'Super' was an interesting word. From Latin, it most directly meant 'over' or 'above.' In English, the world tended to sound slightly phony and plastic. It reeked of an earlier and more naive time in history, of plastered smiles over teetering catastrophe. So it was that the compound word 'super hero' tended to feel phony on his lips. It was an absurd word, as impressive as a roll of cellophane, and so was 'super villain.' Still, one supposed both compounds were necessary distinctions.
After all a 'hero' was merely a fireman, a mother, or a stalwart police officer. The world 'super hero' was necessary for that certain class of people who went far beyond mundaneheroism, people who could not live normal human lives. These 'super heroes' were the Spartans of modern underworld combat; their profession was (in a manner of speaking) war.
Likewise, where 'villain' was a word to describe dramatically compelling antagonists, their profession could be banker, assassin, teacher, or step mother. But a super villain-.
TCHK-flp.
Terra frowned at the largely unblemished target in disappointment. "I missed again," she complained, dismayed by the array of metal scattered about the target's base. Mr. Smith grinned, brought back to reality by the high-pitched whine of his daughter's voice. He leaned over her and slipped another throwing knife gently into her fingers. His own hand closed about her, carefully positioning her fingertips and knuckles.
"It's not about thinking," he told her, "it's not deduction, it doesn't use your brain. It's feeling. You do it long enough and you get a feel for it." He grasped her shoulders tightly, turning her a bit. "Your fingers start doing the thinking for you. And then you just keep challenging them, giving goals just a little farther, a little farther..."
"But I can't even get a knife to stick!" she complained. "What am I don't wrong?
"Don't worry so much, Squirt," he teased, ducking to kiss the top of her head. "D'ya have any idea how long it took you to learn your first word? Well. The second word was easier."
She glanced at him hopefully and then took a deep breath.
"Not so much mental preparation and build up. Just guide it through the first few paces of the journey. Let it go, see what it does. Watch it the whole way. Watch its shape when it strikes. You're going for something like this." He moved her body through the motions, her arms, her legs.
Terra nodded and came back to her starting position. She gave it another try, casting the next knife in her best mimicry of her father's motions. The hilt of the blade struck the target, and the weapon bounced harmlessly off. She swore.
"Whoa!" Alarmed, Mr. Smith grabbed her cheeks and tilted her head back up to look at him. "None of that," he chastised, patting her cheek sternly.
Terra blushed, frustrated. "How do you do it?"
"Learned the same way you did, kid: throwing a knife and failing over and over and over again. Now throw the rest, clean up, stab the target a couple times till you feel better, and then it's time for something completely different."
"Blah, I'm never going to be able to focus," She complained. "Is it math? I'm never going to be able to focus."
"No worries. I have ice-cream ready. Once more?"
Terra perked up at the mention of a light at the end of her tunnel. She nodded and carefully reached for the next knife. This time, the weapon stuck.
"Yesss!"
"Ha! Very good. Now don't get mad when the next one doesn't stick; we've got fun things to do later!"
"Are we making fire today?" Terra asked eagerly, looking back at her father and grabbing another knife.
Mr. Smith lifted a brow. "I'm sorry, who are you talking to? Me? Of course we're making fire today. I went to all the trouble to set up that workplace, didn't I? I want to show you how sawmills can explode! Then we'll make bismuth crystals and turn them into cosmetics and gastrointestinal medications."
Terra looked up at him, as if waiting for something.
Her father tapped his chin, feeling like he was forgetting something. "Oh yes!" it suddenly occurred to him. "How could I forget? Pyrotechnics! Bismuth is wonderful for making dragon's eggs pyrotechnics stars..."
"Where are we going to shoot off fireworks!?" Terra asked in alarm.
"Alas, but I shall not reveal my master plan so early! Now, aim!"
Most 'supers' were loners; they worked together only when necessary, and avoided interpersonal relationships with laymen like the plague. At worse they were antisocial, and at best they couldn't be everywhere at once and lacked the omnipresence necessary to protect the people they cared for. If- and it was rare- they tried to start a family, they usually had to vanish. Certain 'supers' like Bats and Ra's could train underlings, companions, and replacements. They were used to sharing what they knew, whether it was with blooming 'supers' or hand-picked goons.
But truth be told, the Joker had never shared his craft with much of anyone. Harley had learned through observation; his goons he had left as unaware and incapable as possible. Teaching his craft, his profession, war, to anyone was strange to him. Teaching Terra was strangest of all. He thought of some of the things he had done to the world; some of the ways he'd taken lives or convinced brainless goons to swallow explosives for him.
"Elbow," he called, prompting her to make a small correction.
As Terra's next knife struck home on the target, Mr. Smith couldn't suppress a shiver. She was right: anyone who could predict the future (and predict it she could, based on how she was now hitting every knife successfully into the target) was never going to be able to live a normal life. Still, the more he shared with her, the more he remembered there was a whole lot of ugly he didn't really want her to see.
She's going to see it eventually. She'll get on the internet and read old police files; if I don't end up killing someone in front of her first.
What says she'll mind? She could end up like me. She did ask to go as the Joker for Halloween.
The clown made a face of displeasure. He would rather another Bats than another Harley. At least the former would make for years of fun dramatic tension. And as for her being like the Joker? Hmph. There could only be one.
"He really gave us the slip," Robin noted. "Makes sense, he's been perfecting the art for... how long now?"
Bruce was quiet, making a paper airplane out of the bill for his new Lamborghini. He was anticipating the delivery of the vehicle with the same excitement as he might anticipate a good cup of coffee. It was expected of him to indulge, and so he did; buying the four million dollar vehicle off the cuff. He attended many functions and one of them had featured a high end auto show. There, compared to the latest Dolorian-esque Ferrari and Pagani, the black Lamborghini Veneno had an angular, aggressive shape to it that reminded him of a certain roof-jumping tank. He'd liked it. He threw the paper airplane.
"You don't seem very concerned," his second noticed, folding his arms over his chest.
"Hmm?" Bruce glanced at him.
Robin scowled. "Don't give me that, I'm not your adoring public. You haven't seem very invested in tracking down you-know-who for awhile now. Big change for a guy who was obsessed over this for years."
Bruce shrugged.
"Like I said, that act doesn't work on me."
Mr. Wayne eyed Robin for a moment. Then he sat forward on his desk and leaned his elbows on the wood top, interlacing his fingers. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"That's what I'm asking you," Robin retorted. "It's like you've lost the heart for fighting. Ever since-" he trailed off.
"Ever since... what, Robin?"
The younger man scowled.
"Ever since... Helena was born?"
Robin said nothing.
Bruce smirked. "Ever since Helena was born it's like I've settled down. I've tended to the buisness, moved around assets, secured financial holdings. It's like Batman's been on the decline and... suddenly I'm only Bruce Wayne? Like suddenly now that there's a child, I'm worried about mundane things instead of my real job. Instead of the real villains out there."
His second sneered, pouted, then shrugged. "Well you said it."
Mr. Wayne smirked. "Do you want to take over, then?"
"No! I want the Dark Knight to fight!" Robin protested. "What's wrong with you? Is it really the kid? You haven't gotten off your ass for a week!"
"Bold claim. Not without some evidence to support it, I suppose, but one that could get you in a lot of trouble if you start trying to prove something to me." He tapped his lips with his pointer fingers splayed as Robin grimaced, annoyed with the patronizing tone he perceived in the older man's words. "How about this," he said at last, sitting up and then leaning confidently back into his chair. "If I prove to you I haven't lost my edge, you drop the matter. And you definitely drop blaming Helena." His voice suddenly had a hard edge at that last point.
Robin grimaced but shrugged. "You're on, Bats."
Bruce smiled. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out three photographs, and tossed them across the table. The younger man blinked and picked the closer one up, looking at it uncertainly. "A kid? What-" He frowned and, not wanting to look like a fool, he picked up the second photograph. This one was a duplicate of the first, but it had been edited. The hair had been swapped out and the eye color changed. Listed around the picture were notes like a brand of eye contact or prosthetic skin. Unmistakably, the second photograph was of Veronica Peterson. Robin blinked and then grabbed the third photograph. This one had been tailored into the shape of Marcy Adams.
Robin lifted his head and looked at Bruce- Batman- in surprise and alarm.
"The kid- Buttercup- You know where she is," he exclaimed. "Where is she?"
"Where I can keep an eye on her," the Batman said with a smirk, reaching into his desk to pull out a fine brand of cigar and a golden lighter. "Smoke?" he offered one to the younger man.
"And... and him?" the boy pressed, ignoring the offer.
"Well, probably best for your health that you didn't start," he decided, and it only took a split second for Robin to realize he wasn't just talking about smoking cigars. His face blushed with anger and embarrassment at this subtle jab at his accidental leak to Fruit Bat on the Joker's whereabouts.
"You're just letting him walk around!?" the younger man stammered. "I could help you! Is this seriously about Harley? That was over a year ago! Or are you worried you'll fail and he'll come after Helena? That's ridiculous, one of us could watch over her while the others-!"
"We had a deal," the Batman noted. "Firstly for you to drop the matter, and secondly to stop bringing Helena into the conversation."
"But-!"
"Didn't I hold up my end of the bargain?" Bruce asked. "Didn't I prove to you I'm still who you signed up to follow?"
Robin hesitated.
"Then maybe you should just trust that I know what I'm doing. It would be a nice start, you know. My household trusting me. You know like trusting me not to be lazy... Not to be insane... Not to see imaginary Jokers..."
The younger man sighed. He had just been completely played into a trap of obedient silence; his own personal form of hell. Clearly, whether he was Batman or Bruce Wayne, a certain dark-haired billionaire had not lost his game. With a defeated slump of his shoulders, Robin sank down into the chair opposite Batman, a begrudging respect working its way over his face.
"One day you're going to get killed because you didn't trust anyone enough to not die while helping you," the younger man muttered.
Batman shrugged. "Maybe I would if you'd all stop nearly dying while helping me." He grinned, because he was mostly teasing.
Robin made a face.
"I think I'm going to start reading Helena The Hobbit." Bruce mused aloud. "Plenty of good lessons on heroism in there. And ones in stupidity. And a good depiction of the dangers involved when provoking sleeping dragons..."
Robin made another face.