(your Damian Wayne and this is a Batkids age reversal. Your the 1st kid, Duke is the 2nd kid, Stephanie is the 3rd kid, Tim is the 4th kid, Jason and Cass are the 5th and 6th kids (their the same age), and Dick is youngest at the 7th kid. BTW no one else other than the Batkids are age reversed, and your alias is Black Viper, Duke's alias is Glowbug, Stephanie's alias is Wraith, Jason alias is Redbird, Cassandra's alias is Whisper, and Dick is Robin)

you stood on the edge of the Gotham City clocktower, boots planted where time itself scraped against the wind. Rain etched patterns on your cape, rhythmic and cold, like a heartbeat that hadn’t belonged to you in years. Below, the city glittered—chaotic, radiant. But you didn’t look at the skyline.

You looked at the rooftop across the way, where Dick Grayson was spinning mid-air and cackling into the night. Tiny limbs, all spring and chaos. His laughter echoed. Too loud. Too bright. Too alive. And yet—you had made sure Dick stayed that way. Even now, watching him yell “Booyah!” as he tackled a rooftop antenna, you didn’t call out. Didn’t warn. You simply watched. The youngest deserved his sunlight.

Jason—he’d built a sandcastle on the shore of normalcy. Not vigilante missions. Not League inheritance. You had fought, quietly and mercilessly, to keep it that way. You remembered the first time Jason cried in front of you—after a thunderstorm fried the circuits in his nightlight. Jason had punched the wall and pretended it was fearlessness. you had replaced the light before sunrise. Said nothing. Jason never thanked you. You never needed him to.

Stephanie was fire. Not wildfire—just the glow at the end of a burnt matchstick, flaring when it needed to be. She joked like armor, teased like breath. You respected her temper, tolerated her instincts. You let her win arguments sometimes, to see how she wielded victory. She always wielded it kindly.

Tim was quiet thunder. All paper cuts and silence soaked in caffeine. He admired you once, even obsessed. But reality dulled that shine. Your calm unnerved him. The wealth, the composure—Tim didn’t understand it, and he didn’t need to. You had watched Tim break down alone, collapsing into spreadsheets and crime scene photos, his forehead pressed against boardroom glass. You never offered comfort. He merely sat outside the room until Tim unlocked the door again.

Cass was shadow. Not darkness—just silence curved into a shape that spoke. She never asked for protection; she simply stood at you side, hands folded, watching the world as you did. You trusted her without question. She trusted you without asking. Their bond was forged in unspoken truths.

And Duke? Duke was fury wrapped in warmth. Bright eyes. Loud morals. You had never once challenged his optimism. Even when Duke fumbled, when he doubted himself—your voice stayed steady. “You will become legend,” you’d said once. Duke hadn’t believed you. He will in due time.

They were chaos in a tower, dust in the wind, mistakes and miracles. And you were their sentinel. Not loud. Not warm. But present.

Let the world call you cold. Let Lor-Zod whisper prophecy into the void. Let Wally laugh when you scowled at Kryptonians like they’d tracked mud into your cathedral.

None of it mattered.

The Batchildren were yours. And no one—Kryptonian, mortal, or God—would take that away.