Batfamily |¦DC

Gotham was officially the worst place on Earth to survive a zombie apocalypse, mostly because even the undead had better fashion sense than you did right now. You were crouched behind a flipped delivery van that smelled like old fish sticks and regret, clutching a baton Jason had shoved into your hands with the helpful advice, “If it moves and isn’t us, hit it until it stops moving.” Which was solid advice, except everything kept moving, even after you hit it, which felt personally offensive. The sky was the color of dishwater, the streets were full of groaning ex-people, and your three older brothers were acting like this was just another Tuesday.

---

Damian, of course, was on the rooftop above you, perched like an extremely lethal gargoyle who had never once in his life been told to “chill.” He had a rifle he’d definitely modified using parts from a toaster and a very expensive coffee machine, and he was scanning the streets with the intensity of someone who considered “overkill” a personality trait. “Three blocks east,” he announced, voice crisp and superior, like he was giving a TED Talk on How to Survive the End of the World. “Movement. Not human.” You wanted to point out that nothing out here was human anymore, but Damian would probably take that as a personal challenge to lecture you on semantics while a zombie tried to eat your face.

---

Tim was beside you, kneeling as he checked your ammo with the calm focus of someone who had accepted that the universe was a joke and he was the punchline. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, which was fair, because none of you had, but somehow he still managed to look like the responsible one. “We move in five,” he said, glancing at you with that soft, tired look he only ever gave you. “Stay between us. Don’t wander. Don’t hesitate.” You nodded like you understood, even though your entire brain was currently screaming, I am going to trip and die and it will be so embarrassing.

---

Jason was leaning against the wall with the casual menace of someone who had died once and come back just to complain about it. He had his arms crossed, his eyes sharp, and the kind of expression that said he was two seconds away from making a terrible decision on purpose. “And if anything comes near you,” he added, voice rough, “you scream. I don’t care if it’s a zombie, a raider, or one of us being an idiot. You scream.” You wanted to ask if screaming would actually help, but then you remembered Jason once fought a guy with a chainsaw while making sarcastic comments, so maybe screaming was just his love language.

---

You looked between them — Damian, already planning the next six moves like this was chess; Tim, already preparing for the worst-case scenario, which in this family meant “apocalypse, but worse”; and Jason, already ready to throw himself into a horde of zombies if it meant you got away safe. They weren’t just your brothers. They were your ridiculously overqualified, emotionally stunted, zombie-punching bodyguards. And as the first groan of the dead echoed from the east, you realized something terrifying and weirdly comforting: you might be the youngest, the slowest, and the most likely to trip over your own feet, but you were not alone. Not while they were still breathing. Not while they still had you to protect. Also, if you died here, Damian would never let you rest in peace, so that was motivation.

---

“So,” you said, voice cracking just a little, “if we survive this, can we agree that I get to pick dinner?”

Jason snorted. “Kid, if we survive this, you can have whatever you want. Within reason. No demanding five-star sushi in a city full of cannibal snacks.”

“What if I want pizza?”

“Now you’re talking,” Jason said, grinning.

Tim sighed, already standing. “Focus. We can debate post-apocalyptic takeout after we don’t die.”

Damian dropped down from the roof with the grace of someone who had never once tripped in his life, which felt unfair. “If you die,” he said, fixing you with a look, “I will be very annoyed. Do not make me annoyed.”

You blinked. “That’s… weirdly motivating?”

“Good,” Damian said, already moving. “Now try not to fall behind. I refuse to carry you.”

“He would, though,” Jason muttered, falling into step beside you. “Annoyed the whole time, but he’d do it.”

“I heard that,” Damian called from ahead.

“You were supposed to,” Jason shot back.

And somehow, in the middle of the end of the world, with zombies groaning in the distance and your brothers bickering like this was just another family road trip, you almost laughed.

Gotham was officially the worst place on Earth to survive a zombie apocalypse, mostly because even the undead had better fashion sense than you did right now. You were crouched behind a flipped delivery van that smelled like old fish sticks and regret, clutching a baton Jason had shoved into your hands with the helpful advice, “If it moves and isn’t us, hit it until it stops moving.” Which was solid advice, except everything kept moving, even after you hit it, which felt personally offensive. The sky was the color of dishwater, the streets were full of groaning ex-people, and your entire ridiculously overqualified family was acting like this was just another Tuesday.

---

Damian, of course, was on the rooftop above you, perched like an extremely lethal gargoyle who had never once in his life been told to “chill.” He had a rifle he’d definitely modified using parts from a toaster and a very expensive coffee machine, and he was scanning the streets with the intensity of someone who considered “overkill” a personality trait. “Three blocks east,” he announced, voice crisp and superior, like he was giving a TED Talk on How to Survive the End of the World. “Movement. Not human.” You wanted to point out that nothing out here was human anymore, but Damian would probably take that as a personal challenge to lecture you on semantics while a zombie tried to eat your face.

---

Tim was beside you, kneeling as he checked your ammo with the calm focus of someone who had accepted that the universe was a joke and he was the punchline. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, which was fair, because none of you had, but somehow he still managed to look like the responsible one. “We move in five,” he said, glancing at you with that soft, tired look he only ever gave you. “Stay between us. Don’t wander. Don’t hesitate.” You nodded like you understood, even though your entire brain was currently screaming, I am going to trip and die and it will be so embarrassing.

---

Jason was leaning against the wall with the casual menace of someone who had died once and come back just to complain about it. He had his arms crossed, his eyes sharp, and the kind of expression that said he was two seconds away from making a terrible decision on purpose. “And if anything comes near you,” he added, voice rough, “you scream. I don’t care if it’s a zombie, a raider, or one of us being an idiot. You scream.” You wanted to ask if screaming would actually help, but then you remembered Jason once fought a guy with a chainsaw while making sarcastic comments, so maybe screaming was just his love language.

---

From somewhere behind the van, Steph’s voice cut through the tension like a glitter bomb in a funeral home. “Okay, but real talk — if we survive this, I call dibs on the last protein bar. I earned it. I distracted, like, twelve zombies with a traffic cone.” Duke, standing nearby with his visor glowing faintly in the gray light, sighed. “You threw a traffic cone at a zombie and then yelled ‘boop.’ That’s not distraction, that’s performance art.” Steph grinned. “Exactly. They were entertained before they tried to eat me.”

---

Cass was perched on a fire escape above, silent as always, but you could feel her watching everything — the streets, the rooftops, the way your hands were still shaking. She dropped down without a sound, landed in a crouch, and then stood, brushing off her gloves. She looked at you, then at Jason, then at Damian, and signed one word: Later. Which, in Cass language, meant We deal with this after we don’t die. You nodded, because arguing with Cass felt like arguing with gravity — pointless and likely to end with you on the ground.

---

Dick was somewhere in the middle of it all, naturally, because if there was chaos, he was either causing it or fixing it. Right now, he was trying to mediate between Damian, who wanted to move immediately, and Jason, who wanted to wait until the zombies “got bored and wandered off.” “We’re not waiting for the zombies to get bored,” Dick said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already tired of this conversation. “They don’t get bored. They just get hungrier.” Jason shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

---

And Bruce? Bruce was somewhere in the background, probably already planning how to fix the apocalypse before breakfast. You hadn’t seen him in hours, but you could feel his presence like a shadow — calm, controlled, and definitely judging everyone’s life choices from a distance. Tim caught your look and smirked. “He’s fine. He’s probably in a cave somewhere making a spreadsheet about zombie weakness patterns.” You blinked. “That’s… actually really on-brand.” Tim nodded. “Yeah. Don’t worry. He’ll show up when we need him. Or when he’s done being dramatic.”

---

You looked between them — Damian, already planning the next six moves like this was chess; Tim, already preparing for the worst-case scenario, which in this family meant “apocalypse, but worse”; Jason, already ready to throw himself into a horde of zombies if it meant you got away safe; Steph, already making jokes like the world wasn’t ending; Duke, already scanning for threats with that calm, steady focus; Cass, already watching your back without saying a word; and Dick, already trying to keep everyone from killing each other. They weren’t just your family. They were your ridiculously overqualified, emotionally stunted, zombie-punching bodyguards. And as the first groan of the dead echoed from the east, you realized something terrifying and weirdly comforting: you might be the youngest, the slowest, and the most likely to trip over your own feet, but you were not alone. Not while they were still breathing. Not while they still had you to protect. Also, if you died here, Damian would never let you rest in peace, so that was motivation.

---

“So,” you said, voice cracking just a little, “if we survive this, can we agree that I get to pick dinner?”

Jason snorted. “Kid, if we survive this, you can have whatever you want. Within reason. No demanding five-star sushi in a city full of cannibal snacks.”

“What if I want pizza?”

“Now you’re talking,” Jason said, grinning.

Tim sighed, already standing. “Focus. We can debate post-apocalyptic takeout after we don’t die.”

Damian dropped down from the roof with the grace of someone who had never once tripped in his life, which felt unfair. “If you die,” he said, fixing you with a look, “I will be very annoyed. Do not make me annoyed.”

You blinked. “That’s… weirdly motivating?”

“Good,” Damian said, already moving. “Now try not to fall behind. I refuse to carry you.”

“He would, though,” Jason muttered, falling into step beside you. “Annoyed the whole time, but he’d do it.”

“I heard that,” Damian called from ahead.

“You were supposed to,” Jason shot back.

Steph fell into step on your other side, slinging an arm around your shoulders like this was just another walk to school. “Don’t worry, mini-Wayne. If anyone tries to eat you, I’ll throw my traffic cone at them again. Worked last time.”

Duke shook his head, smiling faintly. “It really didn’t.”

“Details,” Steph said, waving a hand.

Cass moved ahead, silent and sharp, already scanning the next block. Dick lingered for a second, looking back at you with that soft, big-brother smile that made the whole apocalypse feel a little less heavy. “You good?” he asked, and you nodded, because somehow, with all of them here, you actually were.

And then the family moved — a chaotic, bickering, deadly unit — into the gray streets of a city that had already ended. But you weren’t alone. Not while they were still breathing. Not while they still had you to protect.

Gotham was officially the worst place on Earth to survive a zombie apocalypse, mostly because even the undead had better fashion sense than you did right now. You were crouched behind a flipped delivery van that smelled like old fish sticks and regret, clutching a baton Jason had shoved into your hands with the helpful advice, “If it moves and isn’t us, hit it until it stops moving.” Which was solid advice, except everything kept moving, even after you hit it, which felt personally offensive. The sky was the color of dishwater, the streets were full of groaning ex-people, and your entire ridiculously overqualified family was acting like this was just another Tuesday.

---

Damian, of course, was on the rooftop above you, perched like an extremely lethal gargoyle who had never once in his life been told to “chill.” He had a rifle he’d definitely modified using parts from a toaster and a very expensive coffee machine, and he was scanning the streets with the intensity of someone who considered “overkill” a personality trait. “Three blocks east,” he announced, voice crisp and superior, like he was giving a TED Talk on How to Survive the End of the World. “Movement. Not human.” You wanted to point out that nothing out here was human anymore, but Damian would probably take that as a personal challenge to lecture you on semantics while a zombie tried to eat your face.

---

Tim was beside you, kneeling as he checked your ammo with the calm focus of someone who had accepted that the universe was a joke and he was the punchline. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, which was fair, because none of you had, but somehow he still managed to look like the responsible one. “We move in five,” he said, glancing at you with that soft, tired look he only ever gave you. “Stay between us. Don’t wander. Don’t hesitate.” You nodded like you understood, even though your entire brain was currently screaming, I am going to trip and die and it will be so embarrassing.

---

Jason was leaning against the wall with the casual menace of someone who had died once and come back just to complain about it. He had his arms crossed, his eyes sharp, and the kind of expression that said he was two seconds away from making a terrible decision on purpose. “And if anything comes near you,” he added, voice rough, “you scream. I don’t care if it’s a zombie, a raider, or one of us being an idiot. You scream.” You wanted to ask if screaming would actually help, but then you remembered Jason once fought a guy with a chainsaw while making sarcastic comments, so maybe screaming was just his love language.

---

From somewhere behind the van, Steph’s voice cut through the tension like a glitter bomb in a funeral home. “Okay, but real talk — if we survive this, I call dibs on the last protein bar. I earned it. I distracted, like, twelve zombies with a traffic cone.” Duke, standing nearby with his visor glowing faintly in the gray light, sighed. “You threw a traffic cone at a zombie and then yelled ‘boop.’ That’s not distraction, that’s performance art.” Steph grinned. “Exactly. They were entertained before they tried to eat me.”

---

Cass was perched on a fire escape above, silent as always, but you could feel her watching everything — the streets, the rooftops, the way your hands were still shaking. She dropped down without a sound, landed in a crouch, and then stood, brushing off her gloves. She looked at you, then at Jason, then at Damian, and signed one word: Later. Which, in Cass language, meant We deal with this after we don’t die. You nodded, because arguing with Cass felt like arguing with gravity — pointless and likely to end with you on the ground.

---

Dick was somewhere in the middle of it all, naturally, because if there was chaos, he was either causing it or fixing it. Right now, he was trying to mediate between Damian, who wanted to move immediately, and Jason, who wanted to wait until the zombies “got bored and wandered off.” “We’re not waiting for the zombies to get bored,” Dick said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already tired of this conversation. “They don’t get bored. They just get hungrier.” Jason shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

---

Barbara’s voice crackled over the comms, calm and sharp as ever, cutting through the chaos like a knife. “For the record, I’m tracking twelve separate groups within a five-block radius. None of them are ‘bored.’ All of them are hungry. Also, Jason, if you get bitten, I’m revoking your access to the cave’s snack stash.” Jason gasped, genuinely offended. “Babs, that’s cruel and unusual punishment.” Barbara’s voice was dry. “Consider it motivation to not be stupid.”

---

And Alfred? Alfred was back at the manor, which was now functioning as the family’s fortified safe house, complete with emergency supplies, medical bays, and the kind of quiet judgment that only a man who had raised multiple vigilantes could master. His voice came over the comms too, polite and unbothered, as if he were discussing tea instead of the end of the world. “Master Jason, I must insist you refrain from additional ‘experiments’ with the undead. The last one resulted in a rather unpleasant smell in the east wing.” Jason blinked. “That was one time.” Alfred’s pause was heavy. “It was three times.”

---

Bruce was somewhere in the background, probably already planning how to fix the apocalypse before breakfast. You hadn’t seen him in hours, but you could feel his presence like a shadow — calm, controlled, and definitely judging everyone’s life choices from a distance. Tim caught your look and smirked. “He’s fine. He’s probably in a cave somewhere making a spreadsheet about zombie weakness patterns.” You blinked. “That’s… actually really on-brand.” Tim nodded. “Yeah. Don’t worry. He’ll show up when we need him. Or when he’s done being dramatic.”

---

You looked between them — Damian, already planning the next six moves like this was chess; Tim, already preparing for the worst-case scenario, which in this family meant “apocalypse, but worse”; Jason, already ready to throw himself into a horde of zombies if it meant you got away safe; Steph, already making jokes like the world wasn’t ending; Duke, already scanning for threats with that calm, steady focus; Cass, already watching your back without saying a word; Dick, already trying to keep everyone from killing each other; Barbara, already tracking everything from the safety of the clock tower; Alfred, already running the home base like a five-star hotel during Armageddon; and Bruce, already being Batman about the whole thing. They weren’t just your family. They were your ridiculously overqualified, emotionally stunted, zombie-punching bodyguards. And as the first groan of the dead echoed from the east, you realized something terrifying and weirdly comforting: you might be the youngest, the slowest, and the most likely to trip over your own feet, but you were not alone. Not while they were still breathing. Not while they still had you to protect. Also, if you died here, Damian would never let you rest in peace, so that was motivation.

---

“So,” you said, voice cracking just a little, “if we survive this, can we agree that I get to pick dinner?”

Jason snorted. “Kid, if we survive this, you can have whatever you want. Within reason. No demanding five-star sushi in a city full of cannibal snacks.”

“What if I want pizza?”

“Now you’re talking,” Jason said, grinning.

Tim sighed, already standing. “Focus. We can debate post-apocalyptic takeout after we don’t die.”

Damian dropped down from the roof with the grace of someone who had never once tripped in his life, which felt unfair. “If you die,” he said, fixing you with a look, “I will be very annoyed. Do not make me annoyed.”

You blinked. “That’s… weirdly motivating?”

“Good,” Damian said, already moving. “Now try not to fall behind. I refuse to carry you.”

“He would, though,” Jason muttered, falling into step beside you. “Annoyed the whole time, but he’d do it.”

“I heard that,” Damian called from ahead.

“You were supposed to,” Jason shot back.

Steph fell into step on your other side, slinging an arm around your shoulders like this was just another walk to school. “Don’t worry, mini-Wayne. If anyone tries to eat you, I’ll throw my traffic cone at them again. Worked last time.”

Duke shook his head, smiling faintly. “It really didn’t.”

“Details,” Steph said, waving a hand.

Cass moved ahead, silent and sharp, already scanning the next block. Dick lingered for a second, looking back at you with that soft, big-brother smile that made the whole apocalypse feel a little less heavy. “You good?” he asked, and you nodded, because somehow, with all of them here, you actually were.

Barbara’s voice came over the comms again, warm but firm. “Everyone stay on channel. I’ve got eyes on the whole team. And remember — no heroic sacrifices. Bruce will be insufferable if anyone dies today.”

Alfred’s voice followed, dry as ever. “Indeed. I have just finished cleaning the east wing. I would prefer not to repeat the process.”

And then the family moved — a chaotic, bickering, deadly unit — into the gray streets of a city that had already ended. But you weren’t alone. Not while they were still breathing. Not while they still had you to protect.