He's never going to agree. He'll just keep saying that I'm too young, too innocent, too…everything.
You're nine, you are too young.
But I'm not innocent! I watched them die and I want to fight back. He helps people; I want to help him help people.
You don't even know how to fight!
I can learn! He can teach me; I'm already strong.
You think you're strong enough to fight bad guys? Strong enough to help instead of hinder? He'll have to protect you and he'll get hurt because he won't be as focused on the fight.
He can teach me!
And how long do you think that will take? How often will Batman have to be off the streets so he can teach some little kid how to fight?
That's a good point.
I know.
Fine, I'll just do it myself. I can take care of myself; I'll show him!
Don't be stupid.
I know exactly what to do.
Again, don't be stupid. This is a ridiculous idea. You're going to get yourself killed.
No, I won't. I can take care of myself!
You have no idea what you're doing! Trapeze artists train to fly, not to fight!
There's a first time for everything, right?
You're being an idiot. Do. Not. Do. This.
Nine-year-old Dick Grayson stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The internal argument had been raging for five minutes and he was getting a headache. But he was tired of 'helping' by watching screens and reading paperwork. He was relegated to busy work, things to make him feel useful since he didn't know how to fight.
It had been two months since he had discovered the secret. Bruce Wayne, his guardian of less than a year, was Batman! The one who answered the Bat-signal, the good guy who took care of all the bad guys, the man who kept Gotham City safe. But he couldn't do it by himself. Gotham was full of criminals, too many for one person to take down every night.
So, Dick was going to find a way to help. Really help, go to the action and fight the bad guys. But he had asked several times and Batman always immediately shut him down. He said he didn't need a partner, that his ward was too young and inexperienced. 'Maybe when you're older' was the most common answer.
But how old was "older"? Probably eighteen and that was so far away! And that first word: maybe. That word usually led to an answer that Dick didn't like – maybe you can go to the Batcave without supervision; maybe you can watch a "Lord of the Rings" marathon; maybe you can go to a friend's house after school; maybe I'll stop being overprotective.
Exactly none of those things had happened. Bruce had never actually said the last one, but Dick assumed that would be his answer. The first one he understood, especially since he had been pestering his guardian about learning to fight. The second one…well, he was only nine. But the third one? His best friend was the daughter of the police commissioner! What could go wrong if he went over there for an hour or two?
Alfred, the Wayne butler, was calling him so Dick sighed and left the bathroom. It was dinner time so he had no more time to come to a decision. Actually, his decision was made; now he just had to plan it out. Who? And how?
It needed to happen soon because Dick was getting restless. Being in the Batcave was becoming more boring than thrilling. Batman was impressive but not as exciting now that the nine-year-old knew the man's secret identity. He wanted action and he was going to prove the hero wrong. Dick Grayson could take care of himself, whether Batman liked it or not.
He needs to learn to take care of himself anyway. Just some self-defense moves, in case he ever gets kidnapped.
KIDNAPPED?!
He's the ward of a billionaire – the perfect ransom target. Criminals won't expect him to defend himself because he's so small. He'll have an advantage.
I won't allow him to get kidnapped.
You're not with him every second of every day. You can't control everything in his life.
Point taken. Self-defense, that's all. Basic moves that anyone should be able to do.
Exactly. Nothing fancy or difficult, just enough to keep him safe.
In the gym, not the Batcave. He's too eager and teaching him down there will make him want it even more.
Of course the gym – he's nine!
Just keep it simple. I guess I can do that.
Bruce Wayne was pacing in his bedroom. His young ward had asked again this morning. Why did the boy want to go out and fight? Why couldn't he just want to be a normal kid? What was so wrong with going to bed at a decent time instead of going out into the streets to find and take down criminals?
For the eight hundredth time, the billionaire wished that Dick had never discovered the Batcave. There was nothing he could do about it now, however. He had thought that the boy would be content to virtually watch Batman's back and help with crime reports. And the nine-year-old had been satisfied, for all of two days. Then it became "train me, I can help, let me go out and fight the bad guys" over and over for the last two months.
He was too young, too innocent, too vulnerable, too…everything. A child shouldn't be out on the streets at all hours of the night, fighting criminals and getting hurt. Because that's what Bruce knew would happen. They would be taking down a villain and suddenly a henchman, or the villain himself, would be taking down Dick instead.
Batman couldn't – wouldn't – let that happen. And the only way to prevent it was to keep the kid safe at home. Training a nine-year-old and allowing him to be a crime-fighter was almost the stupidest thing Bruce had ever heard. Dick wasn't an idiot – the idea certainly was – but the boy didn't seem to understand why the hero was refusing to do it.
"I'm trying to keep you safe!" the man whispered angrily. "Why can't you just accept that and move on?!"
Alfred was calling him down for dinner and Bruce shook his head. He needed to think of something to talk about. Every day that Dick asked for training, dinner conversation began with some sort of statistic about something that Batman had failed to do: take down the villain and all eight henchmen; save the kid being held hostage by a villain only by sacrificing the adult in the same situation at the other end of the street; chase down every criminal when they scattered in all different directions.
These were all things, Dick would argue, that could be rectified by having a partner. Some of the points Bruce had to concede were true, although he would never say that to his ward. Dick was nine!
With a giant sigh, the man left his bedroom and strode toward the stairs. Dick suddenly popped out in front of him, grinning mischievously before turning and racing to the bannister.
"Dick!" Bruce warned, his tone outlined with a tinge of concern.
One last grin back later, the nine-year-old was sliding down the railing in his socks, teetering precariously but adjusting his body well.
Bruce knew he wasn't going to make it down in time. Not even Batman would be able to beat the boy downstairs, especially since Dick had a good head start.
But maybe he could make it before his ward flew into the door. Because that's what the boy was doing: using the bannister as a ski jump. He would be airborne for several seconds, just enough time for the man to make it down the stairs.
And Bruce was right. Just before sliding off the railing, Dick bent his knees and tucked his elbows by his sides. As he reached the end, the nine-year-old pushed off with a whooping cry of excitement.
The man saw the boy's expression change from delight to concern. Dick had just noticed that the front door was shut. Bruce watched in amazement as his ward curled into a ball. What was he trying to do?
Dick raced out of his room when he heard his guardian's door open. There was no way he was going to allow the man to beat him downstairs. But Bruce had long legs and could move quickly. A nine-year-old wouldn't be able to win a footrace against a man who ran around a large city every night.
So, he went for the railing instead. Bruce called his name, Dick glanced back with a smirk then jumped on the bannister and began sliding. He was going a little faster than he was comfortable with but decided that jumping off the end would slow him down enough to land easily.
Then he got another idea. He could fly off like a ski jumper! Across the foyer and through the door and straight into a perfect landing on the soft grass outside! This was going to be so amazing!
He was reaching the end of the railing so Dick bent his knees to prepare for the jump. Just before he toppled onto the floor, the boy pushed off with a loud laugh. And then he noticed it. This was something he hadn't thought about: the front door was closed.
Fear raced through his eyes but he pushed the feeling away. He was a Flying Grayson and knew how to control his body in the air. If he could rotate quick enough, a front flip would cause his feet to hit the door and then he could push off into a backflip. It would have to be an arched layout, which would be ugly, but it would do the job. So, he tucked in and prepared for impact.
Bruce stared in astonishment as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Dick had somehow flipped forward enough to hit his feet on the door instead of his head. But now the boy was arching back and the man could tell that this trick wouldn't work. His ward was too close to the ground to finish whatever flip he was trying to do. It would be his head landing on the hard marble of the foyer.
Throwing his arms in front of him, Bruce ran forward, hoping he was fast enough to get there in time.
He had underestimated his height and now Dick really was scared. The floor was too close for him to land on his feet, but maybe he could rotate far enough to land on his stomach instead of his head.
This time when he braced for impact he closed his eyes. He really didn't want to see the black and white marble as it rushed toward him.
Suddenly, he felt a pair of strong arms instead of an unforgiving floor. His eyes flipped open and the breath whooshed out of him. The nine-year-old went from horizontal to vertical and the arms, which he knew belonged to Bruce, tightened around his torso. There was a loud sigh of relief and then his feet softly hit the floor.
"What were you thinking?!"
The words, outlined with both anger and concern, flew into his ears like rockets. Instead of answering, Dick threw his arms around his guardian's waist and rested his forehead on the muscular stomach.
"Sorry," he mumbled as he felt a large hand land gently on his head.
"Okay," the man above him stated quietly, ruffling the dark air and releasing another sigh of relief.
"I just wanted to beat you."
"I know, chum, but – if you really want to use the bannister – slide on your backside instead of your feet."
"I can do it again?!" the boy asked excitedly as he lifted his head.
"No, Master Dick, you may not do that again."
Alfred's firm voice came from behind them and both boys turned around. Bruce smiled sheepishly when he saw the slight glare and raised eyebrows of his butler. Dick dropped his eyes to the ground but he, too, was grinning.
"And you, Master Bruce, should not encourage this type of behavior."
"I wasn't encouraging it, Alfred!" Bruce exclaimed but the butler shook his head.
"I distinctly heard the words 'if you really want to use the bannister', sir. How does that qualify as 'not encouraging' it?"
"Sorry," both Dick and Bruce stated.
"Dinner is ready, gentlemen, so please enter the dining room. Master Dick, please fix your hair so that you will be presentable at the table."
The boy's cheeks reddened slightly as the warm hand was removed from his head. Lifting it, he found Bruce staring down at him with a tiny grin. The man ran his hands through his ward's hair until it was "presentable" then grabbed the small hand in his larger one.
Leaning down, Bruce whispered, "Just sit, instead, and maybe do it when Alfred…"
"Master Bruce!"
Bruce grimaced then stood up, forcing an innocent expression on his face. The butler was standing by the dining room door, holding it open and waiting politely for his charges to enter.
"Do you think I am deaf, sir?"
"No, Alfred, I was just telling him…"
"Do not lie to me, Master Bruce," Alfred stated strictly.
Dick giggled and Bruce glanced down.
"Traitor," he stated affectionately and began walking toward the dining room.
The nine-year-old squeezed the large hand of his guardian and giggled again.
Alfred nearly rolled his eyes. For a man who took down hardened criminals every night, his eldest charge was acting very immature. But the boy was good for both of them and the butler smiled. Now if only they could get Dick to stop asking to become a crime-fighter….
Two hours later:
"It's Penguin, Batman," Dick said through the Bat-communicator receiver machine. "The guards at the State Pen just turned on the siren."
"How do you know?" Batman asked, his tone gruff and full of surprise.
"I'm good with computers," the boy answered vaguely.
There was no way he was going to tell Batman that he could tap into both the prison's and the police station's phone systems. Or that he could hack his way into the video cameras outside the prison walls.
"He's going…probably going north."
"Why do you say that?" the hero asked suspiciously. The nine-year-old knew something, that was obvious. The pause had been short but blatant.
"I just, um, don't penguins like the north?"
"No, chum, most penguins live south of the Equator."
"Oh."
There was a longer pause this time; Dick wasn't sure how to explain his knowledge without admitting what he was doing. Then an idea popped into his mind.
"Isn't the north gate closest to maximum security?" he asked innocently. "It wouldn't make sense for him to go all the way around the prison to escape, right?"
That was a good point and Batman grunted his agreement. The line went quiet and Dick sighed in relief.
"Why and how, young sir, are you looking at the view from a video camera on the eastern side of the State Pen? And is that the Penguin waddling away toward the forest on the north side?"
Alfred's voice startled him. Quickly pasting a grin on his face so that Alfred wouldn't suspect anything, Dick spun around in the chair.
"Yep, it's Penguin," the boy answered, ignoring the first question. "Batman knows he's going north, he'll catch the villain quickly."
"Please answer the first question, Master Dick."
"The, um, commissioner sent me a video?" he answered, both his face and voice full of guilt. He was caught and both of them knew it.
"Where did you learn how to hack, young sir?"
Alfred had his eyebrows raised and his hands clasped behind his back. He wondered how long the young boy had been hacking into regular cameras instead of just watching the Bat-cameras spread throughout the city.
"Here," Dick whispered.
"Here?!" Alfred exclaimed, astonished at the confession.
"Well, I have nothing else to do most of the time so I've played around in the Bat-computer a little bit. I accidentally found my way into a camera by Police Headquarters so I just figured out what I did and went from there."
The nine-year-old shrugged as Alfred stared at him in amazement. The man knew the boy was smart but even the intelligent Batman hadn't figured out how to tap into any outside computers or phones or cameras. Dick had a hidden talent and the butler burst out laughing.
"What?" the boy asked defensively.
"You are a constant surprise, young sir. You have remarkable skills. Master Batman has not yet been able to do that, although he has tried several times."
"He's going to be mad, that's why he doesn't know."
"I doubt very much that he will be angry with you, Master Dick. He might sound that way at first, but he will immediately understand how helpful this will be for him. You will be able to instantly tell him the location of almost any nefarious activity, making it easier for him to stop it."
"He's going to be mad," Dick repeated. There was no way Batman was going to like this. Especially since a nine-year-old had figured it out before him.
"You must tell him, young sir. He will eventually find out; he's called the World's Greatest Detective for a reason. It will be better for all of us if you tell him yourself."
Dick shrugged again and whirled the chair around to face the images coming from the camera by the State Pen. An idea popped into his head as he watched Penguin waddle into the darkness of the forest. This was the perfect opportunity.
"Well," the boy said with a yawn, "Batman'll find him. I'm going to bed, Alfred, unless you need me for something."
"An early night will be good for you, Master Dick. I'll see you in the morning."
With a nod and another yawn, the nine-year-old walked toward the tunnel leading to the service elevator. Soon he was up in the Manor but, instead of turning left and going upstairs, Dick boldly walked out the front door.
Penguin wasn't as dangerous as some of the other villains. He never used bombs or real weapons, as far as Dick knew anyway. And so, nine-year-old Dick Grayson set out to get himself kidnapped so that he could escape on his own and prove himself to Batman.