I'm gonna ask for some response here: How long should I wait for Dick to become Robin? I'm hoping for it to come within the next few chapters, as this story still has a villain plot to stop, but I'm wondering if longer would work, as I feel like I stunted myself by making the origin story so gradual. Thanks for 400 views, and, as always, give Advice!
Chapter 7: A Smile and a Scowl
When Bruce Wayne was ten, he would sit behind a counter, or a table, or a chair, or an armoire, eyes wide, palms damp, heart pumping, and soul raging. He did this whenever Jarvis Pennyworth shooed him out of the room for a phone call after the death of the Waynes. Bruce would listen, but whenever it was anything important, Bruce's inner concoction of rage, fear, panic, fury, and hopelessness clouded his mind, blocking sensory feeling. The trauma of his parent's death was relived whenever he tried to learn more about it.
Bruce Wayne hated that.
Perhaps the difference was because of how much less monotonous his life had been after his parent's death. Maybe he learned something at the circus, or at the police station, or at the orphanage, or at Wayne Manor, in the day he spent there. Perhaps it was because he was older, even if only by a few months. Perhaps it was something inherent to his personality.
Either way, Dick Grayson wasn't hateful. Not anymore. He was angry, scared, and vengeful, but most of all, he was curious.
Manor Library, Wayne Estate, Kane County, Nine AM; December 1989
Alfred simply thought that Dick was trying to get his mind off of things by going to the computer after spending a half an hour sitting motionlessly at the table, without bothering to eat the pristine omlette the butler cooked for him. Dick didn't know this, simply thinking he didn't care, but for the boy, that was fine.
Dick clicked and clacked on the new, white, blocky computer. It contained a catalog of all the library's records.
Excellent, thought Dick. Time to search. Or, research. He paused and furrowed his brow, looking up. Yeah. He was so intrigued by this secret business of Bruce's that his grief had simply slipped away.
'Carmine Falcone' was the first thing he searched. Wayne's personal archive featured a multitude of newspapers and a family tree. Falcone was a mob boss- one suspected of having practically the whole police department bought and paid for.
So Falcone is being investigated. Why would Bruce care though? Maybe he's trying to help me... No, he's probably trying to overthrow Falcone. His dad was around before he came to power, probably controlled the mob himself. Would Bruce really do that? He'd have to be...
Something in Dick clicked. Bruce Wayne's parent's killer was never caught. He asked about Zucco after the fall of the Graysons. And now here-
Dick spun around in the chair, filled with the fire of vengeful joy, and started typing on the keyboard, searching for the name Zucco.
Mob boss. Briber. Crook. Killer. Dick felt justified in his hatred of this fat, bald man. He cracked a smile- the biggest smile he had since his parents died, and the cruelest he had ever. He rolled back, but was stopped by something behind him- the body of a tall-standing man. Dick hopped in fear, and, from bellow his long, thin nose, looked at eyes which managed to be both judging and sympathetic, the eyes of Alfred Pennyworth.
"Quite enough time on electronics, isn't it, Master Richard," said Alfred, crossing his arms over his white tuxedo shirt and suspenders and tapping his foot, "Now now, let's do something more productive, shall we?," he bent over to turn off the computer.
"What are you hiding?" asked Dick assertively. "I heard you talking to Bruce. What are you doing?"
"The Wayne Foundation is deeply involved in preventing and prohibiting corruption in Gotham City, Master Bruce is simply working to support legitimate business in his city," Alfred droned.
"That's a- a lie! A rehearsed lie, even worse!" Dick pointed his finger at the man.
"I'm not sure what you mean. What have I said that is a lie?" While he was correct, Alfred wanted him to go on. Perhaps even keeping it a secret from himself, but he may have even wanted Dick to find out Bruce was Batman.
"Well, he's a liar too. And I have proof," Dick said, his emotions conflicted and stretched, but primarily controlled by anger.
"Oh really?" Both the words and their tone piqued Alfred's interest.
"Yeah. At he said I could talk to you. That you'd help," Dick said, successfully repressing how much he wanted to cry.
"Master Richard, I'm sure he also mentioned that I'd help, and, even if you don't think so, I have only the best for you in mind."
"The best for me? Or the best I can be for you." Dick said spitefully.
Alfred looked hurt. "The best for you of course. I'm being sincere," his face loosened, and he suddenly looked older, "I could give you a tour, I suppose. If you're living in Wayne Manor, you should learn about it. It's a fascinating home," Dick sat down and sighed. "Please, Richard?"
"Fine," grumbled the boy, "and Alfred," Dick stood up as the butler put his hands behind his back, "Just call me Dick."
"Very well," Alfred walked off, as Dick followed, "The first Wayne to live in the Americas was Harold Wayne, born in 1589, and coming to America in 1619, heralding- hah- from Waynemoor Castle in Northern England, an estate which has since collapsed." Dick looked on with an indiscernable level of interest. "After his father helped establish a profitable cross-Atlantic business, his son, Nathaniel, hunted witches-"
"WITCHES?" Asked Dick.
"Yes, supposedly," Alfred stepped into the entryway, which was bigger than most bedrooms, "Some of his belongings are still here, in the foyer cabinet. They're right here."
"Can I hold them?"
"Well, guests aren't supposed to touch-"
Dick's excited pose reverted to his basic standing, him digging his socks into the rough calico carpet.
Alfred turned around on the wood floor, "But you aren't a guest Master Richard, are you?"
Dick smiled, a wide smile, spanning what seemed like his whole face, gliding over his skin. It felt like the widest he had smiled in years.
After years with Bruce, spending this time with Dick made Alfred smile too.
What Remains of the Peregrine Club, Cherry Hill, North Gotham, Six-Thirty PM
"Alfred."
"Alfred."
"Alfred."
This was humiliating.
The Batman usually wouldn't go out so early, but in December, the sun had been down for an hour already. Bruce Wayne would love to have a 9 to 5 job, but he still managed to be out of the office a bit after 6. He had hoped Alfred would be picking up whenever he was ready, but he wasn't connecting now. Batman sighed. He shouldn't be dependent on Alfred or the Batcomputer anyways. He dropped from the non-functioning neon sign onto a scorched side entrance to the club, whose doorway had totally collapsed. In the doorway, his back to the alley, stood man with dark reddish-brown hair, with noticeable gray on the temples.
"Jim. What do you know about the fire?" Batman said to Lieutenant Gordon.
"Batman- damn you, you scared me. Again." Gordon stepped towards him, watching his steps, although it was all just scorched dust.
"Congratulations on your promotion. Now, this fire was set at 7 AM, right before sunrise, today. I've surveyed the perimeter, and identified three points of entry for a flamethrower, judging by the distance of the initial scorching. I'm sure you know that all cameras in the area were cut, however, the Sundollar coffee shop's windows lit up with the firelight, giving images of the perpetrator. Now," Batman's mouth adjusted, almost like a sort of smile, "match me."
Gordon sighed, "Thanks, first of all. Glad to have Flass off our asses. Now," he rubbed his nose bridge with his thumb and forefinger, "Well, we didn't get quite that far. We do have some witnesses, but the ones who aren't at the ER aren't talking. I'm sure that you could help, but the boys," Jim looked to the other side of the club, where most of the officers where, "Well, they mostly aren't fans of you- of us," he said, knowing the possible awkward connotation. "So we won't get in trouble, not anymore, but I'm not anymore popular, and it won't make your job any easier. They tend to avoid me."
"Did they anticipate me coming?"
"Said they didn't want to 'take chances' or something."
"And you didn't pick up on that?"
"What? I know you don't usually come out before seven, but there are still good cops.."
Batman sighed. "ARNOLD. Come. Out."
Arnold Flass, a man with blond layered hair coming past his ears and a goatee on his square jaw, came out from a bathroom, covered in soot as he ascended to his full height of 6'6".
"Shouldn't have had the two meter tall guy spy on the L-t," said Batman.
"Is that a joke? Is this asshole joking now?" Flass grumbled. Batman simply walked away. "Hey now, Bat, you don't run away from me. Get back here, dammit!"
Batman, draped in his cape, turned his head. "It was just a theory. Thanks for confirming. Now, let's see what we have over there." He grappled onto the burnt, twisted metal skeleton of the building, leaving the very smug Gordon and shocked Flass.
Going through the remains of the private office and bar were three men, two in black, one in white. The ones in black wore tight turtlenecks and black formal pants. The one in white was wearing a white suit which look expensive, but with his type you could never know, with a black unbuttoned shirt underneath. He had a bald head and a gray mustache, and was clearly the leader. Between the three of them, who were in a circle surrounded by police officers, was a black duffel bag.
Batman couldn't make out what they were saying, as he wasn't able to get close enough fast enough without alerting them or falling on an unstable support beam. By the time he got in sound range, the boss, who he could now see was Ronald Edwards, the owner- former owner- of the Peregrine Club, picked up the duffel and walked up the stairs to his personal office, accompanied by one of the guards. Alone, now was time to strike.
Batman hopped over unnoticed, and, equally silently, hopped down to the stair. With a single swipe of his arm, the goon was out. Hearing the thud from his head colliding with the semi-blackened wall. He quickly unzipped the bag, pulling out a large ax, pointing it at the Batman.
"L-look, Bat, I brought this to break down the office door," said Edwards in a deep, throaty voice, "I don't wanna hurt you."
"Good. Then talk," Batman didn't move, "You work for Falcone. What do you know about the fire."
"I don't work for Falcone, I work with him. Sometimes. And as I told the cops, I don't know who set it and why. I know folks are sayin' that Falcone did the fires, and now they stopped after this one. I still don't know."
"Did anyone involved in the mob do anything suspicious recently?" Batman stepped closer.
"No. Why?"
"Anything from Zucco's men? Or anything about betrayal in any mob?"
"What? Actually, you might be in luck. Now that you mention it, there's talk of a guy who Zucco hired betraying him. But if I told everyone all the gossip I've heard recently we'd be here for weeks. Besides, Zucco's in good with the Falcones. If you want a suspect, as I said, look at Thorne-"
"Do you know a name, Edwards?" Batman stepped closer to the man, up in his face now, scowling.
"Ah I dunno..." Edwards shrugged, but looked thoughtfully, "Name's Garfield, I think. Yeah, Garfield Lynns."