A/N Well, that section of my crazy summer is over with. Next chapter should be up Monday or Tuesday.
If anyone from England is reading this, please accept my sincere sympathy for the terrible tragedy that happened Thursday. My prayers are with your country.
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or Robin. My lawyers are still slugging it out over Alfred. Good help is hard to find these days.
Bat-Chapter 3: Taking Flight
A shadow among the shadows (his preferred method of camouflage), Batman crouched on the edge of the station roof, the infrared vision enhancer on his mask lighting up the figures in the scene below. Swift and silent, men moved around a dark line of boxcars, going in empty handed and emerging with bulky crates. According to the shipment manifest, the boxes contained fine china for Gladelands, Gotham's most exclusive department store. But Batman knew that imported china was the cheapest cargo the crates held. Colombian white gold. How many kilos are coming in tonight?
And this wasn't just any bunch of drug dealers. This particular train had been the supply source for the couple that had held Dick Grayson and six other children captive. One black gloved hand clenched in fury, but the Caped Crusader forced himself to subdue the compulsion to plunge like a rain of fire on the unsuspecting criminals. Patience. They're just little fish. Follow the chain. It did no good to round up the petty dealers and pushers. The big men (or women) at the top just found more flunkies to sell their product. It had taken weeks to work the chain back this far, and he had no intention of wasting Gordon's hard work.
At last the movement around the boxcars began to wane, and the muffled figures drifted one by one into the hot August night. The last to leave was a man who had lifted no boxes at all, but had directed the operation from the interior of the car. He walked around the corner of the station and slipped into the parking garage, blissfully unaware of his dark stalker.
One moment he was fitting the key to the door of his silver Corvette, the next he was slammed against the chest high concrete barrier.
"Where does it come from?" a harsh voice rasped in his ear.
The man was shaking in terror. "I don't…I don't know what you're talking about!"
The grip on his neck tightened painfully. "Are you a stupid man? For your sake, I hope not." Suddenly, the dealer found himself dangling over the wrong side of the barrier, five stories above the ground. "Where does it come from?"
"I…I don't know." He shrieked as he was shaken like a rag doll. "I don't know! All I know is...the stuff's not on the train until it reaches Gotham. And then we take it right off again."
His tormentor gave a sharp hiss. "How do you know to meet the train?"
"Flyer…first letter…"
A shot rang out, and the man in Batman's grip transformed from a struggling weight to a dead one. The Caped Crusader dropped the body and flung himself over the Corvette, just as another slug slammed into the wall.
His enhanced vision immediately located the man crouching behind a concrete post, but before he could make a move in that direction a car roared down from the roof of the garage. With a squeal of breaks, it stopped just long enough for the shooter to throw himself inside, then screamed away, treads smoking.
Without hesitation, Batman dove over the side of the garage. His forefinger and thumb closed together, sending the charge that stiffened his cape, allowing him to glide to within two feet of the Batmobile (as it had been dubbed by the Gotham media). As he landed, he saw his quarry slam through the barrier arm of the garage, debris flying.
Leaping into the Batmobile, he jerked the engine to life, prepared to speed after the escapees…just as a crowd of late show viewers emerged from the theater across the street.
Batman's fist met the steering wheel. In between the waves of pain that washed up his arm, he reflected bitterly that pursuit was no longer possible without endangering either lives or public property. And that, Alfred would never approve.
It had been nearly three weeks since orphaned Dick Grayson had come to stay at Wayne Manor. Thanks to Alfred's careful feeding, his cheeks were rounding out, the skin no longer pinched tightly across his bones. Hours of floating on a raft in the crescent shaped swimming pool (the Olympic sized one was indoors) had put a flush of color and a scattering of freckles on his once pasty skin. But despite his improved health, he remained unnaturally subdued.
Alfred could sometimes coax him into bits of conversation in the kitchen. Dick never asked for food, but if anything edible was in his vicinity, he followed it with hungry, haunted eyes. Once Alfred, after saturating the boy with a particularly liberal dose of milk and cookies, wormed out of him the admission that "there wasn't much to eat where I was before." Alfred, uncharacteristically furious, said to Bruce, "Gotham and the Old American South – there's not much difference where slavery's concerned, now is there?"
To Bruce, Dick spoke only in monosyllables or not at all.
In fact, the only person who seemed capable of bringing vitality to that wary face was Rachel. She had spent as much time with him as she could, taking him clothes shopping, to the zoo, to the movies, or just for a walk through the manor's gorgeous gardens. For Rachel Dick would smile, and once Alfred even overheard a soft laugh. But the scales of justice were being rebalanced, and the new chief D.A. was all but run off her feet. (She hadn't even had time to search for a new apartment, as she had more than half intended to do.) So Dick spent most of his time sitting motionless by a window or floating in the pool, staring lifelessly into some private view.
On that particular afternoon, which happened to be a Tuesday, Bruce dragged himself out of bed around two o'clock and wandered down to the small kitchen (decorated in the same cheery yellow it had borne in his grandmother's day. The main kitchen, with its unbroken stainless steel, was the strict domain of the head chef).
"Good afternoon, Master Wayne," Alfred said, entirely too enthusiastically.
"'Ullo," the billionaire muttered groggily, slumping down at the breakfast bar. Batman had been on the prowl until nearly dawn, and Bruce Wayne was paying for it.
Alfred placed a glass of orange juice and a bowl of unidentifiable brown cereal before his employer. Bruce scowled at it. "What is this?"
"Whole fiber bran pellets, sir. Good for the heart and highly recommended for those with high pressure lifestlyes."
"Marvelous." In Bruce's opinion, the substance bore an appalling resemblance to dog food. "Ship it to the president." Bruce shoved the bowl away and grabbed his orange juice. "What happened to bacon and eggs?"
"Really, Master Wayne," Alfred said reproachfully, "I thought I might count on you to set a good example for young Master Dick."
Startled, Bruce swung around and saw the small figure seated on the windowsill. Dick was staring, but the moment he caught Bruce's eyes, his own dropped to the floor. Sighing softly, Bruce turned back around pulled the bowl toward him. Talk about hitting below the belt. Just wait until I get you alone, you wretched excuse for a nutritionist. Gripping his spoon like a dagger, he wore the expression of a man determined to do his duty or die in the attempt.
The phone rang.
Bruce dropped his spoon and grabbed the kitchen extension, half a second before Alfred got to it. With any luck I'll be immediately called away to Bermuda… "Hello?...This is Wayne…My what?...There must be some mistake!…Yes, I see…Thank you…Goodbye." He hung up forcefully, but his voice was quite calm. "Alfred?"
"Yes, Master Wayne?"
"I don't suppose you would, by any strange chance, happen to know why the manager of the Gotham Green Country Club thinks he just received three polo ponies for me?"
Alfred was placidly polishing silver at the other end of the bar. He didn't look up from his task as he replied, "Yes, sir. The ponies came up for sale at the Silver Star Farms auction last week. I took the liberty of bidding on them, and got them, I might add, at an excellent bargain."
"Ah, then the ponies are yours."
"No, sir, I bid in your name."
Bruce smacked his fist down on the marble counter and forgot whatever he was going to say as his face contorted in pain. Alfred looked pointedly at the dark bruise that covered his employer's fingers. "Really, Master Wayne, you must be more careful with those cupboard doors. Particularly if you intend to take up polo, in which, I understand, a good grip is vital."
Bruce ground his teeth. "Alfred, I do not play polo."
"Not yet, sir. But I'm told that it's easy to pick up if you have the proper riding skills."
Breathing through his nose, Bruce counted slowly to ten. Then he stood and said deliberately, "I'll be working downstairs today." He turned to leave the kitchen.
"But, sir, your bran pellets!"
With a snarl, Bruce snatched up his bowl and stalked out of the room.
The western horizon was a blaze of crimson when the phone rang again. Alfred picked up the extension. "Wayne Manor…Why hello, Miss Dawes…I'm quite well, thank you…Oh, yes, I see…Well, Master Dick will certainly miss you…may I take the liberty of wishing you a pleasant journey?...One moment, I'll inform him."
Setting the receiver on the small table, Alfred opened the door to the library, where Dick was quietly turning over the pages of a comic book. "Master Dick, Miss Dawes is on the telephone. She wishes to speak with you."
The boy's face lit up and he scrambled for the library extension. Alfred retreated to the other phone. He lifted the receiver to his ear to ensure Dick had made the connection and was just in time to hear the boy's voice edged with panic. "Please don't go!"
Alfred hung up his extension before he could hear Rachel's reply, but continued to stand by the phone, a frown creasing his brow. After three weeks one would think the boy should have begun to feel comfortable in his new home, but Dick remained listless and uncommunicative. "If anyone asked me," Alfred addressed the empty hall, "I'd say the boy was building toward the breaking point. And if he doesn't let it out, it will mean trouble for everyone."
"Excuse me, Mr. Alfred," a timid voice spoke from behind.
Alfred turned to see the chef's assistant wringing his hands. "Yes, George, what is it?"
"It's Chef, sir. The mushrooms haven't come in, and he says if the sauce is ruined on account of one more late delivery, he'll quit."
The French temperament, Alfred reflected bitterly, as he hurried to deal with the latest domestic crisis, momentarily pushing the youngest member of the household to the back of his mind.
It took nearly half an hour to soothe the irate chef, and Alfred had to promise to call and berate the produce company himself, before the man could be persuaded to continue with dinner. The butler escaped into the small kitchen and picked up the phone. It was dead. Frowning, he rattled the button, then switched to one of manor's alternate lines. The dial tone came through immediately. Perhaps one of the extensions is not hung up properly. After placing the call, in much politer language than Chef would have wished, he walked to library.
The phone was off the hook, lying on the stand where Dick must have abandoned it. A gust of breeze drew Alfred's attention to the floor length French windows which stood flung open, the curtains snapping in the wind.
A sense of foreboding tickled the roots of Alfred's mustache. "Master Dick!" he called, as he stepped outside and squinted through the twilight. "Master Dick!" There was no response.
Reentering the library, Alfred shut the windows and hurried toward the pool. But neither it, nor any other place Dick frequented yielded a trace of the small boy. Last, he entered Dick's bedroom. The red backpack, which that morning had hung over the back of the desk chair, was gone.
Alfred snatched up the receiver to the in-house intercom and tapped a code known only to two people. "Master Wayne!"
"Yes, Alfred?"
"It's Master Dick. I believe he's run away!"
Where is Dick? Will Bruce find him in time? Or is there tragedy lurking on the grounds of stately Wayne Manor?
The answers are in the thrilling continuation – same bat-time, same bat-channel.
All bat-reviewers will be nominated for the Gold Star Bat-Fan award. Each nominee will have their names inscribed in The Bat Book of Fame and willreceive a tasteful certificate, suitable for framing, and a golden bat lapel pin.
(75 application fee required.)
Notes to Reviewers (in alphabetical order):
Archer: I'm relieved that you think a story can be good even if departs from canon. As far as I know, all the Batman canons aren't exactly in agreement anyway. Thanks for your encouragement!
Bronzeiris: Argue away, my friend, convert those unbelievers!. I mean, what's the point of having the kid in the movie in the first place, if he's not going to play a part in the future?
Bubbles: I'M SO GLAD YOU READ MY STORY! Hee hee. No, seriously, it was nice of you. And, er, I'm glad you thought it was cool about Robin being "that one kid." (Sigh…you just don't understand how really, really good looking Christian Bale IS!) Don't forget to give me your story!
Goth Child of Zyon: Good to see you back! Hope the insurance comes in handy…remember, most villains tend to avoid the sun…
IcyWaters: I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your comments, thank you for taking the time to write them out! I particularly appreciated the way you quoted specific lines you enjoyed, it's a huge boost to my confidence. I agree, Dick is a reality problem, but that's what makes writing him so much fun. I really enjoy the challenge of fabricating plausible explanation for the ludicrous. I also agree that it's important for Dick and Bruce to have a relationship that exists outside the Batcave, so to speak. That's why Batman's appearances in this story are very limited. And yes, Rachel has a right to be extremely wary around Bruce. What I don't think she has a right to do is toy with him the way she did in her final scene in BB. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I think the screenwriters goofed. It feels contradictory to the rest of her character. Maybe I should have changed the scene for the purpose of this story, but then I wouldn't have the fun of trying to make it plausible!
Kitty2228: Thanks, hope you enjoyed the chapter!
Lyerial: How long will it take Dick to figure it out? Well…I could tell you, but…I'd rather keep you in suspense. laughs in a minimally evil way
Moonjava: I'm glad you like Richard. I must confess that he's rather captured my heart. And yes, Rachel is definitely a part of it. How could she not be, after saving Dick's life? (My friend thinks Rachel will adopt the boy and then get herself killed. I think I prefer my version.)
Ms.JonyReb: I think emotional tension is a big part of any superhero or secret agent story because of the dual identity situation. What makes it worse for Batman is that when Rachel discovers his secret, it pushes her away rather than resolving the tension (as opposed to Spiderman and M.J., for example.)
Ruby Soul: I'm glad to hear you'll be keeping an eye on this fic! (Although it might easier to read with two eyes…hee hee.)
Shotboxer: I think it's important that Bruce and Dick have a relationship that exists outside the whole Batman thing. Bruce deserves to be loved for more than his mask. (I am SUCH a girl.) Thanks for the reassurance on characterization!
Starpossum: Thanks for coming back! Yeah, Dick is great. Up until this movie, I would have taken Robin over Batman anytime…now I might have to think it over. And speaking of the movie, for goodness' sake, go see it!
TheAmazingTecnocolorRingWraith: Thanks for your reviews! And yeah to that stuff you said about Rachel. It's like she got the ice cream flavor she ordered, took a lick, and threw the rest in the trash. Uh…sorry, I have a weakness for dumb metaphors.
TV Chick: Thanks for the note. Be seein' ya!