Wicked – Chapter 4
By Christopher W. Blaine
DISCLAIMER: All of the characters and events portrayed in this work of fan fiction are ©2004 by DC Comics Inc. and are used without permission for fan-related entertainment purposes only. This original work of fiction is ©2004 by Christopher W. Blaine.
Ted allowed himself to be escorted through the rest of the manor, taking time to admire the various collectibles, art work and other mementos of the previous owners. In his head he kept reciting the lessons from the audio cassette he had listened to on the drive here, lessons meant to increase his vocabulary. Ever since he had started working for the more affluent members of Gotham society he had been trying to sound not so much like a kid from the streets, but more business-like.
Being a super-hero was great, though not as challenging as being a boxer. A boxer trained day in and day out to battle someone of equal skill and determination; a super-hero normally fought people weaker than them or so over-powered that it wasn't even funny. The biggest problem with putting on the costume and defending the innocent was that it did not pay very well.
Ted had made plenty of money in the 1940's and the 1950's, but it was all gone now. Another problem of living too long was that you never got to retire. So he was doing the bodyguard thing until something better came along or at least until the rest of the Justice Society got off of their butts and decided it was time to fight the good fight again.
Leslie continued to speak softly, pointing out various details, none of it mattering much to Ted as he shifted thoughts back to his actual duties. Normally he would perform a complete physical security inspection of the house, but the problem here was not keeping people out, it was keeping one little boy in.
Kidnapping Bruce Wayne would be pointless. The majority of the Wayne Fortune was being held in trust and Alfred and Leslie had only limited power to withdraw funds for the maintenance of the Manor and for providing for Bruce. It was rumored, though, that Thomas Wayne had made several investments into the computer industry months before his death and if that were true, it was very likely that Bruce Wayne might be the youngest billionaire in the world when he turned 21.
The finally came to a small gymnasium that had recently been renovated. Leslie explained that it had once been a billiards room, but that Bruce had requested that it be transformed about a year before. It was at that time, she told him, that Bruce started to become interested in gymnastics, but refused to participate in any team-related sports.
They stopped at the doorway, spying Alfred standing with his hands clasped behind his back while a man in a black karate uniform, complete with the Japanese-style split-toe boots, stood before young Bruce. The boy was busy performing warm-up exercises and was dressed in very casual sweat clothes. That surprised Ted; most martial arts instructors were anal about making sure that their students bowed at the mat and wore the correct uniform.
But then it was kind of strange; little boys loved to play dress-up and act like they were super-heroes, or at least that was what Ted had noted over the years. Then when they became men, they put the costumes away, unless they were a little off in the head like him!
The instructor was accompanied by a younger man with long sideburns, someone named "Steve" who also sported a black belt. That must have been Bruce's sparring partner Ted reasoned and he leaned back against the wall to observe. For the next hour or so they practiced rolls and cartwheels, standard ninja techniques. Bruce was not a perfect student, but he listened and he tried. Steve tried to joke with him, but Bruce would not have any of it. He remained focused on what he was doing and seemed to take the mistakes just as well as he took the compliments.
Bruce moved well, but it was obvious that the boy had much on his mind, as Sensei Terry pointed out when Bruce failed to step away from a strike. Steve hit Bruce in the cheek with enough force to push the boy back. Steve immediately halted the attack and asked if Bruce was all right.
"Yes," Bruce replied.
Sensei Terry nodded. "You have to be aware of everything that is going on during an attack, Bruce," he explained. "Not everything is what it seems and you have to be prepared for the unexpected. An attacker may decide to strike you in the stomach with a fist and then kick you in the leg. Once you are in a fight, once the other person has committed themselves, you must forget everything else and concentrate on achieving your objective."
Ted found himself smiling as he listened. Those were the same words, more or less, that his boxing coach had told him and it was the same speech he had given several times when he had students. The basics of hand-to-hand combat were the same regardless of style or training.
When the class had finished, Alfred moved to talk with Sensei Terry while Steve checked on Bruce. "I hope I didn't hurt you, Bruce. Normally you're pretty quick about getting out of the way."
Bruce lifted his head up from the towel he was using to dry the sweat on his face. His expression was a mixture of anger and embarrassment. "What? Are you trying to say I'm good at running away? That I'm a coward?"
Steve shook his head quickly and tried to resolve the situation immediately. "Absolutely not! You're a great student, Bruce, I was just trying to say..."
"Go ahead, say it, Steve! Tell me how good I am at hiding or ducking, but not very good at standing up and taking it," Bruce argued back, his eyes wet with the beginnings of tears.
"Bruce!" Sensei Terry called out.
"You're both fired," Bruce said. "Alfred, pay them and see them out," the young boy said with a voice of authority. Ted noted that when he gave orders, he sounded much older and he was willing to bet that he was imitating his father's voice.
Bruce turned and stomped out of the gymnasium, leaving Alfred feeling very confused and mortified. He started to speak with the two instructors and Ted turned to regard Leslie. "Boy has a mouth on him," he remarked. "Have you considered some discipline?"
"Bruce is very rarely given to such outbursts, and they tend to get worse the closer we get to the anniversary date of his parent's murders." She looked very worried. "You see how willful he is. Both Alfred and I are both afraid that if we lock him up, as you suggest, he will build a wall of resentment towards us. What good will that do? Would it not be better to let him get out of his system whatever it is that is infecting him?"
"Spoken like a true doctor; feed the fever, starve the cold and things like that," Ted said. He decided to take a gamble and let her in on his own theory. "He acts like he believes that that his mother was killed because he ducked out of the way. He blames himself."
"That is natural. Survivors of great trauma often have a difficult time coming to terms with why they were spared and others were not," she said. Alfred then joined them and Ted proposed his ideas about Bruce to him.
"Indeed it is a hypothesis worthy of further investigation. It does coincide with my observations of his behavior, especially of late. It seems the older he gets, the more heavily his supposed guilt weighs upon him," Alfred told them. He took in a deep breath. "Then perhaps you would agree that by allowing him to face his demons, per say, by allowing his excursions into Gotham City, we are providing him the opportunity to expel these thoughts from his mind."
Ted was reminded of the time he was caught smoking a cigarette when he was a kid and a cop made him smoke the whole pack until he got sick and threw up. That cop probably saved him from getting lung cancer.
Then again, he still smoked cigars...
"Have you at least considered sending him to see a psychiatrist?" he asked.
"As I am sure Dr. Thompkins has explained, young Bruce would simply lie. He knows how to keep secrets, believe me," Alfred said as he opened the door that would lead them back into the manor proper. When they reached the library, Alfred went around the room to make sure all of the doors were closed. "May I be perfectly frank, Mr. Grant?" he asked.
"By all means," Ted replied, a little shocked by the butler's newfound bluntness.
"Bruce Wayne is a special boy who will one day grow into a special man, the Lord willing. I cannot explain it, nor can Dr. Thompkins, but there is a feeling of manifest destiny about him." Alfred turned to look out the window. "I am willing to give the boy as much leeway as I can to allow him to explore what path he needs to take in life. I am also willing to spare no expense to protect him as he does this, which is why we have retained your services. I greatly appreciate your concern for him and it provides me with greater ease knowing that such heartfelt sentiments will be with you as you protect him, but you must understand that no matter what we do, no matter how hard we try, nothing on this Earth except for perhaps the Second Coming, and even then I am doubtful, is going to keep him here on that night."
"You know, it would be a lot easier if you went into the police station and asked the police yourself," Ben told Black Canary as they drove along in his compact car. It was not a bad vehicle, a newer model in fact, but she always measured a man by the car he drove. From this model, she guessed that Ben did not make as much money as he probably should and he apparently liked to keep it very, very clean. When she had tried to light a cigarette, he had nearly had a heart attack.
"People can die from secondhand smoke," he had said.
"Honey, everyone from my generation smoked and they all lived into their late fifties," she had replied as she had thrown the cigarette out the window.
"Have you ever stopped to think how long they would have lived if they hadn't smoked?" was his retort.
Her mind came back to subject at hand. "I don't like police stations," she said.
"You're a super-hero, for God's sake! Super-heroes and cops are the same thing," he laughed as they made a hard right. "Everyone knows that."
"No we're not. Cops have examinations and training and stuff like that; super-heroes put on costumes and run around at all hours of the night saving the world." She turned to look out the window and saw her reflection. It was not her current face, though, but the one that had stared back at her decades before just before she had left for her father's funeral. Even after all of these years, the sting of his shock over her failing to get into the police academy was still painful.
Her father had been a cop and had wanted a son. When she had been born, he had sworn to make the best of it and had personally trained her in police procedures, unarmed and armed combat and investigative techniques. None of it had mattered though. It did nothing for her when she applied because all they saw was her long dark hair and large chest. A woman in the 1940's could not hope to become a cop unless she screwed the entire force.
Her father had seen her rejection letter and then had fallen dead from a heart attack.
A few months later, armed with a razor wit and a blond wig, she had tried to live up to her father's image of her. She had been trying ever since. "You're an investigative reporter, right?" she asked and he nodded. "Then you can get information a lot easier than I would be able to. You must have a contact on the force."
He shrugged as he pulled into the parking garage that was located across from the precinct they were to visit. Black Canary wanted to see whatever notes the police had, especially on any items they were not releasing to the public. With serial killers it was always standard procedure to leave some details out of the public venue in order to differentiate between the real killer and anyone wanting to copy them.
Most people who knew about this assumed that the police routinely hid the information from the press, but more times than not a good reporter would find it out but not release it to make the police department feel indebted to them. It was a dirty way to run a free press, but Ben explained that big city life was all about exchanging favors. "And it is really bad here compared to Texas," he commented as he shut off the car. "I can't believe how many cops really are corrupt here."
"Then expose them," she replied.
He shook his head. "To what end? For the most part the graft is low key, shaking down hookers and drug pushers, maybe some simple assaults, but nothing major. Nothing I print, nothing I write is going to change anything because what the problem really is a lack of real leadership. There are some good cops here, but they need someone who is going to stand up and support them when they try to clean this place up."
"If it's so bad, why did you leave Texas?" she asked.
"Got tired of living in my father's shadow. He was a great reporter, he really was, and because of that, I always ended up being compared to him." He scratched his head and then turned to pull his suit jacket from the backseat. "I just wanted to be accepted for my own work, that's all."
"Tough trying to live up to their expectations," she said, suddenly feeling empathy with the tall reporter.
"Theirs? I don't know about that; I think we are harder on ourselves. I think we take their desires for our lives and inflate them. Then when it right at the bursting point, we add a little more hot air and watch our egos explode." He chuckled and shook his head before opening the door. "He was a great reporter, though," he said.
She watched him walk out of the garage and cross the street to enter the police station and considered the words he had said. "Yeah, my dad had been a great cop, but he wanted me to be a better one," she whispered, feeling the onset of the hot tears she cried whenever she thought of her father.
The only thing she had been concerned with during her teen years had been getting into the academy. She poured her heart, soul and sweat into the effort, confident that she would have become the greatest female police officer in Gotham City history. Her rejection and her father's subsequent death had deeply affected her and many times over the years she had wondered if by putting on the costume if she had not been trying to find a way to kill herself. Worse, the way she flirted with danger and dangerous men, she had to consider if subconsciously she was not trying to get raped, so she could satisfy a male figure.
"God, I'm so screwed up," she said to herself as she pulled out another cigarette and lit it. It was ironic that a man who hated smoking kept a working cigarette lighter in his car. She inhaled deeply and watched the people on the street and was surprised to see so many young people, many barely into their teens, walking around the streets in the middle of the day unsupervised. When she was growing up he father would never have allowed her such freedom and she had to wonder what was the matter with parents today. Her daughter would receive the same upbringing she had, she told herself, with just a few minor changes. She would not force her daughter to follow in her footsteps; quite the contrary, she would dedicate herself to ensuring that the Black Canary legend died with her.
No matter what.