Jon staggered back from the patch of sunlight, clutching the stone in one hand. His skin prickled, and for a moment he thought it was just the nerves of nearly being caught in the sun’s strange new rays. But then, something deeper began to shift.
At first it was subtle — his jeans felt loose around the waist, his shoes sliding forward on his feet. He looked down in alarm and saw his hands getting smaller, his fingers tightening into shorter, sharper proportions.
“Oh no… no, no, no,” Jon whispered, his voice cracking higher as his chest compressed inward and his shoulders narrowed. The world around him seemed to stretch taller as his whole body shrank down toward the size of a child. His skin pulled taut over lean, wiry muscles — not baby-fat softness, but the kind of tight definition that looked trained and purposeful, like an athlete’s.
His shirt melted away into dark green and red fabric, clinging close to his smaller frame. Golden stitching laced across his chest, forming the “R” insignia he recognized instantly. His jeans twisted and reformed into snug pants of reinforced fabric, flexible enough to leap or fight in. A short cape fell against his back, black on the outside, yellow underneath, brushing lightly against his legs as it settled into place. Even his shoes warped into tough black boots, buckled neatly as though they had always been there.
Jon gasped, stumbling toward his mirror. Looking back was not Jon Talbot, high-schooler. Instead, a sharp-eyed boy of maybe ten, dressed head to toe as Robin, Damian Wayne himself. Dark hair framed his face, his green domino mask tight against his skin. The lean muscles under the costume shifted as he moved, every line built for combat and agility.
“I… I’m Robin?” Jon squeaked, hearing his own childlike voice. He ran his small hands over his face, tugging at the mask, touching his chest where the insignia gleamed. “Oh God, what did I do?”
Heart pounding, he dashed downstairs, nearly tripping on the cape. In the kitchen, his parents and little brother Mikey turned at the noise.
Mikey’s eyes lit up instantly. “Whoa! Jon! You’re… you’re Robin! That’s so cool! I’m not the smallest anymore!” He laughed, practically bouncing in excitement.
Jon’s mom pressed a hand over her mouth, staring in shock. His dad blinked, rubbed his eyes, and muttered, “Well… it could’ve been worse, I suppose.”
Jon spread his arms helplessly, the too-perfect hero’s costume stretching with him. “Worse!? I’m ten years old! I’m Damian freaking Wayne!”
His mom shook her head, still pale. “At least you’re healthy. At least you’re… alive.”
Jon groaned, dropping his head onto the kitchen table with a thunk. “Alive, yeah… but trapped in the body of a ten-year-old ninja sidekick.”
The cape pooled around him, the gold edge catching the light. And for the first time, Jon realized with a shiver that he could feel Damian’s conditioning — balance, strength, speed — coiled in every muscle. He was smaller, younger, but also… dangerous.
And terrified.
