#danny is that mythical employee with 10 years experience at age 8

[siri-ike]

Danny kicked his feet back and forth under the table, hands up at his sides so as not to touch anything. Dick walked over from the kitchen side of the island, holding two steaming plates.

"Meat on the left, vegetables in the top right and sauce in the bottom right, nothing runny or touching." He listed off as he set down Danny's plate. Dicks own plate looked completely different. The food was just a disorganized pile. "If you want seconds, you'll have to get it yourself." Dick said as if he weren't going to get this child anything he asked for at a moments notice.

Danny looked up from ripping his chicken brest into thin strips. "Did you cook this? Because the big one said you couldn't cook."

"I can cook." Dick blushed. Never had he been so offended by something he 100% agreed with. Don't get him wrong. Dick doesn't put pride in his bare-bones cooking skills. Why would he? But to hear it from his own son? "But yeah, Alfred made this." He gestured to the Tupperware containers barely sticking out of the sink.

Danny smiled so proud of himself for catching him. "What do you do instead?" He shoveled most of his grilled vegetables into his mouth.

"I work out?" He looked over to the exercise equipment in the loft. "I go out and help people who are in danger and hurt people who put others in danger."

"Like me." Danny cheered.

"Like you." Dick doted... "Except you came to us." Dick looked down.

"Why?"

"Well, it's, ah. You're a, um," Dick took a breath. Just rip off the bandage. "You're a clone."

"What's that?" Danny stood up with his plate of only a dollop of untouched ketchup.

"It means, you, were, you were, made," Dick struggled. Come on, man, he'll only think it's bad if you make it sound bad, and you're making it sound pretty bad. "You were made to be a replica or a replacement of someone else. There are a lot of clones out there, and a vast majority of them are made by bad people with bad intentions."

Danny stopped for a moment. "Did someone bad make me?"

It's best to be honest. It's best to be honest. Connor couldn't start getting over all his crap until he knew the truth. Neither could the Harpers... bad example. "Yes. But you're safe now." That was mostly true.

"Is that why my brain was bad?" He put down the tongs.

"No, your brain wasn't bad-"

"But the doctors had to fix it."

"... they, removed a tumor. It-"

"Was the tumor bad?"

"Ye, yes, tumors are bad."

"And it was part of my brain," Danny was clearly trying to make a case. Dick would be impressed under different circumstances.

"It was around your brain, but not part of it. More like, it was strangling your brain. That's why it was so hard for you to remember things."

"Is that why I forget things now?"

"Yes, you're still recovering. Once you're all better, you'll be remembering things like a champ."

"What did you do to the people who made me." Danny's tone was lower and more serious.

"I don't know, Batman and Robin left the city to find them. I haven't heard from them in almost a month."

"Are they going to be punished?" He grumbled.

"Probably, but in my experience, bad people rarely get what they deserve." Dick sneered bitterly.

"I see." Danny sounded almost like an adult. Wordlessly, he placed his plate in the dishwasher and went to his room.

Crap. Did Dick say something wrong? Was it the lack of faith in the justice system? He would have found out anyway, they live in Blüdhaven for ff- Pete's sake. He should talk to him. No stupid, he just talked to him. This was huge news. If he wanted to think about it alone, then he should give him some space.

"That's weird." Jason sat in his bed, wearing only his underwear. "Bruce hasn't tried to invite me to anything in over a month."

The lump under the covers didn't respond. Jason nudged the blanket slightly to place one cold foot on his lover's calf.

"Okwuru oyi!" Gar jumped. "Fine, I'm listening. I thought you didn't want him calling all the time." He rolled over, still intent on not being awake.

"I don't." Jason defended. "But it's suspicious."

"Do you miss your dad's attention? Do you want him to bust down the door and demand to see you at dinner?" Gar teased.

"No!" Jason looked anywhere but Gar. "Just come with me to check it out."

"No better time to introduce the family to your situationship."

"-y-Yeah." Does it have to be just a "situationship"?

There was a knock at the front door. Gar looked at Jason, who pulled out his laptop to do research.

"Not like this is your place or anything." Gar snarked. He got out of bed, quietly relishing in how Jason looked at his bare ass before he let his collar grow into a full set of skin-tight clothes. He threw on a pink shirt from the floor (it was red once) and strutted out the bedroom door. Making sure to keep those eyes on him as long as he could. On the way to the front door, he retracted all the extra features from last night.

At the door is a young boy, roughly Robin shaped. "Jason! How many siblings do you have again?" Gar yelled

"I don't keep count!"

"Hi, I'm Gar. You got a name?"

"Danny."

"Do you have a Danny?" Gar shouted back to Jason.

"Yeah, I think Dick's keeping that one!"

The boys' heart rate jumped, and he looked intrigued. "Yes, that is I. Would you be able to deliver me to him, please."

The slight quiver in his voice, the too intense eye contact, the taste of sodium in the air, and the way he shifted his stance, everything told Gar that this kid was lying. He opened the door fully to let the kid in. He looked about 16 to 17 years old, 5'7", scrawny, pale, black hair, blue eyes. If Nightwing is keeping him, then chances are he has Titans level abilities.

"Care to join us!" Gar shouted, knowing full well that Jason won't be able to walk again for hours.

"You're a Dick, you know that!"

"Not how I remember it!"

Danny lay alone in his bed, door closed, lights off, having the 8 year old equivalent of an existential crisis, when he heard circus music coming from the main room. He'd already been lying there for almost 20 minutes, and quite frankly, he was bored. He decided to open his door, just a little, to hear Dick pick up the phone.

"Danny's here, in ' room. We had the clone conversation earlier, or the start of-"

Some of it was hard to make out because he wouldn't stay still.

"I don't think so. Let me ask."

Dick knocked on Danny's bedroom door. He could tell from the sound that there was an object leaning against it. It's roughly the same size and shape as Danny. Yet when he was invited in, there was no such object at the door, but a suspiciously winded little boy sat on the bed in the classic "I didn't do anything" pose. Back straight, hands in his lap, legs perfectly still, and toes clenched.

"Where you eavesdropping?" Dick suspected.

"No," Danny lied, badly.

"Ok, we'll work on lying later." Dick came closer and crouched to Danny's eye level. "Do you remember anything from before you were in the hospital?"

Danny thought back. "I remember being Bruce Wayne." He looked almost guilty for admiting it.

"Take him to the cave, have Alfred check him. He could be in the same situation." Dick hung up and turned his full attention to Danny. "Tell me everything you remember."

Danny shifted his seat. "I was born in Gotham. My parents were Maddie and Jack Wayne. I had an older sister named Jazz. They all died in a restaurant explosion when I was 14, along with my two best friends: Eathan Bennet and Ellen Yin. Since then, I was raised by Alfred, our family butler, in his haunted castle. He and I traveled the world to learn martial arts, esqapepology, slight of hand, and a variety of other skills I needed in order to become the world's greatest detective. When we returned to Gotham, I took it over. Rebels tried to oppose me, but they never stood a chance." Danny's thoughtful expression had slowly turned into one of pure sadistic glee. "I can still smell their burning flesh."

Dick could scarcely stifle a look of horror.

"But those are just Bruce Waynes memories, not mine." Danny added.

Gut feeling: Bad Ending

Bruce stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He could have sworn he didn't need a stepstool before. He ran his hands over his naked scalp, his fingers along the two, long, surgical scars. Starting just behind each ear and curving all the way up to his temples. The stitches were coarse and sharp, but it didn't hurt.

A soft tumbling sound caught his attention. Frostbite fell into the bathtub. "You're brand new. You don't need a bath." He giggled, scooping his friend up and pretending to towel him off.

His ears perked up at the sound of the door to his room opening and footsteps entering the room. "Come on, dad promised to bring snacks."

His room was so boring and white, and not getting to leave it is a stupid rule. Just 'cause he could "get sick and die" or "horribly injure himself" due to his "impaired motor skills" and "partially exposed cranium." Bunch'a babies.

"You're not my dad." He accused.

"And you're not supposed to be out of bed." An old woman entered his room. "My name is Doctor Leslie Tompkins. Would you mind answering a few questions for me?"

The name sounded familiar, but he'd much rather his dad say if she's safe or not. "What kind of questions?" He tightened his grip on Frostbite.

"I would also like to run a few tests." She said as she pulled cards out of her bag. "I'll grade you if you like."

Ha! He's not gonna fall for that.

She gave him a look, "First I want you to write your name-"

"I know how to write my own name!" He defended. One day, he won't fall for that. Annoyed, he climbed into the bed and pulled out the tray table. Without an ounce of effort, he wrote his signature on one of the blank cards.

Danny F.

...

Danny F?

Who the hell is Danny?

He turned the card around and tried again.

Danny F.

Both look exactly the same. Like it was a practiced signature. But he'd never seen it before.

His name isn't Danny, it's... it's uh, drrr? Brrr. Baron? Boris? Bruce! His name's Bruce! Ofcorse it is.

He pulled another index card from the stack. This time slowly writing out the name Bruce Wayne. But, it's wrong. That's not his signature. It's sloppy and looks like any other word. The other one had personality. This one just looks like any other word. He tried a few more times until Leslie interrupted with a different test.

Drawing a clock, arranging pictures into a story, and pointing out objects in a picture was easy. But then she asked questions about his past. Names of places and people. He's lived in Gotham his whole life. There's no Casper high here! There's no Sam and Tucker! And there certainly isn't a portal to hell in his basement!

He's thinking clearer than ever, so why is he still full of shit?!

Dan- Bruce kicked at the table, and it swung back to the wall.

"I trust you'll want to handle this." Leslie exited the room and Nightwing entered.

His eyes lit up, "dad -" the exitement drained away, and he slumped back down with realization. "Are... you?"

Nightwing took a deep breath. "No... I'm sorry."

Who was this guy? Just some imposter who somehow looked exactly like his dad? Or was it the same person? Has he just been pretending the whole time? No, no, that can't be. This has to be some trick. Of course, his dad's real! He's just pretending! Bruce glanced over to his signatures all over the floor. He's just pretending.

"But," Nightwing drew his attention. "I could be. If you want me to." He put his hand on his back. "But I might not be your best option." He joked, unsuccessfully.

"What's, what's your name?" He no longer spoke in Bruce's cadence.

Nightwing sat down on the bed next to "??" the boy. "My name is Dick." He whispered, careful not to let the doctor on the other side of the glass hear. Leslie and Duke (Currently dressed as "vague medical staff") were watching, but so was some random resident. "But in this outfit, I'm Nightwing." Normal volume this time

Without missing a beat. "Is that like, your Glam Rock alter ego?" That had to be Danny because it couldn't be Bruce.

Dick couldn't help but giggle. Not even laugh, giggle, like a child. "It's something like that."

He looked so satisfied with the reaction he'd garnered. "Why'd you let me think you were my dad?"

"You had enough to deal with. We considered plenty of potential outcomes, and in most of them, we found that letting you believe what you wanted was for the best." Nightwing slid his hand from the child's (he looked like he could be around 10 now) back down his arm and held his hand. He looked to the floor, covered in index cards, and gestured to the other to do the same.

"Bruce" hesitated to acknowledge the papers.

"It's ok. You can ask when you're ready." It's the right thing to say. Dick knows it. He checked. He prepared. But making the best choices in a bad situation doesn't guarantee a good outcome. And those sad little eyes looked so much like all his brothers when they were little. So small. In need. "But we'll need to call you something." He tried. "Maybe you could pick a, "Glam Rock" name, too."

He smiled brightly at the prompt. The game. Getting to pretend. He could be like his dad. It should be something similar. Little wing? Night- uh- feather?. He proudly announced, "Phantom." No, that's not-

"Ooh, spooky." Praised Nightwing.

Yeah, it's perfect.