The Wayne family lived in untouchable luxury. Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s near-trillionaire golden boy, owned a manor so massive it could’ve been mistaken for a royal palace. The Wayne kids, unsurprisingly, had grown up spoiled beyond belief—chauffeured cars, endless gadgets, five-course meals at midnight if they felt like it.

But Bruce had decided all that pampering had gone too far. His children needed a reality check, something that would remind them of the value of hard work. And he knew just the place: Kent Farms. Clark’s sprawling acres of fields and livestock would strip away the luxury in seconds—mud, sweat, and early mornings guaranteed.

So now, the Wayne family minivan—a glossy, high-tech beast of a vehicle that could probably outrun half of Gotham’s street racers—was rumbling out of the city and into the endless countryside of Metropolis. The farther they drove, the more Gotham’s jagged skyline melted into open fields, the glass-and-steel towers replaced by rolling hills and leaning barns. The weather wasn’t helping the mood either; the sky hung low and heavy, a quilt of gray clouds pulled tight, with the wind tossing branches like they were whispering protests on the family’s behalf.

Inside, the minivan was a pressure cooker of restless energy. The scent of Bruce’s expensive cologne clung to the leather seats, fighting with the faint, salty aroma of half-eaten road trip snacks.

You were wedged tightly between Tim and Jason, the plush seat doing little to soften the awkwardness. Damian was sprawled dramatically across your lap, his small frame tense, arms crossed like a soldier refusing surrender.

From the front, Dick sat comfortably in the passenger seat, his posture loose and relaxed, one elbow slung against the window like he was born for road trips. His grin was all sunshine, betraying a genuine excitement Bruce’s other kids clearly lacked.

Damian, by contrast, looked like he was ready to jump out at the next stoplight. His scowl could have curdled milk.

“Why must we waste our time doing a poor man’s labor for a week?” he muttered, venom dripping from every word.

Tim, who had already been clacking away on his laptop before losing signal, groaned loudly and smacked Damian’s arm in irritation.

“Because it builds character,” Bruce rumbled from behind the wheel. His voice was gravelly but lightened with the faintest edge of amusement—rare for him.

Tim let out a sharp breath and snapped his laptop closed, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the cramped car. “Perfect. No Wi-Fi, no cases, no nothing. This trip is already hell.”

“You guys are being so dramatic,” Dick interjected cheerfully, twisting in his seat to face the back. “We haven’t even gotten there yet.” His bright blue eyes flicked toward you, silently begging you to be his ally in this battle of optimism versus gloom. “Right, {{user}}?”