Patronly Stigmas
Observer
Wayne Manor – Eighteen years from now
Given that he was a twenty-three year old billionaire sporting the finest tuxedo that Giorgio Armani could provide, it was fairly easy to believe that Bruce Wayne didn't have a single concern floating in his head. The presence of a flute of the finest champagne perched neatly in his right hand and a gleaming, ever-present smile on his face only established that label with an even deeper stamp as he moved about the proceedings in a blithely lackadaisical manner. His well-earned reputation as a well-traveled socialite who had already worked up an impressive array of social and sexual conquests in his few years seemed to be confirmable with every motion and not a second passed when he couldn't convince someone else that he didn't have a care in the world. The benefits and consequences wrought by his aimless pursuits and guided endeavors were gazed over by all those around him and quickly dismissed, his audience preferring to chortle and scoff at him and his blissful ignorance.
Bruce Wayne wouldn't have had it any other way. So long as they continued to make their contribution to the philanthropic avenues of the Thomas Wayne Foundation, the man behind The Batman could hardly care less about what the sycophants and the peevish, high-classed winos had to say against him. However, as comfortable as he had become in playing the fool, he couldn't help but notice that some sense of frustration did manage to rise to the surface every now and again. It was as if his eyes seemed to scratch at him for forcing him to look out for too many things. His temples seemed to throb in annoyance due to being deluged by the novel conundrums that situations like these brought along.
Most importantly, what really made him mad was that, for the past two years, the most commonly spoken phrase in his rich vocabulary was 'I don't know'.
"Why is the sky blue?"
He was a student of some of the most distinguished schools on both sides of the Atlantic. A question like that was not only ridiculously simple for him to answer but even the request for him to do so could be considered an insult to his intelligence. However, for all of his ballyhooed gifts of deduction, he found that he couldn't quite work up the ability to produce an answer that wouldn't completely fly over his audience's head. As foppishly as he could behave in situations such as the one that surrounded him in the present time, he just couldn't work up the moxie to pretend when those round, blue eyes looked up to him and asked for an answer.
So his answer became 'I don't know'.
"How can you fly up in the sky like that?"
He couldn't fly. To think that he could was absolutely ridiculous and little more than a slap in the face of everything he had attempted in his quest to overcome the limitations of body and mind. Such a question, if asked by anyone else, would have earned them the most potent of glares and an immediate dismissal.
At that time, however, the answer became 'I don't know'.
"Why do you dress up like a bat?"
Needless to say, the answer to that question was fraught with far too many complications on both sides of the conundrum. The combined vision of two boys crying over what had been ripped from them through no fault of their own was a little too much for even him to overcome.
So, once again, his answer became 'I don't know'.
Tonight had just presented another example of this increasingly exasperating situation. In fact, he had guessed that he would need a long time to digest this particular scene, a space of temporal breathing room that his many surrounding guests were not about to give him in the face of what had quickly become the star attraction at the Wayne Halloween Ball. So, having not near enough time to fully digest this scene in the manner he would have approved of, Bruce Wayne chose instead to take in the flowing red cape, the red-and-yellow S stitched upon the chest, and the tights that looked as if the poor fool had gotten confused and put his underwear over his pants.
And then he chose to ask himself a question.
Why is Dick Grayson wearing a Superman costume for Halloween?
His answer, once again, was 'I don't know'.
What he did know, however, was that he was going to throttle Alfred Pennyworth within an inch of his life at the first available opportunity. The distinguished caretaker of Wayne Manor had earned that reward long ago with the first socialite who had been eager to tell him about just how 'cute' the boy looked in that ridiculous attire. That had been nearly a half-hour ago and every single replica of that cooing statement had pushed him ever so closer to the point when he would abandon his ginger ale that had been cleverly disguised as champagne and replace it with the real thing.
The statements from many of his older guests, the ones with children of their own, were slightly more endearing. On the other hand, most of them were also gifted with the presence of mind to realize that there was slightly more to him than the fool before them and that only made those words of chiding advice that much more disconcerting. Some of them smirked while pointing out what a bundle of energy the boy must be. Others grinned as they openly suspected that the boy was quite the bit to handle. Another handful of decidedly more unwanted guests even went so far as to offer half-hearted statements of sympathy towards his past, present, and future plights connected to him and one Richard Grayson, many of which were coupled with recognitions of how intently he had been looking at the boy as he continued to entertain the surrounding crowd.
Honestly, he thought to himself, how can tending to a single boy be this much of a hassle? He knew he should have just locked the boy in his room and be done with it.
Of course, that realization couldn't do him a bit of good now. Instead, after several more minutes of enduring the laughter and cheers emanating from the first floor day room, he finally chose to resort to action as he made his way toward the source. There was an almost painfully ordered calmness in his gait, an effort to keep himself under control that didn't look the least bit appropriate for a billionaire playboy without a care, as Bruce finally made his way to Richard Grayson's hastily crafted one-ring circus. He could see the bright smile on the boy's face as he pushed his small, compact frame through an effortless array of cartwheels and somersaults, his deceptively strong legs pushing him through the complex physical maneuvers with an almost instinctual ease. Every clap and excited word that sprang from the surrounding audience seemed to goad him into leaping higher and running faster until Dick had finally taken to clambering on top of the furniture to make his acrobatic feats that much more impressive, the drag and weight provided by the heavy cape tied to his back seemingly not the least bit of an inconvenience.
Bruce had managed to regain quite a bit of his act as he finally arrived at the scene of embarrassment, so much so that he managed to push himself into a comic stumble as he "accidentally" walked into the boy's path and collided with the 85-pound missile. The seemingly messy impact drew gasps of worry and slight springs of laughter as Bruce pretended to struggle to right himself as he swept the boy into his arms with somewhat relative ease. The frantic movements of the boy in the red-and-blue tights also came to a surprisingly quick stop as Dick easily settled himself into Bruce's arms. The wave of claps and cheers that followed was almost a godsend to Batman, the clamor providing him with enough of a distraction to allow him to safely crane his neck upwards and whisper into the boy's ear.
"Are you all right?"
"Uh huh," Richard whispered back before remembering his own part once again, the little acrobat's voice soon growing loud and proud as he trumpeted. "Bruce, did you see me? Did you see me?!"
Bruce replied with a loud, ostensibly merry round of laughter as the surrounding racket began to quiet itself down. "Of course I did, my boy. Not bad at all. Just remember to stay away from the furniture though. I don't think I'll get a fair trade if I have to sell you in order to buy a replacement for one of these Verner Pantons."
The eye-roll that Dick fired back with was right on target, so much so that Bruce found that he could almost forgive the boy for all his unnecessary acrobatic antics (if not for the choice in clothing). "Oooooookay," the 10-year-old replied in a typically childish manner that was only about half-serious as he finally squirmed free of Bruce's grip.
Bruce supposed that he could be satisfied with that for now, especially since the boy was now making his way over to Alfred in order to either get something to eat or to chat with his co-conspirator (Batman sagely guessed that it was a little bit of both). However, he did make a note to pay a bit more attention to what Dick chose to wear to next year's ball.
At least then he could make sure that Richard would pick out attire that was a bit more dignified.
Rival
The Watchtower – Five years before now
"I'm not touching you."
The Batman had a great deal of experience, both as a recipient and as a donor, when it came to the art of cruelty He could use that knowledge to prompt even some of the most hard-hearted of criminals and despots to beg for mercy and could also look through the contrasting efforts of his many enemies in order to discover the weakness to the torturous philosophies of his counterparts and exploit them to his advantage. This would be just another demonstration of his mastery of the latter gift. He knew this.
"Iiiiiiiiiiiiii'm not touching youuuu."
He was well aware of the fact that he couldn't stop this ridiculous torment through any form of physical device. Any attempt to punish his tormentor through inflicting bodily harm would only result in a laughably ridiculous miss and a redoubling of his persecutor. Attempts to flee the scene would fly into the face of his honor both as a detective and a soldier and leave each and every one of his cautionary words delivered to his erstwhile comrades about duty and diligence soaked in hypocrisy. The nuisance knew this, of course, which only made the ridiculously toothy grin on the face of his obnoxious needler that much more infuriating.
"Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'm not touching youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu."
The Batman didn't even shift his eyes as The Flash began to shake his extended fingers up and down at a phenomenal rate of speed, the ability to control his own molecular movement allowing the speedster to shake the small bits of bone, flesh, and muscle at a phenomenal pace while still keeping his digits a mere two inches away from Bruce's left ear. The kinetic energy involved in pushing his body through such a physical feat eventually allowed Wally West to make an almost inconceivable impact on the world around him, the vibrations producing a buzzing-like sound that seemed to sink through Batman's cowl and dive straight into his eardrums. The two supposed comrades spent the next handful of long seconds like this, the both of them almost begging for the other one to break. Heaven alone knows what Diana would have said if they experience a scene like this and, to be perfectly frank, neither of them really wanted to waste the 45 minutes they would need to find out. Of course, that didn't stop either of them from keeping to their assigned posts, the hardened warriors both waiting to see which one of them would crack.
Batman was soon on the move, his arms and shoulders stretching forward so quickly that The Flash almost pulled himself away in fright before he realized that his opponent was moving towards the nearby keyboard. However, as he recognized the pattern behind the painfully slow clicks and clacks and noted the frequency that the irritating detective was patching into with the aid of The Watchtower's extensive communications systems, the redheaded speedster narrowed his eyes in concern at the severity of his adversary's response. He couldn't do anything to stop what was happening, of course. That was outside the rules of this little, unspoken game. He could only watch and stew as the strictly audio transmission was patched through a nearby satellite and fired back down to the Earth below before reconnecting with the relay dish perched below the aft of the massive space station.
"Impulse here. Is that you, Wally?"
The Flash really, reaaaallllllly wanted to slap his hand against his own forehead as his junior partner cheerfully shouted out his civilian identity to anybody that happened to be listening. However, he also knew that such an obvious showing of frustration would have only broadened the infuriating half-smirk on Batman's face so he kept himself as reserved as he could.
"This is Batman, Impulse. I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing."
"Oh," chirped Bart Allen, the speedster from the 30th century responding with an energetic enthusiasm that certainly wouldn't have been there if Wally had been the one speaking to him. "I guess everything's okay. I finished reading all the books you gave me on my last trip to Gotham. I really liked Brave New World, just like you said I would."
All the restraint and discipline in the world couldn't have stopped The Flash from dropping his lower lip and looking like a particularly starved fish. He got Bart to read?! The Fastest Man Alive couldn't help but seethe to himself. I can't even get him to sit still long enough for him to open a book!
"That's good to hear," The Batman replied, the older man's tone sounding not quite Dark Knight, not quite Bruce Wayne, but a calm amalgamation of the two that doubtlessly sounded like nails on a chalkboard like to the scarlet-garbed man gaping to his left. "And how are things with Wally?"
The time Wally had to shoot an angry glare at his foe seemed mercifully short before Bart's snort sounded out through the nearby speakers. "Puuuuuuuhleaaase. Wally doesn't even trust me to go out on patrol with him anymore! And he even tried to convince Robin to suspend me from Young Justice just 'cause he thought I didn't have enough control over my powers! I mean, I wish he was, like, half as cool as you are."
"Is that right?" Batman asked the teen while sporting a smug, satisfied grin that wasn't aimed at Impulse in the least. "Well, how about you send me a briefing telling me the real side of the story and I'll see what I can do to get you off the hook."
Now Wally just wanted to stamp his feet against the floor. He could already see the fast-paced arguing, first with Bart and then with Max Mercury, that he would have to endure in the near future and it was all because of him.
"Damn it!" he thought as his usually green eyes took on a distinct shade of yellow as he thought of the horrors in store for him. "Damn it! Damnitdamnitdamnitdamnitdamnitdamnitdamnitdamnitdamnitdamnit!"
"Thanks, Batman! You're the best!"
The Flash could have sworn that he just had an aneurysm. However, the dreadful circumstance didn't seem to draw the least bit of concern from Batman as he calmly cut off the transmission link to Central City, the detective apparently convinced that his job was done. Further proof of this hypothesis was quickly provided as he turned to face the former Teen Titan and took in the barely controlled fury on Wally's face. Of course, the combination of the sour countenance and the bright reds and yellows of The Flash's costume made him look positively ridiculous but Bruce had finally grown weary of kicking the man while he was down.
"I don't know what Barry ever saw in you." The Flash bitterly fired back.
"A chance to get away from you, perhaps?"
The caustic words that would have certainly come next were quickly cut off by a brief, blaring sound from the nearby monitors. The grin and the pout both faded away almost instantly as the two men hastily turned their attention toward the source of distress: a broadcast of an intercepted communication from a naval base in the southern half of Japan. Wally had little chance understanding the rapid-fire Japanese but the panic still managed to ring through quite clearly. Even more of the mystery continued to unfurl as Batman managed to acquire some visual evidence of the situation under discussion and the younger Justice Leaguer witnessed enormous chunks of iron being torn from the surrounding moored battleships before being hurtled around as if they were a child's unwanted playthings.
"Looks like Doc Polaris finally poked his head out of the ground." There was only a hint of anticipation in The Flash's words as his green eyes roved over the nearby screen. "What's our closest transmit point?"
"Tokyo," Batman sternly replied. "Roughly 127 kilometers away from the communication source. Do you think you'll be able to make your way there?"
"Oh yeah. If all else fails I can just follow the disruptions in the magnetic field," The Flash countered as he backed away from the console Batman had been stationed at for monitor duty over the course of the last several hours. After all, it would do no good if the electromagnetic backwash of The Watchtower's teleportation systems fried the surveillance and communications equipment. "Just get some back-up there as quickly as you can. Preferably somebody who can catch those cannons he's chuckin' around."
"Will do," The Batman answered while quickly patching a sequence into a nearby console. The typed command soon triggered the transmat systems to send The Flash straight to a United States embassy located in the very heart of Japan's capital, the light-speed movement enabling Wally to most likely be the first to intercept the deadly manipulator of magnetism.
There weren't a great many people that Bruce would have trusted to handle such a monumental task single-handed, even for the short period of time he would need to summon reinforcements. Still, he was quite certain that the boy could pull his own weight. After all, the allure of having a rematch would most likely be more than enough motivation for him to stay alive.
Guide
The Batcave – Four years before now
WHUUUMP!
"DAMN SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!"
Bruce didn't even sigh, didn't even look up from his wrinkled copy of Proust as he unwillingly took in the frustrations of his newest student. Part of his refusal to do so, of course, had to do with his obvious lack of interest with whatever else was going on around him but another bit of it had to do with the distinct possibility that, if he hadn't kept his head down, he would have burst out laughing. Despite what he had anticipated, he had to admit that the combination of the continuous failures and the, well, colorful statements provided by the one suffering the futility certainly had its share of comedic value no matter how long it had been carrying on.
His right thumb and ring finger dislodged the pincer grip it had on the corner of the page he had just finished reading while his ears took in the creaking sound that revealed that his charge was making yet another attempt. Now once again wrapped within the relative silence, the experienced student of human behavior had to admit that part of his refusal to get involved was that this situation was something relatively new to him. Granted, years spent training everyone from Richard to Jason to Tim to dozens of others before and since allowed him plenty of secondhand opportunities to witness the thrill of victory as well as the agony of defeat. However, the amount of vitriol that his current subject put into the latter was something he wasn't certain he could handle. Not unless he came in with both barrels.
Three minutes had passed since the creak. Fifteen pages read intently and pored over before being passed on for other pursuits.
WHUUUMP!
"DOODLE ASS, SHIT SUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!"
By now, Dick would have been smart enough to realize that he could try again tomorrow. Jason would have grown sullen, turn up a glower, and yell at him for expecting too much before marching out of the door with as much dignity as a petulant teenage boy could muster in times like these. Tim would have gone the rational route and decide to devote himself to another, related measure that could possibly earn him approval.
This one though. . . well, perhaps he had undersold her when he had told Alfred that he had seen front-line generals with lesser amounts of will power. Quite frankly, Batman was beginning to think that George S. Patton would have run himself ragged trying to order this recruit around.
Still, that didn't stop Bruce Wayne from sitting still for another three-and-a-half minutes, his experienced eyes roaming over Charles Swann's various misadventures while his brain waited for the inevitable.
Wait for it.
WHUUUMP!
"WHAT A SHITTY ASS LOAD OF GOD DAMN BULLFUCK!"
Even the world's greatest detective had a hard time figuring out how Stephanie Brown's footsteps could be so loud as her boot-clad feet stomped out of the training room and into the central part of the cave. The former Spoiler and the current inheritor of Dick Grayson's former mantle sported a significant bruise on the right side of her forehead as she continued to plod her way forward, the anger in her pale-blue eyes doubtlessly directed not only at him but also at herself and anything else that she could blame within a 100-mile radius. She finally came to a resolute halt when she was within five steps of his seated form, extended her quivering right arm towards the room she had just exited, and pointed straight at it with a determined lurch of her ring finger.
"Okay! You told me to do a freakin' one-handed handstand on that metal doodad for ten straight minutes!" Robin exclaimed, the unnecessary reminder so loud and caustic that it startled the bats hanging overhead and convinced them to search for safer horizons. "I've spent the last two fucking hours trying to do it and I've failed every. . . damn. . . time."
Batman raised his eyes away from his book and up towards Stephanie with a dubious look on his face that was completely missed by the daughter of a former druggie and a current felon. He didn't even bother speaking because, given what evidence he had acquired in the two-and-a-half weeks that the noisy 16-year-old had served as his patrol partner, all the signs pointed to the likelihood that the fair-haired Gothamite would be more than happy to pick up the slack.
"Now my brain cells, as scrambled as they are, are telling me that you're either just fucking with me or you know how to do this!" Stephanie went on, her shout so vociferous that Batman honestly wondered how someone so small could pull it off. "Either way, you're coming in there and helping me do this 'cause that's what a teacher is supposed to do!"
"Who said I was your teacher?" Batman asked while placidly putting his book aside.
"Partner. Teacher. People with possible concussions don't really give a damn about those kinds of semantics," Stephanie insisted, her small face now quivering with frustration. "Damn it! Show me how to do this! I wanna know!"
As Bruce stood up, he couldn't help but think back to Alfred's voiced suspicions that he was just using this girl as an excuse to get Tim back. Of course, given all his time spent studying others, it was only natural for him to realize that there was also some definitive truth to the old man's claims. Tim had long proven himself to be a phenomenal partner and a source of consistency and reliability in a world that robbed him of so many things before he could even realize they were missing. He was a fast thinker, a clever fighter, and he did his best to try to learn to be a good leader and to properly inherit the fight.
Quite frankly, the better question was why he shouldn't be trying everything he could to get him back. As far as he was concerned, the truly confusing questions lay a little bit closer to the surface of his emotional landscape.
Why was he suddenly so compelled to smirk at this girl's inappropriate and unnecessary jokes? How in the hell did a vigilante who had a hard enough time remembering the five major rules behind restraining a suspect manage to figure out how to shrug off his most hostile of glares with just a shrug and a cheeky grin? Why was he suddenly concocting optimum training programs and planned physical regimens aimed to best aid a raucous, 135-pound action junkie? When in the hell did he honestly think that he would get something out of this that wasn't anything more than a temporary salve?
He couldn't answer those questions. Well, at least he couldn't do so in a way that would make him feel any better about his discoveries. Instead, he fixed the hostile crime fighter with an even stare and delivered his judgment.
"Your right arm is cramped up and shaking and you're beginning to let your emotions get the better of you. You couldn't possibly finish the task I'm asking of you in your current physical condition."
Stephanie took in the sobering words for roughly a third of a second before screwing up her eyes and twisting her lips to the right. "Well, I am just so surprised," she countered with her usual aplomb. "I haven't been so surprised about something since I found out that the secret to a longer lasting life WAS BREATHING! WHY DO YA THINK I'M ASKING YOU TO HELP ME?!"
It was official now. Bruce had no idea what he was going to do with Stephanie Brown. On the other hand, that confusion didn't stop him from moving forward and gently placing his hands on top of the girl's shoulders, his experienced fingers already rubbing into the spots of muscle that would be sporting the most tension in times like these. It was a move that Dick or Tim would have rolled their eyes at while claiming they didn't need his coddling. However, the procession of expressions on this Robin's face, the shift from shock to relief to an almost goofy grin soon showed Batman that he had made a good decision.
"Go write in your journal, Robin," he said sternly before adding, "We'll work on it tomorrow but only if you choose to stop now."
The detective found he had to put quite a bit of himself into holding in a relieved breath as Stephanie finally seemed to be calmed down. He had to put even more patience into not shaking his head back and forth in disbelief as Stephanie gave him a cheery smile before essentially skipping towards her favorite computer chair as if she had thought of this change in plans all on her own.
"Good work, Robin."
"Yeah, yeah," Stephanie said with a dismissive wave of her left hand. "Go away. Trying to write here."
The Dark Knight of Gotham City chose to do as he was told. After all, given his reputation as a master strategist, he would have been quite foolish to launch himself into what was clearly a losing battle.
Instead, he'd try again tomorrow.
Confidante
Gotham City – Willy's Bar – Three years before now
THUPP!
Bruce heard his opponent let out a bitter burst of profanity as the thin projectile sank into the triple 20. Admittedly, the move could have been considered to be a bit risky, especially since the first dart was already taking up quite a bit of space on the left side of the thin line of red just above the bulls-eye but nearly two-dozen years of practice left Gotham's greatest protector equipped with more than enough skill and confidence to pull the feat off.
"Hell uv a shot, Matches," rasped out one of the older regulars of the swarthy drinking establishment, a round-faced Irishman whose actual criminal record was nearly just as long as the fictional report that Bruce had made out for his streetwise alias. "Teach that pretty nancy there some lessons."
"Matches Malone" let out a grunt as he fired his last shot of the round, a literal and metaphorical barb that that pushed its way just below the tip of the outer bull. Stepping off the oche and crossing the twelve feet between the line and the board, Bruce did his best not to feel too good about causing his adversary to gnash his teeth as he plucked the metal and plastic darts from the multicolored slat. His moves were quick and measured, an unconscious signal designed to pour a bit of competitive pressure upon his challenger.
The younger competitor, in response, gave a snarl to their unwanted observer while stepping up to the undrawn boundary. Sticking just a portion of his tongue out of the left side of his mouth, the green-eyed marksman was quick to seal Bruce's fate with one perfect shot after the other. The three darts were quick and sure in their travels, almost as if their thrower was willing them to travel towards the red triple ring below the number 20. Three perfect shots and 180 points later, the victor took a fraction of a second to take in the mild frustration on his opponent's face before giving a smarmy grin to the now impressed audience.
"I tell ya, boy. I've see ya pullin' those shots out your arse time an' time again but, fer the life o' me, I still can't figure out how ya do it."
Bruce took his seat at the nearby table as he watched Roy Harper respond with an almost careless shrug of his shoulders. "I keep tellin' ya, Angus, it's all about skill and patience. Gotta put on a good show first before ya can hit 'em with the hammer."
"Right, right," the felonious Irishman harrumphed before turning around in his chair. After all, it hardly took a rocket scientist, which Angus Crutcher certainly was not, to realize that Matches Malone now had business to conduct. There was little doubt that the old punk wanted to listen in but the fact remained that half of the best stories floating around this bar were about the fates of other poor fools who didn't choose to stop listening when the time came to do so.
The dart game was little more than ceremony now, a familiar procedure that allowed the both of them to settle down and get ready to say what needed to be said. The fact that they had kept it up had nothing to do with a shared compulsion to get the better of one another in something they both took pride in. Oh no.
"How is Lian doing?"
Roy let out a tired sigh, the frustration within the gasp directed a great deal more at himself than the man who had asked the question.
"Well, she's still a little shaken up after the whole deal with Brother Blood and the Tanner syndicate," the young father confessed, his weathered right hand rushing through his short, closely cropped hair as he did so. "Still, she's bouncing back. Hell, she almost talked my ear off trying to convince me to buy her a Batgirl costume for Halloween. And not even the cool black one either."
Bruce somehow managed to talk himself down into responding with a slightly concerned "Hmmmmmm." The grumble prompted Roy to let out a bark of a laugh while bending his right hand into a fist before rubbing his knuckle against the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah, that's pretty much what I said," Roy replied with a similar candor. "Still, that can't be why you dragged me all the way out here to do the whole darts thing. I mean, you've already chewed me out about not knowing that Deathstroke was the one giving The Outsiders their inside information and letting him get away with Arthur Light after Ollie was kidnapped."
"Well, I do think that you could use a bit more feedback from those particular misdeeds," Bruce was quick to interrupt, the retort prompting Roy to let out a snort as both gentleman took a moment to recompose themselves. "I'd like to offer you a job."
Roy raised his eyebrows in interest, the former Checkmate agent legitimately surprised by Bruce's words and actions for the first time since he had made his way to Gotham. "This isn't about that underground group of yours that I've been hearin' rumors about, is it?"
Bruce's eyes widened just slightly, the older vigilante finding he had to put some effort into not being impressed by how quickly the former Titan had managed to dig up information on something he had hoped to keep a secret. "I want you to help us infiltrate the Brother Eye satellite when the time comes to attack it."
Now it was Roy's turn to hide a particular emotion. "You're really trusting me with this? What about Nightwing?"
Bruce gave a sharp, intuitive look to the suddenly guarded man seated across from him. "I can guide you through the computer network, which leaves the technological advantage that Dick has rendered meaningless. Additionally, your greater experience in ranged combat and subterfuge leaves you far more suited to deal with what I'm expecting this specific operative to handle."
"Plus," Roy interrupted, "I'm not your kid soooooo, you don't have to deal with any of the negative abandonment issues. That's gotta sound pretty sweet, huh?"
The momentary hurt look in Bruce's eyes spoke volumes, both for the person who could see it and the one who felt it happening. However, the courage Roy needed to work up in order to apologize took a bit longer to ferment than the strain Bruce needed to go through to restore himself and, thus, both of the potential responses were left mute.
"We are not yet on a fixed timetable for the infiltration," Bruce went on, "but I would like an answer from you as soon as possible. You and Lian would both be more than welcome at the manor, of course."
Once again, Batman read Roy's response as the meaning of his words sunk in, the somewhat faraway look Arsenal's eyes providing a definitive clue into what the young father was thinking. After all, it wasn't as if Oliver had ever chosen to invite Roy back into his home. Hal, perhaps, and Dinah most certainly but. . .
And Bruce decided to let that thought lie.
"How about you do us both a favor, Bruce," Roy said quietly, "and ask Dick to do this before you get around to asking me again. Then, after he calls me about it and if he tells me he doesn't want to do it," he added while he slowly rose from the table, "then I'll take you up on your offer. That way I won't feel like I'm poaching and you can have a shot at mending some fences."
Bruce's nod was slow and deliberate as he watched Roy slide into his long coat, the skilled arms and hands easily weaving their way through the sleeves that had bunched up in the half-hour the garment had been allowed to lie quietly. He wanted to snap at Roy for denying him the simplest solution, if only because he didn't want to put in the effort to thank him. "Even if Dick accepts," he felt compelled to add, "the offer will stay on the table."
Roy didn't even turn around as he fired his parting shot.
"Good to know."
Taskmaster
The Batcave – Eleven months before now
"Target five. Right sidearm."
The response was as brief and sharp as his order as Cecilia King-Jones put her arrow to string. The archer needed four-tenths of a second to stretch and twist her lean, muscular arms into the configuration that he had asked for, her right arm taut and hanging just behind and above her left as the fingers briefly gripped the shaft of the arrow before letting it fly. The fact that Arrowette had somehow managed to adjust for potential windage was made clear with the accuracy of her shot, the wooden projectile whistling through the dry draft running through the catacombs before landing on the assigned target at its dead center. One would have normally been allowed to take the time to celebrate such a flawless shot but the sporadic fire of the tranquilizer bullets sprayed by the semi-automatics perched upon the corner ceilings soon put her on the move again.
"Target eleven. Right longshot."
Bruce almost cursed himself for giving Arrowette such an easy task, his frustration quickly yielding frustration as Cecilia finished her latest objective with a speed and efficiency that Oliver Queen would have had trouble bringing to the table even on his best day. Feeling almost challenged by the girl's proficiency, he continued to give progressively more difficult objectives while slowly increasing the rate of resistance fire. The game, for lack of a better term, continued for a long 90 seconds as he did his best to test the markswoman's limits, the detective and teacher suddenly determined to prove to his student that she had something more to learn.
His suspicions were finally confirmed as Cecilia's 22nd shot whizzed past the target about three feet left of its supposed destination. It was a perfectly logical mistake, particularly given the angle and the circumstance, but Bruce was already preparing his speech before he had even shut the training exercise down. He gave little attention to the archer's heavy breathing or to the strain she endured while attempting to put herself back on steady legs, his measured steps soon taking him within striking distance.
"Well, you've made it pretty clear that you can't hit a target with your left hand," he growled. "Let's see if you can use it to defend yourself."
He knew that Cecilia had barely enough time to put away her bow before he lashed at her with a viciously precise spinning back fist aimed straight for the right side of her face. And, just as he had expected, the former member of Young Justice managed to parry away the strike with that supposedly deficient left arm before attempting to strike back with a knee to the gut. It was easily blocked, of course, but the efficient counter was enough for Batman to recognize that Cecilia was still managing to keep an even head. Her blood may have started to flow a little hotter and her breath may have been drawn from her lungs a little too quicker than it should be but his charge was still in control.
The anger begins to surface about half-a-minute in, the futility in trying and failing to hit him clearly beginning to wear on Cecilia's nerves. To her credit, she was still trying her best to try to remember the techniques that she had put so much effort into learning from Black Dog and Nightwing, to restrict her movements and keep her arms close to her body, but that knowledge soon began to mix with the darker parts of her. Hooks and kicks became rushed and sloppy before they should have been, parries and forearm blocks became hurried and haphazard when there still wasn't a need to take such risks.
Just a little more, Bruce insisted to himself as he redoubled his efforts.
He could almost see what the blonde-haired archer was thinking now. If he toned his senses for it, perhaps he could have even heard the girl's memories of her mother's orders and unkind words, feel the blood oozing from under her chubby fingertips and leaking from the blisters on her palms. Batman had never seen the girl move faster but the fact remained that everything she did wasn't coming anywhere close to doing him the least bit of harm.
Of course, it wasn't as if Cecilia was aiming at him anymore. That much was proven as he managed to easily slide forward and restrained the markswoman with a calm but firm bear hug, her shaking arms quickly bound safely within his grip as she sobbed into his chest.
"Easy. Easy," he said soothingly, astonished that the shaking girl in his arms had lasted as long as she had. "You did fine, Cecilia."
He lost track of how long he kept holding her. Whatever length of time it was, it was long enough for Cecilia's weeping to fade away and become replaced by a round of embarrassed laughter.
"Tim. . . Tim never pushed me that hard," Arrowette confessed with a sniff.
"I know."
Bruce finally chose to let Cecilia loose, his muscular frame moving quickly to Cecilia's side in order to better support her steps as they slowly made their way out of the training room. Though it took the two of them a while to make their way up to the manor proper, only a single word was said between them.
"Thanks."
Predecessor
The Batcave – Seven years after now
The grunt that came from his latest exertion was quickly stifled as Bruce examined the product of his efforts. Unfortunately, that grouse soon threatened to escalate into an out-and-out irritated sigh as he took a closer look at the gray hair that he had plucked away from its similar looking neighbors that had begun to take residence just above his left ear. Abandoning the unwanted discovery down to the cave floor as soon as he could, the 48-year-old semi-retired vigilante just chose to add the experience to the growing list of unwanted circumstances that had seemed to crop up in a very short period of time.
On the bright side (and how odd was it that he was attempting to look at that), at least this wasn't something that he could entirely blame on himself. Not even Alfred could rightfully pester him about irresponsibility in this matter or once again remind him about the lingering consequences of a life spent defending the streets of Gotham and everything else within an almost infinitely long radius. The occasional pangs of soreness that rose up in his lower back and the intermittent pops and cracks that sounded off when he stretched his knees were quite another matter but, once again, that wasn't the issue at hand. Still, the rebellious thoughts percolating inside his tired mind couldn't resist playing out its familiar melody, an infuriating jingle that almost forced the man formerly known as Batman to drum his fingers against the nearby keyboard.
Why couldn't he continue to soldier on for three sleepless nights as he had while training in the swirling snow hills of Nanda Parbat? Why could he feel that his punches were suddenly a tenth of a second slower? Why the hell couldn't he have been the exception to the rule? Hadn't that been what he had worked so hard to be? A man who would laugh in the face of human limitations and overcome them through work and sheer force of will?
The tap on his shoulder caused him to jump in surprise.
"Oh, jeez. Are you still up?"
Bruce knew that he would have heard her coming ten years ago. He clung to that certainty like a child would hang on to their favorite blanket as he weathered the look of genuine but chiding sympathy that Kara Zor-el had to give him.
The days when the half-Kryptonian was unsure of her actions and thrived on his advice and guidance were now long past. What remained was the proud and competent second-in-command of The Misfits and a warrior respected throughout this reality and many others. However, despite all the horrors and successes that The Last Daughter of Krypton had endured, the shyness and reservation that seemed to dominate her younger days still made its presence felt every now and again, particularly during times like these.
A guilty part of Bruce still wished that such moments were just a little more frequent.
"How are matters on Fortuna?"
Kara's initial response to his straightforward question was a wry smile, a tidy sign that she was willing to play along with the no nonsense behavior. "It was hardly anything we couldn't handle. The Venom Initiative may have some definitive manpower behind them but the standing militias should be able to contain them now that their primary weapons manufacturing plant has been disabled. We'll be sure to periodically check in, of course. . ."
"Oh, please don't encourage this behavior, luv," interrupted the slow and dry voice of Lloyd Thomas, the half-demon barely sparing Bruce a glance as he slid into the seat in front of the main network of monitors. "Pretty bloody obvious that he's down here remembering what he thinks to be the good ol' days," The Black Dog added as he went to work checking the monitoring stations while preparing to type up his latest report. "Wayne, I'm orderin' you to go back up those stairs and get some rest. A watcher is no good to who they're lookin' at if they're too tired to keep their eyes open."
"That's enough, sweetie," Kara interrupted with a thin note of warning. "He's going through a lot right now and he doesn't need anybody reminding him about it."
"Well, 's not like I'm doin' this just for a smile and a laugh," Lloyd countered while briefly turning away from his workstation. "After all, he is the bloke who spent all that time teachin' us to recognize your limitations and respect 'em."
"And he would also appreciate it if you talked to him rather than at him," Bruce snapped as he hastily rose from his chair, the sheer extent of his current uselessness beginning to severely chafe at his constitution.
"Well, it worked, didn't it?" Kara replied with an even smile that was nearly a mirror image of the smirk on Lloyd's face. Bruce narrowed his eyes at the couple's shared look, the reminder that the two of them knew him all too well soothing him only slightly. On the other hand, the moment was also enough for him to relent and slowly make his way towards the stone steps. The quiet scrape of plastic against rock that arose as Kara slid into the seat he had just abandoned managed to irritate him only slightly as he began to make his ascent, the memories of decades spent within these dark confines already beating at his somnolent thoughts.
"Oi! Bruce!"
Bruce briefly turned around in response to the roguish lilt, the realization that The Black Dog rarely ever spoke in such a fashion anymore fresh in his mind as he took in the sincerity on the British man's face.
"Thanks for keeping the watch, old man."
The master of Wayne Manor gave the leader of The Misfits a slow, steady nod, the both of them recognizing that the thanks had little to do with what was happening in the present time.
"Get some rest," Kara added as Lloyd turned back to his duties. "We'll make sure the fort doesn't burn down."
The old half-smirk rose up on Bruce's lips almost by instinct. He only took a moment to chastise his own foolishness, the past worry that he still had something to do this night now sounding utterly ridiculous as he retired for the evening.
Devon – Saizeru Monastery – Twenty-one years from now
He didn't even bother calculating the odds of someone like him being in this kind of situation. What was soon to come was a task that he would have never expected to be called upon to perform during that lonely night when his identity became long-defined by a startled bat crashing through the window of his study. The thought that he had been asked to do this twice before was even more startling, almost to the point of contemplative insanity. Of course, the thought of refusing this undertaking was absolutely out of the question. The woman behind the door he was guarding would never forgive him for it.
It had almost hurt to look at her and see the strong, beautiful woman look so nervous as she busied herself over the last-minute details. Some might have taken her fervor to be a bit of an extreme reaction but Bruce realized that it was par for the course. He saw that determination every time she stubbornly stood in front of him, challenging him to a battle of wills that would eventually leave her the victor raised upon a hastily created pedestal.
"Did somebody finally get him under control?" he asked the equally anxious man across from him.
"Steph finally managed to collar him before he could get tamper too much with the getaway car," Wally informed him, the nearly 50-year-old speedster nervously running his hands through his hair. "You know, it's hard to believe that somebody with no powers at all could be that much of a handful."
"I blame the father," Bruce grumbled back, the brief retort causing The Flash to fire back with a well-tempered glare. "Have you managed to look in on him?"
Wally's eyes narrowed as he looked right back at his somewhat reluctant compatriot, the "him" in question hardly needing any further description. "I couldn't get in as much as I wanted to before Lian and Lloyd shooed me away," he replied in a menacing manner, "but I think he's good and hell aware of the consequences."
"Good," the older man replied with an equally ominous snarl. The two gentleman both seemed to take comfort in their unified frustration concerning the potential consequences of what was to come. Neither one of them could even pretend that they were fully supportive of what was about to happen (no matter how frequently their respective wives had told them to do so) but, once again, what could they do? It wasn't as if either of them could say no to her before.
The gentle knocking against the door to Bruce's back prompted the two long-time heroes to breathe in deep. As frustrated as they were, however, even their phenomenal wills were momentarily stifled by the vision that appeared before their eyes.
The combination of Iris West's pale skin and the long dress wrapped around her body briefly prompted Bruce and Wally to believe that they were looking at a creature too brilliant to exist in this world. The stark contrast provided by her long, rich red hair and the faint trace of freckles along her nose and cheekbones quickly reminded them of the events that led up to where they were now, moments and memories that neither of them would ever choose to give away. However, the quiet, dignified smile on Iris's face soon restored order to the proceedings, the sharp gaze from her green eyes bringing everything back into focus.
"Now are you sure you want to deprive your father of the chance to lead you down the aisle?" Wally asked his daughter in a fairly playful fashion. "I mean, to be fair, the old man has already had his chances with Cissie and Kara."
"Dad," Iris warned her father with some good humor of her own. The single-word reply was enough for The Flash to relent, the scarlet-haired Misfit slumping his long-fingered hands into the pockets of his suit as Bruce and Iris soon followed arm-in-arm.
"How's my brother doing?" the soon-to-be-bride asked. "Still trying to find a way to sabotage Roy's wedding gift, I'm guessing?"
Bruce replied with a companionable grumble, a response that caused Iris to fire back with a knowing smile. "Stephanie had him bound and gagged the last time I looked into it. I'm hoping that she chose to untie him before they went into the chapel but I'm not about to jump to that conclusion."
"Seems like a smart move," Iris agreed, the light hint of laughter that snuck from his goddaughter's lips almost hurting Bruce's heart. The knowledge that he wouldn't hear that sound as much as he once had was an inevitability but still a pain to accept. It certainly was a great deal more aggravating than the newspaper article that Lloyd had all but shoved into his face just several days before. The story spoke of his 62nd birthday celebration, the description of the lavish proceedings and the star-studded guest list quickly fading into the background in the face of the tragedy that the story's writer had found within it. Bruce Wayne, once Gotham's favorite son, would doubtlessly leave this world with a legacy of sloth and wastefulness and without a biological heir or a single meaningful title or distinction to call his own save for the charitable contributions mapped out by the monitors of his estate.
It seemed that there weren't a great many people who had any idea of what to make of him. However, as the strains of The Wedding March wafted into his old ears, the eyes of his friends and loved ones turning to look at the beautiful woman clutching her arm, Bruce Wayne finally knew exactly who he was.
He was a father.
Misfits Confidential
(Checks his watch)
Hmmmm. Okay. Ten thousand words in eleven days. Not too bad given that I've had five tests and 25 hours of work in the same week. Now all that's left is to do the same thing all over again and I'll be back on pace! A word of advice to all you aspiring writers, though: do your best to keep your deadlines. If anything else, it helps when you want to avoid the headache of an even busier schedule than the one you momentarily gave up on in the first place!
And I'd like to say something tremendously witty about the state of comics but, to be honest, money and time concerns have sort of kept me away from the land of 32-page-books for a while now. Still, I would like to give an unofficial "Damn, I Feel Sorry for you Award" to Dan Slott for all the hard work he's put in to restoring Spider-Man into a somewhat likeable character after Joe Quesada made him divorce his wife and make a deal with the devil. Oh, I'm sorry, I meant give up his longtime living partner. Apparently the Mephisto mind wipe really is starting to wear off. . .
All right. I'll quit whining now and give you a next story preview.
Next Story Preview
Here's a question that may be weighing on the mind of The Misfits'dozens and dozens of fans. Just how is Bruce Wayne keeping his image of a billionaire playboy while fighting crime in Gotham and seeing to the needs of Earth's most obnoxious gang of miscreants? Well, it just so happens that the answer lies in multitasking, my patient and loving audience! After all, when a guest list to a social function includes Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor, Scandal Savage, Black Adam, The Calculator, Doctor Psycho, The Black Dog, and Talia Al-Ghul then something is bound to get accomplished! Watch the high-society chaos unfold with the three-part series, How to Meet Someone New, with the next Misfits-related yarn: A Matter of Birds and Stones. Until then, remember to say what you think and write what you feel!