Another vicious blow tried to land on him. Tried to, of course, without much success, as he easily evaded one blow after the other with agile dexterity. He wasn't the grandson of the Demon's Head himself, the only son and heir of the Batman, for nothing. He had learnt warfare and manipulation at his mother's knee; he had been taught how to snap a man's neck with his small hands the moment his childish fingers were steady enough to hold a pen on his own.

The only reason he didn't kill the sad bastard right then and there was that he didn't want to attract attention to himself, that a corpse with a child's fingerprints would alert his father of his presence too soon.

He had promised Tarek, his current mentor, he would not reveal himself, that he could stay in Gotham for a month, two even, without either of his parents realizing his whereabouts. It was the ultimate stealth test. To observe the Detective while hiding from The League, to learn all there was to learn about Bruce Wayne without letting the man know of his existence.

He was grateful, then, for his solitude in the foreign city. He had not taken into account that Gotham was nothing like his home and a five-year old relatively well dressed walking along among the darkened alleys was sure to attract the attention of the common scum.

It had been only his second night and it was the third attempt at robbery he had faced.

How disgraceful.

Tarek would have laughed at him for such oversight. Especially when the thug currently attacking him - erratic movements, dilated pupils, exaggerated salivation… A drug addict then - made a wide grab of him and managed to grab his foot, easily landing his young body on the ground with a slam and sinking his own foot into his childish leg.

Damian didn't scream, didn't cry out, but he could still hear the sound of his own bone breaking, the snap of his leg twisting into an unnatural angle, his eyes narrowed and his mouth pursed, his hands clenched into fists as he tried to fight off the pain currently fogging his vision.

He raised his eyes, ready to reach with his fingers into the man's knee and destroy the kneecap when he saw the trembling hand hold out a gun, the manic eyes fill with delusional glee as twisted fingers reached for the trigger when another dark figure launched itself from the shadows and tackled the thug away from Damian.

"What the-" the man screamed as another boy grabbed his arm and pointed the gun away from Damian. "You brat!"

Damian wanted to open his mouth, to shout, but his limbs were turning heavy and his eyes misted - shock, he was going into shock like some weakling! - and the man's shaking hand came down hard on the other boy's face, splitting his lip and forcing him to let go.

A young body fell near Damian's, pale hands struggling to reach the younger boy and protect him; blood fell into wide blue eyes and told him his mysterious savior had split his forehead as he fell.

The thug grabbed the gun once more, slurred cursed falling from his lips as he readied to shoot them both when the black leather of a whip wrapped around his skinny wrist and pulled him backwards violently.

Both boys turned towards the newcomer, Damian's eyes were falling shut but he managed to notice how the other boy let out a pained laugh.

"Catwoman," he whizzed.

The woman in dark leather raised an eyebrow at them both before a small smile curled her red lips.

"Two little strays in my path, how cute," she purred. "Is this your baby brother, Alvin?"

Damian finally succumbed to the shock and the pain as he heard the boy, Alvin; nervously introduce him to the woman as his little brother Bobby.

He decided not to protest.

He wakes up as the sun rises over the horizon in a small hospital room, his leg is in a cast – has been set properly, at least – and his arm is almost completely wrapped in bandages. He doesn't wake because he is hungry, nor because he is in need of anything, but because his young mind has finally become aware of his unfamiliar surroundings.

He knows it is shameful and he will berate himself for it later – when the painkillers this incompetent medical staff has obviously administered to him are not clouding his judgment – but he feels a small twinge of fear at the unfamiliarity of it all, at the way the clean lines are not like the ones at the infirmary, or how the sheets over him are rough and stink of bleach and other chemicals.

He wants to plot how to get out without being noticed when a sudden warmth in the back of his hand makes him turn his head – a silent companion, he must be really drugged not to have noticed before -. The other boy is there, thick bandages wrapped around his head and a painful looking bruise staining his pale face.

They stare at eachother in silence.

"Go back to sleep," the boy says in a quiet whisper, his long eyelashes fanning the air as he blinks sleepily. "I'm watching over you."

Usually, such words would be met with disdain from him. He can watch over himself, he has been trained and nurtured to be as self-sufficient as possible, but there is something familiar in those grey-blue eyes, something he sees every morning staring back at him from the mirror in his room.

He nods.

A small smile curls pale, pink lips and the boy snuggles a little more into the uncomfortable blankets.

Damian's smaller hand curls unconsciously around the boy's hand – Alvin's hand? What an unfortunate name – before he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.