Damian's first year was marked by milestones that left doctors and family friends in awe. By his first birthday, he was walking with confidence, his small hands gripping the edges of furniture as he navigated the apartment's polished hardwood floors. His gaze was always searching, always calculating—deep blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing. When he spoke his first words, Helena nearly dropped her coffee mug in surprise. By eighteen months, Damian was stringing together full sentences, his voice soft but precise, often surprising his parents with questions about the world that seemed far too advanced for a toddler.
By age two, Damian was reading on his own. He would curl up in the corner of the living room, sunlight streaming through the rain-speckled windows, a stack of books beside him. He devoured stories of science, history, and technology, his small fingers tracing diagrams with a familiarity that unsettled Dick and Helena. Sometimes, he would pause, frowning at a page, as if remembering something he'd once known but couldn't quite grasp. Helena would watch him from the kitchen, her dark hair pulled back, a crease of concern between her brows.
At three, Damian built his first working model—a miniature engine cobbled together from household scraps. Dick found him in the living room, surrounded by gears and wires, his tongue poking out in concentration as he explained the principles of combustion with the seriousness of a seasoned engineer. Dick, tall and athletic with a shock of black hair and a perpetual five o'clock shadow, knelt beside his son, both proud and a little unnerved. Helena watched from the doorway, pride shining in her violet eyes, but also a hint of worry, wondering how much of her son's brilliance was natural, and how much was something else.
School was both a blessing and a curse. Damian soared through lessons, often correcting teachers or finishing assignments before his classmates had even begun. His teachers—some patient, some exasperated—struggled to keep up. He made few friends, his intellect and intensity setting him apart. Some children admired him, drawn to his confidence and quick wit; others kept their distance, unsettled by the way he seemed to see through them with those piercing blue eyes. At recess, he would often sit alone beneath the old oak tree, sketching inventions in a battered notebook while the other children played.
By age six, Damian's reputation had spread. He won science fairs, chess tournaments, and math competitions with ease. Photographs from those events showed a boy with a serious expression, dark hair falling into his eyes, standing beside beaming adults and jealous peers. Yet, he remained restless, haunted by dreams of cold laboratories and distant explosions. Sometimes, he would wake in the night, heart pounding, the name "Elias Voss" echoing in his mind. Helena would find him staring out the window at the rain-slicked streets below, his face pale in the moonlight.
Dick and Helena did their best to give him a normal childhood. They took him to the park, where the air was filled with the scent of cut grass and the laughter of children. Dick taught him to ride a bike, running alongside him down the tree-lined paths, his laughter echoing through the crisp autumn air. Helena shared stories of her own adventures—carefully edited, of course—her expressive face lighting up as she described distant cities and daring escapes. But Damian was always drawn to the shadows, to the mysteries of the world. He asked about Gotham, about the legends of Batman and the heroes who once protected the city. Dick would smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and change the subject, but Damian could sense the weight behind his father's gaze.
At eight, Damian discovered his parents' secret. One rainy afternoon, while searching for a missing book, he found the hidden compartment in Dick's study—a false panel behind the bookshelf. Inside, he found the old Nightwing mask, battered and faded, and a pair of escrima sticks, their handles worn smooth by years of use. Instead of fear, he felt a surge of excitement—a connection to the legacy he'd inherited. That night, he confronted his parents, his face set in determination, demanding the truth.
Dick and Helena sat him down at the kitchen table, the city lights casting long shadows across their faces. Dick's jaw was tight, his eyes serious, while Helena's lips pressed into a thin line, her hand resting protectively on Damian's shoulder. They told him everything. About Gotham, about Batman, about the choices they'd made to protect their family. Damian listened in silence, absorbing every word, his face unreadable. When they finished, he simply nodded, as if he'd always known.
By ten, Damian was training in secret. Dick, still agile and strong despite the years, taught him acrobatics and self-defense in the dim light of the apartment's spare room, their shadows dancing across the walls. Helena showed him how to read people, how to move unseen, her movements graceful and precise. But Damian's true strength was his mind. He built gadgets from spare parts, hacked computers with ease, and solved problems that stumped even his parents. Yet, beneath it all, he struggled with the memories of his past life—the ambition, the mistakes, the longing for redemption.
At night, he would stare out at Blüdhaven's skyline, neon lights flickering in the darkness, the city alive with possibility and danger. He wondered what kind of hero he would become, and whether he could truly escape the shadow of Elias Voss.
But one thing was certain: Damian Grayson-Bertinelli was no ordinary child. And his story was only just beginning.