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liyawritesss · 18 days

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𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 — 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍:

𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜

—> SYNOPSIS

—> Being stuck in the Belfry while her siblings pour their time, efforts, and grief into solving Bruce’s last case, (y/n) is virtually alone. She has not spoken since the funeral and is often caught spaced out in thought or staring at the display of what is left of her father’s Batman suit. Upon expressing her grievances, her brothers Dick, Jason, and Tim, and honorary sister Barbara, concoct a plan to bring their beloved eldest sister back to them.

⚠️This Series Will Contain: canon-accurate violence with weapons such as guns, knives, batons, customized batman gear and other vigilante gear, hand to hand combat, mentions of blood, injuries, heavy talk about grief, depression, anxiety, major character death (bruce wayne/batman). Readers discretion is advised.

“The news is certainly having a field day this morning.”

The sound of hot tea being poured into porcelain china is one of few that echoed throughout the large and imposing tower in the early morning. The sun’s beams peak through the glass if the tower’s window, flickering across the hardwood floor, dethawing the hideaway from the cold of night. They even cast a halo around the tall and foreboding supercomputer that was nestled into the middle of the room, warm golding casted across matte onyx as morning protrudes its way into the Belfry.

Alfred Pennyworth pours the morning tea, five cups of white decorated with gold trim resting on the serving tray and he pours into each one. In the background, one of the many monitors of the Bat-Computer details the morning news, reporting the events of the night prior.

“What can you say,” comes the thick rasp of Jason Todd as he approaches behind Alfred, who hands him one of the five dainty cups, and the broad man accepts saucer and cup in his hands, albeit with hesitance, “it’s not everyday you get to see Gotham’s Darling break down like that.”

The video is of horrible quality, blurred and unfocused in some points with desaturated coloring, but it shows to the whole of Gotham City, clear as day, (Y/N) Wayne breaking down at the news of her father’s death. The shrill scream which tore through the surrounding crowd of paparazzi stilled every human being within proximity to the young woman. Just as it was that night, those tuning in to the news that morning saw (Y/N)’s form crumple into the arms of her eldest brother, Dick Grayson, another adoptee of Bruce Wayne, completely distraught and devastated.

It brought both men to discomfort, as they tore their eyes from the screen; Jason turning to sip at the brown liquid in his hand, Alfred attending to dropping sugar cubes into their respective teacups.

“I hate that video.” Dick Grayson enters, light as a feather on his feet despite the newly added weight of grief which lingers in his eyes. He wipes the towel around his neck across his forehead to rid of the sweat from his morning workout, bidding Alfred a nod of acknowledgement.

“What, ‘cuz they didn’t get your good side?” Jason taunts.

Dick delivers a look, one that feigned irritation, towards Jason as he accepts the cup of tea Alfred offers. Three sugars, mild sweetness, just as he had always liked it. “No,” he responds, finally, “because it’s got her bad side out for the world to see.”

(Y/N) Wayne. Gotham’s Darling. Bruce Wayne’s first child and heiress to the Wayne Family. Many had dubbed her to be the city’s saving grace. She provided a breath of fresh air and a sight of beauty to the city that had not been seen in the city since her father. Although never officially introduced to society, (Y/N) started her pursuits young and with a gift for all things art, put her passion to the test and began to introduce to the city numerous art programs and residencies involving hundreds of different art forms and mediums. While city officials would never admit it, her efforts, having started as young as fourteen, gave several opportunities for the underprivileged and marginalized communities of the city, from jobs to after school activities to possible career paths. All while doing so with grace, poise, charisma, and confidence instilled in her by the man who’d taken her in at twelve.

(Y/N) Wayne was truly Gotham’s Darling. She loved the city with everything she had, and regardless of blood relation, saw Bruce as her true father. One could only imagine the pain she was going through. Not even her adopted siblings, of which she was undoubtedly close to, could father the despair that clung to their sister's very heart; always full of joy and kindness, now aching with pain and loathing.

“She still hasn’t talked, has she?” Dick asks Alfred, who releases a baited sigh.

“Unfortunately so, Master Richard,” Alfred says, “not even at the taunt of her favorite pastries, I’m afraid.”

(Y/N), by all accounts, had fallen mute following the moment in which Dick had disclosed to her the god awful truth that Bruce was gone. Not a word left her lips since her arrival at the Belfry with Alfred in tow, with sentiments that all of Bruce’s children should convene under the same roof for the time being. While the weight in the room was already heavy with frustrations and disagreements amongst the initial four vigilantes, (Y/N)’s aura carried an air of solemness and devastation that speed into the wooden interior of the Belfry far more prominently than any childish fighting that ensued between the siblings. At the head of the congregation, Dick could only watch helplessly as (Y/N), suitcase in hand, rejected any attempts at comfort, trudging off to an unoccupied room that she would claim for the indefinite future.

“I-” Dick wants words to leave his lips, but the barrier of uncertainty controls his brain and provides him very little to speak on. After one sip of the tea he’d taken into his hands, he sits it on the desk in front of him.

“We’ve gotta do something,” he says, “we have to get her back- back to normal.”

Jason cocks an eyebrow and scoffs, “Normal?”

Dick turns to the younger, eyebrow cocked, as if gesturing for Jason to explain further.

“Yes, Jason,” he emphasizes, “or some semblance of it. Have you seen her?”

“Have you?” Jason retorts. His nose scrunches in vexation, the scar trail rippling under his intense frown. He rises from his initial seat in one of the many office chairs that surround the looming monitors, and his hands start to speak before the words leave his mouth.

“I don’t know if your head’s really wrapped around this whole situation here, Dick,” the larger man starts, hand gesturing in a swirling motion in the space before his temple to emphasize his wording, “but that girl up there was the closest to Bruce out of all of us. As far as any of us are concerned, there IS no kind of ‘normal’ anymore for her. What ‘normal’ can she ever go back to?”

“So, what do you say we do,” Dick counters, arms flying out at his sides, matching Jason’s frustrations, “let her rot away and become a shell of herself?”

Dick continues even though Jason has turned from the older, as arguments between the two have always held the same standpoint; where one tries too hard to fix it all, and the other challenges the notion of pushing too hard for a solution that would come in due time. “She’s our sister, and if anything, right now she needs us to help her-!”

“-and if she really wants the help, she’ll come to us!” Jason rebuttals. “(Y/N)’s got a mouth of her own she can use very well, Dick. It’s not like we’ve never encountered this kind of situation before!”

And maybe it’s that Dick Grayson pride that’s shadowing whatever truth may come from Jason’s words, whatever truth that he’s too proud to admit on. Or maybe it’s the helplessness that sinks into his bones whenever he’s seen you at your worst, and he couldn’t do anything about it, and yet it only pushed him harder to try. Yet, Jason would argue that he knew better. He knew better than to peck at a festering wound without allowing it time to register its identity, its origins, its truth. What good would any kind of ‘help’ they could provide, when the verity of your own pain had yet to make itself known?

Bruce’s death killed a piece of all of them, there was no denying that, even for Jason. From you, however, the old man took more than a piece of your heart. No, with the incineration of the Wayne Manor and everything within, Bruce and his death didn’t merely chip off a piece of you with him to the afterlife. His death broke you in ways he, nor the others, nor even yourself could ever understand.

The option was clear to Jason at the time; when you came to terms with the pain, when you would make the first move, then, and only then, would it be fit to provide whatever kind of comfort or support you required. On your terms.

“If she wants help, she knows where she can find it,” Jason reiterates firmly, “on her terms. Pushing it is only gonna make matters worse.”

Dick never listened to Jason, though, never gave his words the benefit of the doubt. Though the cold-shock of an ache in his abdomen told him that perhaps the raven haired man with the white streak of hair had a strong claim, Dick couldn’t back down. He wouldn't. He couldn’t sit by when the voice in his head screamed to knock on your door every morning, willing to risk being met with staggering silence if it meant you knew he was there, or have his ears strain for the slightest chance to hear your door creak open as a sign of life. He couldn’t sit by without at least attempting to try.

“I can’t do that, Jason,” Dick says straightforwardly, “I can’t sit by and watch for the possibility of things to get better on their own; not with her.”

The bickering grew so potent and consuming of one another that the presence of two other individuals had not yet caught their attention. Such has always happened whenever Dick and Jason’s spats grew. Though they rarely happened out of despise or resentment. Their passion lied with the care they had for each other as brothers, and a sibling love as trauma-bonded as theirs was bound to always reach intense heights.

“Well, maybe this experience will humble you,” Jason grumbles, “Golden Boy can’t solve every problem that he runs into-”

“Okay!” Bellows Barbara Gordon, her head-turning introduction silencing the bickering between the eldest boys. She, alongside Tim Drake, make their entrance into the center of the room. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, the glint from the sun flashes across the lenses and reveals the stern gaze she holds that contrasts with the light lilt in her voice.

“Let’s take a break from your pissing contest,” Barbara says, voice decorated in a warning tone, “so we can talk about what Tim was able to uncover.”

There stands Tim Drake with a smile on his face that screams with pride, and for a second, Jason and Dick’s facial expressions shift into confusion when the younger boy struts towards the monitor display, parting the tension as well as Jason and Dick’s bodies from their close proximity. Tablet in hand, he taps the back of the black case with his fingers giddily. There’s a light in his eye that catches everyone's attention. “I decrypted it!”

“Decrypted what?” Falls from Dick’slips. Barbara allows Alfred to pour her a cup of tea, drinking the dark, warm liquid with gratitude.

“So remember that weird file that popped up after Batman’s last video? The one that was bugging out on the screen, and no matter how many times we tried to open it, it wouldn’t budge?” He doesn’t necessarily wait for an answer; connecting the screen of his tablet to that of the large monitor setup behind him. “So, I tried everything in the book to get it to open. Hex dump, breaking down the encryption algorithm, I even made my own program with a variety of inputs, outputs, passphrases, keys-”

“-you’re losin’ us, kid,” Jason droned, reeling Tim back to the original topic at hand, “just spit it out.”

“-okay, okay,” the young Robin took a deep breath, dramatizing the reveal of his findings, “turns out, it wasn’t encrypted at all! Well, not in the traditional way.”

“Traditional?” Dick raises an eyebrow.

“Remember when Bruce made us all learn Morse Code as part of the beginning stage of our Robin training?”

“Worse part of it, if you ask me.” Jason gruffs.

“Wasn’t particularly fond of it, but yeah, I remember.” Dick hums.

“Geez, maybe that’s why he left this part to me,” Tim muses, unable to shake the sly smile that creeps onto his lips, “he did say I caught on to it faster than you two.”

“The file, Tim! The file!” Barbara reminds him. “Before they start arguing again!”

“Okay, okay! I’m getting there, I promise!” Despite the urging to reveal his findings from all members in the room, Tim’s giddiness was just boiling over. He surely was making the revelation a dramatic endeavor; even Alfred began to tune in to the show. He sets down Tim’s cup of tea in advance for the younger.

“I had to really sit down and analyze the tricky parts of the encryptions - the binary code, the encryption algorithm, trying to find weaknesses in it - and I finally, FINALLY got it!”

Tim grabs one of the rolling chairs, setting his table to the side on the table and taking a seat. He picks up the teacup, takes a swig of the smooth, blended drink, honoring Alfred’s work before setting it aside. On the display monitors, it shows Tim dragging the mouse cursor over to the bugged-out file. Silence follows as mouse clicks fill the room. Dick approaches quizzingly, watching with squinted eyes. Then Jason. Then Barbara. Then Alfred. They all look on with suspicion.

“Bruce must’ve known that as the only Morse Code addict, I would try this at some point,” Tim explains, “and from the banged up passphrase code, I could catch some letters that were used, and so I did the process of elimination…”

He trails off, his careful clicking soon coming to an end. A second passes before the screen goes black. Then, a pop-up appears on the screen.

“Would you like to open this file?” Dick reads.

“Well, duh,” Jason scoffs. Dick and Barbara side-eye him, but he pays no mind to it.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” Tim clicks the ‘yes’ icon on the screen, and as the pop-up closes, the screen shifts as several pop-ups of other files open into different monitors on the setup. The three older vigilantes (plus one butler) step back, either impressed, in awe, or a state of confused wonder.

“Welcome to Operation: Brown Eyes.”

The other three vigilante look amongst themselves. There's an air of cautious curiosity that covers the room.

“So, on top of this ridiculous last case Bruce left, we also get assigned a side-quest?” Jason concludes.

Dick shoots Jason a cocky smirk, “Looks like my idea wins.” The words reminiscent of Jason's own previous ones spoken upon their first arrival at the Belfry, spoken out of frustration, makes the younger roll his eyes.

Attention shifts to Barbara as she struts past the two men, joining Tim at the desk. A few series of clicks and clacks on keyboard shoots pop-ups of images and description boxes. Alongside them also appear newspaper articles detailing charitable feats that (Y/N) had dedicated time, labor and money towards for the betterment of Gotham. Among them appear the establishment of an arts studio, book drives, and art exhibits, the pages liters with praise and gratitude for the young woman's efforts.

Then, there's the pictures of items also shown, and upon further examination, Dick recognizes at least one of them.

“That paint box,” he starts, once furrowed eyebrows unfurl into an expression of realization, “that's an antique. I remember Bruce getting that for her for her birthday.”

The pictured items, in fact, were all items that had some relevance or connection to (Y/N). Jason figures this out as he notes the hardcover novel amongst them, the jacket being distinguishable to him. From there, it doesn't take him long to figure out the objective of this surprise operation. “He knew.”

Jason grumbles. “The bastard, he knew what to have us do to help her.”

“What do you expect,” Barbara says with a raised eyebrow, “it's Bruce. He prepares for everything; especially the unthinkable.” She directs her gaze up towards the monitor display, biting the inside of her cheek. “As bittersweet as it is.”

“It's like the last case file he gave us,” Tim chimes in, “incomplete. He was probably writing this when Ra's Al-Ghul jumped him, too.”

The soft cluttering of porcelain against silver reminds the four of Alfred's presence, as he gathers the tea pot and accompanying condiment bowls onto the serving tray, “Another thing he'd want the four of you to work together complete, I'm sure.”

His words hold more meaning than what they may appear to have, and the four vigilantes know this for certain. As Alfred takes the tray and embarks towards The staircase to the second level, he can hear the gathering of the four of them, and a faint smile crosses his lips.

Alfred's destination is the one room far off to the southern part of the Belfry Tower. He drops three sugar cubes into the last remaining porcelain teacup as his feet slow, approaching the door. He knocks three times, only to alert the person on the other of his presence, as he did not expect a response.

“Your morning tea, Lady (Y/N),” he announces, setting the teacup and saucer on a smaller serving tray he had tucked under his arm. After rising, clears his throat and speaks again, “I'll return shortly for breakfast.”

Alfred then pads away, serving tray in hand, ears straining for the faint sound of her door creaking open.

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