Work Text:
Vlad Masters prided himself on many things.
His wealth.
His class.
His tailor.
His ability to give billionaires the polite, insincere smile of a man imagining their mansions on fire.
The fact that despite being a half-ghost abomination powered by ectoplasm and vengeance, he still flossed. Daily.
And above all, his control.
He did not get rattled.
Not when a teen hero drop-kicked him through a museum wall.
Not when Jack Fenton accidentally fired a bazooka at his yacht (again).
Not when the Department of Ghost Affairs audited him.
Not even when a small green dog named Cujo bit his thigh at full strength while Daniel called him a "cursed cheese stick" and teleported his gadgets into the Sun.
Vlad Masters was an elegant man.
He did not get rattled.
He simply adjusted the angle of his evil monologue and continued like a gentleman.
So it was with great confidence and a $15,000 Armani suit that he entered the Gotham Children of the Future Charity Gala, expecting to schmooze, do rich-people things, maybe offer a few suspicious grants to the Wayne family’s suspicious CEO.
Instead—
He got punched in the face.
By a ten-year-old.
_
"Who is that?" asked Damian Wayne, flexing his hand with a frown. He shook it out like he'd hit a particularly dense refrigerator.
"Vlad Masters. Billionaire. Wisconsin," Jason said, sipping champagne with zero remorse. "Also my nemesis."
Dick paused mid-sip. "Wait, I thought the Joker was your nemesis?"
Jason shrugged. “This one is Jay not Red. Vlad is personal.”
“Oh,” said Dick, then immediately launched a perfect roundhouse kick at Vlad’s jaw as the man recovered from Damian’s uppercut.
Vlad flailed backward into the chocolate fountain.
Alfred’s hand twitched slightly. He did not intervene. He merely added an extra box of tissues to the Wayne limo.
_
It wasn’t until the fourth gala that Vlad realized he was being targeted.
Before that, he’d brushed it off. A weird slip on the marble floor. A sharply-timed turn into Timothy's elbow. Cassandra just appearing behind him like a polite young lady and jabbing him in the ribs with an umbrella.
But the fourth gala?
That was the Wayne Tech Environmental Initiative.
That one had pyrotechnics.
Vlad stepped onto the red carpet with every atom of his being clenched.
He eyed the children with suspicion.
Specifically, Jason Todd, standing off to the side in a suit that said “I have a shotgun and also a law degree I forged online.”
The man winked. WINKED.
A
nd then Stephanie vaulted from the balcony, screamed “FREEDOM,” and dropkicked Vlad into the foie gras.
Vlad clawed a goose pâté out of his eye socket and looked up to see Bruce Wayne standing serenely beside him, a glass of wine in one hand.
“Mr. Masters,” Bruce said with a smile. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”
Vlad blinked. “You—you saw that, right? That girl—she just—”
Bruce blinked. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Stephanie has excellent form. Excuse me, I believe it’s my turn at hosting the auction.”
Vlad watched him walk away.
He wasn’t bleeding, but he felt violated on a molecular level.
_
Back at the mansion, Jason was lounging on the couch, smug as a cat who got the whole dairy section.
“I owe you three dinners,” he said, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.
Tim, still icing his knuckles, sighed. “That was just for face punches, right?”
“Face punches get the dinner and a favor,” Jason confirmed. “Other hits get you one favor. Redeemable at any time.”
“Can I use mine to make you do my patrol for a week?”
“You can try,” Jason said, and grinned. “But you’d better have hit him hard.”
Steph poked her head in. “Do broken ribs get bonus points?”
Jason looked up thoughtfully. “I’ll consider it if you got video.”
“Nice.”
Cass gave a thumbs up and disappeared back into the shadows.
None of them asked why Vlad Masters was the target.
Not a single one.
They just accepted it.
_
Vlad called his therapist.
“Doctor Shboink,” he said, clutching a bag of frozen peas to his face. “Do you think I’m being… targeted?”
There was a long pause on the line.
“...By metaphor, or—?”
“BY THE WAYNE FAMILY.”
_
The thing was, Jason hadn’t intended to start a family-wide campaign of violence.
He just… got mad.
Vlad had smiled at Danny at a gala. One of those fake, oozing, politician smiles. The ones with too many teeth. He’d called Danny “Daniel” and squeezed his shoulder, hard.
Jason’s brain went static.
And then, in a fit of sudden clarity and deep pettiness, he’d leaned over to Damian and said, “I’ll give you two hours of Nightcrawler lessons if you punch that man in the face.”
Damian didn’t even blink. “Done.”
That was the beginning of the end.
Danny didn’t know.
Jason didn’t plan on telling him.
Not because he was hiding it.
But because Danny would find it too funny.
Jason would never hear the end of it.
_
Vlad was losing his grip.
Not on reality. That had been loose for years.
No, he was losing grip on his dignity.
He couldn’t go to a single gala in Gotham without a Wayne child appearing, spouting a one-liner, and decking him across the hors d'oeuvres.
Richard had quoted alot of The Princess Bride.
Timothy often liked to insult his managing skills.
Cassandra didn’t say anything, just held up a sign that said “bonk” before knocking him into the orchestra pit.
The last straw was when Duke threw a cupcake at his head, and it exploded with glitter and a small flag reading " Boo”
He tried to talk to Bruce. That was a mistake.
“Mr. Wayne,” Vlad began stiffly. “I believe I am being... targeted.”
Bruce tilted his head, perfectly blank.
“By who?” he asked, voice rich with billionaire neutrality.
“Your kids,” Vlad hissed.
Bruce blinked.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Bruce put a comforting hand on Vlad’s shoulder and said, “I hope you recover soon. Would you like a donation for your hospital bills?”
Vlad’s eye twitched so hard he blacked out for ten seconds.
_
Jason showed up at the manor for dinner that night, as promised.
Alfred made lasagna.
Bruce didn’t ask why.
_
It escalated.
Vlad didn’t know how.
One day, he was dodging a flying breadstick from Cassandra at the Gotham Museum Fundraiser for Endangered Ducks (why were the ducks endangered?), and the next—
He was waking up in a bathroom stall with a black eye, smelling of shrimp cocktail and shame.
Vlad screamed so loud it shattered a chandelier.
_
He tried everything.
He tried ghost-proof armor under his suit.
He tried bringing a date (she punched him too).
He tried leaving the country.
He got punched in Italy.
By a Wayne intern.
Who apologized immediately after but still accepted a "Jason Reward Token" from Richard.
_
Jason had to admit: it had gotten out of hand.
He’d started with incentives.
Small favors. Patrol swaps. Covering for missed meetings.
Maybe a nice dinner if they got a really good hit in.
But then Cass started tallying points on the Batcomputer.
Tim made a Google Doc called “Punch Vlad Leaderboard.”
Steph bought a trophy.
(Steph: “It’s called the Masters Masher"
Steph: "Winner gets Jason for a day.”
Jason: “I don’t remember agreeing to this.”
Steph: “It’s too late. You're the prize.”)
_
The worst part?
Danny didn’t know.
Sweet, chaotic Danny Fenton, who had just moved to Gotham to work at STAR Labs and thought Jason was “mysterious” and “a little grumpy but kinda hot.”
Danny, who thought Jason “just had a strong dislike of billionaires.”
Danny, who had no idea his boyfriend had effectively hired his entire found family to harass his archnemesis at every public event.
And Vlad?
Vlad had begun to spiral.
He couldn’t trust anyone.
The doorman at his hotel? Wayne agent.
The waiter at the cafe? Wayne plant.
The small child who asked for his autograph and then kicked his shin? Definitely a Wayne sent.
He wore a protective vest. He wore goggles.
He installed mirrors on his back.
He brought the Box Ghost as backup.
The Box Ghost betrayed him.
He took the bribe and punched Vlad himself.
("For THE BOXES!")
_
The punch tally hit 100.
Steph won the trophy.
Jason made pot roast for everyone.
Danny showed up to dinner late, confused and asking, “Hey, isn't it weird that Vlad walks with a limp now?”
Jason choked on a breadstick.
_
Vlad had had enough.
He didn’t know what he’d done.
He didn’t know how he’d wronged the Waynes, or why they kept attacking him with chairs, umbrellas, and once, a loaf of banana bread.
But he knew two things:
• He was afraid.
• He wanted to cry.
Wait—
Scratch that second one.
He was confused.
He made a PowerPoint.
He called it:
"Why the Waynes Are Secret Cultists (and Possibly Assassins): A Vlad Masters Survival Guide."
Slide 1: “Evidence.”
Slide 2: Footage of Cassandra drop-kicking him into a fountain.
Slide 3: Bruce Wayne offering him tea while Timothy put itching powder in his chair.
Slide 4: Stephanie holding up a scorecard like a figure skating judge.
Slide 5: A blurry photo of Jason Todd glaring at him
Slide 6: Vlad’s own face photoshopped onto a dartboard.
Vlad cried in the shower.
_
Vlad doesn’t recover.
Not physically.
Not emotionally.
Not financially. (He had to replace twelve suits.)
But he does gain a new skill:
Ducking.
_
Final Gala: The Gala of Reckoning.
Vlad arrives in armor. Literal armor.
Ghost-shielded. Kevlar-reinforced. Emotionally bankrupt.
The Waynes stare.
He flinches.
Jason raises an eyebrow.
Smiles.
And for the first time—
Vlad punches himself.
Everyone cheers.
_
Vlad moves to Paris.
Starts a vineyard.
Changes his name to “Claude.”
Still flinches when he sees people in suits.