"So, who is it?"
That was the first question, or phrase even, that Dick spoke as he strode into the room. Through his extraordinarily heavily tinted glasses, Dick drew his eyes up to regard his mentor in the centre of the white walled and tech savvy room.
It was everything the stereotype of a secret intelligence agency could ever be and ever live up to, for sake of simplicity. His mentor sported similar glasses as himself, though with a wig to go along with it because his face was in fact more recognisable than Dick's. Everything was so white and bright that Dick was almost glad to have his shades. He wouldn't doubt that he'd be blinded otherwise. A digital screen took up an entire side of the room, and tables upon tables had the state of the art holo-computers propped up on top. But the room was large, and they were rather close to the back. Dick was forced to pass them and their owners stoically typing away at them in his quest for the front.
Near the screen wall at the front was a white podium, and in front of the podium was a white table. Beside the table were twelve white chairs. Dick's mentor, Bruce, was standing beside one of them that was slightly pushed out, in a classy black suit. Dick mentally thanked his mentor for that course of action in terms of fashion statements. When Bruce didn't answer, only slightly turned towards him to acknowledge his ward's existence with his eyes remaining fixed to the file in his hands, Dick continued. "Prince? Princess? President? Austrian aristocrat? Child of Chinese embassy?"
"Central City Sophomore," Bruce deadpanned, sticking the file out for Dick to grab. Dick, however, only stared down at the upside down face of a puberty stricken red head instead of immediately receiving it. "A normal, somewhat out casted, pubescent teenager at Central City High School."
Dick stared his mentor in the eyes as well as he possibly could with their identities covered. Eventually, he decided that Bruce, out of all people, wouldn't be pulling a prank. He cautiously took the file from the man. "If he's so normal, why does he have to do with the GCO?"
GCO – part of the Gotham (City) Citizens Organisation of Secret Intelligence. In other words, they were the CIA shrunken down to size, an association of people hell bent on the vigilante game, with their own enemies and their own friends. They, of course, were not complete 'vigilantes', though. They were controlled by a higher power, but what that was, Dick was not permitted to know. Bruce was, but Dick wasn't, and that's just how things were.
Most cities had them those days, but as far as everyone was concerned, they remained underneath the police and government radar. Not under the law, unless it came too much in the way of their ambition, but the police would certainly only complicate things with their differing ideals and MO. Dick was starting to suspect that they were catching onto the fact that there might be a single organisation behind certain events, but as they had no solid evidence and no solid crime, there wasn't much they could do.
One city that did not have such an organisation, though, was Central. Central, the happy-go-lucky place of all places, as far as Dick was concerned, at the border of Starling City but left to the hands of Gotham. Apparently, Starling's SPASS (Starling Person's Association of Secret Service) wasn't too concerned with their next door neighbours.
"Nothing but a common enemy"—Bruce's eyes flickered down to his watch—"and a contested gain."
Dick knew that Bruce wasn't going to elaborate his vague answer, so Dick figured that he was going to have to read the entire file.
"Look over all of the information. Memorise everything you deem of importance, including his associations, family, relations, address, and general schedule. Then report to Dinah, and she will brief you," Bruce said. Dick nodded. Without warning, Bruce put another file on top of Dick's hands. "And that's you."
"Me?" Dick asked unnecessarily, staring at a picture of him with his shades, his hair messed up and his shoulders bundled up to chin height in a thick jacket suggesting of the weather around him. He had one arm out, though, as if he couldn't see properly, probably a spur of the moment loss of balance. Dick's eyes caught the words, "—sensitive sight due to early childhood incident of—"
"You," Bruce repeated. "Robert Adams, 10th grade."
The only thing that Dick could think of to say was, "I'm never going to pass as driving age," but Bruce was already gone, up through the suction of a technologically advanced elevator.
Luckily, despite the fact that 10th graders, or Sophomores, were normally around 16 years old, Robert was apparently only 14. He skipped kindergarten and 7th grade. That made more sense.
His birthday was the day after Halloween. He was half blind from a head injury by a horse when he was nine and his remaining eyesight was extremely sensitive to light. He could see enough to get by, but details were hard, meaning he had to sit at the front of the class and he couldn't take off his glasses – even indoors.
Robert strived to become a video game designer (that was asterous) and was great at language arts. He was mediocre at math (no math club? Fine then, Bruce, be that way) and terrible at history, but was above all best at science (what?).
Things started fitting together more after the red head's file touched the light.
Wallace Rudolph West. Son of Rudolph West, single father, and nephew to Iris West and Barry Allen. He lived on Front Street, shown on a marked map with the school's location highlighted, and was enrolled in track as a sport. Ironically, though, he spent all possible time that he could locked up in his room playing video games – yet somehow managing to get himself in trouble.
According to the file, Wallace was a target of Lex Corp. It was the GCO's suspicions that he had information. Important information. Very important information, for the sole reason that Wallace was brought to the GCO's attention after his attempted assassination, a mall shooting that happened in Gotham City a month before. Culprits arrested, but were calm, arousing suspicion, especially when they seemed to have specifically targeted teenagers - as revealed by recordings. Even more specifically? Wallace as he ducked and ran from the scene.
The biggest suspicion raiser? The Lex Corp badge printed on the inside of their shirts. Though the shooters said nothing, their careless behaviour of evidence led to enough reason for the GCO to look into the teenager more.
They had a common enemy with him, after all.
It was revealed that Wallace Rudolph West was being hunted by Lex Corp – very likely for information, as first hypothesised. Therefore, it was also revealed that it was not only Dick's job to protect the teenager, but it would also become his job to extract said information out of his own target.
In other words, Dick would need to protect and use the boy.
He was fine with it, honestly. In the end, it would prevent Wallace from getting killed. Dick would do practically any job - anything he was assigned. The job he was reading on at the moment fell under the category of what he would do. Really, the one job he would never do was kill. Dick Grayson was no killer.
But he was a damn good secret agent.
To find the matches in Dick's own personal data with Wallace's, there was no hide and seek required. The personality was harder to find, considering Robert's file had a suspicious lack of personality information, but Wallace's file was completely full. Wallace was a huge gamer. Robert wanted to be a video game designer. Robert was fantastic at language arts. Wallace was failing and desperately needed a tutor - even with the after school library sessions he was apparently receiving. They both were alright with math, but Wallace was a flat out genius in science.
Technology involved science. Dick could do technology, at least.
Robert was also attending an Honours Chemistry class.
Nevermind, Dick was screwed.
He was walking out a sound proof, bulletproof, somewhat cramped room as he ran over every basic piece of information he could possibly need for the day. Said room was the lair of Dinah Lance, the Head of Operations and field missions for the GCO. While Bruce was also a large help in such an area, unlike Lance, he never went out himself due to his identity. Thus, he was mainly in charge of the information.
Honestly, Dick was completely fine with that. Bruce may be infinitely clever and cautious, but he was perhaps too cautious, bordering on paranoia. He never acted without questioning, making giving him orders near impossible. He was also highly recognisable by everyone. No, it was Dinah Lance who had given Dick his mission, and it was Dinah Lance who was supposed to pose as Sara Adams, Robert's mother.
That was fine with him, too. She sure was a lot nicer than Bruce.
When Dick reached the main room where he had been talking to Bruce hours earlier, as instructed by Lance, he was approached by a man in a white lab coat. With gloves, likely to mask his fingerprints, he presented Dick with sunglasses similar to the ones Dick already wore - only their design was a bit different.
Their design was less fashionable - more bulky and practical. Their lenses were thicker instead of simply darker, and on the side was printed in white text, 'dark light for sensitive eyes'. On the other arm of the glasses, also in white text, was the phone number to the supposed eye doctor that Dick had gone to (Robert's file said Dr. David Grey). There was a thin chain connecting the ends of the two arms.
He accepted the sunglasses with a smile and a nod to the man, who barely acknowledged Dick before turning around and walking off. Instead of focusing on him, Dick directed his own attention elsewhere, taking off his sunglasses and placing them on the podium before replacing them with his new ones.
Well, they felt super awkward, if that was worth anything. Dick already missed his old sunglasses. They were light and smooth and fit his face so well he knew they were never going to slip off. His new glasses needed a chain to slip around the back of his head and under his hair to make sure they didn't come off. It was a fast demotion, that was for sure.
"Are they any good?" Bruce's voice spoke from behind Dick.
Dick turned around to face him. "They're terrible," he responded bluntly. "But I'll manage."
Bruce's face didn't so much as twitch in amusement. Dick knew that the moment those glasses were off of Bruce's face, Bruce would return to being the charismatic playboy that he supposedly was, but as long as they were on, Bruce was on 'business'. It was no surprise that when Dick first met his mentor, he was wholly convinced that the man suffered from multi-personalities. "Robert's father left when he was 12," Bruce said instead. "Since then, he's become somewhat rebellious, refusing to be anything his mother wants him to be. His mother is a very faithful Catholic woman who groomed her son to be kind and proper. Therefore, Robert changed his appearance a little bit."
Dick stared at Bruce. "You can't be serious-"
"Robert is a nice boy, but only to people he knows and likes. To his mother, he refuses to go to Church, has taken on being atheist, and wears clothes his mother disapproves of. He acts snarky and rude and mannerless, and enjoys playing pranks to all extents possible." Bruce finally produced a small red tube from his pocket. Dick stared at the label as he was given the tube. "The tips of his hair are coloured red as a statement."
"You're joking," Dick deadpanned.
Bruce picked up another file from the podium, one that Dick hadn't bothered to look for. "I was wondering if you would realise that Robert didn't have a personality."
Dick knew with a sinking heart that he had. Bruce handed him the file, the missing piece of the one that Dick had received earlier. "Alfred is in the dressing room. He's supposed to 'fix' your appearance a bit more."
"How am I going to go to school?" Dick protested weakly. "My actual school, in Gotham?"
"You have pneumonia," Bruce responded simply.
And that was that. Bruce patted him on the shoulder without another word and left, leaving Dick standing in the middle of a painfully white room, a tube the colour of blood in one hand and a small stack of papers in the other.
I am so screwed. What am I doing to myself.
I'm starting a multi-chapter fic, that's what I'm doing to myself.
I'm already writing a multi-chapter fic that I kind of wish would burn in a hole. This is probably going to be the same. But the idea was eating me alive-
How do people finish multi-chapters, anyway?
Someone help.
In other words, please let me know if you liked this, or else I might just shoot myself for getting myself into a gamble that no one even likes.
On another note, though, for the Americans out there: Happy Thanksgiving, and I hope you enjoyed both this and your food!