Chapter Text
Gotham was a strange place. It wasn’t a bad place, but it was definitely different. Paris was all facades and pretty lights hiding a dark underground and deaths, villains and heroes; Gotham was almost the opposite in a way. Where the streets were riddled with crime and needles, heroes and villains ran about supported in their work, but if you looked closely, people were happy. Children ran through the streets hollering at one another, men and women helped each other in small strange very Gotham ways.
Marin liked it. He liked the hope mixed into the inherent corruption of the city, it felt so good. He adjusted the bandages wrapped around his arms, and looked up at his new school. A school without Marinette, a school without Adrien, and best of all A school without Lila Rossi. Being all the way across the Atlantic ocean may be a little dramatic for distance but it was only fair, they sent him here first.
The uniform felt strange against his skin, it was good material, probably pure cotton. Expensive. But he’d made it into the scholarship program so it hadn’t been an issue. The school was surrounded by a massive metal gate and as other students walked past him Marin started to follow suit; there was no need to stick out on the first day. He didn’t need another incident.
Gotham West was the best academy on the east coast, if you graduated from the academy there wasn’t a single college or university that would deny you entry. Partly because a percentage of the students were blood related to some of the most powerful criminals in the world, mostly because the curriculum was known as the best and most intense.
“We have a new student starting with us today, his name is Marin Dupain-Cheng. Any questions for him?”
A girl with dyed black hair raised her hand, and without waiting to be called on started to talk. “Where are you from?”
“Paris, France.”
A few of the girls in class leaned over to whisper in their friends' ears giggling. “What’s it like in Paris?”
“Beautiful. Lots of different places to gain inspiration from.”
“Inspiration? Are you an artist?” The voice behind him belonged to a small African American boy with thick glasses who was doodling in his notebook.
“Yes, I do design. I’ve painted a few guitars and a car. I like to draw.”
The boy looked excited for a moment before another question was yelled into the classroom, “Why did you leave?”
Leave? He didn't really decide to leave. His parents and sisters had made the choice for him. “I just wanted to see the world a little bit and a man who was practically my grandfather”- Marin twisted his ring- “left me an apartment here in Gotham so I figured I might as well go somewhere I had a place to stay.”
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If God existed he hated Damian Wayne. School was enough suffering without anything more added on top of it and now sitting just two rows away from him was a dead man. Not a man without a heartbeat but a dead man nonetheless. Marin Dupain-Cheng, a ravenette who was completely devoid of all emotion.
Well mostly devoid of emotion. He wasn’t a well made dead man, he still had thoughts and could take care of himself without being told every single step of the process but he was about 9/10ths of the way there. Dead men were used in many different ways: on suicide missions, they were easy to frame, they could confess to your crimes, and they could be used in many less savory ways. His mother had been particularly fond of using dead men to warm her bed.
It was unfortunate that he had to share so many of his classes with Marin. He’d gone to Auto-shop only to spot the boy on the opposite side of the room. And he appeared once again in Physics, AP French, and last but certainly not least- Advanced art.
The damned boy was in the corner of every class, answering questions how they needed to be answered, completing his work. Going through the motions like he was a normal living person. It was infuriating. At least he didn’t try to talk to him.
Marin was pulled into conversations rather than starting them. When he didn’t have a task his eyes lost the little light they held and instead of doing anything important the ravenette stared down at his desk falling into his psyche. It was interesting watching the boy spiral deeper and deeper into his own mind.
It wasn’t his job to do anything about it. Damian Wayne had absolutely no responsibility to help the French teenager, and seeing as he wasn’t connected to the league there was no reason for him to even talk to the boy.