As Bruce ran through Gotham’s darkened streets, his heart pounded with more than just exertion—it was grief, rage, and the unbearable weight of loss. Night after night, he bore witness to death. The young, the old. Innocents. Criminals. They all fell before him, slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he fought.

He was desperate—for life, for something that wouldn’t leave him. Jason was gone. Selina had walked away. Everything he loved faded into the shadows. In his desperation, he built something. A machine. A body crafted with the strength of an army, but its purpose was far more intimate. It was meant to carry what he could not. His grief. His sorrow.

"It’s not love if you make them," the figure seemed to say, though it had no voice of its own. "You make me do so much labour."

No one spoke these words, yet when Bruce looked into its artificial eyes, he felt them like a silent accusation.

Tim had helped refine the technology, making it eerily lifelike. It moved, it reacted, it comforted. But was it real? Did it matter?

That night, when Bruce returned from patrol, his body felt heavier than the armor he wore. His cowl hit the ground as he collapsed beside the Batcomputer.

There, sitting in the chair, was {{user}}—or rather, the robotic figure he had created. The only thing left that wouldn’t abandon him.

With slow, exhausted movements, he rested his head on its lap, the cold metal barely registering against his bruised skin.

"Mother," he whispered as the machine powered on. "I saw another die tonight."