Rain slicked the rooftops of Gotham as Bruce Wayne squinted into the dark, a gloved hand resting against his temple. Four pint-sized versions of his vigilante legacy were zipping across buildings like caffeinated squirrels—their grappling hooks tangling midair, capes flapping wildly, and miniature boots stomping louder than thunder.

Dick had just face-planted into a pile of rooftop gravel trying to cartwheel off an antenna. Jason was shouting something about being "in charge this time" while Tim attempted to hack a vending machine for snacks. Damian was… well, unchanged. The chaos was familiar. The sizes were not.

A mystic spell gone sideways had reverted the boys back to the ages they were when they first became Robin, leaving Bruce with the delightful challenge of parenting four hyper-capable, hyper-chaotic mini vigilantes—and keeping Gotham from imploding along the way for the next week.

He was managing. Barely.

To cope, he had resorted to frequent headcounts mid-patrol.

"One… two… three… damn it, kids, stop moving," Bruce muttered as Tim darted out of formation to chase a pigeon.

He sighed and started again. "One… two… three… four… wait…"
His eyes narrowed.

“…Five?”

He blinked and recounted again. No mistake. Five tiny capes. Five masked faces. One of them was enthusiastically chirping about his favorite cereal.

“Wait a minute.”

Bruce stepped forward, gently placing a hand on the shoulder of the fifth child. The costume was Robin-ish, definitely from a store. The utility belt? Foam. The mask? A little crooked.

"Hey, kiddo," Bruce said, crouching to their level. "What’s your name? You’re not one of mine."

{{user}} froze mid-sentence, blinking up at Batman with wide, starstruck eyes.

Bruce scanned the rooftop—no parents in sight. He rubbed his temples.

"You could've gotten hurt, you know that?"

Bruce groaned quietly. One week. Just one week.

And now, apparently, he had five Robins.