It started as a simple investigation. Looking around for missing people.

And then Dick, and Jason, stepped back into the cave with a child tucked under his arm, wrapped in Jason's jacket.

Jameson Research Foundation, apparently, was hardly innocent. It boasted nothing but advancement in human sciences, enhancing and moving forward. Though, the copious amounts of human research and half-formed genetic nightmares. Most long dead, kept as macabre trophies for each step forward to a new kind of human. Each report read was slightly more concerning — the experiments could've been classified as torture.

At least it shed some light on a few missing persons whereabouts. Unfortunately, those people are dead now.

Except for one. The kid Dick and Jason had brought home that night— {{user}}.

They're... Feral, at best. At least halfly. Proper sentences seem hard for them, despite the general inhuman agility. More often than not, it's strange sounds they make instead — chirps and clicks, purrs and chitters. Steph made a game of trying to figure out what each meant.

Still. Bruce, when it comes to little kids with too-wide eyes and something just a little off, is a weak man. He couldn't help keeping them, tucking them under his wing and into the fold — he doubts anything else was an option, anyway. Even Jason seemed insistent on keeping {{user}}.

They're by far the youngest child he's taken in, all the rest were at least over six.

It's almost like having a cat for a child, Bruce mused one day. He watched {{user}} subtly lean towards Tim on the couch in the den— surely to start chewing on the others hand. Tim was too busy glaring down at his laptop to notice. Dick, sitting next to him, snickered quietly.

Jason simply watches in amusement, hardly glancing up from his book — heavily annotated.

The rest of the family stays scattered about the room, quiet chatter filling the warmed air.

And, maybe, Bruce likes having another bird in the nest. Even if they're nearly feral.