Chapter Six
As the Batmobile's neon-bright, interior clock clicked just past three in the morning, all was silent save the sleek car's sophisticated purring through the blackened night. To any sparse passerby that happened to be moseying along the winding, abandoned back road framed on either side by lush, dark greens, it would seem as though the early morning was still and undisturbed; the vehicle employed no overly-bright headlights to guide its way—for stealth purposes, of course—and the feline-volumed engine gave no indication of its passing from afar. Even so, the car's driver—and singularly alert passenger—knew the worn path well enough to exempt himself from such otherwise-necessary measures, having become familiar with every curve, bump, and skid across the pavement over past years.
The dark-clad man gripping the wheel spared a glance to his right, a soft, seldom-seen smile gracing his lips as he laid eyes on the young, sleeping companion with whom he traveled. Not wanting to wake the boy with his voice, Bruce clicked one of the many buttons framing the vehicle's dashboard; over the next several seconds, an ancient grandfather clock housing in the study of his expansive mansion would chime a thundering thirteen times, signaling its impending arrival to the aging butler present within.
Several miles on, the winding highway began to smooth itself out as the foliage surrounding it thickened, and soon the smooth blacktop roughened to a more well-worn path. Still, Dick—desensitized to the journey—did not awaken. The jerks and curves gradually became steeper and sharper—the kind that would deter any driver less than the Dark Knight, himself, and a select few thrill seekers that happened to pass the way infrequently—until there came a turn that, to the untrained eye, seemed to be at an almost forty-five degree angle; during which point, of course, the Batmobile did not turn. Instead, the impressive vehicle sped directly into the awaiting forest—which promptly disappeared and reappeared faster than the blink of a human eye—and down a secret, hidden metal ramp leading directly to the Batcave's back entrance steel doors. Once the car had been confirmed by the security interface, the metallic monstrosities slid open with surprising mechanical ease to reveal the black caverns, themselves. To any onlooker, it was truly a sight to behold, but to those that witness the all-too-often occurrence, it simply meant another successful day marked by the return home alive.
The moment the vehicle pulled to a stop as the door hissed shut behind it, Robin began to awaken. Having been trained by Batman to be alert in almost every situation and prepared for any emergency, it was only natural that the young barely-teenager be a light sleeper. He groaned slightly, pulling himself upward in his seat as Batman opened the driver's side door and stepped onto the stone floor, stretching his legs. Rapidly blinking in an attempt to clear the sleep from his vision, Dick reached up and peeled the domino mask from his face, rubbing his eyes as he did so. Sluggishly, he groped for the door handle, finally managing to swing the passenger side open and practically stumble out of the car just as Alfred Pennyworth emerged from the darkened elevator shaft doors at the top of a set of stairs leading to the Wayne Manor's secret entrance. "Masters Bruce, Dick," the white-mustachioed man greeted, nodding to each of his charges in turn as he approached. "I trust your evenings went well. Am I to retrieve medical supplies?" Even in the dim light of the Cave, Alfred had learned over the year to spot a bloodstain from miles away, and he eyes the suspicious, drying stains smattered across Bruce's glove and sleeve.
"No, thank you, Alfred," he responded, slipping off his cowl even as the words left his lips and running a hand through his black locks. Bruce glanced toward his now-somewhat-stabilized son, before approaching the man monitor system expanding across a large crevice in the cavern walls.
"Not yours, then, sir?"
"Not mine." The unmasked vigilante nodded absently, already having moved on to the next task at hand as he pulled the vials of their mystery man's blood from his utility belt. By then, Dick had regained enough of his faculties to be partially aware of his surroundings—enough so that he began trudging toward the stairway without much more than a grunt of exhaustion.
"And your Jet, sir?" Alfred moved to accompany the boy, though still keeping an eye on the elder man as he did so.
"Safe at the hanger," Bruce replied as he pressed several sequencing keys on the massive, curving control panel, referring to the camouflaged structure hidden in Gotham's surrounding woods where the Batman's various aircraft and non-Cave-accessible means of transportation were stored. "Would you help Dick to bed, Alfred? Make sure he makes it all the way to his bed?" He paused for a moment, sending a fleeting look to the pair. The object of conversation did not seem to notice that he was being talked about, and Bruce was tempted to question whether or not the young boy had fallen to dreams once more and was simply sleepwalking. "It's been a long evening, and he deserves a good rest."
"Of course, sir." Alfred had already placed a steadying arm across his surrogate grandson's shoulders and was keeping him on track toward the doorway. "I shall return in a moment." Bruce heard the snap as the entrance slicked closed behind them, leaving him alone to work with the echoing squeaks of several stray bats not gallivanting about the black sky during those early morning hours sounding around him. Too-quickly, he prepared a sample and placed it in the analyzing machine for processing—what good was a detective without the proper forensics equipment, after all—before collapsing in the plush, high-backed control chair. A system bar appeared at the bottom corner of the main screen, showing that he had a bit to wait before any more progress could be made, and the young man ran worn hands tiredly over his quickly-aging face. He was tired; so, so tired.
Every day, he fought a battle that would never be won, and yet he continued onward toward the unreachable goal in spite of the toll it was taking on him. He had seen things... done things that no man should ever have to do, and brought a somewhat-innocent—because, after witnessing such a tragedy, even the purest of children slightly lose themselves—little boy down in doing so. But, then again, there would never be any stopping a kid so stubborn. Bruce smirked inwardly—to anyone who did not know their back stories, he and Dick might seem related: like a true father and son. He sighed, adjusting his position so that there was less of a strain on his back. Any lesser man would be at the prime of his life at this vibrant age of thirty-two, but the years of countless abuse his body had endured time and time again were beginning to wear him down. It only served as a further reminder of his own mortality—a forbidden topic for someone in his line of work, where there was an almost guarantee that he would not meet his end by old age.
Yes, there were those that managed to get out of the game before the inevitable struck—a certain Jay Garrick came to mind—but they were the lucky ones, stepping aside so that their children could step into the spotlight of danger left empty in their place. But, then again, was there ever really an end? Even then, there was the constant, looming fear that they would go through the one thing that no parent should ever have to: outliving their offspring. It was a father's job to protect his son, and yet Bruce knew that there was only so much he could do. One day, Dick would leave, just as every bird must fly from the nest when they are of age. It was inevitable, and yet the question loomed: what would become of him then?
It had never been Bruce's intention to pass on his mantle—that was a burden too heavy... never something with which he had ever had any desire to drag his son down; or any man, for that matter. While he had failed to shield the boy from the violent way of life that he was driven to pursue, he could still push him to be his own man. He recognized that, at times, he could be harsh, but it was all out of love and means to a better end. He hoped that Dick realized that.
Bruce glanced back up at the screen and groaned when he saw that the blinking red rectangle had shifted less than a centimeter. "You have got to be kidding me," He was not in the mood for time to drag on endlessly while he sat by and watched. With those thoughts racing through mind, the need for a distraction became overpowering, and he slowly unfolded himself from the chair even as his body protested the movement. He did not look back as he ascended toward the hidden elevator, and closed his eyes as the metal doors slid shut behind him, resting his head against the cool wall for a moment. For the ten second ride upward into his study, he was completely, utterly alone, and he let his guard drop, the facade of hard toughness fading for those moments before he regained his composure once more just as his movement came to a stop. It had not been very long since Alfred and Dick had left... perhaps he still had enough time to bid his son goodnight. Now with a definitive goal in hand, Bruce made his way through the halls of his mansion and up the winding back stairs leading toward the upper living quarters in the West Wing. Alfred would lecture him if he tracked mud across the main corridors, and it was in his best interest to remain on the man's good side.
Soon, he rounded the corner toward where his and Dick's rooms were located, only to see the door to his son's standing open, leaving Alfred's dress-suit-clad back to obscure the view of any curious—and nonexistent—passerby that happened to posses the urge to peek inside the area. Upon hearing his charge's muffled footsteps approach, the old butler tilted his head to give Bruce a look, demanding silently in that politely harsh way only Englishmen can that he be quiet. The black-haired man nodded, noticing as he advanced that Alfred's gloved hand was already placed firmly on the ancient brass doorknob, preparing to close the bedroom off for the night. A little disappointed that he had missed his opportunity, Bruce paused in his steps alongside Alfred, who he now noticed had Dick's brightly-colored vigilante uniform folded and neatly draped over one arm. Instead of closing the door immediately, however, the butler-turned-family-member simply raised an eyebrow at the dark-haired man and waited for him to enter. Taking the hint, Bruce made his way softly to Dick's bedside, taking care to avoid the chaos strewn about the floor in an almost methodic way. For every way the young, hyper acrobat acted, it could never be said that there wasn't a method to his madness.
The room itself was massive, just as every other room in the expansive, ancient mansion that the Wayne family called home. Even in the darkness brought upon by the early-morning blackness shining through the cathedral windows lining one wall, Bruce could see—knew—that the young boy—one so used to living in a small, cramped Circus trailer—had done his best to adapt, trying his best over the years to make the space his own. The Dark Knight could not help but smile softly, proud of his son for enduring everything they both had in life, and—in a way—come out stronger than his mentor. Whereas Bruce had reacted to the tragedy of his parents' death with violence, vengeance, anger, and a darkly passionate need to wipe scum like Joe Chill and villains exponentially worse off the streets, Dick focused his pain and hurt toward the cause of preventing another child from suffering the same agony that they had. He was proud of the work they did, and optimistically honed in on the positive changes—however indiscernible they might have been—that the Dynamic Duo brought to society, rather than dwelling in the bottomless pit of crime that infested the world as his adoptive father had come to. Returning his thought process to the task at hand, Bruce let his gaze wander once more over the living area.
It was, essentially, every young boy's paradise—though Bruce was careful never to spoil his son without reason or consequence, making sure that nothing either of them had was taken for granted. Mounted on the far wall of the first area, in front of several comfy-looking bean-bag chairs, was a flat-screen TV, accompanying gaming systems and media discs scattered half-hazardly on an ornate shelf set underneath, where a small, dorm-sized refrigerator housed sodas and snacks necessary for every active, growing young man. A simple, wide door-less frame acted as somewhat of a barrier between the next, larger section, housing a king-sized, four-poster bed—across which a certain black-haired thirteen-year-old was currently sprawled, utilizing the space as much as was humanly possible for someone of his relatively small stature—and an intricate mahogany wardrobe filled to the brim with Gotham Academy uniforms and civilian clothes—though the tell-tale sweatshirts were pushed to the back rows for paranoia's sake.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves outlined another wall, continuing from the first room, and there was an antique desk strewn with school papers and texts next to an all-important laptop of the highest caliber. Bits and pieces of wires, tools, and various gadgets and appliances that had fallen prey to Dick's curious, genius mind poked out of desk drawers and formed little stacks where they had been pushed aside to make way for homework. Practically plastered across every wall not otherwise occupied, though, were posters, schematic doodles and absurdly long math equations worked out in smudged #2 pencil across graph paper, photographs, and other hangable knick-knacks that somehow seemed to appear from time to time. The most notable decoration in the rooms, though, was a framed, life-sized, colorful advertisement depicting the amazing Flying Graysons and their death-defying acrobatics act, across the back of which—usually hidden though barely visible through the thick paper in correct lighting—various members of the Haley's Circus family had written messages to their youngest and most beloved little performer. It had been a sad, yet loving and hopeful farewell gift upon Dick's moving into the Wayne household.
Upon approaching his exhausted son, Bruce's normally harsh, uptight demeanor softened, and even his tired shoulders seemed to relax. In sleep, Dick's many facades melted away into the graceful innocence of any young boy, regardless of background. It was a contented state that the elder man knew that he would never again be able to reach, even in the supposed-bliss of unconsciousness, but simply knowing that the one person who meant more than the world to him experienced such peace was enough to serve a similar purpose. Dick stirred briefly as the old house creaked in response to Alfred's departure from the main entranceway, blinking blearily through the dark and focusing only halfway on the familiar figure standing above him. "Bruce?" he mumbled, words slurred by his inconvenient state of semi-consciousness.
"Go back to sleep, Dick," he reached down to run a hand through his son's ruffled midnight locks, only to stop as he realized the black, blood-covered gloves were still slipped over his hands. Briefly, he mused that there was probably a bit of symbolism in that—the barrier of his stained alter-ego between him and those he loved preventing him from connecting fully with unhardened incorruption by darkness. "It's been a long day for both of us. Go back to sleep."
"You're goin' to bed, too, right?" even as he said the words, Dick was fading back into the land of dreams. "You need rest more than I do... You're always awake..." Bruce wasn't given the chance to answer as his breathing evened back out.
"Goodnight, Dick," he smiled, nudging the bedspread closer around his son as best he could without tainting the fabric, and silently retreated back to his Cave. No, there would be no slumber for him tonight. There was too much work to be done—too big a mystery to be solved.
When he returned to the control seat, he noticed with some gratitude toward the universe that the sample had made considerable progress in his absence, though he still had a bit to wait before the analysis's completion. For no other reason than want of something to keep his mind occupied, the Dark Knight settled in to check up on both Blackgate Penitentiary and Arkham Asylum, though he knew there had been no new developments—negative or otherwise—regarding either. Sure enough, everything was in order, leaving the streets free of the more psychotic members of society. He briefly considered contacting Batgirl, with whom he had entrusted patrol earlier in the evening, knowing that he would likely not return to the city in time for night's fall, but thought better of it knowing that the high-schooler was likely already tucked asleep, just as Dick was.
Eventually, after several moments of restless contemplation, he rose, made his way toward the elongated work table covered with an assortment of tools and tech, and began the mind-numbing task of restocking his utility belt. Thankfully, the tedious process was interrupted halfway through by an obnoxious alarm, signaling the DNA analysis's completion. He returned to the computer and tapped a few keys, beginning what was sure to be the endless process of running the sample through the systems in search of a match. With so much information with which to compare it, hours could pass before any definitive answer was found—if one was, that is. After all, there was no guarantee that the man was on any sort of record, period. Still, it was a start.
Utility belt forgotten—or ignored; he was too tired to decide which seemed like a better option—Bruce sank down into his control seat as the preparation bar began loading, and resigned himself to a task that he had been putting off: informing Clark of the situation. It was only a matter of time before Superman discovered that a member of the Team he was less inclined to fondness toward was staying the night at the League's base of operations, and Bruce was not in the mood for another lecture about keeping him in the know.
Despite being a recognized second-in-command under Bruce, Superman took his role a bit too seriously, and the strain put on their almost brotherly—though neither would ever admit to it—relationship by Superboy's sudden and controversial appearance was only serving to aggravate their already antagonistic attitude toward one another even more. Collapsing the comparison search to one of the smaller screens just as profiles began flashing at Flash-esque speeds, Batman linked to the Kryptonian's League communicator, knowing that—thanks to his alien biology—Clark needed less sleep than a normal human being, and, thus, would most likely be awake; glancing at the small digital clock blinking on another, upper panel—a strangely normal aspect that Dick had programmed after lamenting for days that there was no way to tell time in the Cave—he saw that it was just past four AM. After a moment, the black-haired journalist appeared on the massive screen, back-dropped against the dim outline of what Batman knew to be a small study in the man's Metropolis apartment. He was tense, already in costume and prepared for either a mission or bad news, but visibly relaxed when he saw his friend's exposed face rather than cowl—before assuming the worst. Bruce looked tired—in more ways than one.
"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, keeping his voice low, and Bruce offhandedly wondered if Lois was staying the night.
"There have been—" Bruce was cut off by another alert, signaling that a match had been found for the blood sample, and he whipped his gaze down toward the screen in a rare display of surprise—he had genuinely not expected any results so soon into the hunt. What he saw, however, sent him reeling, and all thoughts of the concerned man magnified on his monitor disappeared. "Impossible..."
"Bruce? Bruce, what's going on?" the younger man, much to Clark's distress, had gone pale, and did not seem to hear him. While it was not often Bruce displayed emotion to those he considered to be outsiders, it was even more infrequent—nearly never—that the man was rendered stunned to the point of speechlessness.
A loud crash resounded behind Bruce, followed by a wavering but steady, "Master Bruce?" Alfred, who had returned to the cave bearing what he knew from experience to be much-needed coffee and a small sandwich—the Wayne heir had no doubt skipped dinner again, as usual—had dropped the tray he had been carrying upon seeing the results magnify themselves on the main screen next to Clark's video feed.
The noise seemed to snap the Dark Knight back to reality, and he absently scrubbed his face with his still-gloved hands, wincing slightly at the rough material, sitting back in the chair. "No... no, not impossible." Immediately, every possible explanation ran through his brilliant mind, and be quickly stood to process another blood sample as the most likely scenario popped itself to the forefront of his thoughts.
"Seriously, Bruce—what happened? Look at me—what happened?" Just as Superman was contemplating an early-morning flight to Gotham—thoroughly annoyed and with growing anxiety at being ignored—the old butler, having managed to scoop the broken bits of china back onto his platter, stepped forward with the best explanation he could offer at the moment. He knew the base details of the situation regarding the Batsuit-clad stranger, and had been made somewhat aware of the evening's happenings over video messaging during the Dynamic Duo's flight back to the city, but he knew that he did not quite grasp the true importance of the name displayed in bold above a smiling picture, despite recognizing that this was in some way monumental.
"It seems our mysterious guest now has a name."
The air was too cold—too damp—and the wind was too chilled. It just seemed... wrong, somehow, though he couldn't place it. The world felt sick as he sprinted through the back alleys of a city so familiar, yet all too foreign. Come now, little bird, I don't want to hurt you. I just want to talk. There was a laugh, resonating closer with every pounding step he took, the slaps as his feet hit the puddled pavement echoing through the eerily silent night. There was no sound of tailing footsteps—no physical indication that he was being followed—but he knew. He knew, even though he did not understand how. You saw him, didn't you? You watched him bleed out. What did he say little bird? What did he ask you? His throat burned, his lungs constricted, and his sides heaved as he rounded a corner, sliding to a pained stop for less than a second. He had to keep moving. He had to stay strong and keep moving. There was someone he had to find—to warn—but his brain was muddled and he couldn't remember who he was supposed to tell. Because I know what he said. It's an honest question, isn't it? A bit fun to think of the answer. I've been playing with it, you know. A bit messy, that—but all the chaos just adds to the fun of it. Suddenly, a scream shattered the night, and he never had the chance to realize that it erupted from his own body. What would the world be like without Batman?
Gasping, Dick willed his eyes open with a force that nearly hurt as he trashed out at the darkness. Something was holding him back—pinning him down—he had to get away. A choked sound that could have been halfway between a cry for help and a sob escaped him, but suddenly—for a split second—he was falling, only to freeze when the ground rushed up to smack him mercilessly across the side of his head. Blinking blearily as his vision cleared through the fog of sleep, panic, and pain, he tried in vain to reign in his heart rate, struggling to breathe. He had been trained by the goddamn Batman, for Christ's sake—and the number one rule that had been drilled into his head from the earliest of ages was never, on any occasion, was it alright to panic. Panicking got you killed.
Belatedly, though, the young boy realized that he was not trapped in some madman's lair, subdued with barbed wire, but on his bedroom floor, tangled in his sheets where he had fallen from the bed. Suddenly, he felt very stupid—stupid, but still a little unnerved. It had been quite some time since he had experienced nightmares—and never one like that—but he was not keen on returning to sleep. None of the events that had led him from the Batmobile to his pajamas were particularly un-fuzzy and at the forefront of his mind, but he vaguely remembered Alfred bringing him up and helping him out of his uniform. For a moment, his brain wanted him to believe that Bruce had been there, but the memory was fleeting and Dick was only halfway positive that it had not been a figment of his imagination—his subconscious wanting a father to comfort him.
With a groan, he shimmied out of the cocoon that had somehow managed to form itself around him—master escape artist, and all that—before poking his head over the side of his now-bare bed. Part of him just wanted to stay on the floor and go back to sleep, but he knew that his muscles would be infinitely sore for the next several days if he gave in. He settled instead for simply resting his chin on the cool mattress, trying to gain the strength and will to heave himself up. When he finally did, though, and managed to flop bouncily on his back, the young acrobat quickly realized that there was no way he would be able to return to sleep after such an ordeal.
No matter how tired he was, his thoughts refused to drift much away from that same, recurring line that seemed to pop up everywhere he looked—and, even when they did, his mind's focus honed in on the eerily similar message delivered by their prisoner back at Mount Justice and the likely inspiration for his night terror. Stupid subconscious. With a frustrated huff, he glanced at the clock—just for kicks to see how much sleep he had actually managed to deposit into the bank—and practically whined when the time smirked back at him. Four-thirty-nine AM. Stupid universe. (It seemed that everything this morning had decided to be stupid, and he mentally declared it to be the Word of the Day out of spite.) Bored, grumpy, and in need of some kind of company to keep away his dreams, Dick rolled out of bed once more—purposefully, this time—and paused for a moment as his room righted itself. It was an almost guarantee that Bruce was still awake at this hour, and, despite knowing that it would probably bother the older man to no end—not because of the fact that he was there, but that he was not getting the rest both knew he needed—he decided to join his father down in the Batcave.
Not bothering to put on slippers—shoes were stupid—he made his way out the door and padded silently through the carpeted halls of his home, eventually making his way to the main, winding wooden staircase that served as a sort-of centerpiece for the grand hall. Briefly, he entertained the idea of sliding down the railing—it wouldn't be the first time he had done it, nor the last—but decided that he was still a bit too out of it to be pulling stunts like that this early in the morning. It would suck for everyone if he broke something—whether it be himself or any of the numerous fragile items awaiting their doom below.
He left the destruction for another day—preferably one where Wally was involved...somehow he always managed to cause the most damage of anyone when their collective madness was involved—and continued on until he made it to Bruce's massive study. Jumping over one of the several lavish couches—just because he wasn't going to risk his health one way didn't mean he couldn't get his blood flowing somehow—he hopped toward the old grandfather clock, clambering up the shelves of one of the many adjoining bookcases in order to reach its face, before reaching to twist the two spindly metal hands toward ten-forty-seven—the exact time his adoptive grandparents were murdered. Just as it always did, the whirring of mechanisms sounded in the quiet of the office, and the wooden monument slid back and to the side, revealing a small elevator. Dick deftly twisted inside, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a newfound energy as he descended into the caverns below. Stupid adrenaline—there was no way he was getting back to sleep, now.
Several seconds and a desire to bring up the topic of installing speakers and a smooth jazz loop with Bruce later, the slick metal doors were sliding open to reveal the dimly-lit staircase leading down into the depths of his father's secret hideout. Over the railing, he could clearly make out the ever-present glow from the Batcave's many monitors, and Dick slowed his footsteps when he realized that his Uncle Clark's frowning face was taking up half of the main screen. It wouldn't do to interrupt if they were discussing something serious, and... was that his picture up there next to the video feed? Curious, he crept downwards, careful not to make a sound. Really, though, if the three men—Alfred was there, too, he now realized—had not heard the elevator arrive, they were more than likely too occupied to notice him; it was, of course, better to be safe than sorry, though. Dick may have been a ninja, but his father was, for all intents and purposes, a ninja master.
Batman was talking, and the young acrobat, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, slipped into the shadows and settled in to listen. "...them tomorrow morning back at Mount Justice. He's still there, and at this point the situation has moved so close to home that there is no way to keep them out of this."
"And whose fault is that?" Clark shot, obviously annoyed by something. It was an attitude he had only recently developed after discovering Superboy's existence, and, with the mention of the Mountain, it was safe to assume that the two men were discussing the Team.
"I recognize that it was not the best decision on my part to bring him there, but it was designed as a training exercise. There was no way I could have foreseen these developments." Bruce's retort was quick, and no doubt accompanied by a patent-pending Bat-glare.
Alfred intervened before any more of an argument could spring up between the two. "Regardless of blame, the pressing matter remains as to how you plan on breaking this... somewhat disturbing news to your partners."
Superman's anger flared. "He is not my—"
"I was not referring to you, Mister Kent." Alfred interrupted, and Dick had to bite back a chuckle. There were very few people who could get away with telling off Superman, and his grandfather-figure was one of them. Returning his focus to the matter at hand, though, the young boy continued to puzzle over the fact that his profile was still shining proud right above the blinking red letters that proclaimed Match Found in bold print. Match found? From what? The only thing—which he knew of, anyway—Bruce had planned to test that night had been the samples gathered from the injured man back at their base. There were no other ongoing cases that the Batman and Robin were working on, and nothing in the League that would involve him. There was no way that—
"Simple: I'll tell them the truth. They are a strong group of teenagers, and I know they will be able to handle it." Dick was almost flattered by his praise of their Team, and, had he not been so distracted as things slowly began to come together in his mind he might have smiled in the darkness.
"But what about Dick? Think the effect this will have on him."
"I have, and I see no other way around this. He is a brilliant young boy, and we will work through whatever problems this uproots in the long run. For now, things have escalated to an already irreversible point as they are, and the best option we have is to move forward" he paused, "Besides, Clark, I don't think you have much by way of authority on giving me advice about my son." The glares returned.
"That... kid is not my son, Bruce, and you know that. And this situation is completely different—this is not just another mission."
"I never said it was—this is something much, much bigger than anything you will be able to understand. Not until you take your responsibilities and deal with them. He is my child, Clark—don't you dare ever assume that I could write this off as anything less than top priority."
Alfred, once again, intervened. "Arguing will achieve nothing, as I have already established. Please rein your focus away from your respective familial issues and present it to the task at hand. Quite frankly, I am a bit shocked at both of you—an aged version of Master Richard appears in our world and all you both have done for the past five minutes is bicker about responsibilities. No one questioned your authority on the subject, Master Bruce, and, Master Clark? Kindly lower your voice. I am quite sure that you have most likely awoken anyone else in your apartment with all the noise you both are making."
Dick stopped listening after the man's third sentence, physically taking a step back as though slapped by the realization. No, no... that wasn't possible... that meant... that meant that... In forgetting that he was backed up against the stairwell's edge, though, the young boy managed to hit his head against the metal railing, sending an echo-y, ringing clang to resonate throughout the Cave. He did not even register the pain as three pairs of eyes focused on him.
Stupid universe.
AN: You guys need to stop listening to me. Really. I'm sorry. ): I can plan and plan and plan, but, in the end, that obnoxious wordcount glaring at me from the bottom of the page is what ultimately decide what makes it into each chapter. So, for, like, the third time in this story, I have to split this chapter up into two. (But he wakes up in the next chapter! I swear! It's actually written, so I can't let you guys down again!) Anyway-Yay for mystery-man's identity finally being revealed! (even though you all already knew). I have to say, though, that this chapter was awful to write, and I hate it, and I'm sorry. The whole second scene? Complete rubbish. I don't even know where that came from. I'll probably pop back in a bit later and tweak some things (as I seem to be wont to do), but it's been so long since I posted a chapter that I figured I might as well get this up here now. Don't kill me... please... pitchforks and torches and mobs are scary, and no way to bring in the new year...
As always, reviews are love. Thank you so much to everyone who has read/alterted/favorited/reviewed this story so far~ your support keeps me writing! :insert heart here: