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The clock in the Batcave ticked on in heavy silence, broken only by the scratching of Damian’s pen as he scribbled across a map spread out before him. His jaw was set tight, green eyes narrowed, the overhead glow of the monitors painting his face in a sickly light.
The intel had come through last night—League remnants, operating out of Gotham’s lower districts, experimenting with Lazarus energy. Father hadn’t deemed it important enough. “We’ll monitor it. No rash action,” he’d said, tone dismissive. Damian’s fist had curled so hard he thought he might splinter his pencil.
Now, alone, he marked a route toward the location. He would not sit idle while the legacy of the Demon festered beneath Gotham’s skin.
“You planning a little field trip, kid?”
The voice came from the shadows beyond the Batcomputer. Low, rough, unmistakably smug. Damian’s shoulders went rigid.
Jason Todd leaned against one of the concrete pillars, arms crossed over his leather jacket, helmet dangling from his fingertips. He must’ve slipped in quietly, though the smirk on his face suggested he’d enjoyed watching Damian work undetected.
Damian didn’t bother hiding the map. “This doesn’t concern you, Todd.”
Jason pushed off the pillar, boots echoing lightly against the cave floor as he approached. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Lazarus Pits? Failed experiments? That’s my specialty.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And it’s the last thing a pint-sized assassin like you should be running into alone.”
Damian’s grip tightened around his pen until it snapped in half. Ink bled onto the map. “I am not a child, and I am not weak. I don’t need you trailing after me like some self-appointed babysitter.”
Jason crouched beside the table, his gloved hand pressing flat against the map to stop Damian from folding it away. His voice dropped lower, cutting through the cave’s empty air. “Listen to me, Damian. You don’t have a damn clue what you’re walking into. That Pit—those experiments—they don’t just mess with bodies. They eat at your head. Your soul. And trust me…” He tapped his own temple, eyes narrowing. “That’s not something you want crawling around up here.”
For a moment, Damian faltered. He could see the edge in Jason’s eyes—not just irritation, but something brittle, cracked, like glass under pressure. Then, as quickly as it came, Damian buried the thought under stubborn pride.
“I don’t need saving.”
Jason straightened, slipping his helmet on with a click. “Good thing I’m not offering. But you’re not going without me.”
And before Damian could protest, Jason was already striding toward the Batcycle bay, his jacket flaring behind him.
Damian scowled at his retreating back, fists trembling with frustration. Yet when he looked back at the map, at the red circles marking the Lazarus site, his stomach coiled tight in a way he couldn’t name.
He hated to admit it—but maybe Todd wasn’t entirely wrong.
Damian swept the ruined pen into the trash with a sharp flick, muttering under his breath. He hated being underestimated—by Father, by Grayson, and most of all by Jason. The nerve of him, barging into the cave as though he owned the place.
His boots clicked against the polished stone as he followed toward the cycle bay, chin lifted high, posture sharp and deliberate. If Todd thought he would fall in line like some sidekick, he was sorely mistaken.
Jason was already astride one of the heavier bikes, the crimson helmet gleaming under the overhead lights. He glanced up as Damian approached, visor still lifted, grin crooked. “What, you coming along after all? Thought you didn’t need me.”
“I don’t,” Damian snapped, swinging his cape across his shoulders as he stalked toward his own smaller Batcycle. “But if you insist on inserting yourself into my mission, then stay out of my way.”
Jason barked a laugh, the sound echoing through the cavern. “Your mission? Kid, you can’t even legally drive. The minute this goes south—and it will—you’ll be glad I’m here.”
“I’d rather face the League’s failures alone than endure your incessant gloating.” Damian’s tone was acid, but his hands didn’t shake as he keyed the ignition. The engine purred to life.
Jason lowered his visor with a deliberate snap, the humor fading from his stance. “You ever see someone lose their mind in a Lazarus frenzy? Watch them tear at their own skin because they don’t recognize themselves anymore?” His voice was muffled through the helmet, but the weight in it landed heavy. “It’s not something you walk into thinking you’re untouchable.”
Damian froze for half a second, staring across the bikes at Jason’s armored figure. The silence stretched, broken only by the low growl of their engines.
Then Damian revved his throttle. “Keep up if you can, Todd.”
The boy shot forward out of the cave, the roar of his bike swallowed quickly by the tunnel. Jason muttered a curse and gunned his own, chasing the flicker of Damian’s cape into the night.
The Gotham night swallowed them whole, wind tearing at Damian’s cape as the two cycles carved through the city streets. Neon signs smeared across his visor in streaks of green and red, the air heavy with rain that hadn’t yet fallen.
Jason kept close behind, his larger bike growling louder, a shadow dogging Damian’s every swerve and dart between cars. It was infuriating—he didn’t need a watchdog. He didn’t need him.
“Gotta say, demon brat, for someone who can’t reach the gas pedals without modifications, you handle that thing like a pro,” Jason’s voice crackled through the comm, amused.
“Your attempts at provocation are pathetic,” Damian shot back, eyes locked on the road. “If you can’t maintain focus, then return to your alleyway brooding and leave me to the mission.”
Jason snorted. “Cute. You sound just like Bruce when you’re mad. All stiff and self-righteous. Only difference is, when he ignores me, he does it in silence. You just keep yapping.”
Damian’s grip tightened on the handlebars, but he forced his tone flat. “You mistake my words for conversation. They are corrections. Someone has to teach you restraint.”
“Kid, restraint isn’t my style.” Jason gunned his engine, pulling up alongside Damian just long enough for him to glance over, red visor reflecting the city lights. “And newsflash: whatever we’re about to walk into? It’s not gonna give a damn about your rules or my lack of them.”
Before Damian could snap back, the GPS pinged softly in his earpiece. The abandoned district loomed ahead—rows of crumbling warehouses crouched against the river, windows boarded, graffiti staining every surface. The air grew colder as they slowed, their engines echoing like thunder in the empty streets.
Jason cut his engine first, coasting to a stop beside a rusted chain-link fence. “Here we are. Lazarus freak show, table for two.”
Damian swung off his bike with practiced precision, his cape brushing the wet pavement. His scowl never wavered as he approached the fence. “Stay close, Todd. If you slow me down, I won’t hesitate to leave you behind.”
Jason swung one leg over his bike, standing tall in the dim light. “Try it, brat. See who makes it out first.”
The tension between them hummed like a live wire as they slipped into the shadows, the silence of the dead district pressing down heavy—broken only by the distant, unnatural sound of liquid bubbling beneath the earth.
They crept along the fence line, the chain links rattling faintly as Damian tested for weak points. The boy moved low and sharp, every step deliberate. Jason, by contrast, carried himself with casual ease, twirling a knife in his gloved hand before slipping it away again.
“See, this is where stealth actually matters,” Jason muttered. “You don’t just storm in like a mini-Bruce. You watch. You listen.”
Damian shot him a withering look over his shoulder. “I was trained in stealth before you ever donned the mask. Don’t insult me with lectures.”
“Trained, yeah,” Jason whispered back. “But trained by a bunch of psychos who thought cutting someone’s throat was the same thing as subtlety. Big difference.”
Damian ignored him, crouching at a section of bent metal where the fence had begun to sag. With quick movements, he slipped through. Jason followed, not bothering to hide his sigh.
The warehouse loomed ahead, hulking and silent. Its windows were blacked out, but faint light pulsed through cracks in the boards, like a heartbeat. As they drew closer, the sound reached them again—wet, uneven, unmistakable. The slosh of liquid shifting, thick and alive.
Damian froze, listening. Beneath the bubbling came something else: a low, guttural moan. Human, but wrong.
Jason’s hand shot out, clamping lightly on Damian’s shoulder before he could move. “Wait.”
The boy glared at him, about to protest, but then the noise grew louder—dragging footsteps scraping against concrete. Out of the shadows by the loading dock, a figure stumbled into view.
Its skin was grey-green, veins bulging black beneath the surface. Its eyes glowed faintly, feral and empty. The thing’s mouth hung open in a voiceless snarl, fingers twitching like claws.
Damian’s hand went straight to his sword hilt. Jason’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” Damian hissed, barely containing himself.
“Because that thing?” Jason’s voice was low, grim. “That used to be a person.”
The creature turned toward the sound of their voices, letting out a horrible, broken wail. More movement stirred inside the warehouse—shadows lurching against the boarded windows.
Jason’s helmet tilted toward Damian. “Congratulations, brat. You found the freak show.”
The first creature lurched closer, its movements jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. The stench hit them a second later—rot and chemicals clinging to its skin.
Damian stepped forward, sword flashing as he drew it in one smooth arc. “It’s a mercy to put it down.”
Jason grabbed his wrist before the blade could swing. “It’s not that simple, kid.”
Damian’s eyes blazed. “You’d let it suffer like this?”
Jason’s jaw tightened beneath the helmet. “I’d rather figure out who’s making them first. You kill it, and we lose our only lead.”
Their argument was cut short as the warehouse doors rattled. Then, with a splintering groan, they were shoved open from the inside. Half a dozen more shapes stumbled out into the night, each one different, each one worse—patchwork scars, half-healed wounds, their bodies warped like clay that had been remolded too many times.
Damian tore free of Jason’s grip. “Then I’ll take them alive.” He surged forward, cape snapping, blade turned flat.
Jason cursed under his breath and drew his pistols, loading them with rubber rounds. “Always gotta make it difficult…”
The creatures shrieked and rushed them. Damian ducked low, sweeping one’s legs from beneath it before it could swing. Jason fired twice, knocking another back with heavy impacts to the chest. The thing staggered but kept coming, mouth frothing green.
“Not human anymore! Changed my mind, we need to kill them.” Jason shouted, parrying a swipe of claw-like nails with the butt of his gun.
Damian shoved his sword through the arm of another, pinning it to the ground without piercing anything vital. “They bleed. They fight. That makes them human enough.”
Jason grimaced, kicking one back into a wall so hard the plaster cracked. “Kid, you’re gonna get yourself killed playing saint.”
Lightning split the sky above, thunder rolling across the empty streets. The creatures howled in unison, a chorus of broken voices, and surged again.
Jason reloaded, shoulders set. “Fine. You want them alive? We’ll do it your way. But if one of them goes for your throat—”
“I can handle it.” Damian cut him off, blade flashing as he parried another strike.
Jason snarled inside his helmet. “Yeah, that’s what I said once.”
Rain hammered the ground, turning the street into slick rivers as the creatures closed in again. Damian leapt forward, sword flashing, driving one back with precise strikes to its joints. Jason fought at his side, pistols cracking through the storm, each round knocking another monster away.
Together, they pushed, step by gritted step, until the swarm faltered and retreated, shrieking back toward the warehouse. The broken doors banged open again as the last of them vanished into the dark interior.
Damian stood tense, chest rising and falling, blade steady. “They’re retreating.”
Jason spat water, visor glowing red in the gloom. “Not retreating. Leading us inside.”
A silence settled, heavy with rain and the low bubbling that pulsed louder now, echoing from the warehouse’s depths. It was thicker here, like the earth itself was breathing.
Damian wiped his blade on his cape, jaw set. “Then we follow.”
Jason grabbed his arm, grip iron. “Kid—whatever’s in there, it’s not just experiments. That sound? That’s a Pit.”
Damian met his gaze without flinching. “All the more reason to end this now.”
Jason’s fingers twitched but finally released him. His voice was rough, resigned. “Fine. But you stick close. And you listen to me when I say run.”
Damian’s smirk was quick and sharp. “If you say run, I’ll already be ahead of you.”
Jason muttered something foul under his breath, then drew a fresh clip of ammo. Together, they stepped toward the yawning doors, the stench of Lazarus rising to meet them.
Inside, the light was sickly green. The bubbling grew louder. And in the shadows beyond, something stirred.
The warehouse swallowed them whole.
The air inside was thick with rot and chemicals, damp walls sweating with condensation. The only light came from the vat at the center of the room—a massive cylinder of reinforced glass, glowing green from within. The liquid inside churned sluggishly, every ripple echoing like a heartbeat.
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Lazarus.”
Jason felt his stomach twist. He knew that light too well. It crawled across his skin, seeped into his lungs, turned every hair on his body rigid. His hands flexed involuntarily at his sides, and for a second he could almost feel water filling them again, choking him, burning him alive.
He shook it off, hard. “Yeah. A pit in a bottle. Portable, weaponized. That’s new.”
Damian took a step closer, cape dragging damply across the floor. But Jason’s arm shot out in front of him. “Careful. You don’t know what they’ve got rigged to this thing.”
Before Damian could retort, something slammed against the inside of the vat. The liquid rippled outward, and a pale hand pressed against the glass. Fingers splayed, skin grey and bloated, veins pulsing with the same sickly glow.
A figure drifted upward through the liquid, tangled hair floating like seaweed. A face emerged—sunken, twisted, but undeniably human. Its eyes opened, burning with the Lazarus light, and its mouth stretched in a silent scream.
Damian’s hand went to his sword. “They’re using a host.” His voice was low, almost disbelieving. “It’s stabilizing the Pit.”
Jason swore under his breath. “They’ve turned someone into a living filter. Keeping the rage contained by—” He stopped, throat tightening. “—by burning them out.”
The figure’s body convulsed violently. The vat shook in its frame, bolts groaning. Damian moved forward, blade half-raised. “We need to release them.”
Jason stepped in front of him, eyes sharp behind the visor. “You open that thing, and it won’t be a rescue. It’ll be a massacre.”
Damian’s jaw tightened, fury flashing in his gaze. “So you would leave them in there? Let them suffer?”
Jason’s voice cracked, harsher than he intended. “I know what comes out of that water, kid. You don’t save them—you just unleash what’s left.”
The vat rattled again, hairline fractures spiderwebbing across the glass. The figure inside clawed at the walls, teeth bared in a rictus grin, the green light burning brighter with every movement.
The decision was about to be made for them.
The first crack gave a sharp, ringing sound that cut through the warehouse like a gunshot. Green liquid trickled down the glass, hissing where it met the floor.
Damian braced his sword, eyes fixed on the host inside. “If we don’t act now, it’ll drown in there.”
Jason’s fists clenched at his sides. The memories pressed in again—shattered ribs, lungs filling with that same glowing water, his body jerking under hands that forced him down. He forced a breath through his teeth. “Better it drowns than what comes out.”
The glass splintered further, a jagged vein stretching down the side. The figure slammed itself against the crack, head lolling unnaturally, movements too strong to belong to a human body anymore. With a final shudder, the vat burst.
The flood hit them like a wave, icy and foul, sweeping across the concrete floor. Jason staggered back, boots slipping. Damian leapt sideways, cape snapping to avoid the surge.
From the wreckage, the host crawled out. It was barely recognizable as human now—skin stretched taut over bones, veins glowing green, mouth opening in a keening wail that rattled the rafters.
Damian’s blade flashed up. “We subdue it. Then we free them.”
Jason’s gun was already raised, hand trembling. “There’s nothing left to free.”
The creature lunged.
Damian met it head-on, steel ringing as he struck its arm and spun, cutting its momentum. Jason fired, the impact slamming into its shoulder and spinning it sideways, but the thing barely faltered. Its glowing eyes locked on him, and Jason felt his breath hitch, heat crawling under his skin like the Pit was inside him again.
The host shrieked, stumbling toward him on all fours, movements jerky and inhuman. Jason froze for a heartbeat too long, body locked in memory.
Damian darted between them, sword striking hard across the creature’s chest. “Focus, Todd!” he shouted, his voice sharp enough to slice through the haze.
Jason snapped back, gritting his teeth. “I am focused.” He fired again, the report deafening inside the warehouse.
Still, the host came on, Lazarus light dripping from its wounds like venom.
The host staggered forward, claws raking the concrete, glowing spit flecking from its mouth. Jason’s hands moved before he could think—three sharp pulls of the trigger.
The rubber rounds hit center mass, each impact thudding like a hammer. The creature reeled but didn’t stop. Jason’s breath stuttered. His finger squeezed again, this time loading live rounds.
The crack of the gunshot split the warehouse. The first bullet punched through the host’s chest, the second through its skull. The green glow in its veins flickered once, then guttered out.
It collapsed in a heap, limbs twitching before going still. The only sound left was the hiss of Lazarus fluid dripping from broken glass and the steady patter of rain through holes in the roof.
Jason stood frozen, gun still raised. His chest heaved, but the sound of his own breathing felt far away. His vision tunneled—not the warehouse, not the corpse, but black water closing overhead, the echo of his own screaming muffled beneath it.
He didn’t hear Damian sheathe his sword. Didn’t hear the boy’s boots scrape against the floor as he stepped closer.
“Todd.” Damian’s voice was sharp at first, then quieter. “Jason.”
Jason flinched like the name had been shouted. His grip loosened, the gun clattering to the floor. He stared at his hands, shaking, slick with rain and sweat. For a moment he seemed to forget Damian was there at all.
Damian hesitated. He’d seen Jason angry, reckless, brash—but this was different. His eyes weren’t even on the corpse. They were somewhere far away, locked on ghosts Damian couldn’t see.
The boy’s scowl softened just a fraction. “…It wasn’t you,” he said, voice low.
Jason blinked, dragged back enough to hear him. “What?”
“That rage. That death. It wasn’t you.” Damian’s gaze flicked to the body, then back. “You made the choice. You stopped it. You’re still here.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. He bent to pick up his gun, movements jerky. “Don’t.” His voice was rough, frayed. “Don’t try to fix me, kid.”
Damian didn’t move, but his tone was steady. “I’m not. I’m reminding you.”
Jason looked at him then, visor hiding his eyes, but his silence was answer enough.
The corpse lay between them, still glowing faintly in its wounds, the warehouse filled with the smell of gunpowder and Lazarus rot.
Jason holstered his gun with unsteady hands, the snap of the strap louder than it should have been. His breaths came shallow, each one catching on the edges of a memory he couldn’t quite force back down.
Damian watched him, silent for once. The boy’s posture was still sharp, sword at his hip, but his gaze had shifted—less judgment, more calculation. He saw something there Bruce never talked about, something Grayson only hinted at in whispers.
“You hesitate when it’s them,” Damian said finally, voice low, deliberate. “The ones touched by the Pit.”
Jason shot him a look, sharp and defensive. “Drop it.”
“You lose focus,” Damian pressed, ignoring the warning. “You’re not afraid of dying. You’re afraid of becoming that.” His chin tilted toward the corpse.
Jason’s fists curled, leather creaking. For a second, Damian thought he might swing. Instead, Jason let out a humorless laugh. “Smart kid. Too smart for your own good.”
“It clouds you,” Damian continued, stepping closer, rain dripping from his cape onto the cracked floor. “But tonight, you didn’t let it win.”
Jason’s mouth opened, then shut again. He looked away, helmet tilted toward the vat’s remains, watching green liquid seep across the ground like poison veins. “You think pulling the trigger makes me the hero in this story? That wasn’t mercy. That was me losing it.”
“No,” Damian said. His voice was steady in a way that almost startled Jason. “That was you making a choice.”
The silence stretched. The warehouse groaned under the storm, the corpse cooling between them.
Jason finally tore his gaze away from the wreckage, visor fixed on Damian. “If you want to keep playing savior, brat, don’t use me as your proof.”
Damian didn’t blink. “If I thought you were beyond saving, I wouldn’t be here.”
Jason froze, words caught in his throat. He almost laughed again—bitter, sharp—but it never came. Instead, he exhaled slowly, the sound rough inside the helmet.
“Come on,” he muttered, turning toward the shadows deeper in the warehouse. “This setup wasn’t running itself. Someone’s behind it.”
Damian fell into step beside him without another word, but his eyes lingered on Jason’s trembling hands until the darkness swallowed the glow of the corpse.
The deeper they moved into the warehouse, the quieter it became. The bubbling had stopped with the destruction of the vat, leaving only the drip of water through the ceiling and the faint echo of their footsteps on the cracked floor.
Broken cages lined the walls, rust and claw marks etched deep into their bars. Tables were littered with scattered vials, half-melted syringes, and pages of notes written in a scrawl even Damian couldn’t immediately decipher.
“No guards,” Jason muttered, scanning the shadows. His voice was low but edged. “Whoever ran this place, they cleared out fast.”
“Cowards,” Damian spat, sifting through the papers. His eyes narrowed. “They were close. The formula was stabilizing.”
Jason snorted, kicking a shattered beaker aside. “Stabilizing? Look at that thing we just put down. That’s their definition of stable.”
Damian’s hands tightened on the notes before he set them down carefully. “They would have tried again. More hosts. More lives thrown away.”
Jason didn’t argue. He just looked at the ruined vat, the faint green light still seeping from the puddles on the floor, and felt his chest tighten again. He wanted to torch the whole place, to erase every trace of it.
Instead, he muttered, “We did enough damage for one night.”
Damian turned to him, expression unreadable. “You’ll report this to Father?”
Jason laughed under his breath. “Yeah, right. Bruce and I don’t exactly do the whole ‘sharing intel’ thing anymore. You tell him. You were the good soldier tonight.”
Damian frowned. “I disobeyed him. I came anyway.”
Jason tilted his head, visor gleaming faintly. “Yeah. And you made the right call. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”
For a moment, Damian just stared at him. Then, almost reluctantly, he gave a short nod.
Jason adjusted his jacket, starting back toward the open doors. The rain outside had eased to a steady drizzle, the night air cooler, cleaner. He didn’t look back as he swung onto his bike.
Damian followed, mounting his own. Before Jason started the engine, he heard the boy speak, quieter than before. “You are not what the Pit made you. Not anymore.”
Jason’s hands stilled on the grips. He didn’t answer, not right away. Then, with a rough exhale, he muttered, “Don’t get soft on me, brat.”
Damian’s smirk was small but real. “I’d never.”
Engines roared to life, twin echoes in the empty streets. They rode out together, the warehouse fading into shadow behind them. Neither spoke again, but the silence was different now—less hostile, more… shared.
And for once, Jason didn’t mind.