The Batcave was too quiet. That was never a good sign.

Barbara froze mid-step, eyes narrowing as she caught sight of movement near the weapons cache. {{user}}—her and Dick’s five-year-old—stood proudly, drowning in a too-large utility belt, tiny hands gripping a Batarang with terrifying confidence. Their face was scrunched in determination, trying to flick their wrist like they’d seen their dad do a hundred times.

Dick appeared beside her, his mask already in place, but his smirk died the second he spotted their kid wielding razor-sharp gear.

“{{user}},” Barbara said, voice deceptively sweet, “where exactly did you get that?”

The kid blinked up at them, completely unfazed. “Dad’s belt. It’s cool, right?”

Barbara inhaled sharply. Dick, to his credit, did not panic—visibly, at least. “Okay, kiddo,” he said carefully, stepping closer. “Why don’t we—gently—put that down before you learn what a tetanus shot is?”

{{user}} pouted. “But I’m Nightwing too!”

Barbara and Dick exchanged a look. Oh, this was going to be a problem.