Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soon enough, they would walk through the door—Bruce was certain of it. After all, he knew them like the back of his hand: they were his children.

The large clock in the room ticked solemnly, filling the air among old photographs and framed memories. From behind it appeared a man, impeccable in a suit, carrying a tray.

“Master Bruce, drink this. It will help with your headache.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

On the table, he set a cup of some kind of tea. Bruce downed it in one gulp while pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew that going more than 48 hours without sleep was a problem; in his youth he had trained to endure that and more, but now he had to admit he was no longer so young. And of course, they say children steal years off your life… He had between five and seven, depending on how you counted them, and they all seemed very skilled at that craft.

The front door burst open and the uneven footsteps of seven people filled the hallway. They all spoke at once, less like a conversation and more like a competition for the title of “who can complain the loudest.”

“Can someone explain why a picture of me boxing at 14 is trending? I look awful!” Steph’s frustrated voice echoed against the walls.

“And what about me? Everyone at the office congratulated me on some supposed achievement, and I didn’t even know what they were talking about. I looked like an idiot,” Tim cut in.

“You always look like that. I doubt they noticed a difference,” added Jason, clearly enjoying the chaos. A sharp thud followed in the hallway—probably courtesy of Tim.

“At least you two didn’t get ambushed by the press leaving work. It took me an hour just to reach my car!” Dick complained in his signature dramatic-diva tone.

“That explains why everyone stared at me so strangely at the university,” murmured Cass in her usual calm way.

“Tsk. I don’t understand your traditions,” muttered Damian. “They dumped water on me during sports and celebrated like it was some glorious thing.”

“Well, looking at it that way, I guess I didn’t have it so bad,” sighed Duke. “I only had to stop Damian from starting a fight after they soaked him.”

One by one, they arrived in the living room: Duke and Damian still in their school uniforms, Steph in pajamas, Cass with her backpack slung over her shoulder, Dick smelling of the gym, Tim in a suit, and Jason in his eternal “I’m the exception to everything” attire. They crowded around the doorway, throwing looks ranging from anger to surprise at the man in the armchair, still rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Bruce!” they all shouted in unison, demanding the same thing: an explanation.

“This is going to be a long morning…” Bruce sighed, seeing his seven offspring lined up like a jury in his own house.

Let’s rewind a little.

Batman, the Dark Knight, Gotham’s vigilante, also had a human face: billionaire, philanthropist, playboy Bruce Wayne. Bruce always told himself that if he could bear the mantle of the Bat, he could handle the minor inconveniences of being a public figure like Bruce Wayne. That was how he had managed gossip, leaks, even threats and kidnappings that ended up as nothing more than tabloid headlines.

But that day had shown him he might need to take his role as Bruce Wayne more seriously. Some time ago, during one of his investigations into new materials for his vigilantes’ suits, he had developed a very particular fabric: resistant, breathable, elastic, easy to maintain, and cheap to produce. The only drawback was that it was far too flammable for its intended use—in other words, it would ignite in an explosion, though it could safely withstand an iron left on top of it or a candle falling over. Still, for a vigilante’s life, the first scenario was far more common. So, he discarded the fabric.

It was Lucius Fox who saw its potential and suggested using it for sportswear, just as the government was launching a national campaign to promote sports with the help of foundations like Wayne’s. Bruce agreed, thinking of offering high-quality clothing at a quarter of the cost to help young people focus their energy on something positive. The project was a success: the clothes became a trend on social media, were distributed in schools, and Wayne Enterprises was hailed as a model company.

Everything seemed to end there—until Spain was announced as the next Olympic host. The government began organizing the upcoming committee, and riding the wave of sportswear’s popularity, Wayne Enterprises was chosen to outfit the entire U.S. delegation.

And that was how they arrived at that morning, when a weary Bruce Wayne had to attend a press conference related to the organization of the Olympic Games—after a 47-hour sleepless shift and a previous night in which the Joker had carried out one of his insane schemes, thwarted by Batman as always.

There he was, at a long table under dozens of cameras and blinding lights. His body ached, he was hungry, sleep-deprived, and his mind drifted, barely paying attention to the questions. As Brucie Wayne, he was used to the press treating him like a pretty decoration. He knew he just had to sit upright, keep a calm expression, flash a smile or two, and the conference would pass quickly.

But the 48-hour mark without sleep hit him hard: blurred mind, drowsy body. Normally, that was when he’d finally rest, but he couldn’t risk the headline “Bruce Wayne falls asleep at Olympic press conference.” He imagined the kids’ mocking, Alfred’s scolding, and at least a month of reporters hounding him—though he could always hand the interview to his trusted reporter Clark Kent and avoid the media outside his house. Still, he preferred not to fall asleep.

He snapped back to reality when he noticed an odd silence in the room. He blinked twice, scanning the hall: everyone seemed focused on him, waiting for an answer. Damn. They had asked him something, and he had no idea what it was. That was unusual; no one ever asked him anything, especially not serious questions—who would waste their moment on a dumb one meant for “Brucie”?

Asking them to repeat it would backfire—they’d say he didn’t care about the U.S. Olympic committee, and that could damage the country’s image worldwide. So he thought: why not just agree? How bad could it be for Brucie Wayne to nod along?

“Yes, of course… that’s right,” he said with a mischievous smile.

The press went wild, flashes blinding him. Bruce realized the question had come from Tina Stirling, an independent reporter who had been hounding the Waynes for years. He remembered how she had leaked the names of his children and wards, triggering a media storm; how she had published xenophobic articles about Damian, exposing his Arab heritage and that of his mother; and how, just months ago, she had leaked Dr. Leslie’s medical files—only those under their real identities, showing the kids’ constant injuries—and spun it into an article accusing Bruce of abusing his children. That had forced Bruce to make public explanations, presenting his family as high-performance athletes and leaning on the fact that Dick taught gymnastics. Though that controversy had seemed to die down, Stirling clearly hadn’t finished with them.

“Launching sportswear was just a strategy to boost support for your children ahead of the Olympics?” another reporter pressed. Bruce didn’t reply. That’s when he realized: he had just committed not only himself, but his children as well, to something big.

---------------------------------------

The media frenzy escalated until the spokesperson finally asked reporters to stick to topics strictly related to the organization of the Games rather than possible participants. Begrudgingly, they complied. As soon as the press conference ended, Bruce slipped into the bathroom, pulled out his phone, and saw it: #WayneAtTheOlympics was trending. The first thing that popped up was the video of that question he hadn’t recognized.

In the clip, Tina maliciously snatched the microphone from another reporter without asking permission and said:

“Mr. Wayne, isn’t it curious that you suddenly show such interest in sports—to the point of launching a sportswear line, despite your company never having ties to the textile sector? Isn’t this, rather, a carefully staged façade to justify the strange injuries your children have displayed over the years? You yourself said your family consists of high-performance athletes, but if that were true, why have we never seen any of them in official competitions? Or are you telling us that, in reality, they’ve been training in secret all this time with the intention of bursting straight into the Olympic Games?”

The video also showed Bruce narrowing his eyes and, with dazzling confidence, replying:

“Yes, of course… that’s right.”

Then came what he had already lived: the flashes, the commotion, the curious stares. It hit him like a bucket of cold water: after so many years, Bruce Wayne—no, Batman—had finally made a mistake.

Imagine his children’s surprise when they saw their phones blowing up with exploding feeds. The whole world seemed more than thrilled, especially the people of Gotham.

And so we return to the present scene: the kids still gathered at the doorway, waiting for answers. Bruce straightened up before speaking.

“I’m sorry, kids… I didn’t realize what I was responding to. Right now, I’ll send out a statement canceling your participation, hoping this whole commotion will die down,” he explained with a sigh.

The silence that followed was nearly historic: Bruce Wayne apologizing? Admitting a mistake? Everyone looked equally stunned.

“This is getting creepy,” Jason muttered, walking into the room and tossing his leather jacket onto the coffee table like it was recyclable trash.

“Are we sure he hasn’t been abducted or mind-controlled by some space bug?” added Dick, shooting a suspicious glance at Alfred. Alfred merely shook his head with the patience of a man who had seen it all.

“Can’t I admit a mistake?” Bruce growled, instantly regaining that authoritarian tone of his—which, paradoxically, relaxed the room.

“It’s just… so rare and unnatural to hear you apologize,” Tim said, collapsing onto the opposite couch.

“I even got chills,” Steph added, perching on the armrest of the empty sofa. Damian, Duke, and Cass quickly claimed the three seats behind her.

“Do you really think the press will calm down with a statement?” asked Duke with the innocence of someone not yet battle-tested in media storms.

“I doubt it,” interrupted a female voice entering through the door. The wheelchair rolled smoothly forward, revealing a redheaded woman.

“Barbara,” Bruce said—half greeting, half question.

“Wow, family meeting today, huh?” she teased with a smile as she rolled into the room.

“What are you doing here? Did something happen?” Bruce asked, frowning.

“Beyond your kids being all over social media and the entire city in euphoria? Nothing major,” she replied casually.

“Then…” Bruce muttered.

“Then I just came to check in on our little viral stars,” she teased, throwing them all a mocking look.

“Babs, not the time,” Dick interrupted, exhausted and looking like a diva about to faint.

“I know, I know. But here’s the point: I don’t think it’s a good idea to simply cancel their participation. It’d be bizarre for Bruce Wayne to confirm it and then suddenly retract it. That would practically hand Tina the win.” At the sound of that name, everyone in the room frowned at once. Each of them had their own painful history with that reporter.

“So what are you proposing? That we let this circus keep going?” Damian cut in, frowning deeper than usual.

“That you fulfill Bruce’s promise and compete,” Barbara replied, smiling with brazen satisfaction.

“What?!” they all shouted in unison.

“Look, it might sound absurd, but we’d kill several birds with one stone. Think about the chain of problems trailing your public lives: your vigilante identities are at risk. Remember the scandal a few months back when your medical records were leaked? This would silence the abuse allegations. Plus, by appearing publicly together, people would stop saying you’re a fake family; you’d build a genuine bond with the public, which would dispel suspicions that you’re Gotham’s vigilante crew.” Barbara raised her fingers as she listed the reasons, though the kids’ faces were still confused—some worried, some bored by the idea. Knowing them all too well, she added one last push:

“And besides… well… it’s not that far-fetched, is it? I mean, if you wanted to, you could actually win. Or what, are you afraid of failing on national television?”

A silence fell. If the seven of them had inherited one thing from Bruce, it was that spark of prideful competitiveness.

“Me? Please! The one who’d lose in the first round is him,” Damian muttered, throwing a pillow at Tim’s face.

“Ha! Says the guy who can’t last ten minutes in training without his stupid katana—anyone could win like that,” Tim shot back, hurling the pillow back. Damian dodged, and it landed at the eldest’s feet.

“Enough, both of you. Stop fighting over nonsense. We all know if anyone has a chance of winning, it’s me, not you,” Dick couldn’t help boasting. The three glared at each other with competitive fire, as if the Olympics would be held among just them.

“I’m only in for the fun of watching you all tear each other apart at the Olympics. That’d be hilarious!” Steph burst out laughing—her favorite thing was watching the Robins fight, and if this could be broadcast nationally, she was definitely in.

“I don’t know… it sounds too big. What if people start connecting the dots?” Cass’s doubtful voice dimmed the room a little.

“Yeah, and what if we lose? The backlash would be even worse,” Duke added timidly.

“Lose? Not while I’m on the team. And you two, stop making excuses,” Damian cut through the doubts. Duke gave a nervous laugh while Cass tilted her head.

“Come on, admit it. Otherwise, you’ll be the only chickens left out,” teased the eldest, moving to Bruce’s right. “Besides, I don’t know anyone more talented than you. Honestly, it surprises me that you doubt yourselves like this,” he added, his fraternal tone melting some hearts. Cass and Duke smiled at the compliment and finally nodded.

All eyes turned to Jason, who was leaning against the corner, amused, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“What are you staring at?” he growled with half a smile.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” Tim pressed, arms crossed.

“Timbo, let me remind you that—according to the official story—I’m dead.”

“Umm…” Dick let out an awkward sound. Everyone turned to Bruce, who already had his palm to his forehead. Dick, meanwhile, stood by his side with the expression of a guilty accomplice.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” Jason repeated, now with more malice.

“Well…” Bruce tried to answer, but fell silent. Every gaze shifted to Dick.

“Let’s just say when you died, Bruce was… not in the best state, you know, with his ‘healthy’ methods of grieving. So it was never made public that you’d died. Years passed, and at a gala someone asked me about you… That’s when I realized Bruce had never made the official announcement. I panicked and said you were at a boarding school in Morocco. When you came back, I was relieved I’d lied, because by then everyone was sick of the ‘lost brother in boarding school’ story.”

“What the hell?! Why Morocco?!” Jason threw his cigarette to the ground and stormed toward Dick.

“I don’t know! I’d had a kebab that day,” Dick shrugged.

“Aren’t kebabs from Turkey?” Duke asked, confused.

“Actually…” Damian nodded with cultural offense.

“Fine, yes! I don’t know geography!” Dick buried his face in his hands.

“So… no one knew I died?” Jason interrupted, exasperated.

“Well… I knew,” Tim raised his hand. Jason flung his jacket straight at Tim’s face.

“In conclusion, yes—you can participate,” Steph sing-songed, raising her hands in mock celebration. Jason shot her a glare so menacing she instantly lowered them.

“Not in your dreams,” he spat.

“Really? Then say it clearly: it’s not that you can’t… you’re just scared,” Tim said, covering his face preemptively in case another object flew his way.

Jason glared furiously. The silence was heavy, like a duel at dawn.

“Me, scared? More like you should be scared, Drake… because that table might be the next thing flying at your face,” Jason growled, pointing at the coffee table.

“Well, if you don’t accept, everyone’s gonna know you as the cowardly Wayne,” Damian added calmly, arms crossed.

Jason held Damian’s gaze. He was the only one speaking seriously, and that annoyed him more than the teasing. After a long staring contest, Jason snorted like a resigned bull.

“Fine! But when I leave you all in the dust, I don’t want to hear complaints,” he finally conceded, lighting another cigarette and dropping into the last empty seat.

Barbara, who had been silent the whole time, turned her head toward Bruce with a sly smile.

“See? All set.”

Bruce just took a deep breath. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

---------------------------------------

That day felt endless. After finally getting the kids to stop fighting and disperse, Bruce managed to catch some sleep. That night, he headed to the Watchtower. The moment he stepped into the hall, he noticed the playful looks from his teammates… looks he immediately crushed with that expression of his that could wither sunflowers.

Clark, who knew Bruce better than anyone, didn’t need to use his super-hearing to know the Bat was in a foul mood; the aura of devastation he radiated was so intense that not even Flash dared to crack a joke. The meeting went on calmly: expenses, missions, mistakes—the usual. One by one, everyone slipped out, as if they’d received a telepathic message of “every man for himself,” until only Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman remained.

“So… the Olympics, huh?” Diana broke the ice, the warrior she was.

“Didn’t think it was a big deal,” Bruce grumbled.

“Everyone’s talking about the Wayne family right now,” Clark remarked, as diplomatic as ever.

“I assume you had it planned, like everything else,” Diana added. The silence stretched, uncomfortable.

“Was it planned?” Clark asked, noticing the way Bruce’s veins seemed ready to crawl out of his body.

“Not particularly.”

That left Diana and Clark stunned. Batman admitting that something wasn’t calculated? It was like a robot confessing it had tripped over a rug. Their looks softened: it wasn’t fury that Bruce radiated, but worry. In fact, paternal worry. And that, coming from Batman, was almost… tender.

“Bruce, you can still back out. What are they going to do? Kick out the Games’ biggest donor?” Clark said with a half-smile.

“They all agreed to go. There’s no turning back.”

“Then what’s weighing on you?” Diana asked.

“Exposing them…”

Both understood. Bruce had always guarded his children’s privacy. They remembered how the public viewed “Brucie Wayne”: hollow, superficial, incapable of tying his own shoes without Alfred. Even within the League, there were jokes; like the time Green Lantern rescued him from a kidnapping at sea and the debate at the table was whether Wayne could even use silverware. And who could forget the infamous game of “kill, marry, or sleep with,” in which Bruce always ended up as the last option—because what else could anyone do with him? Now, as parents themselves, Diana and Clark understood his fear: what if all this hurt the kids more than it helped them?

“Everything will be fine, Bruce,” Clark said, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“You have warriors, both in skill and in heart,” Diana added gently. Then, trying to lighten the mood, she added: “Besides, Lizzie won’t stop talking about going to see Damian.”

“Jon too,” Clark murmured.

“I don’t want to leave Gotham…”

“You’ve got Batwoman and Batwing,” Diana replied.

“And I could cover you for a few days,” Clark offered with Kryptonian boldness.

Bruce’s mouth curved into the faintest smile—almost a miracle. He always forgot he wasn’t alone anymore.

“I see it as a good thing,” Diana concluded. “For once, Gotham can dream that something other than vigilantes and villains came out of its streets.”

“Either way, there’s no turning back.” Bruce stood, this time carrying an aura far less terrifying. Diana and Clark exchanged a satisfied glance: they had managed their little miracle.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since that declaration, and during those seven days the kids hadn’t stopped arguing about who would crush whom at the Olympics. Since no one backed down, Bruce decided to take matters into his own hands. With only three months ahead, after doing some research on the dynamics and available sports, he summoned his seven protégés to the Batcave one night.

Everyone arrived eager: Tim and Damian were already on their 700th fight of the year, Cass was paying more attention than usual, and Jason looked ready to light an imaginary cigarette.

“Alright, since we’re all here: we’re going to talk about your participation in the Games. If anyone wants to back out, now’s the time. No one’s obligated.”

Total silence. No one moved. They just shook their heads.

“Perfect. Now, we need to define disciplines. With only three months left, many qualifiers are already closed, so these are your options.” Bruce opened a file on the Batcomputer. A chart of sports appeared on the screen.

“Boxing, Equestrian, Sport Climbing, Fencing, Artistic Gymnastics, Skateboarding, Taekwondo, Table Tennis, Archery, Shooting.” Dick read them out loud as if they were the specials of the day at a restaurant.

“No team sports,” Cass pointed out.

“And where’s that whole speech about teamwork from a month ago?” Steph asked, teasing.

“I don’t want your participation to be a threat to society,” Bruce muttered.

“Understandable,” Duke added solemnly.

“I’m calling gymnastics,” said Dick, raising his hands like someone claiming the window seat. “Unless someone wants to fight me for it.”

“All yours!” they all answered in unison.

“Uh, uh, why is table tennis my best match?” Tim protested.

“And who the hell put Jason in equestrian?” Steph nearly choked with laughter. The image of Jason—two meters of pure brick—on a miserable horse triggered collective laughter.

“The algorithm assigned you based on your skills,” Bruce explained in his trademark tone.

“Even the algorithm knows you’re not much to brag about, Drake,” Damian shot back. Tim kicked his chair in retaliation.

“In your case, you don’t get to choose: you’re doing fencing,” Bruce decreed to the youngest.

“What!? I could wipe the floor with anyone in boxing or taekwondo!” Damian protested.

“Exactly. Nothing guarantees you’ll control yourself in a contact sport. Fencing will teach you self-control. And patience.” The boy sank into his chair, arms crossed, shooting death glares. Tim took the opportunity to point at him and chuckle under his breath.

“I’m going for archery,” said Steph. “I’ll ask Green Arrow for tips.”

“Why not boxing? Give everyone what they want,” Tim jabbed.

“Because… that photo was from when my dad went with me. Not good memories.” She lowered her head. Everyone understood.

“Meanwhile you’re just gonna let everyone talk about you however they want,” except Jason, who tossed her phone at her.

On Twitter, a storm of criticism was raging: memes, sexist jokes, theories about her being a dumb blonde who’d never trained. Steph blushed with fury, gripped the phone and huffed; if she hated anything, it was being underestimated.

“Screw it. I’m signing up for boxing just to shut those idiots up!”

“You sure?” Dick asked.

“Don’t make a woman repeat herself twice,” she replied, her voice so sharp that everyone fell silent.

“So we’ve got equestrian, climbing, skateboarding, taekwondo, table tennis, archery and shooting left,” Bruce resumed.

“If I come back to life, it’ll be in my field,” Jason raised his hand. Everyone understood what he meant.

“Finally using rubber bullets,” commented Dick.

“Not how Bruce wanted, but close enough,” added Duke.

“I think we can rule out equestrian. They already think we’re rich kids; imagine someone actually showing up on horseback. They’d never forget it.” Steph snorted.

“I trust the algorithm. What do I get?” Duke asked, not in the mood to think.

“Archery,” Bruce answered. The boy frowned in disappointment.

“The algorithm knows I’m a metahuman, right?”

“Yes.” The air grew tense. Everyone seemed to understand the reason for his discontent; since arriving, Duke had felt he didn’t fit in, that his achievements counted for less because he had an edge—his gift let him see the immediate future and pick the best moment to shoot.

“Your achievements don’t count for less,” Cass put a hand on his shoulder.

“I know, but I want to play fair.”

“Your second option is climbing,” Bruce added. Nobody expected that—they would’ve thought of Tim or Damian with their constant parkour use—but Duke smiled: “Why not?”

That left only Cass and Tim.

“Skateboarding, Taekwondo, Table Tennis,” Steph listed.

“I could go with Taekwondo,” said Cass, calm but with a hint of doubt in her voice. Nobody objected.

All eyes turned to Tim, who hadn’t chosen anything because he was too busy being insufferable.

“You’re going to table tennis,” Damian decreed with a devilish grin.

“Plus it’s your best match,” Dick added.

“That no one, not even an algorithm, knows me offends me deeply!” Tim put a hand to his forehead. “Sign me up for skateboarding.” Everyone looked at him like he’d said he was joining ballet. Tim, the guy who couldn’t drink coffee without trembling, was going to get on a skateboard? The lifelong child of wealthy families going into an urban sport?

“Table tennis isn’t that bad,” Dick tried.

“Shut up,” Tim cut him off.

“Good, everyone’s chosen. We’ll start training plans,” Bruce closed the file. Against all odds, it had gone better than expected.

---

Honestly, it wasn’t hard for each of them to adapt to their disciplines; it was enough to swap a few hours of vigilante training for sports practice. All of them, being Batfamily members, were physically exceptional. What was really tricky was finding the middle ground: good enough for the Olympics, but “human” enough to seem like just athletes.

A month flew by, and it was more than enough for everyone to be ready. The first qualifying competition would be held soon.

The first Wayne to perform would be the eldest, Richard “Dick” Grayson-Wayne. Almost like a national celebration, Gotham stopped that day. Ever since it became known that its princes and princesses would participate, a phenomenon the media called “the Wayne Phenomenon” had exploded: kids at school made posters and stuck them all over the city, all kinds of edits and videos of each member were produced, ladies in markets whispered about who seemed the most polite, and even Arkham’s villains requested a screen to watch the Olympics. Diana had been right: everyone seemed happy to see something good come out of their city.

So, the day Dick appeared on screens at the artistic gymnastics qualifiers, the whole city seemed to freeze. Activity slowed, everyone tuned in to Channel 43 of public television, breaking audience records, and Dick’s classmates and acquaintances filled the stands. The family had decided not to go to avoid a stir; still, disobeying Bruce, Jason appeared out of nowhere in his brother’s locker room minutes before he went out to compete.

“If you’d picked the wrong locker room, you’d have scared someone to death,” Dick said as he walked in. Jason dropped from the ceiling, full uniform and all.

“Fortunately I didn’t.”

“You’re going to give Bruce gray hairs if he finds out you’re here. Worse yet, as Red Hood,” the older one said, pulling off his warm-up suit to reveal the royal blue outfit with the family company’s signature W.

“I’m not planning on telling him. Just wanted to see how stupid you look in that outfit.”

“Hey, I designed it,” he shot back in a wounded-kid tone.

“It shows.”

Dick lowered his gaze; he knew his brother and could read something more in his body language. From a speaker, a voice announced: “Five minutes, Grayson.”

“You just came to make fun of me?” he asked in a brotherly tone. Jason didn’t answer for a moment.

“Nervous?” he finally asked.

Then he got it. And he also noticed: despite having been raised from childhood to be in the spotlight with his acrobatics, he hadn’t gone on stage since he was eleven. That seemed to worry the opposite party.

“Not at all,” Dick replied, softening his eyes. “After all, I was born to be on stage.”

He gave him a warm smile.

“Good,” Jason simply said.

“Two minutes, Grayson,” the voice reminded. Dick left the locker room behind. He was ready: he was first, and he had to be the best.

And he was. Those routines were child’s play for Nightwing, just part of his arsenal against criminals. The hard part was not looking too perfect; he spent more time thinking where to mess up than where to hit. The applause thundered, the judges’ faces showed surprise: how was a brand-new gymnast going so far in his first competition? By the end of the day, the hottest news in Gotham was how the eldest Wayne son had placed second nationally.

When Damian, angry, asked why he hadn’t come in first, Bruce seemed exasperated explaining they shouldn’t stand out too much.

Similar scenes played out for the rest of the qualifiers.

Cass, with little trouble, finished fourth. Though she seemed the most nervous, no one knew whether it was the public spotlight or something else. Everyone guessed Cass didn’t want podium attention, and no one blamed her.

Then came Duke, who went viral after a spectacular fall caught on camera. The others wasted no time turning it into a WhatsApp sticker for how dramatic it looked, and soon it became a meme. Of course, the fall had been planned by him: they had to seem normal, right? Either way, it didn’t stop him from placing third in national sport climbing.

Next was Steph. As she stepped into her first fight, she was met with a series of obscene whistles and supposed compliments. She had to use breathing techniques through the entire match to keep from knocking everyone out in one blow. In the end, she realized her opponents weren’t the ones being nasty: they even invited her out to celebrate afterward. That’s when she understood the real drama came from idiots who didn’t even get in the ring. On Dick’s advice, she left her guard open in the final fight, and thus ended up second in boxing.

Jason, for his part, treated his qualifier like a grocery run. He arrived without talking to anyone, gave no interviews, wore the team cap only because Dick had forced it on him. He walked into the venue minutes before, straight to the arena, picked up the pellet gun, fired within the set time, grabbed the gold medal like it was his keys and left without a word. Bruce wanted to smash his head against the screen watching that: the opposite of keeping a low profile.

The day Damian appeared on national television for the first time, more eyes turned to him than anyone else. Maybe because it was the first time his father presented him publicly, maybe because he was the only blood son the press knew of. Whatever the reason, in his 14 years he’d never thought he’d be in the public eye after a childhood of training in the shadows. The sport came extremely easy to him, and like his older brother, he didn’t bother holding back: he defeated everyone with exceptional cleanliness. Meanwhile “Brucie Wayne” in the stands just smiled and said, “You know how kids are.” Damian wore his gold medal proudly around his neck and, upon arriving at the manor, fist-bumped Jason in approval. Bruce didn’t even bother arguing.

Last came Tim. Well… they assumed he did well. No family member could go or watch him live. Bad luck, as always: just as his qualifier was scheduled, Gotham suffered a major crisis. Killer Croc unleashed a series of creatures like him across the city, and everyone had to focus on stopping them. That night, Tim walked through the door with his bronze medal, seeing the whole family scattered across the living room, still in their vigilante uniforms, with the weariness of those who’d been fighting for hours. Only Alfred congratulated him as he poured himself a bowl of cereal in the kitchen.

Chapter Text

After weeks of qualifiers, the excitement had spread far and wide: it was no longer just Gotham—now the entire country seemed unusually thrilled about its promising representatives.

After Batman and Nightwing gave the Justice League members —as well as Batwoman and Batwing— strict orders on how to protect their respective cities during their absence, the date finally arrived.

The morning before the U.S. delegation’s departure, Wayne Manor was worse than a disaster. Everyone except Bruce and Cassandra had left their packing for the last minute. Clothes flew through the halls; everyone was running up and down from the Batcave searching for their sports gear. Alfred was practicing breathing exercises to survive the chaos filling every corner.

Still, he couldn’t deny that the scene —chaotic yet familiar— filled his heart. It was the closest thing to a family vacation the Waynes would ever have.

“Whose is this?! If I wear it by mistake again, I’m suing for identity confusion!” Dick shouted, tossing a woman’s shirt down the hallway.

“If it fits, keep it. I’ve got bigger problems… like finding my suitcase!” Tim was half under the bed, rummaging through every corner.

“This is disgraceful. An international mission, and you all look like a traveling circus,” Damian muttered as he calmly folded his clothes, perfectly organized in his suitcase.

“Mission, vacation—same thing. What matters is who’s gonna survive Alfred’s mood when he sees this mess,” Jason said, smirking, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He was definitely a light packer.

A deep sigh echoed through the hall—Alfred had reached the second floor.

“You heard that! Alfred’s about to reach enlightenment… or murder us all,” Dick announced, diving dramatically onto a mountain of clothes.

“Yours… and yours,” Steph said, throwing Dick and Tim’s suitcases into their rooms as she passed by.

“How—?! How did you find mine so fast?”

“Cass found them,” she replied, rolling her own suitcase behind her.

“You make noise. Things don’t,” Cass added, following with her own bag already packed.

“Great, now I just need someone to lend me an extra foot! This thing won’t close!” Duke yelled from his room. Cassandra walked in, pressed a single hand on the suitcase, and shut it effortlessly.

“Better if it explodes at the airport. More entertainment,” Jason quipped.

“Confirmed: we’re a traveling circus,” Damian muttered, suitcase in hand.

“Hey! That’s disrespectful!” Dick protested, shoving all his balled-up clothes into his blue suitcase and tackling it closed.

Half an hour before the flight, everyone finally managed to load their luggage into the limo trunk—the only vehicle, besides the Batjet, big enough to fit them all.

At the airport, they could barely move forward: the number of reporters was overwhelming. It took a while to reach the departure gate, dodging microphones as naturally as possible. Still, a few of them got cornered.

“Mr. Wayne! Is it true your entire family plans to sweep the competition in Spain?” a reporter asked, catching Bruce at the front as he tried to clear a path.

“We’re proud to support Gotham and represent our city in such an important event,” Bruce replied diplomatically, moving aside.

The rest took advantage of the distraction to break formation and try to slip away—but reporters were professionals; they intercepted everyone.

“What’s your sporting specialty?” one asked, blocking Dick’s path.

“Balance… over dirty laundry. And, modesty aside, I’m the best at dodging surprise interviews,” Dick said with a grin, vaulting over the reporter and slipping away toward the gate.

“Young Wayne! What are your expectations for the trip?”

“That no one bothers me. That’d already be an achievement,” Damian replied dryly, glaring.

“Translation: he’s afraid of missing his nap on the plane,” Jason chimed in with an annoyingly sweet smile.

“And what do you think about representing Gotham in this delegation?” another reporter grabbed Tim’s arm.

“I think we deserve a medal… just for packing on time,” he answered distractedly while “accidentally” snapping his beaded bracelet—tiny spheres rolled all over the floor, stopping the high-heeled reporters in their tracks and giving his siblings the perfect escape route.

“Miss Cain, any comments?” Cass looked at them coldly.

“No.”

Her answer was so sharp that no one dared to follow up.

“Mr. Thomas! Are you excited to represent the new generation of Waynes?” someone asked Duke.

“Excited, yeah… worried, more,” he said, eyeing his suitcase. “If this thing explodes, not my fault.”

The flashes blinded him for a second, but he used his ability to quickly analyze the space, guiding the group through the next few minutes and out of the press’s reach.

“As I said: discipline and pride,” Bruce concluded, waving politely to end the interview. Behind him, Dick blew a kiss to a camera, Tim tripped over his backpack, and Damian threatened to break a microphone. The reporters were left stunned—this family was a spectacle.

“Wait—where’s Steph?” Duke asked. Everyone looked around; none remembered seeing her in the lobby. Damian pointed toward the plane windows: Steph was already inside, waving with a wide grin.

They all made it just minutes before takeoff. When they asked how she’d boarded, Steph just shrugged.

“I used the back door.”

Bruce and the others exchanged confused glances. They’d forgotten that door even existed.

“First one here, first pick of seats!” Dick cheered, bumping Jason with his shoulder.

“No way! I already arranged the seating plan at home!” Tim argued, pulling out a notebook.

“Perfect. You fight. I’ll take the aisle seat and nap,” Jason muttered, dropping into the nearest chair.

“As I said, a spectacle,” Damian noted, sitting beside him.

“And the worst part? They’re not even pretending,” Duke told Cass, who nodded silently.

Meanwhile, the other athletes—already seated—watched them like a live comedy act.

“Are we really traveling with this circus?” one whispered.

“Yeah… what a drama,” another said, slipping on his headphones.

“Well, at least admit it: thanks to them, we boarded in peace,” a third added.

“True. They were our human shield. Brave souls,” said the first.

Bruce heard the sighs. Maybe they should’ve taken the Batjet mysteriously after all.

The rest of the flight was calm. Thankfully, the long nights of patrol and lack of sleep took their toll—the kids slept the entire way to Spain.

They all woke at once when Bruce called them; like soldiers, they snapped awake instantly. The rest of the passengers stared, confused, but said nothing.

Upon landing, there were fewer reporters, though they still had to exit through the runway to avoid causing chaos among the other athletes.

Next came the room assignments. To everyone’s surprise, the organization divided rooms by sport: two per room. That meant they all got separated, except Bruce and Damian—since the boy was underage, he had to stay with his guardian.

Bruce wasn’t particularly religious, despite growing up in a half-Catholic, half-Jewish household. Still, that day he prayed—perhaps to no one in particular—that his children wouldn’t burn down the Olympic village.

Dick was paired with a Spanish gymnast. He wasn’t stupid—in fact, he had degrees in Law and Forensic Science—but languages had always been his weak spot. In the circus, he’d learned a little Romani and, of course, English. Later, under Bruce’s tutelage, he’d been forced to study French, barely reaching an A1 level. In short: he spoke no Spanish, and that worried him—especially once he realized his roommate didn’t speak English either.

Still, that language barrier didn’t seem to matter. Somehow—probably thanks to Dick’s unmistakable charm—they got along right away. He soon learned the boy was two years younger and named Santiago Olmedo.

By some divine luck, Jason was assigned a single room, since his sport had an odd number of participants. He was grateful—some peace and quiet, and no one to question his questionable nightly habits.

Tim’s roommate was slightly older. Polite, multilingual, and too curious for his own good. Fortunately, he was Korean—and Tim spoke Korean fluently—though to his dismay, the guy wouldn’t stop asking about his life as a billionaire’s son.

Steph roomed with one of the girls she’d competed against in the qualifiers. They were already friends after hanging out with the team a few times, so it wasn’t hard for her to adjust.

Cass wasn’t as lucky. Her roommate was an extremely talkative Mexican girl who never stopped chatting. Cass preferred silence and only spoke when strictly necessary—but she was grateful Steph’s room was just down the hall.

Duke shared with an Italian guy proud of his heritage and his supposedly prestigious family. The boy clearly had no clue about pop culture; he didn’t even recognize Duke. Understandable—he didn’t carry the Wayne name, and only in Gotham was it known that Bruce Wayne was his legal guardian. Duke stayed silent, though the other’s classist remarks were starting to wear thin.

Then came the opening ceremony. The whole delegation marched during the parade, walking through the stadium as the Olympic Games officially began. The atmosphere was overwhelming, yet warm and joyful. That happiness reached every one of them, and that night, after the ceremony and before the competitions, the family gathered for dinner.

Dinner looked more like a hotel buffet than a sports village meal: trays of pasta, rice, and salads everywhere. They all sat together, enjoying their one free evening before the contests began.

“Come on, admit it—it’s not that bad,” Dick said with a relaxed smile, tapping his fork. “Clean rooms, good food, and the beds—”

“Are made of cardboard,” Jason interrupted without looking up. “Literally cardboard, Dick. If I breathe too hard, they bend.”

Tim snorted. “They’re eco-friendly. Supposedly they hold up to two hundred kilos.”

“Yeah, but what’s the point of that if they break when you roll over?” Steph added, laughing. “Also, did anyone see the amount of condoms they were handing out at reception? I thought they were candy.”

“That’s not funny,” Damian muttered, arms crossed. “This is an international sporting event, not a degenerate camp.”

“Well, technically, athletes do… extracurricular workouts,” Duke joked, trying not to laugh.

Cass looked at him seriously. “Endurance exercise,” she said quietly.

Jason burst out laughing. “See? Even Cass gets it.”

Damian groaned, stabbing his food. “This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to share a room with my father. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Bruce looked over his glass, one eyebrow raised. “Last time you said that, Damian, you ended up infiltrating a Russian espionage mission.”

“And I succeeded,” the boy said proudly.

“Barefoot and hypothermic,” Tim added dryly.

“Irrelevant,” Damian said, chin lifted.

Dick chuckled softly, resting his elbows on the table. “Come on, Dami, take it as a vacation. Not every day you compete in the Olympics.”

Jason raised his glass. “At least you have a roommate. I got stuck alone in an empty room. I think the organizers knew it was dangerous to put me with someone.”

“Probably,” Bruce muttered without looking up.

“Well, I’d like to remind everyone,” Dick interrupted, grinning, “that the oath of self-control and discretion ends here! From now on, the real competition begins: whoever performs best gets to rule the mansion for a whole month—no questions asked!”

Bruce blinked. Since when had that become their Olympic motivation?
The others all nodded with excitement, the air thick with energy. The table burst into laughter. Between jokes about cardboard beds and “souvenirs” freely handed out by the organizers, for a moment they looked like any other family sharing dinner.

And Bruce, without realizing it, was enjoying it. It was the closest he’d ever get to normal. Maybe there existed a world where none of his children had suffered, where there was no need to patrol every night, where there was peace. He stared at his glass for a moment; he only hoped they could all enjoy the experience as much as he was.

-----------

Sunlight streamed through the common dining hall windows, glinting off metal trays and sports uniforms. Dick had been ready for over an hour—or at least, that’s what he wanted everyone to think. In reality, he’d spent the last twenty minutes fixing his uniform and hair in front of the communal bathroom mirror.

“Are you seriously putting on gel?” Jason asked from the doorway, coffee in hand.

“Presentation, brother. Everything starts with first impressions,” Dick replied, eyes still on his reflection.

“Yeah, right. Like Olympic gold’s decided by smiles,” Tim muttered, walking past with his notebook.

“Depends on who’s watching,” Dick said with that grin that always spelled trouble.

The stadium was packed. The men’s artistic gymnastics event was one of the most anticipated, and flashes went off the moment the U.S. team entered.

Dick walked with steady confidence, the red-and-blue tracksuit perfectly fitted, his calm expression that of a man who’d spent half his life midair. Beside him, his Spanish partner, Santiago, looked more nervous—though more because he was standing next to Grayson than because of the crowd.

“Relax, Santi,” Dick whispered. “Just breathe. Think of the audience like a big circus tent.”

“That… doesn’t help,” the boy replied in rapid Spanish Dick barely understood, but the tone made him laugh.

When his turn on the pommel horse came, silence fell over the stadium. Dick closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and smiled faintly. Bruce watched from the stands, arms crossed, emotion hidden. Cass and Steph waved U.S. flags; Jason yawned; Damian looked downright bored.

The first move—clean. The second—elegant. The third—so fluid even the judges leaned forward. The crowd began chanting his name before he even finished. His landing—arms outstretched—was flawless.

The score wasn’t out yet, but the noise said it all.

“Smile bigger,” Jason muttered from the stands. “The people in the second row already fainted.”

“No joke,” Steph giggled. “I think the French gymnast just threw his towel so Dick would pick it up.”

Indeed, as Dick walked off the mat, several athletes from other delegations approached him.

“Excellent technique,” said one, Russian accent thick.

“And… impressive execution,” added another, Italian, smiling with clear intent—enough to make Tim raise an eyebrow.

“Thanks, guys. Teamwork, discipline, lots of stretching,” Dick said, trying to stay composed as Santiago gave him a knowing look.

Some coaches crossed their arms, others smirked knowingly. Dick Grayson, the boy from Gotham, had just captured not only the judges’ attention—but half the Olympic pavilion’s.

When the score appeared—15.950—the stadium erupted. It was the highest of the night. Dick lifted his arm modestly—though everyone knew he was loving every second.

Damian sighed. “Pathetic. He uses charisma as a weapon.”

“And it works,” Duke said.

“Of course it does,” Jason added with a grin. “If he doesn’t win gold, he’ll at least leave with a few international phone numbers.”

Dick sat back down, greeted by admiring glances and selfies from other athletes. A Japanese gymnast offered him water; another asked for a photo.

“Thanks, guys. But remember—hydrate. The real enemy here is the heat,” he joked.

“And you,” Tim muttered, unable to believe the flirtation level around him.

The afternoon continued with the remaining routines. The tension built—the others’ scores were close, but none surpassed his. When the final scoreboard appeared, the whole stadium rose.

Dick Grayson: Gold — 15.950 points.

The noise was deafening. The U.S. flag rose, and for once, Dick was speechless.

“Are you crying?” Jason asked, half-teasing, half-surprised.

“No,” Bruce said gruffly, eyes fixed on the podium. But Steph, Cass, and Tim knew he was lying.

“The first gold medal for the United States,” announced the commentator. “And it goes to Richard Grayson of Gotham City.”

The cameras zoomed in on his face—smiling, serene, eyes shining.

Back in Gotham, the echo was immediate.

Times Square screens showed his image. In the poorer neighborhoods, kids mimicked his landing pose. Downtown, people shouted his name from cafés and rooftops. In Wayne Tower, Lucius raised a glass. In the Batcave, Alfred sighed with a proud smile. And though no one saw it, even Harley Quinn applauded from her couch.

“Our circus boy did it!” crowds screamed in Gotham Square.

Social media exploded with posts, memes, and headlines:

“Gotham’s Acrobat Flies Higher Than Anyone.”
“Richard Grayson: From the Trapeze to Olympic Gold.”
“Who’s the Handsome Guy on the Pommel Horse? The Internet Falls for the U.S. Gymnast.”

Back at the stadium, Dick held the medal between his fingers.

“How do you feel?” a reporter asked, shoving a microphone toward him.

“Light,” he answered with a grin. “Like I’m back in the air.”

When he stepped down from the podium, Bruce was waiting. He said nothing—just placed a hand on Dick’s shoulder. Dick smiled, understanding. “Can I brag now?” he asked.

“Only if you stop giving interviews about ‘stretching,’” Bruce replied deadpan—but his eyes betrayed a hidden smile.

Jason joined them, clapping. “Well—gold secured, world attention achieved, and half the delegation in love. Classic Grayson.”

“Just doing my job,” Dick said with a wink.

A few days passed after Dick’s competition. The atmosphere in the Olympic village had changed—his name still echoed through the halls, and reporters still swarmed the U.S. building.
But within the team, everyone’s eyes were now on someone else: Cassandra.

--------

Cass didn’t talk much. She never did.

She walked with her headphones on, her movements so precise she seemed to float.
Still, every step she took toward the training gym weighed more than anyone could imagine.
She knew exactly what she was capable of.

She knew that if she wasn’t careful, she could break bones effortlessly.

And that —though no one ever said it out loud— terrified her more than losing.

“Ready to train?” asked her Mexican teammate, a curly-haired girl with an easy smile named Valeria.

Cass only nodded, adjusting her uniform.

“Relax, I’m not gonna bite. Though if you beat me too badly, I might.” Valeria joked, trying to ease the tension.

The first round was almost a game. Valeria tested a few moves, gauging the distance, and Cass responded with surgical precision… though visibly holding back.

“Was that a kick or a polite greeting?” Valeria burst out laughing.

Cass looked at her, confused. “No… want to hurt.”

“Hurt? Girl, this is taekwondo, not origami. Hit me for real!”

Cass hesitated. Out of habit, out of fear. But in the next exchange, Valeria managed to touch her side. It wasn’t a hard hit, but enough to wake something in her.

The next move was fast, clean, and brutally technical. In less than a second, Valeria was on the floor, staring at the ceiling with an incredulous smile.

“Okay…” she said between breaths. “Now that was a hit.” Cass took a step back, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? That was amazing!” Valeria got up, laughing. “Where did you learn to move like that? You look like a video game character.”

Cass blinked. She hadn’t expected that.

“No… I’m dangerous.”

“Dangerous? No. You’re incredible. If I could move like that, I wouldn’t even be afraid of the referee.”

The words lingered in the air.

For the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t looking at her with fear, or forced respect.
Just genuine admiration.

That night, Cass stayed awake a little longer on her cardboard bed, staring at the ceiling.
She remembered the sharp sound of impact, Valeria’s smile — and something in her chest felt lighter.

When the day of the final arrived, the stadium was packed.
Valeria had been eliminated in the semifinals, but from the stands she waved a Mexican flag with Cass’s name written on it in black marker.

“Come on, Shadow! Show them how it’s done!” she yelled, making Steph and Duke laugh beside her.

Cass stepped onto the mat with her usual calm.
Her opponent, a Korean fighter, had a steady gaze and perfect posture.
Cass took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and remembered Valeria’s words:

"Don’t be afraid of what you are."

The whistle blew.

The first exchange was even, but it only took one movement for the audience to realize they weren’t watching an ordinary athlete.
Cass moved as if every second had purpose.
She dodged smoothly, counterattacked effortlessly, and her strikes were so precise they seemed choreographed.

The judges could barely keep up with the points.

When the scoreboard reached 15–8, the referee raised his hand. Match over.

Cassandra Cain — gold for the United States.
The stadium erupted.

For a moment, Cass stood still, almost frozen.
She looked at the stands: Valeria was jumping, Steph was clapping hard, Dick was flashing victory signs — and even Bruce was smiling from the tribune, something almost no one could claim to have seen.

Cass lowered her head, touching the edge of her chest protector.

She didn’t know if she deserved all of it.
She didn’t know if she should feel proud.
But when she looked up, she saw the Korean opponent bowing respectfully — and the crowd chanting her name.

“CASS! CASS! CASS!”

That word —her name— not as a weapon, not as a shadow.
Just as someone. A person.

As she left the mat, Valeria intercepted her with a huge smile.

“Told you you were amazing.”

Cass hesitated for a second, then hugged her — brief, awkward, but sincere.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly.

“You’re welcome, champ,” Valeria replied.

The stadium was still roaring with applause when Cass returned to the center of the mat.
Everything felt slower — the sound of the crowd, the glow of the lights, even her breathing.

The announcer called her name in a firm voice:

“Gold medal for the United States… Cassandra Cain.”

The cheers rose in a mix of flags, flashes, and chants.
Cass stepped forward, her legs still tense, her hands trembling slightly.
Not from exhaustion, but from something she didn’t quite understand — a mix of relief, disbelief, and fear.

The anthem began.

The notes filled the air as the American flag rose slowly.
Cass lifted her gaze, her eyes gleaming with restrained emotion.
She didn’t cry, didn’t quite smile, but something in her expression was different — as if, for the first time in a long while, she believed she deserved to be there.

Next to her, the Korean competitor looked at her and nodded respectfully.
Cass returned the gesture with a small bow.

When the judge approached with the medal, Cass lowered her head and felt the cold metal brush her skin.

It was light.

Too light for everything it carried inside her.

From the stands, the whole team was shouting.

“LET’S GO, CASS!” Steph screamed, waving a flag she had probably stolen from a volunteer.
Duke joined with a proud grin, while Tim recorded everything on his phone.
Jason, of course, couldn’t help himself.

“Look at her! The deadliest assassin on the planet — now a model citizen.”

“Jason.” Bruce warned, without raising his voice.

“What? It’s true.”

Back in the Olympic village, Gotham was already in chaos.
News outlets broadcast the ceremony on giant screens, digital papers crashed under the headlines:

“Cassandra Cain: America’s Silent Gold.”
“From the Shadows to Glory: The Mysterious Champion.”

Even some well-known villains had posted online; one wrote:

"Never thought I’d fear someone in a white pajama."

Cass didn’t know any of that.
She only felt the medal against her chest, the echo of the anthem fading, and somewhere in the crowd, Valeria’s voice shouting:

“You’re a legend, Shadow!”

Cass smiled — just for a second — but it was enough.

When she stepped off the podium, Bruce was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed.

“Good job,” he said, with that voice that never needed to say more.

She nodded. “Didn’t… break anything.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “That’s already a record.”

For the first time, Cass laughed. A short, sincere laugh — full of something new: peace.

That night, while the whole team laughed and celebrated over dinner, Cass stayed quiet, staring at the medal between her fingers.

For the first time, she didn’t see it as a reminder of what she could destroy,
but of what she could build.

And when Bruce walked past her and placed a hand on her shoulder, no words were needed.
Cass simply smiled.

---

Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the climbing hall the next day.
It was the Olympic speed climbing final: fifteen meters, two identical routes, a bell at the top.
In the stands, flags from around the world waved as commentators repeated the names of the favorites.

Duke Thomas took a deep breath, fingers dusted in chalk.
He’d spent his whole childhood hanging from Gotham railings before anyone taught him the right technique.
Now he was here — in an official harness, in front of the biggest crowd of his life.

To his right, Lorenzo Vitale, the Italian climber, smiled with marble confidence.
He’d dominated every round, and kept glancing up and down at Duke, as if his simple T-shirt with the family “W” and his last name were a personal insult.

“Ready to come in second, nobody?” Lorenzo asked in accented English, adjusting his shoes.

Duke didn’t answer. He just smiled faintly, scanning the holds.
He’d learned that words didn’t mean much when you were three moves from the top.

In the stands, Jason waved a U.S. flag with a hand-drawn Batman logo.
Steph and Cass yelled his name, and Dick made exaggerated gestures to get Duke’s attention.
Bruce, as always, stood with arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The referee raised his arm. Three. Two. One. The buzzer sounded.

Duke launched himself upward.
His hands found the first hold with surgical precision; his feet followed in rhythm, an invisible choreography.
He climbed in short diagonals, using every tiny edge.
Next to him, Lorenzo started strong, but lost his rhythm on the third move.
Duke passed him without looking back.

Halfway up, the crowd was roaring.
Duke heard nothing — only his heartbeat, and the memory of training on Gotham’s old walls, Bruce correcting his hip angle, Dick betting with Jason on his time.

Two holds left. A dynamic jump, a foot on the smallest red nub, his hand reaching up—

CLANG!

The bell rang.

The entire stadium exploded.

15.10 seconds. New Olympic record.

Lorenzo reached the top two seconds later, panting.
He looked at the clock, then at Duke, in disbelief.

“Impossible…” he muttered in Italian. “That kid…”

Duke descended with a restrained smile.
No showboating — just satisfaction.

In the stands, Jason shouted, “That’s how it’s done, Duke! Paint the wall!”
Cass clapped silently; Steph filmed everything.
Even Bruce gave the slightest approving nod.

When the announcer declared:

“Gold medal for the United States… Duke Thomas,”

the crowd rose as one.

Duke stepped onto the podium, his fingers still dusted with chalk.
His pulse was racing, his breathing short.
But when the judge approached with the medal, time seemed to stop.

In the guest section, he saw Bruce Wayne stand to applaud.
Not with his stern mentor’s expression, but as Bruce Wayne — philanthropist and shareholder.
His mentor. The man who had secretly funded the climbing walls he’d trained on.

On the podium beside him, Lorenzo followed Duke’s gaze and instantly recognized the most feared face in his father’s board meetings.
Bruce Wayne — majority shareholder of Vitale Industries. The kid he had just mocked… was his protégé.

The Italian went pale.
His marble smile cracked.
He bent down to tie his shoe — and lost his balance, dropping to his knees on the podium as cameras flashed.

“Mamma mia…” he muttered, covering his face.

Jason burst out laughing so loudly they almost threw him out of the arena.

Steph whispered, “Instant karma.”
Cass, discreet as ever, only raised her eyebrows.

Unbothered by the mini-drama, Duke bowed his head to receive the medal.
The cold metal brushed his skin.
It was light — but in that moment, he felt the weight of everything he’d climbed to get there.

He looked ahead, toward Bruce. The man nodded slightly.

When the anthem began, Duke looked up.
He didn’t smile like Grayson, or cry like Cass.
His expression was that of someone who had finally found his place.

Next to him, Lorenzo was still frozen in disbelief.
He’d lost the race, the gold, and maybe his family’s composure.
Duke just tightened his grip on the medal and thought:

“This too is climbed step by step.”

As they left the arena, Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Good job.” Nothing more. Nothing less.

Duke smiled. “Thanks. And… I think I just ruined someone’s week.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry. He’s used to it.”

Back in the Olympic village, social media was on fire with headlines:

“Duke Thomas: The Boy Who Climbs Higher.”
"From Gotham to Gold: The New Shadow of the Climbing World.”
“Italian Downfall: The Fall of Vitale Against Wayne’s Protégé.”

Duke slipped the medal into his pocket and walked out of the arena,
with the echo of the crowd still in his ears,
and the feeling that, for the first time,
he was standing at the top of something he had climbed entirely on his own.

Chapter Text

The Olympic shooting range smelled of metal, sweat, and concentration. Jason Todd sat alone, checking his pistol like it was an old friend. He had joined the shooting team with the same attitude he brought to everything: cynical, quiet, and with one eyebrow raised at anyone who tried to be friendly.

During the first practices, no one quite knew what to do with him. The Turk, Yilmaz, greeted him every day with a “Good shots, brother!” that Jason only answered with a nod. The Englishman, Oliver, tried to chat about football and tea until Jason told him, “In Gotham, the only hot thing we drink is coffee… or gasoline.”

The Australian, Kim, challenged him to see who could group their shots better; she lost once, then beat him three times, and since then she started leaving jokes in his locker.

And little by little, without him even noticing, they began treating him like one of them. No one asked if “it was safe to give him a gun.” No one pitied him. No one looked at him as the ex-convict, or the boy who died. Or as Red Hood.

Just… Jason.

And in that normalcy, something in him began to loosen up. During breaks, instead of cleaning his gun for the hundredth time, he stayed to listen to Yilmaz talk about his wife, to Kim complain about the judges, and to Oliver joke about British pop music. Sometimes he laughed. Just a little.

And whenever he did, his teammates looked at each other as if they had just witnessed an eclipse.

Training was tough; it lasted a week before the competition. Jason shot with surgical precision, but without the tension he knew from the streets of Gotham. There was no danger, no enemies. The target didn’t shoot back. That confused him. In his head, every setting was a mission. Every sound, a warning. But there, in the clean silence of the range, there was nothing to kill or save. He just had to shoot and breathe. And in that simple rhythm, he began to feel at peace.

When the Olympic qualifiers started, Jason surprised everyone. He didn’t use custom gear, or a high-tech compression suit, or digital sights. Just a gray t-shirt with the family company’s “W” logo, old black gloves, and a Gotham Knights cap.

Journalists loved him. His disruptive figure compared to the rest of the family wasn’t glamorous or polished; he looked like a regular guy, someone real—someone you wouldn’t expect to use thermal water for showers.

“Jason Todd, the rebel marksman.”

“The competitor with no sponsor.”

“The guy who shoots better than Olympic robots.”

On Twitter, he went viral.

#ToddShot started as a joke and turned into a phenomenon.

Thousands of girls —and guys— posted edits, fanart, and memes with captions like “Sign me up for his team” or “My target is him.” Some changed their profile pictures to his face. Others posted his image in their stories with romantic lyrics. Jason found out when Kim, laughing, showed him her phone.

“You’re viral, Jaybird,” said Dick, showing a tweet with a Fifty thousand likes.

“What the hell is this?” he muttered.

“It’s admiration, dummy,” Steph answered with a thumbs-up.

Jason sighed, but couldn’t help laughing. It was weird. Comfortable. Human.

“men’s 10-meter air pistol final,” announced the loudspeakers. Jason adjusted his glove, feeling the cold metal of the gun in his hand. He took a deep breath. Bruce was in the stands, arms crossed, wearing his usual press-face. Dick waved a little flag, Tim took notes like it was a science experiment, Cass recorded everything, and Duke shouted: “Let’s go, I bet with Tim!”

Jason smiled unintentionally.

The referee gave the signal. The plan was clear: ten meters, six rounds, perfect score—60.0.

The shots echoed, crisp and sharp.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The Englishman and the Turk were good. The level was high. But Jason… Jason shot with the calm of someone who had lived through worse things than a final. His shots were precise—too precise. By the fourth round, he noticed his teammates watching the screen with resignation. They were doing fine, but he was hitting nearly all tens.

Jason took a deep breath and—for the first time in a competition—eased up a little. Not much, just enough to let them breathe, to keep the contest fun. The audience didn’t notice, but Bruce did. His family did. Damian sighed, not understanding the mistake, and Dick smiled.

In the last round, when the final *bang* echoed, Jason lowered his pistol. On the scoreboard: 59.6 — gold secured.

The other shooters looked at him, and this time, no one felt humiliated.

The Englishman patted him on the shoulder.

“Bloody hell, mate, you’re a machine.”

The Turk nodded, smiling.

“And a gentleman too.”

Jason laughed, a bit awkward but genuine. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a walking weapon or a mistake Bruce tried to fix.

Just Jason Todd — a guy who shot well, who had trained hard, and who had just won without hiding behind a mask.

The stadium roared when he stepped onto the podium. The gold hung heavy but well-earned on his chest. Jason looked up toward the stands, and Bruce met his eyes. He didn’t smile, of course, but tilted his head in that subtle gesture that, in his language, meant “I’m proud of you, son.”

Jason, with a crooked grin, thought:

“Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea after all, old man.”

The ceremony ended with applause, hugs, and a spontaneous chant:

“Jay-son! Jay-son!”

For that night, Gotham could wait. Speaking of that night—the celebration was inevitable. The bar near the Olympic village filled with laughter, lights, and clinking glasses.

Jason, at first, stayed on the sidelines. But after six beers and a karaoke dare, he climbed onto a table.

He sang Livin’ on a Prayer, off-key, with Kim as backup and Oliver recording the whole thing. At some point, someone hung his medal around his neck like a microphone.

The whole bar chanted his name.

The next day, the headlines made history:

“Olympic shooting champion caught drunk singing Bon Jovi.”

“Jason Todd: precision, alcohol, and rhythm.”

“#ToddShot community explodes: ‘Let him be free!’”

Bruce saw the news with a sigh so long that Tim recorded it to use as a ringtone. Dick couldn’t stop laughing. Cass simply said, “He sings with feeling.”

Duke updated his status: “Pride and shame in equal parts.”

Jason walked into the dining room wearing sunglasses and holding a coffee.

“Relax, I didn’t shoot inside the bar.”

Bruce folded the newspaper.

“Maybe it was a bad idea letting you come.”

Jason grinned.

“Yeah, but I won gold.”

And for the first time in a long time, no one corrected him.

---

The Olympic boxing gym vibrated with the metallic echo of gloves hitting punching bags.

Amid the sound of ropes, laughter, and background music, one voice stood out:

“Come on, Steph! Move your feet, this isn’t ballet!” shouted someone from the stands—probably a friend of hers.

“And what if I want to do it with style?” answered Stephanie, throwing an uppercut that made the bag sway.

Steph had always been like that: confident, playful, with a smile that threw her rivals off. She had worked for years to get there, and even so, social media was full of stupid comments:

“The Barbie of boxing.”

“She’s just there for publicity.”

“Too pretty to fight.”

Every time she read them, she smiled ironically and kept training. She knew who she was. She knew how strong she had to be to survive Gotham. But sometimes, alone in the locker room, those words slipped in like invisible punches.

Within the women’s team, Steph quickly won everyone’s affection. She shared snacks, helped with hand wraps, and was the first to cheer up anyone who lost. Her laughter was contagious. Her confidence, inspiring.

Her best friend on the team, a Canadian named Mia, used to laugh and say:

“You’re the only one who steps into the ring smiling and comes out with perfect hair.”

“Family trick,” Steph joked. Growing up around Gotham criminals made boxing feel like a spa. Together, they were inseparable—competing, laughing, supporting each other. Steph didn’t see opponents; she saw teammates who deserved to win as much as she did. The air in the Olympic gym smelled of resin, sweat, and nerves.

Stephanie wrapped her hands slowly, with the focus of someone tying more than just fabric.

Mia, beside her, watched in silence.

“Ready?” asked the Canadian, stretching her shoulders.

“I was born ready,” said Steph, though her heart was pounding inside.

It was the semifinal. Mia and Steph had made it farther than anyone expected. No one said it out loud, but they all knew one of them would be left off the podium.

Steph closed her eyes for a moment. She thought about her father: the news, the arrests, the times she had to hide her last name so she wouldn’t be “the villain’s daughter.” She breathed. Then she remembered all her brothers—and Bruce. Being an only child once had left her with a loneliness she managed to fill when she met each of them. Bruce wasn’t her father—he never could be. Not because he was bad, but because that place was already scarred. Bruce was a mentor, a guide, a counselor. Simply, family.

When the bell rang, the world became simple: gloves, rhythm, breathing.

Mia was fast, direct; Steph was technical, precise. The first round was a mirror—two friends trying to read each other without hurting. Steph smiled behind the mouthguard. She knew she was right.

In Gotham, she had learned that hesitation meant losing.

Second round: Mia attacked with everything.

A hook, another, constant pressure.

Steph stepped back, feeling the crowd’s roar and camera flashes.

Then, as if her body remembered on its own, she dodged, turned, and landed a perfect cross to the chin. The hit rang like a bell inside her chest.

Mia fell to her knees—not unconscious, but off balance. The referee counted, and when he raised Steph’s hand, the stadium erupted.

Victory. A place in the final.

But Steph didn’t raise her arms right away.

Instead, she knelt beside Mia and helped her up.

“Nice hit,” whispered Mia, smiling.

“Don’t stay down too long; they’ll get bad photos.”

“Idiot.”

Both laughed, between sweat and tears.

The final was a storm. Steph’s rival, a seasoned Cuban boxer, was pure power. Every punch she threw sounded like thunder.

But Steph had something the other didn’t: a newfound calm.

She wasn’t fighting ghosts anymore, or her father’s image.

She wasn’t there to redeem herself.

She was there because she loved to fight.

The first round was even. The second, fierce. By the third, Steph began to flow—side steps, jab, hook, dodge. The crowd roared, judges scribbled frantically.

When the final bell rang, both boxers hugged, exhausted. They waited for the results, hearts pounding like drums.

“Winner by unanimous decision… Stephanie Brown, United States.”

The scream that followed was a roar.

Steph felt the floor tremble beneath her feet. She didn’t cry right away. She just stood there, breath caught in her chest, as the referee raised her arm.

Then something inside her broke free.

All the pressure, all the years proving she was more than a last name, melted away. She smiled—a clean smile, without anger or fear.

From the stands, Bruce watched silently, arms crossed.

Jason clapped with a genuine smile. Cass nodded slightly, understanding the weight of that gesture. Dick, of course, cried without admitting it.

The anthem played and Steph looked up. The shine of gold reflected in her eyes, but what moved her wasn’t the victory—it was knowing that, for the first time in her life, in front of the whole world, she wasn’t “Cluemaster’s daughter.”

She was Stephanie Brown, Olympic Champion.

By her own merit.

That night, the whole team went out to dinner at a restaurant in the Olympic village. They laughed, toasted with juice and sparkling water (well, most of them), and enjoyed the end of weeks of tension.

But peace didn’t last long.

From another table, a group of male boxers stared too much. One of them—Italian, fake smile, oversized ego—stood up and walked toward them.

“Hey, blondie,” he said, dripping condescension. “Good show today. Didn’t think dolls could hit that hard.”

Steph smiled tightly.

“Yeah, and sometimes we talk too.”

The guy laughed, stepping closer.

“So, do you kiss with the gloves on, or only when people are watching?”

The air froze. Mia clenched her fists. The others glared, tense. Steph stood up slowly.

“Excuse me? What did you just say?”

He smirked, confident.

“Just saying maybe your gold’s more about makeup and media pressure than real fighting.”

And that was the end of the conversation.

A second later, the Italian was on the floor, one eye swelling and a chair knocked over. The sound of the hit echoed through the dining hall. Absolute silence. Forks frozen midair. Even the cooks stopped moving.

From the U.S. team’s table, the boys watched with faces torn between horror and pride.

Dick covered his mouth, trying not to laugh. Duke secretly recorded. Jason applauded. Tim muttered, “She knocked the ego out of him in one punch.”

Bruce, on his part, rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath.

“I knew this was going to happen…” he murmured, in that tired dad tone.

Steph, meanwhile, fixed her hair and sat down again.

“What?” she said when no one spoke. “It was a clean hit.”

The room burst into laughter.

The Italian was carried off, red-faced and icing his eye.

And from that day on, no one messed with Stephanie Brown—or the women’s boxing team—ever again.

From the far end of the room, Bruce watched with his usual cup of coffee.

Dick couldn’t stop laughing.

Jason fist-bumped her.

Cass said, “Nice punch.”

“Excellent technique, I must say,” added Damian, stabbing his fork into his salad.

And Bruce, sighing, murmured to himself, “Definitely… a bad idea bringing them.”

---

The next morning, people were still talking about the knockout a girl had delivered the night before. The air in the fencing hall was clean, sharp—like the blade Damian held in his hand. White light reflected off metal helmets, and the sound of shoes scraping against wood marked the rhythm of every bout.

Damian watched, impatient. Around him, competitors from every country greeted each other, patted backs, joked in different languages. He didn’t. He just adjusted his glove, checked his foil, and mentally reviewed every move. Bruce, in the stands, simply watched—doing his best to avoid awkward small talk with the other parents.

“I didn’t come to make friends. I came to win,” he thought.

From the start, he was a hurricane. Every practice bout was a surgical execution. His movements were precise, almost cruel. Opponents fell one after another, and he showed no emotion. The judges noted his aggressive stance, his inhuman focus for a fourteen-year-old.

“Too serious,” they murmured. “Too arrogant.”

And maybe he was.

But Damian wasn’t fighting just for gold. Every strike was an echo of his lineage: the League of Assassins’ training, the weight of being Bruce Wayne’s son. A proof that his blood hadn’t been in vain.

Until he arrived.

An opponent with a flag Damian barely registered—he didn’t care about names, only styles. The bout began as usual: fast, intense. But for the first time, the other responded with equal precision. He anticipated, pressured, forced Damian back.

Damian felt something he hadn’t felt since he was a child: frustration.

The small audience watching held their breath as the final score appeared:

5–4. Wayne loses.

The silence that followed was a knife. Damian clenched his teeth. Bruce only sighed, already knowing how angry his son would be. The opponent removed his helmet, smiled, and extended a hand. Damian ignored him. He picked up his gear and left without looking back.

But the wound wasn’t just on the scoreboard. It was inside—deep. For the first time, someone had made him feel not enough. He’d lived with his father for four years now, but some lessons still lingered like scars. Every trace of failure had once been punished by his grandfather, leaving him with a hollow pain that never faded. That was what he felt now.

That day, he was unbearable. His siblings noticed; no one dared talk to him much. That night, in the quiet hallways of the Olympic complex, when he left early to sleep, he ran into a boy with dark hair and a calm smile.

He spoke with a Turkish accent and carried a bag of fencing gear. By chance—or fate—they ended up standing side by side in the elevator.

“You’re Wayne, right?” asked the boy.

“And you talk too much.”

The Turk laughed.

“Everyone says that. I’m Emir. I saw you compete. You’re… different.”

Damian raised an eyebrow.

“Different or better?”

“Different,” Emir replied calmly. “Here, everyone wants to win, but you seem to be trying to prove something else.”

Damian didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to without sounding weak.

“You know,” Emir continued, “in my country, our masters say the sword doesn’t just cut the enemy—it also cuts pride if you wield it without humility. My grandfather used to say: A blade without respect grows dull.”

Damian stayed silent.

For some reason, those words reminded him of Talia—of those afternoons when she read him Arabic poetry. Despite what people thought, his mother had been his only refuge in that world. Strict, yes, but also tender when it came to him, protecting him even when his grandfather crossed the line. She had apologized in advance the day she handed him to his father. And later, when the danger passed, she once asked if he wanted to come back. Damian realized how much she loved him when she respected the “no” that left his mouth that day.

He still got letters from her sometimes, and on missions abroad, they would occasionally meet for a few minutes. The memory of his childhood between deserts and poems came rushing back.

In the following days, something changed. Damian began to observe—to look beyond the fight. He noticed the others’ stances, their rituals before matches, their laughter after losses. For the first time, he understood that not everything was war; there was beauty in competition, even in defeat.

And when he advanced again to the finals bracket, he did so with a new mindset. He was no less fierce, but his fury had purpose now—not to destroy, but to improve.

The final arrived, and fate smiled ironically: his opponent was Emir, the Turkish boy.

They greeted each other before starting. This time, Damian shook his hand. All his siblings in the stands widened their eyes, looking at Bruce, who looked back just as confused. The crowd applauded, unaware that this simple gesture was a miracle.

The match was a dance—attack, defense, counterattack, breath. Precise movements, fluid like water falling from a cascade. Every touch was a wordless conversation.

At one point, Damian heard shouting from the stands.

He looked up for a second and saw them—Jon and Lisie on his back, waving flags and smiling like family. For the first time in a competition, he smiled back, leaving them both stunned.

In that instant, he knew he wasn’t alone.

The duel ended 15-14

A close, clean, honorable victory.

Both removed their helmets at the same time. Emir held out his hand, and Damian took it—with a sincere smile.

“Good match.”

“Likewise, Wayne.”

During the medal ceremony, when they placed the gold around his neck, Damian didn’t look at the central podium. He looked to the right, where Emir stood smiling with silver shining on his chest. And something inside him softened.

It wasn’t the satisfaction of triumph—it was something deeper. For the first time, he felt respect not born from fear or duty, but from admiration.

From the stands, Bruce sighed with a mix of pride and relief.

“Maybe there’s something to learn here,” he murmured.

The headlines exploded soon after, all praising Bruce Wayne’s prodigy son. Jason and Tim laughed, reading how everyone called Damian the “heir,” knowing Bruce had already confessed that Dick was the one in the will. Cass and Steph theorized how a “normal human” could’ve earned Damian’s respect. Duke and Dick took a deep breath on the balcony, talking about how strange it was to see a newspaper photo of Damian smiling.

Bruce had noticed too—something inside Damian had shifted that day. Subtle, but real. A small weight seemed to lift off his shoulders.

That night, Damian stared at his medal under the dim light of his room.

He thought of his mother, his grandfather, the burden of the legacy he carried. Then he thought of Emir—of his calm laughter, and the words about the blade and respect.

He heard a soft tap at the window. When he opened it, he found a desert rose resting on the sill. A gift from his mother—he understood instantly.

He hugged it as he lay back down on his bed.

For the first time in his life, he understood that winning didn’t always mean defeating. Sometimes, winning meant looking at someone else and recognizing your reflection.

Chapter Text

The sun was setting over the skate park at the Olympic Park. The stands were packed, the speakers rumbled with urban music, and the air smelled of dust, sweat, and freedom. Tim Drake adjusted his helmet, took a deep breath, and looked at the ramp in front of him.

It was his turn. And for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about plans, strategies, or criminal networks.

No one had expected to see him there. Not his family, not the press, and definitely not his coworkers. When it was announced that Timothy Drake-Wayne would compete in skateboarding, social media exploded with confusion.

“One of the CEOs of Wayne Enterprises?” “Wasn’t he the guy who hacked stuff?” “What’s a millionaire doing with a skateboard?”

But in the small world of Olympic skaters, Tim had found something he’d never fully had before: belonging. The team —a mix of Japanese, Brazilian, and American skaters with tattoos and baggy clothes— had adopted him without hesitation.

“You’re our favorite hacker,” they’d say, laughing as they taught him new tricks.

Tim laughed along with them, with that carefree smile that rarely appeared back in Gotham. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t “the brain of the group” or “the replacement Robin.”

He was simply Tim —the guy who landed perfect ollies and helped others improve their lines. And it felt good.

During training sessions, he looked relaxed, even happy. Sometimes his brothers would drop by to watch: Jason shouting from the stands, “Fall, nerd!”

Steph would throw a water bottle like a dart—one he could easily dodge but chose not to, to keep up appearances—and Dick would just watch him with that proud big brother look he tried to hide.

Damian pretended not to look, but his eyes followed every move. Cass recorded videos—her way of keeping important memories.

And Bruce, in his quiet way, watched from the shadows of the VIP box, a faint smile on his face. Not because Tim was competing, but because he was finally seeing him enjoy himself.

The day of the finals, the atmosphere was electric. Tim was among the finalists alongside some of the best in the world. The crowd roared for every trick; camera flashes went off non-stop.

As he waited for his turn, his new friends bumped fists with him.

“Go get it, Tim! You’re one of us, bro!”

He nodded, smiling nervously. For the first time, he didn’t want to let anyone down—especially not be worse than his brothers. He knew how unbearable they’d be if he didn’t meet their standards.

His run was flawless. Smooth, precise, almost elegant. The judges looked impressed. And in the stands, every Wayne fell silent.

Dick muttered,

“Since when can he do that?” He could see skill honed far beyond something recently learned.

“How do you think he used to track us during patrols?” Bruce glanced at both of them—it seemed they’d never wondered how a ten-year-old Tim used to follow them all over Gotham in the middle of the night.

They all turned to him with a “what?” look.

Bruce simply shrugged. “You never asked.”

Tim was on his way to gold. Every move was clean, every jump perfect. But then, something changed. Unfortunately for him, he’d always been too observant. From the top of the ramp, with a vantage point only he had, he spotted a familiar silhouette in the crowd—a face he’d seen in dozens of confidential reports. It was the case he’d been working on before all this Olympic business.

Elliot Crane, one of the most wanted criminals, known for trafficking and covert assassinations. The guy was there, among the fans, watching the competition like it was nothing. Of course, Spain was the last place anyone would expect him to hide, and no one would suspect he was just another spectator at the Olympic Games.

Tim felt his pulse quicken. His detective instincts kicked in immediately. He knew that if Bruce and the others saw him, they couldn’t act without risking their identities. Not unless there was a good distraction. The crowd, the cameras, the press—everything was against them.

As best as he could, he signaled Cass. The most skilled at reading body language, she caught it even from a distance. In Morse code, tapping against his leg, he communicated the situation. She disappeared instantly. He also noticed Bruce’s face tense slightly—he had picked up on the plan too.

Tim knew it was up to him to create the distraction. His turn was coming, and he needed to pull off his final trick to score. So he made an absurd decision.

A very Tim Drake kind of decision.

In the next stunt, he changed his trajectory, sped up more than necessary, and jumped at an angle that could only end in disaster.

And oh, it did.

The entire crowd gasped as Tim went flying, landed on his side, bounced off the rail, and rolled across the ground, his skateboard several meters away. Someone shouted that it was Peter Griffin's pose. He’d fallen like that plenty of times before—in training, on surveillance—but seeing it from below was something else. All his brothers turned to look at each other, confused.

The stadium went silent. For a moment, everyone thought he was hurt. Emergency crews rushed over. Then, as he stood up, wobbling, helmet crooked, shirt half torn, and… yes—pants low enough to reveal a pair of red underwear covered in little bat symbols—

The audience burst into laughter.

Tim cursed every decision that led to this moment. He cursed grabbing that pair of underwear that morning, cursed packing last-minute, and cursed the fact that the only clean set he’d found was the gag gift Dick had given him on a Christmas exchange. And he cursed being such a good vigilante that he still managed to do his job—even when not undercover.

The camera zoomed right in on him, and he muttered under his breath:

“Great. I’m moving to the Watchtower tomorrow.”

Dick had his head between his knees, shaking with barely contained laughter. Jason was coughing from laughing too hard, Steph had tears streaming down her face, Duke had gone completely silent from trying not to laugh, and Damian wore that disgusted look he reserved for moments when he wished Tim wasn’t his brother.

Meanwhile, the distraction had worked.

Amid the chaos and laughter, Cass—who, out of paranoia, had brought her suit—had already caught Crane and taken him out of the stadium. Tim caught a glimpse of Superman in the distance—probably the one transporting the criminal to Arkham.

With his dignity hanging by a thread, Tim finished the competition with enough points to win silver. When he stepped onto the podium, his siblings couldn’t even look at him without cracking up.

Dick raised his arm proudly, still red from trying not to laugh. Jason gave him a slap on the back so hard he almost fell. Steph was still crying, biting her tongue, and Damian muttered something about “family disgrace” while taking photos for blackmail later.

Bruce just covered his face with his hand.

“This is going to trend worldwide,” he sighed. But beneath that hand, he was smiling.

And even though the gold went to his Brazilian friend, the crowd only talked about one thing:

“The red-underwear guy who rose from the dead.”

Twitter exploded.

#TimDrake #BatBoxers #TheFallingCEO

A new legion of fans—mostly teenagers—declared him their new Olympic crush.

There was one photo in particular that somehow captured the perfect angle: Tim lying on the ground like that *Family Guy* pose, red boxers on display, the crowd gasping in the background. By the time he lost count, the image had been liked over 200,000 times, and there wasn’t a moment when it wasn’t circulating as a WhatsApp sticker, printed on mugs, T-shirts, fanart, edits—everywhere.

---

That night, at a high-end restaurant where the Waynes gathered to celebrate the end of the Olympic event, they all dined together.

Tim stared at his silver medal, shame still lingering in his eyes.

"Well, at least you made history,” Steph said, nudging him lightly.

“Yeah, as the first medalist to almost flash his ass on prime time,” Jason raised a glass.

“Hey, I did it for the mission,” Tim replied, frowning.

“If I’d known, I’d have kept gifting you those cute boxers, littlewing,” Dick teased with his big-brother tone. Tim shot him a death glare.

“Look on the bright side—Crane’s in prison,” Cass offered, trying to console him.

“Could’ve been worse,” Duke mused absentmindedly. “At least the waistband saved you from showing everything.”

A piece of bread flew across the table and hit him square in the face. Tim was the culprit.

Bruce sighed.

“Note to self: I’m never letting you skate in Gotham again.”

“Too late,” Damian said flatly. “He already has a fan club.”

Tim was already planning which day to ask Superman to help him move to the Watchtower.

“Well, we have to admit,” Dick said, standing up with a glass in hand, “the biggest impact was definitely made by Tim—or his underwear, at least.”

“It’s true,” Steph added, showing her phone. “Even the president liked an edit of your fall with the U.S. flag as your boxers.”

“And Elton John posted you on his story with I’m Still Standing playing in the background,” Duke chimed in.

“o we hereby declare the attention competition officially over, with Tim as the clear winner!” Dick clinked his glass.

Tim looked up, surprised. He hadn’t thought they were taking that “attention competition” seriously. Maybe it was just a consolation prize for making a fool of himself on a global stage—but he was willing to take it. Finally, his scowl softened, and after a few more jokes that lightened the mood, he stood to speak.

“Thanks. Honestly, I was planning to move to the Watchtower tomorrow when we got back to the city, but I’ll take this month to make sure—for once—you all follow my instructions during patrol. Thanks again.”

He sat back down to keep eating.

And as laughter filled the table, Bruce realized something simple:

the Olympics hadn’t just given them medals, but something much rarer in the life of a Wayne—genuine happiness.

----

Wayne Manor had never felt so alive. After a private jet trip home for everyone’s health and a night of genuine rest, six medals gleamed beneath the chandelier on the dining table that morning. Five gold… and one, slightly duller. All of them lined up like a tribute to Alfred, who watched them with pride.

“Well,” said Dick, crossing his arms with that big brother grin that always meant chaos, “five golds, one silver. Not bad.”

Jason leaned over the table, pointing at Tim’s medal.

“Mmm, and this one? Why does it shine less? Maybe it’s not real?”

Tim sighed.

“Yeah, ha ha, very funny.”

“Hey, at least it matches your bat underwear,” Steph added between laughs. Cass tried not to laugh, but a choked sound escaped her. Damian, arms crossed, spoke with his usual lofty tone:

“Failure is a necessary lesson for growth.”

“Thanks, emotional coach in fun-size edition,” Tim replied without looking up. Cass caught Damian before he could pounce on him like a cat. Dick pretended to think.

“We could start a club… ‘The Gold Club,’ and you could be our treasurer.”

“Or second-in-command,” Jason added with a grin. “Literally.”

Tim looked at each of them with a resigned expression.

“You know, I could hack your accounts and make Jason’s teenage fanfic play on a loop every time you post something.”

“You can’t intimidate someone who’s already died once,” Jason said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

Bruce, who had been watching them with a cup of coffee in hand, spoke up without lifting his eyes from the paper.

“At least you weren’t last.”

“Thanks, Bruce. Very encouraging,” Tim replied dryly.

Then Cass, with a soft smile, leaned over the table and said:

“Tim… silver or not, you’re the one who made us laugh the most.”

Jason raised his glass.

“To the hero in red underwear!”

“And to the Silver Bat!” Steph added, laughing.

Tim covered his face with both hands.

“I regret being born.”

“Too late, brother,” said Dick, patting his back. “You’re Olympic history now.”

And while everyone laughed, Bruce simply smiled, watching his family tease and toast. Maybe gold was bright—but nothing was worth more than that sound: the laughter of his own.

At Barbara’s suggestion, they all agreed to have a small dinner to celebrate the chaotic experience properly—just family and close friends: the Kents, Barbara, Diana and Lizzie, Selina, Kate.

The table was fuller than anyone could remember. Medals and trophies decorated the room. Conversation flowed easily, each person chatting with their own circle—topics ranging from Bruce’s terrifying speeches to new friends they’d made around the world.

All had promised not to bring that up… but after Jason played his slow-motion fall for the fifth time on the big screen with Oops!... I Did It Again blasting in the background, he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Alright, alright, enough,” he said between laughter and resignation, standing up with his glass in hand. “Fine, I was the only one who got silver. But at least nobody else saved the country in their underwear.”

The laughter was unanimous—even Bruce smiled, which for the Waynes was equivalent to a full-blown laugh.

Tim waited until they calmed down before speaking again. His voice softened, balanced between humor and sincerity in that way only he could manage.

“Now, I’m not letting myself be the only one exposed here. Look… during all this Olympic madness, I’ve been thinking. We all came here thinking this was one of Bruce’s crazy ideas. And it was. But it was also something more.”

“Dick, you showed the world you weren’t just the boy who fell from the trapeze. On that stage, you overflowed with confidence, and… it showed that you’re no longer afraid to shine, even with the scars left behind.”

Barbara took Dick’s hand, and they shared a warm smile.

“Jason… for the first time, you worked as part of a team without hitting anyone.” Laughter erupted, and Jason raised his glass without protest. “You found another way to fight—one that unites instead of breaking.”

Diana stood behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Steph, you showed that you’re not anyone’s shadow—that your story stands on its own. And that medal screamed it louder than any speech. And Cass, I finally saw you drop that fear you used to carry. You gained confidence—in yourself, and in the fact that you’re more than the weapon you were meant to be.”

Both girls hugged, arms wrapped around each other’s backs.

“Duke, we all saw how you stopped trying to fit in and realized you’d always been one of us. And maybe you should take better advantage of being the country’s richest guy’s protégé.”

Selina nodded approvingly; he should definitely let Bruce spoil him more, as she often did.

“Damian,” Tim smiled slightly, “you learned humility. Just a bit, but it showed. Watching you stop looking down on people was… something I never thought I’d see.”

Jon nodded, and Lizzie hugged Damian.

Tim paused, lowering his gaze before lifting it again.

“And me… I guess I realized my place will always be between both worlds—the heroes and the ordinary people. That it doesn’t matter if I fall, make a fool of myself, or don’t win gold… because, in the end, I’ll always do what I do best: observe, help, and make sure everything goes right—even if I have to do it in my underwear.”

Everyone laughed again, but this time, the silence that followed was different—warmer. Bruce, who had listened to everything without interrupting, simply nodded.

“Good work. You’ve made me—and the entire city—proud,” he said plainly, which for him meant I love you, Children.

Tim smiled.

“Thanks, Bruce. I guess… as insane as your idea was, we all learned something.”

Jason raised his glass, followed by Dick, then Steph and Damian.

They all toasted—echoes of laughter, inside jokes, and a sense of camaraderie born from shared chaos filling the air. And while fireworks burst outside to mark the end of the Olympic Games, inside Wayne Manor, for the first time in a long time, everyone felt exactly where they were meant to be.

Bruce stood by the window of the manor. The guests had left about an hour ago. Behind him, the laughter continued—Jason teasing Tim, Steph mocking Damian, Dick trying to restore order. For the first time in years, the sound didn’t feel foreign.

It was… warm. Real.

“For so long, I hated this name—Bruce Wayne,” he thought to himself. “It was the mask, the lie. The man who had to smile while the real me hid in the dark. I thought Batman was who I had to be—the one who saved lives, who delivered justice. Bruce was just a shield, a ghost forced to exist between parties and empty suits.”

His gaze fell on Tim, laughing as Steph showed him how to take a selfie without looking like an IRS agent. Jason and Dick argued over who had the better medal—though neither could remember where they’d left them. Damian, with his usual composed expression, tried to hide how amused he was as Duke explained the ‘logic’ of Tim’s fall, and Cass photobombed the selfies from behind.

“But here they are… my sons. My protégés. Laughing. Living. And I didn’t bring them here as soldiers—but as people. Maybe… that was the point.”

He felt a small pang in his chest. Not guilt—something rarer. Pride, maybe. Or peace.

“I always thought Batman would protect them, make them strong. But it was Bruce who helped them grow. The man who avoids the shadows, who shows his face, who smiles even when it hurts. The one who, without meaning to, taught them you can also fight by living.”

For the first time he could remember, the name didn’t feel heavy.

For the first time, being Bruce Wayne wasn’t a punishment.

It was a choice.

And for once—

it felt like a good one.

---

No one in Gotham would have believed it possible.

The city—long synonymous with crime, chaos, and grim headlines—woke up covered in flags, medals, and smiles.

The screens that once displayed red alerts now broadcasted replays of the competitions: Duke’s climb, Jason’s perfect shot, Steph’s clean victory, Damian’s elegant duel… and, of course, Tim’s legendary fall, turned into the most beloved meme of the season.

For the first time in decades, the name Wayne wasn’t tied to tragedy, fires, or secrets.

It stood for effort, talent, and family. And though no one could quite explain it, it felt as if Gotham itself was breathing differently.

The streets were calmer, people smiled more, and even the news anchors spoke of “a new era of hope for the most broken city in the country.”

---

In everyday life, things changed too.

The Wayne foundations received more support than ever.

Public schools requested sports programs inspired by the “Young Olympians of Gotham.”

And though Jason still complained about the paparazzi, Steph adored seeing her face painted in street murals by little girls who said, “I want to fight like her.”

Tim was still viral, of course.

Duke gave talks about identity and society.

Cass taught self-defense in a few shelters.

Damian had a legion of young fencers following him with martial devotion.

And Bruce… Bruce, for the first time, could walk among the crowd without needing to hide behind a forced smile.

He was a man with a family that inspired others—

and that was enough.

---

But, as with every Wayne story, calm was only a pause.

That night, the sky of Gotham awaited them—heavy with clouds and scattered lights. On the mansion rooftop, the six gathered, still carrying a trace of their Olympic glow in their eyes.

Steph adjusted her gloves. Cass pulled her hood down. Jason loaded his gun with that careless grin. Duke checked his communicator. Damian unsheathed his sword with calm precision. Tim, still with a scraped knee, put on his mask. Dick announced he’d patrol his city.

Bruce watched them—

a proud shadow among shadows.

“Well,” he said, his deep voice echoing without effort “you showed the world who you are in the light. Now it’s time to remind Gotham who you are in the dark.”

Cass smiled and jumped first.

Jason followed.

Damian did so in silence.

Tim, out of habit, rolled his eyes before leaping.

Duke raised his hand and went after them.

Steph, last, looked one final time at the starry sky and said with a smile:

“We already had our golden moment… now it’s time for the usual one.”

And one by one, the Waynes vanished across the rooftops,

leaving behind the glow of the spotlights—

to return to their true home:

the night.