Chapter 13: Rebirth and Retribution

The air in the Batcave was always cold. It clung to your skin like an unwelcome guest, a reminder that this place, for all its grandeur and innovation, was built in the hollow depths of a forgotten cavern. For seven long months, that chill had been Remy's companion, wrapping around him as he struggled, day in and day out, to regain his strength.

Bane had broken him—physically, mentally, and almost spiritually. His back was shattered, leaving him unable to walk, and for what felt like an eternity, he was trapped in his own body. He had fallen from grace, stripped of his ability to fight, to defend the innocent, to be the hero he'd sworn to be.

But Remy LeBeau, Gambit, was not a man easily defeated. And neither was the Bat-Family willing to let him crumble under the weight of his own frustration.

It was Alfred who had been there first, always the caretaker, always the quiet force of stability in the chaotic storm that surrounded the Wayne household. He'd been the one to help Remy take his first steps after the surgery, standing just a few feet away with a gentle smile, ready to catch him when—no, if—he fell.

Remy gritted his teeth, his knuckles white as he gripped the parallel bars that ran along either side of him. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and his legs trembled beneath him, protesting every inch of movement.

"Come on, mon ami, you got this," he muttered to himself, trying to coax his legs into moving, but they felt like lead. The pain shot through his spine, and his arms buckled under the strain.

Alfred stood by, unshaken by the struggle. "Master LeBeau," he said in that calm, measured voice of his, "I daresay you're making remarkable progress."

Remy let out a frustrated growl as his legs gave out, sending him crashing to the ground. "Damn it!" he spat, punching the floor beneath him. His frustration boiled over, spilling out in a string of French curses that echoed through the cave.

Alfred knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Progress, Master LeBeau, is not measured by how many times you fall, but by how many times you rise."

Remy looked up at him, breathing heavily, and though every part of him wanted to snap back, to argue that it wasn't that simple, something in Alfred's steady gaze kept him silent. Slowly, he nodded and allowed the old butler to help him back onto his feet.

A week later, it was Dick Grayson who stood by Remy's side, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, watching the Cajun thief struggle once more to make it from one end of the training room to the other.

"Come on, man," Dick called out, his voice light but encouraging. "You used to parkour off rooftops. You telling me a couple of steps are giving you trouble?"

Remy shot him a glare, but there was no malice in it. If anything, it was the kind of look you gave a brother who was pushing you just a little too far. "I'm about to parkour into your smug face if you keep talkin', Grayson," Remy grunted, his muscles straining as he took another step forward.

Dick only laughed, stepping closer but keeping his distance, just in case Remy needed to catch himself. "I'll take that as a good sign. You've still got that fire in you."

Another stumble. Another fall. But this time, Dick didn't rush to help him up. Instead, he crouched down beside him, his tone becoming more serious. "Listen, I know it sucks. I've been there, too. When I was a kid, after my parents died, I thought I'd never get back on that trapeze. I felt broken."

Remy looked up, surprised by the raw honesty in Dick's voice.

"But Bruce taught me something important," Dick continued. "Pain isn't the end. It's just another obstacle. You work through it, one step at a time. And eventually, you find your way back."

And so it went, day after day, week after week. Remy fell. He cursed. He tried again. Each time, someone was there. Damian Wayne, ever the cocky little brat, had his own way of motivating Remy—mostly by challenging him to ridiculous bets about who would recover from a fight faster, even if Damian hadn't been injured.

"You're getting soft, Gambit," Damian smirked, watching from the sidelines as Remy tried to lift his leg higher than the previous day. "I thought you'd be back on your feet in no time. Guess I overestimated you."

"One more word, kid," Remy grumbled, "and I'll show you what 'soft' really means when I knock that smug grin off your face."

But Damian's jabs, despite their harshness, kept Remy's competitive spirit alive. And deep down, Remy knew it was the young Wayne's way of showing he cared.

Of all of them, it was Cassandra Cain who surprised Remy the most. She was a woman of few words, often communicating more through her actions than through speech. When she helped him train, there were no long speeches or witty quips. Instead, she simply stood beside him, silent and steady, guiding his movements with a gentle hand or a nod of approval.

One evening, after a particularly grueling session, Remy had collapsed onto the mat, his body drenched in sweat, his muscles screaming in protest. Cassandra crouched beside him, offering a bottle of water without a word.

He took it, gulping down the cool liquid before letting out a heavy sigh. "You don't talk much, do ya?" he asked, half-joking, half-curious.

Cassandra tilted her head slightly, considering his words before finally speaking. "Words are… unnecessary sometimes," she said quietly. "Action speaks. Effort speaks."

Remy nodded, understanding her in a way that felt deeper than words. He had learned more from her in silence than he had from anyone else in a thousand conversations. She didn't push him with words; she pushed him by being there, by showing up every day to help him regain his strength. And in that quiet support, Remy found a kind of peace.

As the months passed, Remy grew closer to the Bat-Family. Their dynamic was strange, dysfunctional even, but in that dysfunction, Remy found a sense of belonging. Dick's infectious humor, Damian's brash confidence, Barbara's sharp wit, and Cassandra's silent strength—all of them had become his family, in a way he hadn't expected.

And then, there was Bruce.

Bruce Wayne had become more than just the brooding figure in the shadows. He had taken on the role of mentor, guiding Remy not just in his physical recovery but in his growth as a hero.

"You're reckless," Bruce had told him one evening, after they'd finished a sparring session. "You rely too much on your charm, your powers. But you need to be smarter. You need to think two steps ahead, not just one."

Remy had frowned at the criticism but knew Bruce was right. He'd always been a risk-taker, relying on his agility and powers to get him out of tough spots. But that approach didn't always work.

Bruce had taken it upon himself to teach Remy strategy, how to analyze a situation before diving in headfirst. And while Remy still had his own way of doing things, he found himself learning more from Bruce than he had from anyone else in his life.

Through all of this, there was one constant that kept Remy grounded—his conversations with Rose. Every night, without fail, they would talk on the phone, sharing stories, jokes, and moments of vulnerability. The connection between them had grown stronger with each call, and Remy found himself looking forward to hearing her voice at the end of each day.

But Rose was wrestling with her own demons. On the other side of those phone calls, she was caught in a web of fear and loyalty, torn between her feelings for Remy and the looming shadow of her father, Slade Wilson.

Slade had discovered something—Remy's connection to a mother and son in Detroit, Rocio and Jamie. He knew that by threatening them, he could manipulate Remy into becoming his apprentice, into bending to his will.

Rose didn't want to be a part of it. She didn't want to betray Remy. But Slade's hold over her was ironclad, and she knew that defying him could mean her death. Every conversation with Remy was a battle within herself, a struggle to hide the truth of what was happening while trying to maintain the connection they had built.

Seven months had passed since the day Bane had broken him. Seven months of pain, struggle, and growth. And now, Remy stood tall once again, fully healed and ready to return to the fight.

The Batcave was alive with activity as Tim Drake stood across from him, twirling his bo staff with ease. They were sparring, a friendly match to test Remy's strength and agility after his long recovery.

Tim was quick, precise, his movements calculated and efficient. But Remy had always been unpredictable, his style a mix of acrobatics, street fighting, and sheer improvisation.

The two moved in tandem, their staffs clashing with a sharp crack as they danced across the training mat. Tim swung low, aiming for Remy's legs, but Remy flipped over the strike, landing lightly on his feet before spinning around with a wide sweep of his staff.

Tim blocked the strike, but Remy was already moving, his agility allowing him to dart in close, delivering a quick jab to Tim's side. Tim grunted, stepping back to regain his footing, but Remy didn't give him the chance. With a fluid motion, he disarmed Tim, sending his staff flying across the room.

Tim looked up, panting, but a smile spread across his face. "Okay, okay, you win. But don't get cocky."

Remy grinned, offering him a hand to pull him up. "Wouldn't dream of it, mon ami."

Later that day, Remy stood in the Batcave, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, ready to return to Detroit. Bruce approached him, holding a sleek black briefcase in one hand.

"Here," Bruce said, his voice as stoic as ever. "A going-away present."

Remy raised an eyebrow, his usual smirk playing at his lips. "Aww, you do care," he teased, taking the briefcase and opening it.

Inside was a new suit—sleek, armored, and designed in the same color scheme as his old one, but with noticeable upgrades. The suit had a high collar, reinforced plating, and a utility belt equipped with smoke bombs, playing cards, and a grappling hook. Beside it lay a new bo staff, gleaming under the Batcave's lights.

Bruce gestured to the staff. "It's made of alien metal. It won't break as easily as your last one."

Remy let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "You sure know how to spoil a guy, Bruce."

"Come with me," Bruce said, motioning for Remy to follow him outside Wayne Manor.

They walked out onto the sprawling grounds, where a large tarp was draped over something in the driveway. Bruce pulled it back, revealing a sleek, black-and-purple motorcycle, its design futuristic and deadly.

"I remember you saying you wished you had a faster way to get around the city," Bruce said, his expression softening ever so slightly. "Now you do."

Remy stared at the bike for a long moment, his chest tight with emotion. He had never been one for sentimentality, but the gesture meant more to him than he could say. He turned to Bruce, his voice thick. "Thank you… for everything."

Bruce simply nodded, his usual stoic demeanor unchanged. But when Remy stepped forward and pulled him into a quick, unexpected hug, Bruce didn't pull away. He stood there for a moment, letting Remy show his gratitude before stepping back.

Remy mounted the bike, revving the engine and feeling the power surge beneath him. "See you around, Bruce," he said with a grin, before speeding off down the driveway.

From a window inside the manor, Cassandra Cain watched him go, her expression unreadable. Dick walked up behind her, leaning against the wall with a knowing smile. "You're gonna miss him, aren't you?"

Cassandra didn't say anything, but she nodded slightly, her eyes never leaving the disappearing figure of Remy.

"I know you're gonna miss his hand kisses," Dick added, his grin widening.

Cassandra shot him a glare, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment before she turned and walked away, leaving Dick chuckling to himself.

In the depths of Gotham, far from the sprawling grounds of Wayne Manor, a dark room was lit only by the flickering glow of a computer screen. The man sitting in front of it wore a red helmet, his eyes locked on the image of Remy speeding away from the manor.

"It's time for my revenge to start," the Red Hood muttered to himself, his voice low and dangerous.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he removed the helmet, revealing the face of Jason Todd—the dead Robin, risen from the grave.

And so, the stage was set.

Chapter End.