Chapter Text
“No, we can’t move. He has his whole life here and uprooting a child impedes their social emotional well-being and development.” Elsa said as they wandered through the luminescent isles of the supermarket.
“And don’t you think think it's a little too late for him on the social emotional side of things.” Zander whispered back as he looked at the ingredients of the gushers Adam had requested they get for him from the store.
“No, I don’t.” Elsa said haughtily, grabbing the box and throwing it in the cart without a second thought.
“He has friends here, and he’s in a club. If we move what would the justification be. He begged us to go to public school, begged. He’s a smart kid you know.” Elsa said taking control of the cart and moving to the next isle.
Him being a smart kid was exactly the issue Zander thought as he trailed behind his wife.
The grocery store they were shopping at was modern with ambient lighting. The tile they walked on was busy, much like the lives of those who shop there. Mostly everything in the store was sealed with a certified organic sticker and had the kind of packaging that fooled you into thinking the item tasted good. Wood was the primary material utilized throughout the store, but there were also accents of green and black everywhere. It was surprisingly empty today.
“His friend is nosy; I can feel it. The justification would be that we're his parents, and we need to move; simple as that.” Zander said, moving to push the cart himself as the familiar feeling of frustration washed over him.
“Yeah, and that would work on a preteen.” Elsa said sarcastically.
Knowing the conversation was getting them nowhere productive, Elsa made a suggestion that might make everyone happy.
“Why don’t we wait and see what happens. Sure his friend saw him having some side effects of his medication. That doesn’t mean anything. Our kid just has health issues; that's nothing to be ashamed of right?” Elsa looked into Zander's eyes, trying to really sell her point of view.
“This is dangerous Elsa” Zander said in a low voice.
“It’ll be fine I promise” She said, giving him a kiss on the cheek and making her way to the check-out line.
Nothing is promised Zander thought.
Making his wife happy was always his ultimate goal. After so much loss and hurt he knew that being a good mother was important to her. Adam was growing on him but he never really saw himself in a father role. His own father—god rest his soul—was a piece of shit. Most days the apple didn't fall far from the tree, but he was working on it. Elsa, on the other hand, seemed to be a natural. Something deep in his gut told him something was afoot, but moving his family again could be detrimental not only to Adam but Elsa as well.
“You ready?” Elsa said after handing the cashier the money and moving to the exit.
“I guess so,” Zander replied, shaken out of his thoughts.
~
Adam stared at the ceiling in his bed room. It was one of the rare times he was home alone. Not much was going through his head. His homework was done. He was on independent study for the week as requested by his dad. He was ok with it, and after the stunt at Sweet Justice he felt too weak to do much of anything.
Even though he didn't go to school, the week was far from peaceful. They had started him on a pill version of the injection for the time being to give his arms a rest apparently it didn't work as fast as the normal version. Mom thought that they should slowly start to lower his medications dosage, but Dad thought that increasing was the best course of action. Adam, however, had stopped taking the medication all together, and he felt sick. He knew that he needed the medicine but something deep inside told him to stop. With the pills it was so easy to fake taking them.
With nothing to do the boredom started creeping its way into his bones. He let his mind start to wander. He couldn't keep focused on one topic for long. jumping from thinking of his parents, to Wally to Batman to…
Batman?
He was suddenly in the deeply lit cave once again. Stalagmites decorated the ceiling, dripping water onto the stone ground. In the distance he could hear the fluttering wings of bats. It was so dark the only light source being a singular tall candle held by a man situated directly in front of him.
He spoke with a booming voice loud and commanding enough to fill up the canvernous space in a matter of seconds. “And swear that we two will fight together against crime and corruption and never swerve from the path of righteousness” The man dressed as a bat said.
“I swear it,” Adam says automatically .
He blinked and suddenly he was in one of the biggest kitchens he's ever seen.
"Master Dick I must say that it is imperative that a growing boy such as yourself eats more than just sour cream and onion chips" A posh British man stated. Adam wasn't sure who he was talking to through.
Adam blinked again and he was outside on the front steps of the house. the cool evening air sent a chill through his body even though he was covered in sweat. His stomach was turning. He quickly ran back inside and barely made it to the bathroom before emptying the contents of his stomach.
Once finished he went to wash his face but there was a black mask with white eyes—a domino mask his brain supplied.
Blinking again he was on the couch and the front door was opening.
"Dick, I'm home, and I got the gushers you wanted, are you feeling any better sweetheart," Bruce said.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Adam asked, feeling insane as he stared at his mother.
She gave him a sympathetic look and repeated "I said we got the gushers you wanted. Maybe you should lie down for a bit; you're looking a little pale sweetheart," Elsa said, moving her hand to feel his forehead.
"Y-Yeah, I think I should go lie down in my room," Adam said.
Before turning to walk up stairs he said,"I think dad was right I need a higher dosage of medication."
~
Wally sat in his room, going over notes from this week's science club meeting—a task he approached with unusual focus, mostly because it kept him from doing his English homework.
The robot they were building was coming along great. All the precision components—motors, encoders, controllers, and software—had been donated by STAR Labs. The hardware—actuators, sensors, and aluminum framing—was bought with funds from the last bake sale. Thank you, Aunt Iris. They had a real shot at winning nationals this year.
Last meeting had been buzzing with so much excitement that Wally completely forgot to take attendance. Now, he carefully went through the list of names, checking off who had been there. But he paused when he got to Adam Davis.
He hadn’t seen Adam since last week.
He hadn’t been at school.
Wally remembered the ice cream parlor—how Adam had suddenly collapsed and started seizing. HE had been speechless. Aunt Iris tried to call 911, but Adam’s parents had refused. They said it happens sometimes.
Was Adam sick?
That would explain a lot—his weird diet, his overbearing parents. Wally chewed on the end of his pencil, thinking. Some days, Adam looked so pale, almost dazed. That could be an illness. He had done school online until this semester, too.
It was all adding up.
But still—something felt off.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the whole thing bugged him.
Just then, a hand landed on his shoulder, and Wally practically jumped out of his chair, landing hard on the hardwood floor.
“Whoa, sorry, kid—I thought you heard me come in,” Barry said, settling on the bed while Wally caught his breath.
“I didn’t,” Wally muttered, climbing to his feet. “I was taking attendance for science club,” he added, sitting beside his uncle.
“Oh yeah? I bet everyone’s jazzed about the robot. Whose idea was that? Zeke’s? Jenna’s?” Barry asked, glancing over at the notes on the desk.
“No, actually, it was Adam’s,” Wally said quietly.
“Oh.” Barry placed the paper back down.
“Yeah. Iris told me what happened last week. How’s he doing now?” Barry asked, noticing the look on Wally’s face.
“I haven’t seen him,” Wally replied. “I think he’s sick, and…”
He trailed off.
“And?” Barry prompted.
“I think something else is going on,” Wally said, his words speeding up in that way Barry knew meant he was worried. “But I don’t know what. I don’t know what to do, Uncle Barry. I feel like something’s wrong—I just don’t know what.”
Barry nodded thoughtfully. “I can look into it if you want. Maybe we can get someone to do a welfare check, or something like that.”
“What if I’m wrong?” Wally asked, eyes downcast.
What if Adam was just a sick kid who needed time off school, and Wally had sent social workers or cops to his house over nothing?
“Sometimes we just have to follow our gut,” Barry said gently. “You just want to make sure your friend’s okay. And if he is, then there’s no harm in checking.”
“Yeah… I hope so,” Wally said, his voice small.
~
It had been a grueling three weeks since Bruce got his memories back, and things were still hard to believe. He knew the implanted memories were fake, but he couldn't help but jump every time Alfred walked into the kitchen. And it didn’t dull the bone-deep ache he felt every time he looked at Dick's bedroom door.
The first couple of days after getting his memories back, he only slept. His brain had been so overstimulated that unconsciousness was the only real defense it had left.
He was still a bit shaky, but the headaches he’d experienced in those first few days had faded to a dull ache behind his eyes—manageable.
Now he sat at the Batcomputer, the blue glow from the screens perfectly emphasizing the scowl on his face. It had to be 2 or 3 a.m., but sleep was irrelevant. Guilt and self-blame had him in a vice grip. He felt like he was stuck in limbo, the ambiguous loss he was drowning in too all-consuming for something as needless as sleep.
He should’ve seen it coming.
He was Batman.
He was scouring CCTV footage from the night Dick disappeared and coming up empty-handed. Everything had been scrubbed clean, leaving him nothing. No leads. No trail.
Frustrated, he ran a hand over his face and stared at his second monitor. Dozens of unopened emails blinked back at him, a quiet reminder of how long he’d been out of commission—how long no one had been looking for his son.
Some were from Wayne Enterprises.
But the majority were from the Justice League, all basically asking the same thing:
Are you okay?
He was not.
He was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the serving tray being placed in front of him.
“I know you won’t stop working long enough to take a much-needed break,” Alfred said, eyeing the pile of wrappers Bruce had amassed under his chair. “But I insist you eat something other than protein bars.”
Bruce stared at the butler-turned-father for a few seconds longer than what would be considered normal.
Alfred softened his gaze and placed a firm hand on his charge’s shoulder.
“We’ll find him, sir. Somehow, some way.”
Bruce let out a sigh, as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.
“And what if we don’t—what if I don’t?” he said, looking at the sandwich on the tray as if it held all the answers.
“You’ve never been the type to give up, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning and heading back upstairs.
Bruce picked up the sandwich and was reminded of a time he couldn’t get Dick to eat anything. It had been just after his parents died—his first week at the manor.
“Hey, bud, I’ll get you whatever you want to eat. Just name it and we’ll go get it,” Bruce had tried, kneeling beside the table.
The eight-year-old didn’t answer. He just stared at the untouched plate of chicken nuggets, then pushed it away with the side of his hand.
“How about pancakes? Or maybe cookies—pizza?” Bruce offered, voice too upbeat, too desperate.
Dick turned away, facing the wall.
“I’m at a loss here, chum,” Bruce had whispered. “You’ve gotta eat.”
Bruce let out a slow breath and looked down at the sandwich Alfred had brought. Still warm. Fresh.
He could still see Dick’s small fingers pushing the plate away.
And now... here he was, doing the same.
His appetite was gone.
He set the sandwich down, untouched, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The cave around him hummed — constant, mechanical, impersonal.
He rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar throb return behind his eyes. The footage from that night had been meticulously wiped—feeds cut, files overwritten. It reeked of professional-level cleanup. Military-grade.
But something wasn’t sitting right.
He leaned back toward the keyboard, fingers hovering, mind reeling.
Too clean.
Even the League didn’t move this surgically unless they had to. And scrubbing this much footage across an entire city? That wasn’t done quickly. Not without leaving something behind.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed.
They couldn't have had time to erase everything.
Just Gotham.
They never expected anyone to come looking. They had left him for dead.
His pulse quickened as he expanded the search radius. First the Gotham suburbs. Then countywide.
Still nothing.
He bypassed encryption filters and rerouted through secure state traffic cams. Expanded again—all of New Jersey. Pennsylvania. New York. He focused on traffic routes, back roads, small towns.
Think.
Where would you go where no one would ask questions?
They had to have stopped. The adrenaline crash from the kidnapping would’ve left them exhausted.
Not a hotel. Too easy to trace. Too many cameras.
A shady motel, maybe? But the woman’s whole shtick was being a “good mom.” A sleazy roadside inn didn’t scream mother of the year.
But a cozy bed and breakfast?
One that took cash, kept minimal records, and had no front-desk cameras...
He adjusted the filters again—searching for vehicle sightings near small lodging establishments in the hours following the abduction. Then narrowed the list to places without internet or digital check-in systems.
One ping.
Bruce froze.
A porch-mounted property cam—grainy and low-res—from a family-run B&B just outside Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania.
It showed a small car pulling in very late into the night, the night Dick vanished.
And a figure—small, slightly hunched—being carried inside.
A small bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania. Family-owned. Mostly paper records due to an old computer that barely work. No security system except the one outdated porch cam—probably installed by the owner's dad twenty years ago and forgotten.
Bruce rose from the chair, already reaching for his coat.
It was past 3 a.m., but he wasn’t waiting for sunrise.
~
The morning air was still clinging to the last traces of night when Bruce arrived. The house stood just as it had on the grainy footage—painted a soft yellow, with ivy climbing the porch railings and a welcome sign swaying gently in the breeze.
His car rolled to a slow stop on the gravel.
He walked through the door, creaking, revealing a young woman with kind eyes and hair pulled into a messy updo.
"Good Morning!," she said brightly. "Checking in?"
"Yeah," Bruce said, adjusting his voice slightly—warmer, a little softer than usual. "Just passing through. Thought I'd take a detour from the highway... clear my head a bit."
She smiled at that. "Well, you picked the right place. Quiet, good coffee, and pancakes at nine. I'm Katie. You’re lucky—we’ve got a few rooms open."
"One night’s good," he replied, signing in with a fake name and cash.
She handed him a key. Room 3.
Bruce stepped inside and closed the door behind him, exhaling slowly and sat his bag down.
There was cornflower blue duvet and floral curtains. He could tell that the bed and breakfast was well maintained and cared for.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. He had a couple of hours before breakfast started. He should talk that time to get some rest before conversing with Katie again, but he couldn't sleep.
He took out his laptop, connecting it to the hot spot on his phone and began doing remote work to fill the time.
At 8:59 a.m., Bruce came down to the dining room, hands in his hoodie pockets. The room was already filling with the smell of pancakes, bacon, and fresh coffee.
Katie was there, refilling mugs.
"Morning,again! I wasn't sure if you were coming down considering you got in so early this morning" she greeted him with the same easy warmth. "You sleep okay?"
"Yeah. Room was nice," Bruce replied, then hesitated before adding, “Feels like the kind of place that’s been through a lot of stories.”
She chuckled. “Oh, sure. Bachelorette parties. Wedding proposals. One guy stayed here to finish writing a murder mystery. Another brought his cat and claimed it was psychic.”
Bruce smirked slightly. “Get a lot of families?”
Katie laughed softly. “We mostly get couples. Now and then a solo traveler like yourself. We got a family this summer though they checked in real late must've been driving for hours — poor kid looked exhausted. Barely said a word to me the whole time.”
Bruce gave a faint smile trying not to seem too eager for more. “Yeah. I remember trips like that. Half asleep until breakfast.”
“Exactly,” she said, chuckling. “I thought he might be carsick or something. Seemed a little out of it.”
Bruce nodded, sipping his coffee. “Must’ve been a really long drive.”
Katie was already moving on, chatting with other guests and refilling mugs. The room buzzed with quiet morning energy — dishes clinking, soft laughter, the smell of pancakes hanging in the air.
But Bruce wasn’t moving.
He sat there, his coffee going cold in his hands, eyes unfocused. Her words echoed in his head.
Out of it. Barely said a word. Checked in late.A family.
The timing fit.
He didn’t need more.
Later, back in Room 3, he stood at the window, staring out over the gravel lot where they must have parked. He pulled out his phone and opened a blank note.
Confirmed: they were here.
He locked the screen, tossed the phone onto the bed.
And started packing up his stuff.
~
Bruce stepped outside the bed and breakfast, pulling his hood over his head as a breeze moved through the trees.
He paused at his car, hands resting on the roof.
The gravel crunched behind him.
“You heading out already?” Katie asked, arms folded lightly as she leaned against the porch post. “You didn’t even stay for lunch.”
Bruce gave a half-smile. “Next time.”
She nodded. “Where you headed?”
He thought for a moment. Then: “Just following a thread.”
Katie shrugged. “Well, if you’re taking Route 12, there’s a great little diner about an hour thirty minutes out — Nancy’s Diner. Locals love it. Got a jukebox and everything.”
Bruce looked at her. “Do they get a lot of travelers?”
“They sure do. They have breakfast all day—pancakes aren't as good as dad's. Staff’s been there forever though. If you’re the type that likes old-fashioned charm, you’ll like it.”
Bruce gave a polite nod. “Appreciate it.”
He slid into the car and drove off, gravel kicking up behind him.
~
The teal sign for Nancy’s Diner looked like it hadn’t changed in fifty years. Neon flickered slightly in the Afternoon sun. The "R" in diner looked liked it needed to be replaced the way it kept flickering off and on. A silver bell jingled as Bruce stepped through the door.
Inside, the diner smelled like syrup, bacon, and lemon-scented cleaner. “Rockin’ Robin” was playing low on the jukebox.
The hostess looked up, startled slightly the unexpected guest. Fall afternoons didn't usually lend themselves to many patrons other than the usual. Seeing a new face was a bit shocking.
“Morning,” Bruce said, with the easy charm of someone who had nothing to hide.
“Take a seat wherever,” she smiled. “Nancy’ll be out in a sec.”
Bruce chose a booth—not the one in the corner. But close enough.
A waitress approached. Hair pinned up, name tag crooked.
“You look like a black coffee kind of guy,” she said with a grin.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Always is.”
She poured the coffee.
“Place has character,” Bruce said, glancing around. “Feels like it remembers things.”
“Yeah,” she replied, a bit amused. “It does. Some stories don’t leave.”
Bruce let that sit for a moment.
“You get many travelers through here?”
“Plenty. We’re just off the highway—families, truckers, couples. You name it. Mostly in the summer, though. Not a lot of folks pass through in the fall.”
Bruce took a sip of his coffee. “Ever see something you couldn’t quite shake?”
She tilted her head, eyeing him.
“You a cop?”
“No,” he said simply. “Just... used to noticing things. Thought maybe you were too.”
She paused, watching him closely.
“I’m not looking for any trouble,” she said, locking eyes with him.
Bruce held up a hand, his voice calm. “I get it. I work nights so my people skills get a little rusty. Sorry if I overstepped. Just trying to make conversation.”
Nancy sighed, then seemed to soften. The diner was empty, quiet. She slid into the booth across from him.
“You meet all kinds working here,” she said. “Couple years back, this guy walks in wearing a green suit with purple question marks all over it. Real nutty getup. Seemed nice enough, but he wouldn’t give my server her tip until she solved a riddle.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I looked him up later. Turned out he was some crazy from Gotham. Gotta love Jersey.”
“Did she solve the riddle?” Bruce asked, his interest piqued.
Nancy grinned. “Yeah, she’s a smart kid.”
Bruce leaned back slightly. “My family used to stop at places like this when I was a kid. Diners always felt... special. Only place that ever got a chocolate malt right.”
Nancy’s expression changed—thoughtful, maybe even a little distant.
“There was this one family,” she said slowly. “Early summer, I think. Polite. Too polite. The dad gave me this weird look when I brought the kid a milkshake on the house. Like I’d done something wrong.”
Bruce didn’t say anything, just listened.
“The boy looked sick. Maybe a headache or something. He asked for the milkshake, but he didn’t touch it. Just let it sit there. Like he wanted it but wasn’t allowed.”
She shook her head.
“I know it sounds silly, but it stuck with me. The way they left—fast. Like they were running from something.”
Bruce finished his coffee, set the mug down gently.
“They pay cash?”
“Yeah. Left a big tip, too. Like they wanted me to remember them for being generous, not... strange.”
“Did they say where they were headed?”
She thought for a second. “No but they drove South. I remember the dad saying something like, ‘we’ve still got a long drive.’” She narrowed her eyes slightly. “You sure you’re not a cop?”
Bruce stood.
“No, ma’am.”
He reached into his pocket and slipped a folded bill under the mug—more than enough to cover the check.
“Thanks for the coffee and company.”
He was out the door before she could say anything else.
~
Bruce leaned back from the Batcomputer, fatigue creeping into his bones but his mind racing. It had only been a week since he started digging into the little threads he’d picked up: the diner encounter, the grainy footage, the vague descriptions.
He zoomed in on the footage from Nancy’s Diner again — the dark sedan pulling out at 3:30 pm on a summer afternoon, heading south out of town.
He cross-checked traffic cams from the following hours, tracking the car’s movement off the main roads onto smaller streets. A pattern emerged: the vehicle took a route leading to a quiet residential neighborhood on the edge of Central City — somewhere far from prying eyes.
Checking property sales records for homes bought or newly occupied around the date they arrived, one address stood out: a modest two-story house bought in cash by a couple under the names of Zander and Elsa Davis.
Bruce pulled up satellite images and saw the same sedan parked in the driveway of the house.
Next he Bruce Pulled up records for the school closes to the houses location and searched for any boys with the last name Davis. several popped up with pictures attached. His heart started to sink as none of the boys were reviled to be his son. The last Picture he clicked on wasn't available. the name was Adam Davis who missed picture day.
Next Bruce looked through the class schedules and extra curricular activities. A science club? he looked through the other names of the students in the club and one caught his eye. Wally West. He needed to called the flash.