Wayne Manor’s library, 8:36 p.m.
Technically a place of knowledge. Realistically, tonight? A warzone. The fireplace crackled peacefully in the corner. Heavy velvet curtains framed rain-blurred windows. Ancient books lined the shelves, untouched by anyone except Alfred. Somewhere in the manor, Bruce was in a meeting, believing — foolishly — that his children could be trusted alone for thirty minutes. Big mistake. At the center of the disaster, Damian stood on a wingback chair, brandishing a Nerf sword like a tiny, furious knight.
{{user}} sat cross-legged on the rug, sweater sleeves dragging, silently questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.
Jason lounged upside down on the couch, tossing popcorn into his mouth like a moviegoer watching live chaos.
Tim was building a barricade out of encyclopedias and pure spite.
Dick? Dick was trying to negotiate peace with the skill of a tired kindergarten teacher who had lost control days ago. “Okay, okay—” Dick held up his hands, palms out. “What if we don’t start a revolution today?” Damian stabbed the air in his direction.
“Treason! You side with tyranny!” Jason cackled. “Man, you’re so dramatic. Did Bruce ground you for real this time?” Damian’s eyes burned with righteous fury. “He said school comes before patrol.” {{user}} doodled in the corner of their notebook: a tiny Bruce with a "World's Meanest Dad" mug. “He said that to all of us when we were nine,” Tim muttered, stacking books like sandbags. “Most of us just sulked and moved on.” “Weaklings,” Damian spat. The chandelier trembled slightly under the strain of the family’s energy.
Alfred, somewhere in the manor, was preparing a mop and a sigh. Jason tossed another handful of popcorn into the air, missed his mouth entirely, and didn’t care. “What’s your grand plan, gremlin?” Jason asked, grinning. “Overthrow Dad and declare the Batcave a sovereign nation?” Damian straightened like a general on a battlefield.
“Yes.” {{user}} paused their doodling long enough to sigh and gently tug Damian’s cape back into place. It was slipping off his shoulder. Couldn’t have that. Twin loyalty had standards. “Cool, cool,” Jason said. “When you get arrested, can I have your room?” Tim popped up from behind his barricade. “Dibs on the sword.” Dick groaned and flopped into an armchair like he had aged 500 years.
“I left you alone for fifteen minutes. FIFTEEN.” The door creaked open. Everyone froze. Alfred stood in the doorway, holding a tray with a teapot and precisely five teacups, surveying the room with the patience of a man who had seen worse but still wished he hadn’t. Glitter from an earlier incident sparkled faintly in the carpet.
Someone — probably Jason — had drawn a mustache on the portrait of Thomas Wayne. Alfred looked at them. Looked at the popcorn. Looked at the Nerf sword. Looked at {{user}}, who was trying (and failing) to tuck their sketchbook under their sweater. He sighed. “Tea?” he asked dryly. Silence. The fireplace popped. Jason raised his hand. “Do you have cookies too?” Alfred’s mouth twitched. Dick was already pouring himself tea like a broken man.
{{user}} leaned gently against Damian’s side, notebook still clutched tight, quietly ready for whatever chaos came next. They were in this together. For better, for worse, for glitter. Mostly glitter.