across her face. She’s probably very pretty, Damian assumes, if not for her ridiculous personality. “What are you doing here?”
“I have a favor to ask,” he says.
Stephanie looks over at the guy she was talking to, only to notice he’s gone. “Well, I’m no longer busy,” she says, somewhat downtrodden. “Man, does no one want to make friends?”
“He seemed annoying,” Damian says, taking her side in pity.
“There’s a concert on campus,” Stephanie says. “I bought a few tickets, but no one will go with me.”
“Isn’t winter break coming up?” Damian asks.
Stephanie sighs. “Yeah, it’s next week. During finals.”
Which is probably why no one wants to go. GU is notoriously not a party school, although lots of students drink for other reasons. “How many did you get?”
“Four,” she mutters, flushing. “What’s the favor?”
“The girl from last night,” Damian says. “I’m going to solve the case.”
“Oh?” she asks, perking up. Stephanie shifts her giant artist’s portfolio that hangs from her shoulder. “Why?”
“Irrelevant,” he says. “Will you help me?”
“Don’t want to do it yourself?”
“I need more eyes,” Damian says. “I haven’t solved many murders.”
“No, I suppose you haven’t,” Stephanie says. “Well, alright!”
“Good,” he says, satisfied. “So—”
“I have a requirement, though,” she says, holding up a finger.
Damian’s eye twitches. “Oh?”
“I want you to help me find people to go to the concert with me,” Stephanie says, an annoying smile on her face.
“Is this really that important?” Damian asks tightly.
“Yes,” she says vehemently. “I can’t just resell the tickets. They haven’t even sold out! Who doesn’t like Great Frog?”
Isn’t that the band Roy Harper used to be in? Damian shakes the thought out of his head. “Alright, fine. But only if we solve the case.”
“In a week?” Stephanie says. “Hey, that’s not fair! It’ll take longer than that.”
“I want to finish this quickly,” Damian says. “We have to be done in time for Christmas.”
“Seriously? Why?”
“Grayson wants us all there,” he says.
“And you can’t lie to him,” Stephanie finishes. “He’ll know you’re hiding something.”
Damian nods, and she frowns. “Why not just tell him? He’ll help out.”
“Why is everyone asking me that?” Damian snaps, frustrated. “Maybe I just want to do something by myself for once!”
“Geez, okay,” she says. “One week. We’ve totally got this.”
Damian forces himself to be calm. “Todd said you used to live in Westside. Do you know where we should start?”
“Hm,” Stephanie says, tapping her chin. “I want matcha.”
“Matcha?” Damian repeats, whiplashed.
“Yeah,” she says. “You can catch me up on what you know so far.”
“Why do we need to get matcha to do that?”
“Because matcha is awesome,” Stephanie says.
Damian scowls. “This is unnecessary.”
“Oh, come on, lighten up,” she whines. “I’ll even get you a bubble waffle! My treat.”
“... Fine.”
“Yippee!”
Dinner at the manor is worse than the day before. Damian is anxious to go back to working on the case, Tim is sulking for some reason, and Dick is visiting Barbara instead of spending time at the manor. Bruce, instead, is sitting at the head of the table.
Dick would break the silence and coax them all out of their shells. On the other hand, the three of them are the most likely to keep things inside. Jason is probably emotionally stunted as well, but he’s never around long enough to show it.
“Have you gotten Christmas presents yet, Damian?” Bruce asks, breaking the silence.
Thank God. Conversation. “Some,” Damian says. “I need to wrap them.”
“We have wrapping paper in one of the studies,” his father says. “Tim?”
Tim sinks in his seat. “Not yet,” he mutters.
“You’re procrastinating,” Bruce chides. Tim sinks further.
Damian tries not to feel pleased. His relationship with Tim isn’t so terribly fraught anymore, but that doesn’t mean he likes Tim. He knows the feeling is mutual.
“I’m just not finding what I want to,” Tim argues. “It’s hard to buy rich people presents, okay?”
“Is it?” Damian asks.
His adoptive brother glares. “What did you get Dick? That guy’s a millionaire now.”
Oh. Damian hasn’t thought about what to get Grayson yet. Now that he’s reflecting, it does seem difficult to get something for him that Grayson wouldn’t just buy for himself. But he knows Dick, so he says, “He appreciates sentimental gifts over material ones.”
“So you’re doing a cop-out,” Tim deduces.
“It’s Grayson’s preference.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No fighting over dinner,” Bruce rumbles. They fall silent, the sound of cutlery moving. Anxiety bubbles in Damian’s stomach—he’s antsy again. Damian needs to go to Westside.
He looks at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he should just tell him? Would Bruce even get in his way?
His career as Robin has been abrasive against Bruce’s Batman. Damian just needs space. He’s independent like that, or so Dick says.
“Would you like a bar mitzvah?”
Damian blinks. “Huh?”
Bruce looks discomfited, but says nothing. Damian speaks in his place. “That’s… isn’t that Jewish?”
“I’m not… practicing,” Bruce says, clearly uncomfortable. “But if that is something you want… to connect to your heritage…”
That’s right. Damian’s grandparents were Jewish. “I will… think about it,” Damian says.
“Jesus,” Tim mutters. “This is hard to watch.”
Damian jerks his head to glare at him. Tim immediately sticks a string bean in his mouth and grins with his lips closed. “Idiot,” Damian mutters. Tim makes a weird face at him. Bruce, of course, pretends not to hear and says nothing.
He pushes his food around on the plate. All this talk about religion, it seriously permeates everything! Does Bruce want him to be Jewish? Is that why he’s asking? Damian never had to worry about this sort of thing in the League. Just about staying alive. And pleasing his mother.
He isn’t even sure what Talia believes. Ra’s used to be Muslim, then Sikh, then Atheist. What about Talia? Does she believe in anything?
Damian wishes he could ask her, but she hasn’t picked up his calls recently. He swallows disappointment at the reminder.
So much talk about religion, and Damian doesn’t even know if he believes in anything at all. He’s never thought about it. Was he supposed to?
“I’m done eating,” Tim says.
“Me, too,” Damian adds, pushing his plate away.
Bruce sighs. “Clean up and we can patrol early.”
“Last one downstairs gets Westside!” Tim crows, grabbing his plate and sprinting to the kitchen.
Damian remains sitting for another thirty seconds, counting down in his mind, then finally stands. As he’s about to enter the kitchen, Bruce says, “You want Westside?”
He pauses, turning to look at his father. The man continues to look at his food, cutting methodically. Does the man even taste the food he eats, or is it just sustenance for the mission? Damian used to want to be just like him. The next Batman.
Bruce’s life seems so joyless in comparison to his collected children. Even Damian and Jason. At least Jason is taking classes, for whatever reason. Bruce just focuses on the mission and occasionally breaks character to hug his kids.
Maybe Damian should go to school, instead of being consumed by the same dedication as his father. Maybe he needs his own reason to be a hero.
He files the thoughts away for later. “Yes,” he answers. “I like it there.”
Bruce hums. The conversation is over. Damian turns away.
Damian and Stephanie meet in Westside. It’s supposed to be her night off, but they’ve made their agreement, and so she’s here. Below them, the 24-hour cafe is dark and empty. Closed indefinitely, until the horror fades from recent memory.
“Ready?” she asks, cracking her knuckles, then slipping her gloves back on. Damian nods, scaling down the fire escape, Steph at his heels.
They land on the sidewalk in front of the store, and while Stephanie works on the lock, Damian examines the storefront.
Flowers, notes, and photos are cluttered in front of the floor to ceiling window. He crouches down, picking up a stuffed rabbit with a note tied to its neck.
Miss you. -J
Something clenches inside of him: guilt, fury, resolve. Damian goes to set down the rabbit, but something in him forces him to stop.
He leaves the note and takes the rabbit, clipping it to his belt.
As he straightens up, something catches his eye. A sealed envelope is tucked under the framed photo of Simran in the center of it all. Damian grabs it and takes his penlight out of his utility belt, shining it through so he can see the paper inside.
It’s a tiny slip of paper, white and ripped to size. The printer ink is smeared.
Good riddance, ch****r.
Drawn next to it is a clan of the fiery cross symbol.
Damian swallows. He’s never heard of that word, but he knows instantly it’s offensive.
“Got it,” Steph calls, and when Damian looks up she’s pushing through the door. She glances over, spotting him holding the note. “Oh, you found something?”
“Look,” is all he says, handing the light and envelope to her. She repeats the same movements as him, and her eyes turn big and sad as her mouth tightens in anger.
“Good job,” she says tightly. Stephanie hands it back to him, and Damian puts it in an evidence bag and tucks it away. “Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”
Damian follows her into the cafe, past the counter and into the back room. There’s a monitor set up, and Damian makes a beeline for it, turning it on. The ancient machine begins to whirr as it clunkily wakes up.
Stephanie leans her hip against the counter, facing him. Damian focuses on the dial-up tone as it connects to the internet. “I didn’t know they still did that,” she remarks.
“Why don’t you just say what you actually want to say?” Damian replies.
“What makes you think I’m not being honest?” she asks.
“Because no one is honest.”
“Bleak.” Stephanie’s face breaks into a grin. “But it's true. At least, it is for the people you associate with—”
“Not everyone is a liar,” Damian snaps. “Sometimes they’re just lying to themselves.”
“So they are actually liars.”
“It’s different—” Her eyes absolutely sparkle with mirth. Damian knows that she’s ‘ragebaiting’, as Tim calls it. “Stop that,” he snaps.
“Stop what?”
Damian shoves her, and she falls to the floor with a squawk. “Robin!”
“You—”
The door bursts open, and in a moment both vigilantes are whirled around and poised to strike.
“You set off the alarm,” Jay says meekly, baseball bat up in the air like he’s forgotten it’s there.
Damian glares accusingly at Stephanie, who crosses her arms. “Don’t look at me! How was I supposed to know there was a burglary alarm?”
“Because you’re not an amateur, Spoiler,” Damian says, tone absolutely scathing. She wilts a bit at being scolded by a fourteen-year-old. “Jay, could you turn off the alarm?”
“Sure,” he says, after a beat. Jay sets down the bat next to the door and exits the room. Steph cuffs Damian on the back of his head.
“Ow!”
“Nice going,” she hisses. “You called him by his name!”
Ah, shit. “Of course I would know that,” Damian says quickly. “I’m investigating the case. I’d know the major players.”
“Just be glad he didn’t notice,” Stephanie sniffs. “Amateur.”
Ouch. His own words, used against him.
Jay reenters, fidgeting with his kara. Just like his sister. “So, what now?”
“We’re going to comb through the security footage,” Damian says. “And look through the alley.”
“Er… Robin,” Jay says. “It’s… if there’s anything I can do…”
Damian and Stephanie exchange a glance. “Could you watch the tapes and tell us if anything unusual appears?” Stephanie suggests. “Robin can help with pointing out things you miss. I’ll check the alley for anything the police missed.”
“Good idea, Spoiler,” he says, and to be petty, he mutters, “For once.”
Stephanie punches him hard in the arm, and leaves. After she disappears from sight, Damian rubs the bruise stiffly.
Jay and Damian scrub the footage for a few minutes in silence. The man is clearly struggling with something, so Damian pauses the footage and turns to face him. “What is it?”
“You’re perceptive for a twelve-year-old,” Jay says. Damian scowls—he’s fourteen! “Have you been able to find anything yet?”
“Yes, actually,” Damian says. “There was a note on the memorial shrine outside. It had some hateful words on it.”
“Oh.” Jay’s eyes turn glassy for a moment.
Damian shifts, uncomfortable. “Do you know of anyone who could have left her the note?” Damian asks.
“There were some girls at the school,” Jay says, hands clenching with anger. “They would bully her. One of them even tried to cut her hair off.”
Yikes. Damian clears his throat, and takes the envelope back. “We’ll screen the glue for DNA, but our database is mostly registered criminals. If it’s a random student, we’ll need to collect samples.”
“One of them was named Emily Dare. She used to be a friend. I don’t know about the other ones.”
“Anything helps,” Steph pipes up, entering through the back door. Damian raises an inquisitive brow, and she slightly shakes her head. Nothing.
Damian pulls out a flash drive and turns to the computer. “I’ll download the footage and send it to Red Hood. He can comb through the rest of it.”
“You’re having a crime lord do your busy work?” Jay says, disbelieving.
“Nah, he’s chill,” Steph says. “Most of the time.”
“Some of the time,” Damian corrects. “We’ll head out.”
“Please, contact me if you need anything,” Jay says, half-begging. “I don’t know if the police will really help.”
“Of course,” Stephanie says while Damian stews in his discomfort. “We’ll contact you.”
When the part ways, Damian and Steph perch on a nearby rooftop.
“What are you thinking?” Damian says.
“I want coffee.”
“About the case,” he grits out, and she laughs at him.
“I’m not sure,” Stephanie says, sobering up. “We don’t have a lot to go off of. The CCTV footage will be more helpful once we have actual suspects.”
“Jay said there were bullies at the college,” Damian says.
“We can go there tomorrow,” she suggests. “In the meantime—”
They’re cut off by a scream. They glance at each other, then leap into action, running down the blocks toward the noise. “I guess we know what we’re doing in the meantime!” Steph shouts.
“Hilarious,” Damian deadpans.
When they arrive on the scene, they’re too late.
A male victim this time, around forty by Damian’s estimate. A few wiry white hairs fleck his full beard. Dressed in pyjamas, feet in sliders, and a black plastic bag split open a few feet away. Throwing out his trash in the middle of the night—and being killed for it. “Damn it,” Damian mutters.
“We should split up—”
“It’s too late, Spoiler,” he says. “We didn’t see anyone from the rooftop. They’re gone.”
Steph grunts in frustration and kicks the dumpster next to her. “Fuck!”
There’s a moment of silence as they gather themselves. “Let’s look around,” he says, clearing his throat.
They separate to start from opposite sides of the alley, scanning the ground.
“Hey,” Steph says, holding up a long strip of cloth, now covered in blood. “This guy was wearing a turban.”
“Is that another Sikh thing?” Damian asks. He should really dedicate some time to looking this stuff up when he gets home. He takes a closer look at the man’s hair. “Spoiler,” he says, “Look. The ends of his hair have been cut off.”
“What?” she says, crouching next to him. Stephanie examines the ends: they’ve been hacked off with a knife. When she pulls her hand away, there’s blood on her glove. “They used the same knife to stab him and to cut him.”
“No bracelet— kara, either,” Damian notes. “Why take the hair and not the cloth?”
“I don’t know,” Stephanie admits. She stands, wiping her bloody hand against her leg. Damian wrinkles his nose at the gesture. “I think we need to do some research.”
“I agree,” he says, crossing his arms. “There’s too much we don’t know.”
“Wait a second,” Stephanie says, leaning over to hold up the man’s right hand. It’s clenched hard around some sort of wrinkled fabric. She yanks it from his grip, and unfolds it.
A confederate flag bandana, well-used, and even stitched up in places. Someone cares deeply for it. “I think this cements the idea that this is a hate crime,” Damian says.
“And premeditated,” Stephanie agrees, mouth a flat line. She stands, placing the bandana in the evidence bag. “I have a feeling it could be the Young Patriots.”
“I haven’t heard of them.”
“They’re a Southern pride social group, or so they say,” she explains. “There’s a pretty heavy militant vibe to them in the Alley. Obviously, I don’t need to explain why carrying around a fucking confederate flag is racist.”
Damian nods. “You think the group planned this?”
“Maybe not the whole group,” Stephanie says. “If there were multiple people, we would probably see bruising from restraint. And less defensive wounds.”
“Groups can also lead to more physical cruelties,” Damian agrees. “A singular actor, then, but likely a member.”
“Damn,” she sighs, tugging on her hood. “We should see if those girls are members.”
“We’ll scope out the school tomorrow,” he suggests. “Find out more about the Patriots. We’ll need to see if anyone knows something.”
“Good idea,” Stephanie says. “Hey, you’re not too bad at detective work.”
Damian looks down at the most recent victim. “Not good enough,” he mutters under his breath. Damian shakes himself out of the melancholy, pulling out his BatPhone. “I’ll get the police down here.”
“Cool,” Steph says. “I’ve got a pop quiz at 8 AM, so I’m gonna go home and crash.”
“Did you study?”
“No,” she says. “It’s in God’s hands now.”
“I’ll pray for you,” Damian deadpans.