Chapter 12: Unmasking and Understanding

Remy lay in the cold metal bed, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling his nostrils as he stared up at the dimly lit ceiling of the Batcave. The soft hum of machinery and the distant echoes of bats were the only sounds that broke the silence. His body was aching from the fight with Bane, his muscles tight and protesting any movement. Yet, his mind raced, refusing to let him rest.

Since his reincarnation in this world, his life had been a whirlwind of chaos, violence, and unexpected turns.

But it wasn't just the strangeness of his situation that weighed on him. It was the people. The Bat-family, the rogues gallery of Gotham, and even Bruce Wayne himself—Batman, the legend, the myth, and now, apparently, the man responsible for keeping him alive.

As Remy pondered this, lost in the memories of his fight with Bane, The Rogues and Black Manta. Also the dangerous alliance that had formed between Penguin, Two-Face, and Bane, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A familiar figure walked past the edge of the cave, barely noticeable in the shadows. Batman.

"Hey," Remy called out, his voice raspy from lack of use. "You know my secret identity, don't you?"

The Dark Knight paused, turning slowly to face him. His gaze was cold, as always, but there was something else behind his eyes. Curiosity? Remy couldn't tell.

"I have a question," Remy continued, pushing himself up just slightly in bed, wincing as his ribs protested. "I've got a good idea of who you are, but I'd like a confirmation."

Batman stood still for a long moment, his eyes locking with Remy's. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire, and for a second, Remy wondered if he'd overstepped. But then, with a single, deliberate movement, Batman reached up and pulled back his cowl, revealing the face beneath.

Bruce Wayne.

Remy let out a soft chuckle. "Huh. Didn't think it'd be you."

But in his head, he knew it all along. Bruce Wayne—the billionaire playboy, the orphaned son of Gotham's elite—was exactly the kind of person Remy had pegged him for. He had seen enough cartoons in his past life to know who he is, though he had never admitted it to anyone.

Bruce didn't respond, his expression remaining stoic as he replaced the cowl. "Penguin, Two-Face, and Bane have been arrested," he said, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "They've been sent to Arkham."

Remy let out a long breath, relief washing over him despite his pain. "Thanks for that," he muttered, sinking back into the bed.

Bruce gave a curt nod, turning away as if the conversation was over. But just before he disappeared into the shadows, he tossed something toward Remy. The object landed on the bed beside him with a soft thud. A phone.

"Someone's been calling you," Bruce said over his shoulder before vanishing into the dark corners of the cave.

Remy looked at the phone, curiosity piquing his interest. When he picked it up, the screen lit up with a familiar name. Rose.

With a groan, he swiped to answer the call, pressing the phone to his ear. "Hey, cher," he drawled, his voice playful despite the fatigue weighing down his body.

"Where are you?" Rose's voice came through, her tone casual but with a hint of concern. "I've been trying to reach you. I thought we could hang out again."

Remy smiled at the sound of her voice, the tension in his muscles easing slightly. "I, uh…got into a bit of a car accident," he lied, his tone smooth. "One of my friends here in Gotham is lookin' after me."

"Gotham?" Rose asked, surprised. "What the hell are you doing in Gotham?"

Remy chuckled softly, the playful flirtation slipping into his voice. "Oh, y'know me, cher. Just gettin' into trouble wherever I go. But don't worry, I'll be back on my feet soon enough."

Rose's voice softened, the concern creeping back in. "Well, you better. I had fun last time. Don't make me come find you."

Remy smirked, imagining the fire in her eyes. "You wouldn't have to look hard, darlin'. I'd let you catch me."

There was a pause, then a soft laugh on the other end of the line. "Get well soon, Remy. I'm serious."

"I will," he promised, a grin on his face as they hung up.

In Detroit, Rose hung up the phone, her expression thoughtful. She stood in a dimly lit room, her arms crossed as she leaned against the wall. In the shadows behind her, a familiar figure stepped forward—Slade Wilson, better known as Deathstroke.

"He's in Gotham," Rose said, her voice quiet but steady. "And he's hurt."

Slade gave her a nod of approval, his expression unreadable behind the mask. "Good work."

Without another word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness. Rose watched him go, her mind racing. She had followed her father's orders, tracking Remy and gathering information, but now, a strange unease settled over her. She found herself thinking about Remy—about his smile, his charm, the way he had looked at her with those mischievous eyes.

Why did she care what he thought about her? Why did it bother her that he was hurt?

Shaking her head, Rose pushed the thoughts away, her jaw tightening in frustration. She had a job to do, and emotions had no place in it.

Back in the Batcave, Bruce appeared once again, pushing a wheelchair toward Remy. The cold metal frame gleamed under the dim light, and Remy sighed, knowing he wasn't going to walk out of here anytime soon.

"You need rest," Bruce said, his voice as clinical as ever. "But I figured you could use a change of scenery."

Remy gave him a wry smile, gingerly easing himself into the wheelchair with Bruce's help. "Well, I'll take what I can get."

With surprising care, Bruce pushed Remy through the cave, the vast expanse of the underground lair stretching out around them like something out of a nightmare and a dream combined. The Batcave was both beautiful and foreboding, filled with the high-tech tools of a vigilante and the relics of a broken past. But as they ascended into Wayne Manor, the mood shifted. The gothic architecture of the mansion loomed over them, but it was warmer, more human—if only slightly.

Bruce wheeled Remy into a grand dining room, where the quiet murmur of conversation drifted through the air. As they entered, seven people sat around a long table, their voices low, but when they noticed Remy, the room fell silent.

Remy's eyes scanned the faces around him—Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown, Duke Thomas, Barbara Gordon, and Cassandra Cain. All members of the Bat-family, all legends in their own right. That Bruce told him about.

"Well, don't all stop talkin' on my account," Remy said with a grin, breaking the silence. "I promise I ain't as scary as ol' Bat here."

For a moment, the tension held, but then, a soft giggle broke through. Remy turned to see a young Blonde woman—Stephanie, he recalled—giggling behind her hand, her shoulders shaking with amusement.

Remy shot her a playful smile, his usual charm slipping back into place despite his injuries. "And who's the lovely lady who finds me so funny?"

Steph blushed, looking away with a shy smile, but not before Remy caught the pink tinge rising in her cheeks. He gave her a wink, and her blush deepened.

"Stephanie Brown," she mumbled, still smiling.

"Stephanie, huh? Beautiful name," Remy said, his grin widening.

Before the flirting could continue, the others began introducing themselves. Dick Grayson, who was Nightwing. Tim Drake, the ever-curious Red Robin. Damian Wayne, the scowling Robin who looked like he wanted to fight Remy just for the sake of it. Duke Thomas, who gave him a mischievous grin. Barbara Gordon, Oracle, the woman in the wheelchair who seemed to hold the room together with her presence alone.

When it was Barbara's turn to speak, Remy glanced at her wheelchair and smirked. "Looks like we got somethin' in common, eh?"

Barbara chuckled, rolling her eyes. "I think mine's more permanent than yours, but sure."

Finally, Cassandra Cain stepped forward. Black Bat, they called her. She was silent, her dark eyes watching him intently as she extended her hand for a handshake.

Remy, ever the charmer, took her hand and, instead of shaking it, brought it to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. Cassandra's eyes widened slightly, and for a brief moment, a faint blush colored her cheeks. She pulled her hand away quickly, retreating back to her seat without a word, her face still flushed.

Bruce wheeled Remy to the table, and the group began to eat, the conversation flowing more naturally now that the ice had been broken. Remy found himself laughing along with the others, getting to know them as they shared stories and banter. But as the meal progressed, Damian, ever the inquisitive one, turned to Remy with a serious expression.

"So, what's your story?" Damian asked, his tone demanding but curious. "You've got powers. How'd you get them?"

Remy leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered how much to share. But in the end, he decided to be honest. "I was an orphan," he began, his voice taking on a softer, more reflective tone. "Left the orphanage when I was eleven. Had to survive somehow, so I became a thief."

The room grew quieter as Remy continued. "I got caught, arrested more times than I can count. But one day, when I was about to get beat down by a bunch of thugs after I cheated in a game of cards, my powers activated. Sent 'em all flyin' with an explosion."

He chuckled at the memory, though there was little humor in it. "After that, I practiced with my powers, learned how to control 'em. I always admired heroes, though, always wanted to make a difference in my city. So I became Gambit."

The room fell silent again as Remy finished his story. For a moment, no one spoke. Then, one by one, the members of the Bat-family began to nod, offering quiet words of approval. But as everyone was talking Barbara and Dick, he shared look between them—a look that wasn't directed at Remy, but at Bruce. A look filled with sadness.

It was then that they realized. That Remys story, it was too similar to someone else's. Jason Todd.

The thought hung heavy in the air, even if no one said it aloud. Jason, the fallen Robin, the lost son of Batman.

Unbeknownst to them, a figure watched from a camera. The man wore a red helmet, his eyes cold as he observed the scene unfolding on the screen. A soft click echoed in the silence as he reloaded his gun, his gaze narrowing.

"Another soldier for your army, Bruce," he muttered under his breath. His finger hovered over the trigger for a moment before he pulled the gun up and aimed it at a photo of Gambit pinned to the wall. With a single squeeze of the trigger, the bullet pierced the photo's center, right where Remy's face had been.

"Maybe it's time for me to meet this Gambit," the Red Hood whispered, a smile spreading beneath his helmet.