Fandom: Batman
Pairing: Bruce Wayne & Male OC, Damian Wayne & Male OC [Platonic]
Rating: Teen
Content: Amnesia, Loss of identity, Blood and gore, Graphic violence, Injuries, Animal abuse, Semi-verbal character
Date originally written: 12th January 2022
Summary: This fanfic was the original "Omens in the Dark" that I wrote before I scrapped it and started to re-write it. It is still here in case people want to read it for some reason, but please keep in mind that the events go very differently in this fic than in the newest, re-written version, and this fic is essentially considered to be un-finished and abandoned.

He wakes up in a body unfamiliar to him.

He knows things about himself that are seemingly ingrained into his very existence. He knows this body is not the one he's used to. He knows he's in a place he's never been before. He knows he's supposed to have two legs. He knows that “he” is the correct pronoun to use for himself. He knows, almost inherently, that he's in Gotham, and that Gotham is his home.

But he doesn't have any memories. He doesn't remember his childhood, even though he knows he should. He doesn't remember any of his family or friends, or if he even has them. He doesn't remember anything from before right this moment. It’s like it’s the first time he’s ever opened his eyes before.

He doesn't remember his name. He realises that he should have a name, yet he doesn't. He wonders if all of his memories have been replaced, or if this is the first time in his life he's ever had a conscious thought.

He almost hopes it's the former, as terrifying as that sounds.

He moves to get up, and as he does so, he realises something odd: his body is non-corporeal. He is a shadow. His form moves and flows without his input, and it is an inky black. He looks like he's just a shadowy blob....if that blob was alive and capable of defying the laws of physics.

He’s not sure how he feels about all of this. He can physically feel the tendrils of his form reach out towards his environment, but it’s nothing like touching something with the tips of his fingers.

Fingers...he used to have those, didn’t he? He might’ve been human once. Maybe in a past life- maybe in this one, and he just doesn’t remember.

He’s not sure anymore. He’s not sure he really cares. He just wants to leave.

He quickly figures out that his shadowy, inky form is not the only weird thing about his existence. He can morph his own body into whatever shape he wants. He decides a human form is boring. If he can be whatever he wants, he’ll do just that.

He shifts his body into the form of various different animals, monsters and demons, trying out all the different shapes and forms until he eventually sticks with the form of a wolf. He can hear and smell much better in this form, and although it’s simpler form than anything else he’s tried, he prefers things to be simple for now.

Though, when he goes out for a walk in the hopes of finding someone to talk to, he realises that the simple shape of a shadowy wolf walking down the streets of Gotham is a terrifying image, as people and animals alike run from him in terror.

He realises he’s not going to get far in his...life..by terrorising innocent people. So he sticks to the shadows.

He notices, after a while, that he’s not the only one that sticks to the shadows in this dark and foreboding city.

They’re not like him. They’re not monstrous or horrifying or inhuman, wandering the city without purpose. They have a job. There’s a reason they stick to the shadows, and it has nothing to do with their appearance or place in society.

They’re not like him, but at least one of them could be considered “scary”.

It’s obvious to him that the scare factor is done on purpose, unlike himself, who is scary despite not meaning to be.

He wants to talk to them, wants to relate to them in some way, but feels that if he tried, he would be shunned, like how so many others have shunned him. Maybe they would think he was just another criminal, just another monster that the city had crafted from her putrid underbelly.

He wants company, but he’s not sure it’s worth being chased across Gotham for it.

People start catching more and more glimpses of him. It’s never on purpose; he doesn’t like the ideas of others seeing him anymore, not after the numerous times people have screamed in terror at his presence. He wants to be alone (untrue) but he finds he can’t escape people’s visions forever, not in a place like Gotham; not when being unobservant of your surroundings gets you killed.

For a while, it’s just whispers that are spoken of him. Nobody really knows if the stories are true. Anywhere else in the world and people would put it up to superstition and the fear of the dark. But Gotham has the Scary One, and the brightly dressed clown, and another slightly different scary individual dressed in a potato sack, and a talking crocodile that lives in the sewers and eats people. If there’s another shadowy creature out there, creeping in the alleyways, then people are going to start spreading the news, if only for their own safety.

Some people think it’s the Scary One. But he knows better. He knows they’re talking about him.

He gains a name, after a while. People start calling him different variants of “omen”. Sometimes he’s a bad omen, sometimes he’s a good omen. Sometimes he’s a mysterious omen, or a dark omen.

Apparently he gets seen by people whenever something significant ends up happening to them. He knows that it’s purely a coincidence. He never prowls around Gotham with a purpose, it’s always aimless walking, hoping to find something interesting to do. He mostly people watches- and apparently people had been watching him.

He’s never had a name before- well... he probably had a name before and just forgot. But whoever he used to be isn’t who he is anymore. So he takes the whispers of “omen” and makes it his own. He’s Omen now. That’s his name.

Omen doesn’t think too much about his values- not at first. Just like with everything else, he’s sure that he used to have morals, values and certain beliefs, but he just can’t remember. He’s been building himself from the ground up, making himself a new person in a way he’s sure no one on Earth has ever had to before, and he thinks it’s time he figured out what he believes in.

He comes to the realisation that he doesn’t like the idea of hurting other people for no reason. People being scared of him isn’t a good reason, and at the end of the day he understands why people would look at him and be terrified, even if it does hurt his soul a bit. But he will not hurt them. He will not give them a reason to fear him.

He doesn’t like the idea of others hurting him either, though he’s sure that no living thing, sentient or not, enjoys being hurt. He knows he’d kill if someone hurt him bad enough. He would just be defending himself- he doesn’t want to die. He’s not sure what he wants or even needs out of life, but he doesn’t want it taken away from him before he’s even figured it out yet.

So, he knows he’ll defend himself. He knows he won’t hurt others for no good reason. But he doesn’t know if there should be more to it than that- if it’s really necessary to believe in much else.

That is, until a few weeks later, when he’s watching a showdown between the vigilantes he’d seen before, and a large crocodilian person.

He watches the vigilantes do their work, sometimes, when he’s around to see it. He thinks it’s very fascinating. He likes watching them clear out a warehouse or go on some wild goose chase across Gotham, chasing after some criminal. He’s not sure what crimes those people commit, or if the vigilantes are genuinely good people or not, but he finds the whole thing to be quite interesting. It fills most of his nights, when he can’t find anything else better to do.

He’s never bothered getting involved, though. He didn’t think doing so would be a good idea. He would likely get himself hurt or make enemies he didn’t want, so he just watched on with curiosity, keeping out of sight.

But then he saw the crocodile person grab the little child vigilante and open it’s jaws wide, as if to consume the child’s flesh. As if to kill them.

The other vigilantes had already been thrown to the ground by the scaly beast, unable to get up and help. The child was completely helpless.

Omen decided he had another value: He would not allow people to eat children in front of him.

He leaped out from his hiding spot on the roof, and landed directly on top of the crocodile person, gnashing his teeth and ripping its flesh off. It roared in pain, and the true fight began. It was a mess of claws and teeth, running and jumping around to escape the crushing pain of the other’s jaws. It was a bloody, horrible mess, and when the fight was over, both limped away, tails between their own legs.

The most important thing was that the child was alive and safe. But omen was bleeding, and his back right leg had been crushed and mangled. He didn’t think he’d be able to use it again. And now the vigilantes knew he existed. They had seen him. Who knew what they would think of him?

He limped away as fast as he could, but it wasn’t fast enough.

“Wait!”

Omen stopped. He looked back over his shoulder, seeing the small child in red and green who he had saved.

They stared at each other, not knowing the other’s intent.

“You...helped me.”

Omen wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing. The child crept closer, slowly, as if testing to see if doing so was safe. “...Thank you.”

Omen nodded at the child after a moment, and limped away into the nearest alleyway, and disappeared into the darkness.

When Robin and Batman tried to follow him, there wasn’t a trace of the dark wolf left.