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cybergoth1 · 29 days ago

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beyond the cowl | chapter 01 | batfamily x isekaide!reader

masterlist | prologue | chapter 02.

synopsis: ❛❛you're just a normal twenty-one-year old girl trying to navigate life with a shitty job and a useless degree. life isn't easy, and between expensive therapy sessions and the constant feeling of failure, you suddenly wake up in a body that wasn't yours, with a past that wasn't yours. now, in another dimension, you're dealing with the fact that you're a crucial part of the caped crusade that shaped bruce wayne's life. you're the second robin, the former girl wonder, and the vigilant gotham needed so much.❞

warnings/tags: swearing. avoiding body descriptions like the plague. the bat boys being themselves. there's a tiny reference to 'nightwing: year one'.

When you woke up for the second time, the room was already shrouded in complete darkness, with only faint slivers of light slipping through the loosely drawn curtains. Your head felt heavy, and your ears rang as you slowly opened your eyes, wearily gazing at the white ceiling. The soft silk fabric against your skin felt like a warm embrace as you took a deep breath, trying to use your rational side to keep yourself from panicking again.

The tips of your fingers glided over the sheets, seeking the softness of it as you tried to organize your scattered thoughts. You were in Gotham — the shittiest place in the entire world, at least in DC’s fictional universe.

Fucking Gotham. Batman's Gotham. Joker's Gotham.

Out of nowhere, you found yourself missing the sagging, cheap mattress that made your back ache every night. You looked into the darkness around you and longed for your tiny, shared bedroom at your mom’s place.

Summoning strength from an unknown place, you decided to get out of bed and blindly search for the light switch in the room, as you had no idea where your phone was. Your left hand found the switch, and as you pressed it, the light momentarily blinded you until your eyes adjusted to the brightness.

The bedroom was huge, like, the size of your mom's whole apartment. But what truy left you speechless were the stunning detalis: your favorite color was painted on the walls, the bookshelves near the bed were crafted from fine wood, the exquisite furniture was strategically placed near the big windows, and the king-sized bed sat perfectly in the center of the room. The sheets were a soft pastel pink, and you were certain the curtains were made of linen.

A small section of the wall filled with Polaroids caught your attention more than anything else in the room, drawing you closer to the photos that decorated the space in a way that would have thrilled your sixteen-year-old self. It was you— your face, your hair, your smile, your body captured in those photos. Your face, repeated countless times, revelead a reality you coudn't believe was true.

Your eyes scanned through the photos, and you tried to count in your mind how many faces you could recognize with your limited knowledge of the universe that had swallowed you without asking for permission. One photo stood out— one of you next to Barbara Gordon and Stephanie Brown. The three of you were baking a massive cake for, apparently, Tim's birthday on the manor's kitchen while Alfred stood in the corner, tidying up the mess.

Perhaps, in this strange version of your life, you were a Batgirl, just like they once were at some point. But your hypothesis was immediately disproved when you saw a photo of yourself, probably around thirteen or fourteen years old, sloppily gripping a trapeze while a teenage Dick Grayson demonstrated the correct way to hold on from his position on the ground. At the bottom of the photo, you could see the cursive writing standing out: 'Girl Wonder working out for the first time'.

Ok, so you used to be Robin.

You were definitely no longer a kid or a teenager based on the last pictures— your days of wearing green shorts and pixie boots were probably long behind you. But if you weren't Robin anymore, then what were you? And if you were Robin at one point in this weird timeline, did that mean you were an orphan, adopted by Bruce Wayne?

Was he your father, or something close to it? Were you his ward? Wait, holy shit, how old are you here? You touched your face, feeling despair slowly creeping in and spreading through your body like poison. It wasn't long before your shaky feet carried you to the bathroom, the door partially concealed between the bookshelves.

You were finally facing the mirror, yet your eyes remained fixed on your hands.

Then courage took hold of you, and you finally looked at yourself in the mirror on impulse. Oh, wow. The girl who stared back at you looked more like a grown woman than anything else—her face slightly more mature than yours and strikingly beautiful, almost breathtaking. There were no pimples or acne marks, not a single blemish marred her flawless skin and perfect hair. Perfect teeth, cute dimples and pretty lips. It was almost uncanny how beautiful you appeared, still carrying most of your familiar traits.

The girl in the mirror smirked at you, her expression a mix of snobbishness and boredom. She seemed to despise you in some way.

"You look like a trust fund baby," you said, her lips moving and her brow furrowing as you talked.

That was you.

She was you.

You looked down at the countertop, avoiding her magnetic gaze. Your vision was immediately assaulted by the sheer number of expensive skincare products—each one seeming like it could cost you a kidney.

"So you're— we're disgustingly rich now, hm? La Mer, Dior, La Prairie..."

You both locked eyes again.

"Who are you?" you felt like you both were wondering the same thing.

This time, you weren’t gentle in your search for answers. You opened drawers, the closet, and designer bags, rifling through everything until you felt satisfied. The noise of things crashing to the floor was so loud that you could hear curious murmurs and footsteps on the other side of the door.

A huge smile spread across your face as you realized what you'd found. Thank God she was the nostalgic type— at the bottom of her big closet, behind some Hermes bags, you found a box full of old newspapers. Some headlines excitedly reported the debut of the first Girl Wonder many years ago. Hum, she— you looked surprisingly confident in those ridiculous green shorts and cape. But is the next newspaper in the huge pile that finally put an end to your curiosity and anguish.

You're new name is Blackwing. Fucking stupid. You frowned as you read more about your alter ego. Blackwing apparently operated in Gotham and, sometimes, out of New Jersey — there were some New York and Delaware newspapers in the pile, reporting your involvement in the drop in local crime. Your curious eyes studied the imposing figure on the first page.

Blackwing's red cowl covered her entire head, leaving only her eyes, nose, and mouth exposed— something that remind you of Batman's own suit. Speaking of suits, hers was red with black accents, leaving you to wonder if it was leotard beneath all the layers. The overall design gave her a very menacing look, you bet it wasn't a big hit with the kids.

Inside the old box, you also found a phone, saddly not yours, and quickly unlocked using facial ID. You wasted no time and searched Blackwing across several platforms.

In just six minutes goggling, you found a lot of things.

They called you the “woman without fear” because you were insanely brutal during your patrols, — at least that’s what the Gotham Times and Gotham Gazette liked to put in their headlines — madly sending petty thieves and thugs to the nearest ICU with your aggressive blows and merceless punches. Damn, you were like a demon seeking blood, an unmedicated demon it seemed, running from rooftop to rooftop, terrorizing the city’s criminals and sometimes the poor civilians.

You cringed, shrinking into your clothes while reading a Reddit post about the last time you damaged a whole-ass bulding fighting with Clayface on Gotham’s main street. How does insurance work in a world full of crazy people — some of them with superpowers — damaging property on a daily basis? Who’s paying for this shitshow?

Wait, how are you even taking punches like that, being thrown against walls and floors without dying on the spot? You thought with widew eyes while watching yourself being tossed around the street like a ragdoll by Bane in Twitter — a total dead weight in his massive hands.

You heard a soft knock at the door, followed by Alfred's voice.

"Miss, I trust your room is now renovated to your satisfaction," he said almost smiling, subtly alluding to all the noise you had been making. "But dinner is served".

"Oh—" you said surprised, putting the newspaper and the old phone back on the box. "Yeah, yeah, sure".

Shit.

Dinner. Probably with Bruce and Damian. Maybe Tim and Dick if you were totally unlucky tonight. You swallowed hard, realizing you were about to share a table with the world’s greastest detectives—without knowing almost anything about the life you technically shared with them. You're fucked.

"I'm fucked, I'm totally fucked" you muttered as you walked down the grand staircase, trying not to let the manor’s luxury overwhelm you and distract you from staying alert.

Near the dining room, you heard a voice calling you by your last name.

Thank God—at least that was the same as in your old life. You slowly turned your body, and Damian Wayne’s green eyes met yours, showing something closer to boredom. Great.

"Father said I shouldn't have been so rough with you during training earlier".

Training?

"And, naturally, I told him It was entirely fault of your chronic stupidity and lack of motor coordination," he added, his tone drippring with condescension.

You couldn’t let that slide. You looked down at him—you were at least five inches taller.

"You've got too much attitude for someone your size. What are you? Four?"

Damian looked like an angry cat, ready to tear your face off. He called you an 'unworthy opponent,' as if he were a knight in a Game of Thrones episode, then stormed off to sit at the table with an ugly scowl.

That weird ass kid needed an iPad.

"Don’t provoke her, Dami. You know how mean she gets without her eight hours of sleep."

Dick Grayson showed up, blessing you with his perfect white teeth and baby blue eyes. You watched him ruffle Damian's hair while the boy protested loudly.

"What are you even doing here, Grayson?' he said, slapping his hand away. You couldn’t help but notice his large biceps and broad shoulders, so you decided your nails were suddenly very interesting.

"Babs tracked down a Blüdhaven gang warehouse. They're hiding illegal weapons in Gotham."

You felt his gaze on you, followed by a hand resting on your left shoulder. He looked at you with warm eyes.

"Nice to see you back on your feet, little wing," he said, friendly patting your shoulder as you melted on the spot. Little wing?

'Hush, little wing. We're the stealthy ones, remember?'

Before your eyes, you could almost see and feel the fabricated memory surfacing—the memory of a body and a life that weren’t truly yours. It was the first time you teamed up, three weeks after you took on the Robin mantle. Dick listened to your constant chatter while you two tried to rescue some hostages. He didn't make you feel like a dumb kid in a costume — more like his cool sidekick.

Analyzing the timeline, you’re definitely the second Robin. Bruce probably took you in a few months after Dick moved out — both from Wayne Manor and from his role as Robin — leading to the older man's empty nest crisis.

But what could someone like you have done to impress someone like the Dark Knight?

You made a mental note to search more later and then gave Dick a smile.

"Glad to be back".

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