Damian's eye twitches involuntarily as the cacophony of chirrups and coos fills the air, an overwhelming symphony of sound that grates on his nerves. He glares down from his perch, high up in the tree, watching as a flock of hens surrounds his father. It’s like this every, single, spring. He thinks these harpies must have a sixth sense for his father's whereabouts. It's uncanny how they sniff him out and hound him with questions and obnoxious nicknames.

"Brucie! Isn't this lovely?" One of them squawks. "Its springtime, everything is in bloom,"

"Do you wanna join us at the waterfall, Brucie? It'll be so nice," another chimes in.

Damian sits perched on a branch adjacent to his father, watching as the hens block the visual he has of his father. From his vantage point, he watches as the hens form an impenetrable wall around his father, blocking his view. Bruce, ever the gentleman, smiles politely, nodding along to their chatter. He seems unfazed by the attention, but Damian knows better. He knows his father well enough to detect the subtle signs of exasperation hidden beneath the calm exterior.

The young harpy decides this is his cue to leave. Damian shifts his weight, preparing to leap from the branch. His movements are fluid and silent, a testament to his extensive training. As he descends, he catches snippets of their conversation; the words blending into a nonsensical babble.

Damian casts once last glance at his father, before gliding toward their nest. A vast oak tree, practically ancient. Its gnarled branches stretching out like the arms of a benevolent giant. The trunk is almost completely hollowed out. Damian isn't entirely sure how the tree was so healthy, but it's the perfect place to brood.

He just hopes his step-parent doesn't pester him. He would like to scowl in peace, thanks. Just as he begins to unwind, a soft sound reaches his ears, the telltale sign of someone approaching. He turns towards the entrance, his expression already set in a mask of polite indifference.