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(General P.O.V)
The underground tunnel echoed with the sharp clatter of boots and the sting of tension.
Batman and Nightwing rounded the final bend in the lower chamber of Arkham's sub-basement—dark, damp, suffocatingly narrow.
Over comms, Batgirl and Robin were coordinating with GCPD upstairs, working to suppress the riot. It wasn't going smoothly, but it never did in Arkham.
The deeper they went, the more it felt like they weren't just descending into the asylum, but into something much older.
Waiting for them at the far end of the corridor was a shape. Red eyes glowing beneath a helmet forged from Yautja tech. The tattoos along his arms coiled like living snakes, pulsing with red light. The boy—no, the weapon—stood between them and whatever secrets this hellhole had buried underneath it.
Batman stopped mid-stride.
"Alpha," the helmeted figure said, voice modified through the mask. "That's what they call me now."
Dick's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "No. You call yourself that."
The helmet tilted just slightly—annoyance? amusement?
"Clever," Damian said, stepping forward, voice smooth. "But irrelevant."
"Take off the helmet," Bruce said, voice low. Commanding.
No movement.
"I know it's you, Damian."
That stopped the posturing for a second. Tension hung in the air.
"You always ruin the moment," Damian groaned, removing the helmet with one hand. His silver-white hair spilled free, red horn gleaming faintly under Arkham's flickering lights. "I was going to monologue."
"You always do," Bruce replied evenly.
Dick leaned on one leg, arms crossed. "So, this is the League's thing now? Demon horns, sentient tattoos, code name with a god complex? Ra's must be so proud."
"I'm not doing this for Ra's," Damian said flatly.
"Then who?" Bruce asked. "Because right now you're breaking into Arkham, unleashing inmates, and letting Clayface impersonate Waller."
Damian didn't deny any of it. He didn't flinch either.
"I'm finishing my mission. The League sent me here for a reason."
"You're not with the League anymore. I forbid it." Bruce almost yelled.
Damian's eyes narrowed. "You don't get to decide that."
"You're still my son."
That hit harder than Bruce probably intended. Nightwing noticed it too. The faint twitch at the corner of Damian's eye. The clenched fist. The soundless breath he took before speaking.
"I stopped being your son the day you turned your back on me," Damian answered.
"No, Damian. You chose to leave."
"I chose survival."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was painful.
Finally, Dick stepped in, trying to soften the edge. "Look, whatever this is, you can work through it later. Just tell us what's going on. Why raid Arkham? Why now?"
Damian slipped his helmet back on, the red HUD lines glowing again. "There's something below. Something buried."
"You mean the Lazarus Pit," Bruce said.
That surprised him. Just a bit. "You knew?"
Bruce nodded slowly. "I've always known there was something under Arkham. I just didn't think Ra's would come looking for it like this."
"You should've," Damian said, stepping backward into the dark tunnel. "Just like you should know I'm not letting you two pass..."
Brilliant white light lit up the tunnel as Batman threw out several glow sticks.
Damian felt offended as one of his shadow skills was rendered useless.
Then, quietly, he sighed, "So much for stealth."
Without another word, he drew his twin curved blades, ink-like steel forming in his palms from his writhing tattoos. The hallway lit up with the sharp metallic hiss of tension breaking.
They came at him together. No warm-up. No warning.
Batman hit high, Nightwing low. Classic pincer.
Damian barely deflected Nightwing's sweeping leg before twisting into a block against Batman's gauntlet. Sparks flared. His boots skidded across concrete.
"Fast," Nightwing commented, flipping back to dodge a blade swing. "Faster than before."
"He's been training," Batman grunted, elbowing aside a wash of red vapor that lashed from Damian's arm mid-parry.
Damian gritted his teeth and spun, slicing at the shadows. They danced around him. Clean, practiced, precise. He could feel it already—he wasn't winning this. Not in straight-up melee. These two weren't just familiar with his Shadow's style. They actively countered it.
So he adapted.
The blades morphed—one into a whip, laced with Ashura energy that hummed like a vengeful wasp, and the other into a curved shield, etched with red runes that flared as he activated a defensive barrier.
He dropped into a tighter stance. Defensive now. No more trying to overpower them.
Nightwing pivoted on a foot. "I've got him—go ahead. Find the vault."
"No," Batman growled. "Not alone. We stay together. He's stalling."
Damian let the whip crack.
It screamed through the tunnel and slammed into the walls, leaving molten gashes behind. "Damn right I'm stalling," he barked. "Now tell me—who tipped you off?"
Batman didn't answer. He lunged again, but Damian spun out of reach, planting a foot against the wall to spring toward Nightwing, forcing him on the defensive.
<"We're here,"> Jason's voice buzzed in his ear. <"The vault door's real. Cass is already opening it.">
A grin split Damian's face under the helmet. "Perfect. I'll be right there."
He dropped the shield and surged forward with both arms now twisting into dual whips—faster, sharper, vicious. No more reason to stall.
Nightwing barely blocked one strike before the other lashed his shoulder. Batman stepped in, grabbing the whip and yanking, but Damian used the momentum to spin into a reverse kick that caught Bruce in the chest.
"You're too slow, old man!"
Batman slammed into the stone wall with a grunt.
"Bruce!" Nightwing called, distracted.
It was enough.
Damian lunged, tackled him to the floor, hand on his neck, energy buzzing in his palm like static.
"Tell me who," he snarled.
Batman coughed but stood. "Richard Dragon."
Damian froze.
The grip on Nightwing's throat loosened.
"What?"
"I said," Batman repeated, jaw clenched, "it was Richard. He told me everything you planned."
For a second, the noise in Damian's head dulled. Everything else faded.
"…No," he muttered. "He wouldn't."
(Elsewhere)
(Few minutes ago)
The vault wasn't just heavy—it was absurd. A slab of reinforced metal thicker than a tank's hide, laced with lead and paranoia, built to outlast time, war, and sanity. It looked like someone had designed it to keep hell itself on the other side.
Jason stood before it, communicator still warm from the call with Damian, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing impatiently toward Cassandra. "He's buying us time. We can't sit on our asses. Do your thing."
Cassandra remained still.
Her eyes were shut, calm as a statue, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword, the other loose at her side. She didn't twitch. She didn't breathe loud. The tension didn't touch her. It was as if the impossibility of the vault didn't exist in her world.
Jason rolled his eyes. "Come on. Chi-blast. Magic-slice. Whatever Dragon kung fu nonsense opens doors."
"It's not magic," she said, almost too softly to hear and annoyed.
Then came the click of her quick draw, a flash and steel whispered under pressure.
Jason blinked—and that was all the time it took.
A glowing X blazed across the vault, etched deep like divine judgment. No fanfare. No windup. Just two clean cuts in the shape of death. Then the door groaned, shuddered… and fell.
Dust exploded outward. Air shifted. The void inside beckoned like a throat just unsealed.
Smoke curled off Cassandra's sheath, thin and white like breath in the cold. She stepped through the ruins of the door with the casual air of someone who didn't just vaporize military-grade fortification.
Behind her, Jason muttered, "Monster."
She didn't answer, but her smirk said she'd heard.
They advanced through the hallway, steps quiet, senses on edge. Silence reigned until a screech tore it apart. A swarm of bats burst from the darkness, wings flapping like black lightning.
Jason recoiled, swearing and batting at the air. "You have got to be kidding me—"
Cassandra ducked smoothly beneath the chaos, eyes narrowed. "Skittish."
"Paranoid," Jason argued, brushing bat fur off his jacket. "Big difference."
The corridor widened. The air grew damper, cooler. The silence stretched thin as they entered a vast underground chamber where time felt slower, older. A green light pulsed from the center like a heartbeat too deep to reach.
Jason slowed, his boots crunching against stone. "No way…"
Before them sat the Lazarus Pit.
A shimmering pool of unnatural green, bubbling softly, as if breathing. It pulsed with promise and warning, a wound in the earth that refused to heal.
"That's it," Cassandra said, her voice low but certain.
Jason actually smiled. First time all day. "Hell yes. Payday."
He fished out his phone, snapping pictures from every angle. Proof for the League. Bragging rights for himself. Maybe some gun upgrades if he played his cards right.
He took a step toward the pit's edge.
Cassandra hadn't moved.
Then she did—fast. Her hand seized his collar, yanking him back with more force than grace.
Jason barely got a breath before a crack echoed above.
A massive boulder slammed into the ground right where he'd been standing. The quake rolled through the floor like thunder in stone.
Jason stumbled back coughing, dazed. "What the actual—?"
Above them, balanced on the rock like it was a stage, stood a man with his hands behind his back, expression calm and amused.
Then he started clapping.
"Congratulations," Richard Dragon said. "You actually found it. A Lazarus Pit. Beneath Arkham, no less. Impressive."
Cassandra's hand found her sword again, eyes narrowing to slits.
Jason stepped forward, shielding her, voice full of venom. "You bastard—"
"Ah ah," Richard said lightly, hopping down with all the grace of a snake sliding from a branch. "Let's not get emotional. I didn't think you'd make it this far, honestly. But now that you have—well, this is where our paths split."
"You're not walking away from this," Jason growled.
Richard smiled wider. "I don't intend to."
His foot shifted back. His weight lowered. His shoulders rolled. And something changed.
Gone was the casual teacher vibe. What remained was a presence—cold, sharp, exact—like the moment a blade leaves its sheath.
Perfect form.
Cassandra tensed.
"Why?" she asked simply.
Richard met her gaze, unblinking. "Because you've served your purpose."
The green glow of the Lazarus Pit bathed his face as he took a step forward.
"And now… I don't need you anymore."
Then, like a whip cracking in total silence—he struck.