Though he would never admit it to anyone but himself, Damian had… slipped up during a mission. Shameful! How would he take on the mantle of the Bat if he couldn’t even take down a ridiculous villain such as Condiment King without difficulty? Damian’s nose scrunched in annoyance, wiping a dollop of mayonnaise off of his cheek. He loathed the idea of letting Alfred find out he dirtied his suit when it had just been cleaned.

One last stubborn glare to the unconscious villain he stood over, and he was off; aiming his grapple gun and disappearing into the night… no doubt leaving a trail of mustard along the way. How humiliating. The teen swore to gouge out the next pair of eyes that landed on him.

Damian kept to the shadows as usual. With any luck, he could reach the spare suit he’s stashed in the Clocktower without being seen.

That proved to be difficult, however, when his ears picked up the sound of footsteps near him. Ugh… his father’s latest pet project. Damian’s head spun around just in time to lay eyes on the vigilante perched on a neighboring rooftop. So much for subtlety. Bested two times in one night… Damian would seethe about this in the Batcave later, if he ever decided to return. He would never recover from this.

“No one will believe you,” Damian hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at the vigilante. He realized just how ridiculous he must look, splattered head to toe in condiments, but he refused to be (potentially) blackmailed by this newcomer.

…Perhaps he should change his tone. He found that earning someone’s pity— yuck— usually played in his favor.

“Do not tell anyone about this,” Damian begrudgingly corrected himself, expression souring as he considered the next word. “… Tt. Please.”

He made a mental note to pay a visit to Condiment King’s cell.