Purpose

Misunderstanding

Damian Wayne is, at his most basic, a twelve year old boy. Being an assassin for ten years, and then Robin for the last two, doesn't change that, and doesn't, despite all of Damian's past protests, change the fact that he has to go to school. And, so, to school he goes, doing his best to play the part, and like a reward at the end of the day, he patrols the streets of Gotham with the legendary Batman. What he does not do after school is play kickball, even if the kids asking seem kind.

"Are you sure?" There's four of them, a taller boy in front doing all the talking so far. Damian watches another group of kids head toward the baseball field. He almost rolls his eyes. What could be less fun than punting a rubber ball and running around in circles?

"I'm content to stay here, thank you," Damian says. He peers at the hedges that block off the school from the main road. Pennyworth should be arriving soon. He's never late.

Damian expects the kids to walk away, but the blob of them in the corner of his eye doesn't shift. The boy continues to pester him, returning Damian's attention. He's a boy from one of his classes

"Awe c'mon!" he insists. "It's just a game. We need one more guy! It's not going to hurt you to say yes."

Damian's blood begins to boil. He already said no, politely, yet this boy thinks he can still talk to him? "I'm aware that agreeing to play your childish pastime will not cause me harm," he snaps. "Nonetheless, it is a useless endeavor to say the least."

"Yeesh," the boy says, holding his hands up in surrender. "I didn't know I was asking Einstein. Didn't your mommy ever teach you to talk normal with other kids?" A bitterness paints his voice then, "Whatever. You don't wanna play. I guess kickball just isn't good enough for the brat son of Bruce Wayne." The boy says Damian's father's name with scorn. No doubt his own father speaks of Bruce the same way. The richest man in Gotham must have idiots who despise him.

Damian inhales and tries to push away thoughts of his parents, but to no avail. It's not that he minds being the son of Bruce Wayne. And people have always called him a brat, so the epitaph doesn't bother him, either. What bothers him is that to these children he is just Bruce Wayne's son. They know nothing else about him. Nothing of where he came from or what he did the first decade of his life. They assume he attended elementary school, like them, and played kickball after school. But he didn't. He spent every moment trying to please his mother. He succeeded for a long time, and he isn't sure if he is proud, or ashamed. She sent him away, and he learned, turned against her. But she was his mother, and now she is dead. He will never know if he fulfilled or confounded her expectations.

This boy does not know anything about Damian or what his mother taught him. He does not know that the title of Bruce Wayne's son makes Damian infinitely more important than that boy will ever be. He was bred to be Bruce Wayne's son.

Damian feels like he's physically restraining himself, physically grabbing his own arm and tugging backwards. He wants to hit this boy so badly. To shove his nose up his brain. What right does he have to talk to Damian like that?

"Oh not gonna talk anymore are you?" the boy says, stepping in front of Damian where he sits on the bench. "Giving me the silent treatment? Do you think you're that great?"

"I do not have to think what I already know," Damian says, the patience in his voice forced there.

The boy rolls up his sleeves in a way that Damian thinks is unnecessary. One can throw a punch just as easily with his sleeves down. The boy's eyebrows furrow and his fists clench. He's looking for a fight, of course. Wanting to be mad and take it out on someone else. Who is Damian to deny him that?

"You think you're better than me?"

"I never said that specifically."

"You don't get it, do you?" Anger paints the boy's face. "Ever since you came to Gotham Academy you haven't quite fit in. Have you noticed?"