■ Author's Notes:

I went back and did some editing/additions to the first chapter - which ended up making it twice as long compared to when I originally posted the chapter, haha. Everything is basically the same, but I wanted to add more description and clear up a few points. But no worries if you don't want to re-read it, it's not necessary unless you want to.

Also, because I don't think it's too clear, but the main character SI is not me (Silcrow.) This is a made up person from our universe.

Big thanks to everyone who favorited/followed/reviewed! Means the world :)

WARNING: Rated T for crude humor, mention of drug/alcohol use, moderate language, and violence. Rating is subject to change later on.

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2
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FALSE AWAKENING
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Cold.

That's the first thing I think of when I gain consciousness.

I can tell I'm in a bed - with a terribly uncomfortable mattress and pillow that feels of cardboard - which provides so relief, to say the least; it means I'm not passed out in some bar or bush in the park, huzzah! But I do know that this isn't my bed - my body doesn't feel right laying in it.

So, still some place unknown, but at least I'm in a bed. Things could be worse.

I shift my arms around and find my body to be wrapped in layers of itchy blankets and sheets; yet, even cocooned like I am, I still feel cold. Chilled to the bone.

Holy hell, can someone crank up the thermostat? Is that so hard to do? No one likes to pretend they live in the Arctic circle, people!

Gosh.

A shiver runs down my spine. Oh, I swear to god, I better not be getting sick. Ain't nobody got time for that.

My eyes open groggily and I find myself surrounded by the color white and the scent of antiseptic cleaning chemicals. My nose crinkles. It's a bit nauseating, but not too overpowering - just strong enough to irk me, but not bad enough to actually make me not want to breathe.

Okay, let's take inventory of what we got here.

White bed, white walls, tile floor. The feeling that everything has been scrubbed clean with bleach. And, as I focus on my surroundings more, I pick up the faint sounds of machine buzzings and beepings.

Yep. Got it.

With the realization of where I am, I let out a low, gurgling groan of displeasure. I don't need to be the boy detective to figure this mystery out.

So here's the deal: I hate hospitals. Plain and simple.

They give me the heebie-jeebies and only serve to remind me of how sick and terrible things can be – how anyone can fall ill to disease. And the idea of being surrounded by so many germs and viruses skeeves me out. Chances are, someones died in this very bed that I'm in now. Ick.

So that then serves the question, why am I in one?

I take a moment to untangle myself from the paper-thin sheets and sit up. I get annoyingly dizzy from the sudden movement and wobble around like a tilt-a-whirl; I brace one hand against the wall behind me and one on the bed as I ride out the vertigo sensation.

Whoah. Talk about a head rush!

My eyes clamp shut and I struggle to fight back a sudden urge to vomit.

The good news is that it doesn't feel like my entire being is deteriorating from within any longer. Now, I just think my stomach is trying to physically escape my body - a few steps down in the "Wow-I-Feel-Like-Shit-O-Meter."

But that makes sense, because when I did feel that way, I was dreaming.

And what a dream that had been.

I was Dick Grayson, the kick-ass superhero from the DC Comic universe – though it took me a good while to figure that much out. Though I'm sure why I would imagine myself as him; I like him enough as a character, but I wouldn't say he's my favorite.

And if I'm being totally honest, Jason Todd is my favorite Robin. I have a soft spot for the misunderstood.

Thinking more about the dream – which I can still remember in surprisingly vivid detail, unlike most of the time where I forget everything the second I wake up – it was the most realistic and tangible dream I'd ever had.

I remember the rain, and how it pelted against my bare skin, and how even the tiny hairs on my arms reacted to the sensation. I can practically still feel the lingering pain at the nape of my neck, where I had fallen on a rock. The sticky warm blood on my fingers when I touched it.

Then I remember the Flying Graysons. How bloodcurdling the sight of those acrobats' mangled bodies was. How I could only stand there, mouth agape in both disgust and fright, and think how awful of an origin story poor Dick Grayson was forced to experience.

Those DC writers must have been sadists back in the day. First, they make young Bruce Wayne watch own his parents get shot point-blank in a dark, dank alleyway, and then, years later, force little Dick Grayson to watch his family fall to their deaths.

I just don't think every hero needs a tragic backstory to be a well-developed, three-dimensional character, y'know? It's not like the audience is going to relate to that kind of stuff. Sympathize, yes; empathize, no.

Now back to my concern at hand: why am I at the hospital?

The first idea that runs through my head is that I had my stomached pumped. That would account for the headache, nauseous feeling in my gut, and the IV drip in my arm pumping me full of fluids. If I had gone on an intense drinking spree, I probably did pass out and someone called an ambulance worried that I'd asphyxiate on my own vomit. It would also make sense that because I blacked out so badly, I still can't remember what exactly happened and why my mind is so fogged over.

A chuckle escapes my lips as I remember the promise I made to myself in the dream, where I vowed to never drink again. Real or not, maybe I should stick with it.

When I turn my head to get a better look of the small room I'm in, I discern a cool sensation coming from the back of my head at the base of my skull. I stop and go to touch it. My fingertips lightly brush against spongy gauze. I move my hands over the strips of cloth and realize that they're wrapped all around my head. There's only one reason why I would have these on.

A head injury.

Just like the dream…

Wait? If I really do have a concussion, who allowed me to fall asleep! That's like rule number one: don't let the person with a bumped noggin go to bed!

Oh, now I'm angry. What kind of hospital is this?

My head turns to look around, but I don't see any call button for me to press. In fact, I don't see any way to garner the attention of the attending physician or nurse. "Hello?" I call out, hoping that someone will hear and come in the room.

I wait.

Nobody comes.

For the briefest of seconds, I'm reminded of the Walking Dead, when the main character guy wakes up in the hospital in the first episode and no one is around because, well, they're all zombies or dead.

I really hope this isn't that.

"I'm awake! Anybody out there?" I shout a bit louder, feeling rightfully agitated.

A solid minute passes by in silence and I frown in dismay.

So, what? Do I have to do all the work myself? Ugh! Fine. Whatever.

I clamber out of the bed and nearly slip on the slick tile floor. Luckily, my center of gravity is low and I'm able to keep my footing. I'm ready to stomp out into the hallway to find someone and ask for some help, maybe even yell about their poor service, but stop when I remember the tube still in my arm anchoring me to the bed.

No. I am not going to be one of those stupid people who just rip out their own IV in TV shows. I refuse to be that person.

My eyes go back and forth between the tube, the machine it's hooked up to in the wall, and the door. Then I look out the window that shows into the hallway on the other side. It's totally empty.

Why is this place so understaffed? This is ridiculous!

Damn it.

I'm going to be one of those stupid people who rip out their own IV.

My jaw clenches from the irony.

I grasp my fingers around the end of the tube, where it meets my arm and pierces through the skin right below my inner-elbow. The area is already tender and already beginning to bruise; I can tell that this is going to hurt like a motherforker.

Okay, Me, take a deep breath in and on the count of three, pull. Easy-peasy.

One…

Don't panic. I can do this.

Two…

It's just a little tube connected to a bag sticking out of my vein. No big deal.

Three!

I yank hard and the tape keeping it secured to my arm tears off, pulling at the sensitive skin. The catheter slides out with a sickening 'pop' and I drop it to the floor the moment it's free; saline fluids trickle out of the end and puddle onto the floor. In hindsight, I should have at least peeled the tape off first, which would have helped a bit.

"FUCK!" I hiss loudly and slap the penetration site with my other hand. I see splotches for just a second from the pain and bite my cheeks to keep from swearing any more.

Okay. That was arguably not one of my smarter ideas, but I want out of here as soon as possible and it seems like I'm at the bottom of the totem pole regarding check-ins.

I shuffle into the bathroom that's connected to the room and fall to the floor on my knees. I pull my body to the toilet and lean my head over the porcelain bowl. Okay, so I still feel pretty bad, but nowhere near how I did at the circus. My stomach convulses and I heave. Nothing comes out. My chest tightens up, so desperately trying to push up something. I figure my stomach must be empty. Who knows how long I've been living on the IV diet.

I whimper. This is going to be one hell of a bill to pay. They practically charge by the hour when you're an in-patient. Crap. Really hope my insurance is up to date.

I continue to dry heave for several minutes. My body is sweaty and my hands are shaking. I imagine that this is what it feels like to go through detox.

My brows furrow in thought. Am I detoxing? I certainly hope not! Yeah, I'm guilty of using excessive alcohol, but that's about it for my vices.

Jesus, I need to find someone to tell me just what the hell is going on.

When my chest and throat stop convulsing and everything settles down, I slowly bring myself to stand, flush the empty toilet, and move to the sink. I squeeze my eyes open and shut a few times as I turn on the facet.

I must look like garbage. A hot, disastrous mess.

My hands cup under the running tap and I splash cold water onto my face. Immediately, my senses are awakened as if a fresh breath of air has been blown into my lungs. I repeat that a few more times.

Feeling refreshed and a bit less like death, I turn off the sink and raise my head to examine my reflection. Time to see the damage.

"What?" I squeak.

My heart skips a bit. My blood turns cold. A panic erupts through my nervous system.

That's… that's not right. That's not my reflection?

My mouth opens; jaw shaking as I process what's happening right now. I turn my head left, then right, then left again.

No, no, no, no! What is happening? That is not my face!

I am not a child!

Who is this stranger looking back at me?

And why—

Oh.

Wait.

I know that face. It's not my face, but I know it.

I've viewed it on TV. Seen it drawn out in comics.

Realization dawns on me and I want to scream with frustration.

Fuck me, I'm still Dick Grayson!

This is still a dream!

I slam my fist against the sink and exhale all the pent up anger. Why am I still dreaming? I thought when I drifted off to sleep in the ambulance I was waking up? Was that like some sort of dream within a dream? Is this some kind of inception BS?

Okay, so it's a bit ridiculous that I'm so upset about all this being in a dream, I can realize that much. Like, there's no real rational reason for me to be angry or frustrated right now. The fact is, I'm asleep and dreaming, so what? It's literally what every single person on the planet does every single night. My adverse reactions are uncalled for, I'll admit it.

I take a good, deep breath and look into the mirror to stare deeply at the reflection.

My god, I think. He really is just a kid. This is kind of sad. No kid should have to deal with this - fictional or not.

I carefully take stock of my current appearance. Fair, unblemished skin. Dark, messy hair that's only ever been cut with a pair of kitchen scissors. And these eyes. Only a comic book character could have eyes that this insanely blue.

I raise a hand and watch the reflection perfectly mirror my every action.

Thinking about this with a more level-headed mindset, I believe the reason why I'm so bothered, unnerved, by all of this, is because I've never experienced a dream this life-like. It's eerie how real it all seems.

And it scares me, that once again, it took me so long to realize none of this was real.

Oddly, it makes me think about a book I read back when I was young. I don't recall the title, or even what it was about, but one of the major plot points for the main character was that he becomes blind in an accident. The character's not angry and he learns to cope over time, but his biggest fear becomes not knowing whether he's awake or asleep – if his eyes are open or close – as even in he dreams he can longer see.

I don't want to lose my grip on reality and keep thinking that this dream I'm having – no matter how cool of a premise it has – is real.

And to top it all off, I still can't remember my name!

I don't know who I am when I'm here. Zero recollection of my true self.

It's like I no longer exist. My life erased from existence.

Now, I'm only Richard Grayson.

And that terrifies me.

Deep breaths, Me. Deep breaths. It's only a dream. And I like dreaming. Dreams are fun. There is nothing wrong with this.

Everything is fine.

...It has to be.

Over the next several minutes, I conclude that there are two ways I can play this out.

Option one: try and do my best to recreate Dick Grayson's origin story according to my limited knowledge.

This will lead to a story progression where I will be taken in by Bruce Wayne, trained in skills and manners that no seven or eight year old should ever be trained, and eventually take up the mantle as Robin.

Cons for this include me not knowing enough canon material and messing things up. Possibly leading to more harm than good. I don't know Dick's backstory super well, just that he wants revenge against the guy who killed his family.

Oh, man. What's the guy's name? Who killed my – I mean, Dick's – parents? It's on the tip of my tongue, I swear!

Zukko, Zippo, Zucco? Yeah, Zucco, I think that's it!

So following this "path", I will go out and seek vengeance against Zucco, and then Batman will try to stop my or something because he doesn't want me – I mean Dick! – to end up like him. I think this makes Dick angry, and… wait, is that why he eventually becomes Nightwing?

You know, that's actually never been too clear for me. What causes Dick Grayson to step away from being Robin? Will I find out? Or will my brain improvise and make something up that isn't true to the story?

Then there's option two.

I just wing everything.

I'll make everything up as I go. Essentially, I won't bother trying to stick to anything canon. Why do I have to be destined to be Robin? Better yet, do I even want to be Robin? Is it possible for Dick Grayson to lead a more fulfilling, less dangerous life if Bruce Wayne is never a factor to begin with?

The biggest downside to this plan is that I don't get to become a badass crime fighter and meet other cool superheroes. If I go with this, I'm essentially just a totally random person, stuck in the DC universe, who is also called Richard Grayson.

I think in fanfiction, they would call that OOC.

"Richard?" someone calls out, bringing me out of my thoughts.

I tense up.

Someone is in my room.

I don't know why, but I feel nervous? Like I shouldn't mess this up, this role, or whatever it is. Almost like stage fright. It's ridiculous to feel this way, though, because there's absolutely nothing at stake here. Hell, I could pretend that I've gone insane and believe I'm a llama from space! Richard Grayson, who? No, I'm Saint Buzz Grandberry! King llama from the planet Thraxor, and notorious space pirate!

Okay. So maybe I won't do that. But I'm just saying, I could.

Still, I'm weirdly anxious about all this.

"Richard?" I hear the voice call again. I'm sure once they spot the IV tube on the floor they totally won't freak out or anything.

Ugh. I should go out there.

My eyes close and I take a deep breath. I tell myself nothing here is real, none of this matters, everything will be fine. It's all a dream.

Geez, I've been telling myself that a lot, lately. Maybe I should adopt that as my official mantra? Make it into a little jingle.

"Are you in here?" the voice says. I hear footsteps approaching the bathroom door.

Y'know what, screw this. That fact that I'm overthinking all this is silly. It's not like I've ever worried this much in a dream before. Absolutely no reason for me to get all wound up about this; I'm just going to give in and play the part.

I'm Richard Grayson now.

For a second time...

Embrace it, Me.

I poke my head out of the bathroom and see a familiar looking man. My eyebrows furrow. He's tall, dark-haired, and incredibly well-dressed. I don't think he's a cop – doesn't have the gruff look required for it. Maybe he's with social services?

Adjusting my gown – making sure that all strings are tied in the back and nothing's showing – I step back into the room. He sees me and an expression of ease crosses his face. "There you are," he says. "I was beginning to worry."

I look at the man with a quizzical glare, keeping my distance. Where have I seen him before? It must have been at the circus, because, that's the only other place I've been to.

Then it dawns on me. He was the man I saw right before Samson could carry me out of the tent. He had been watching me.

Gross, is he a stalker?

Oh, shit! What if this is Zucco, here to finish the job?

My mind jumps into a panic as a look around the room for something I could use as a weapon to defend myself with. I could push the chair at him, throw him off his rhythm, and then make a break for the door. If that didn't work, I'm sure there's something sharp to use in one of those drawers by the bed. Question is, how do I get there?

Oh-man-oh-man-oh-man-oh—

"Richard? Are you okay? You look like you're about to faint!"

I stare up at the man, eyes wide. I must be pale as a ghost, because I think all the blood in my body has just rushed to my feet.

Why am I so scared? I should not be scared!

If this is Tony Zucco and he is here to kill me, so what? I "die" and then the dream is over, right? I should be fine with that! Yeah, let's wrap this thing up. I've got things to do.

Swallowing the fear I had just a moment ago, I stand a bit taller and stare the man down. "Who are you?"

"I'm sorry for intruding. I didn't intend to frighten you." The mystery man takes a step back, giving me more space.

Well, he's probably not a mobster hit-man come to kill me. I don't think he'd be so polite if he were. I patiently wait for his self-introduction.

"My name is Bruce Wayne."

Oh. Okay. I see that we're just jumping right into the swing of things. Cool, that's fine. Let's get this story rolling.

"'Sup?"

Oooh myyyy gooood! Why am I such an idiot? That's not how you're supposed to greet someone! This is Bruce Wayne – the Batman! Don't be so… so… casual!

He, however, seems to pay no attention to my lack of manners and gestures to the chair positioned next to the bed. "Do you mind?" I shake my head, giving him the go-ahead. He sits down and nicely folds his hands together. "I'm sorry about what's happened."

"Why be sorry? It's not like you could have done anything to stop it."

His eyes darken. I might have pushed a button. He's Batman. Of course he could have done something. I wonder if he's angry with himself for not figuring this out earlier? Realized that something was awry with the strange traveling circus that had rolled into town.

"You were there that night. I saw you." Not sure why he would be, other than it being a plot device. Why would the richest man in Gotham pay money to be surrounded by a bunch of common folks and watch a show? Like, I get the Flying Graysons were supposed to be good – "Amazing" was how they were billed on the posters – but a guy such as Bruce Wayne surely could have easily gone to Vegas instead if he wanted to entertainment.

Bruce nods his head solemnly. "Yes, I was."

Hell, he's probably more traumatized by the event than me. I didn't even see it happen while he did! Or did it technically not even happen because the world didn't come into existence until my dream started and I "woke" up at the circus? That's too perplexing for me to think about.

"I wouldn't take you to be the type of person who enjoys the circus," I remark and lean my back against the wall. My body is beginning to feel tired and I should probably rest soon, but I still want to keep my distance for the moment.

"Well, there's a lot you don't know about me."

"I know that you're crazy rich."

His head tilts with curiosity. I'm betting that he wants to see how good my observational skills are. If I have what it takes to be Batman's protege. "How's that?"

I point to his attire: a navy blue suit that fits perfectly, silver cufflinks with opal inlay, a silk tie, Rolex watch, and real leather shoes. "No one can afford to wear all that. Dead giveaway. There's also no rattle to indicate keys in your pockets, meaning that you didn't drive here yourself. My guess, you have a chauffeur."

He smiles, seemingly impressed. "Yes, I suppose it is."

I grin. "Then again, the first thing you did was tell me who you were and I mean, come on, I may have been raised in the circus but I didn't live under a rock. I've heard the name of one of the world's richest people once or twice before."

Bruce lets out a laugh that fills the room.

Holy shit. I didn't think Batman could do that; like, the comic book writers made that part of his core characteristics: Bruce Wayne does not laugh!

"I should have assumed as much. That's my fault, isn't it?" he says with a chuckle.

I don't know how to describe it, but there's a feeling of ease filling me, as though I can finally drop my guard and just… give in, to the situation. There's no reason for me to still be so reserved about all of this. Why not be comfortable and just have fun?

I step forward and circle my way around the room until I'm back at the bed, standing on the opposite side. "Can I ask you a seemingly random question?" I ask nonchalantly, pulling myself on top of the mattress and sitting with my legs crossed.

Bruce nods. "Go ahead."

There is still information that I want to get. I know that Batman and Robin were created in the 40s or 50s, so does that mean this dream is set in that time period? Should I pretend to act like a kid from then? Not that I would really know how to, but at least I could try and fake it.

"What the date?"

His eyes narrow a bit. I think he's worried that my concussion's messed with my memory. Which, technically he's not wrong. My memory is completely out of whack right now, but not Richard Grayson's. "April sixth," he replies. "You've been in the hospital for the past few days."

Dang. This injury must have been worse than I thought. "And the year?" I prompt.

He frowns at me, definitely now concerned. "You don't recall what year it is?"

Just play it cool, Me. I don't need doctors and shrinks coming in here and making things any more complicated. "No, I do. But if you could just humor me?"

"2006," he drawls out, regarding me with careful eyes.

Yeah. I may not know much about the real world right now, but I'm damn sure that it's not 2006 in reality. So, why is it in my dream? I can't think of anything major comic book wise that takes place in that year. Or in my actual life.

"Right," I nod my head, deep in through. "Thanks."

"You seem pretty composed right now," Bruce says. I can't tell if he's saying that because he's impressed or worried.

He is right, though. I'm fine right now, all things considered.

Yeah, I'm a bit peeved that I'm still stuck in this dream, but I'm not having a total breakdown.

If this were real, as in, if I were a real kid who had just lost his parents in a horribly gruesome fashion, most likely never to see my circus family and friends again, I would be a blubbering mess. I would be grouchy and screaming and crying and angry. I would be cursing the world and throwing tantrums.

But I'm not.

Because why would I be?

I didn't even know the Graysons.

And the more important factor - they're not real!

"Stages of grief, right?" I offer as an explanation, shrugging my shoulders. "This must be what, stage one denial?"

Bruce hums in thought.

It makes me think that maybe I should act a little more grief-stricken right now. Bruce might think I'm a sociopath or something if I don't. Maybe he'll even lock me in Arkham. Anything's possible. I'm sure I've already diverted from the source material enough that this could count as an "Elsewhere" issue.

And in one of those, Batman was a freakin' flesh-eating vampire.

So yeah, I don't think me being carted off to the asylum is totally off the table if I don't start acting the way Dick did in the comics. Which I can only assume was him being a depressed, angsty child for a good long while.

Why, oh why, did I have to dream of myself as a pre-Robin Dick Grayson? Why couldn't it have been later on, when he's already established as a hero? Or even Nightwing? Then I wouldn't have to deal with all of this...

Ugh. Let's just keep things moving, Me.

If this is still a weird dream, maybe I can't wake up until I've reached a certain part of the story. Kind of like how in most dreams you wake up right as things get good or you're about to reach an important part? Maybe that's the case here. Maybe for me, that point is becoming Robin.

If so, I better play along. Get out of this hospital fast, and start my new life as Bruce Wayne's ward.

Ew. Ward. I've never liked that word. And saying I'm going to be such just makes it seem like I'm a piece of property being tossed around. Talk about objectification.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Wayne?" I ask – though it's not like I don't know. He's worried about me. He wants to make sure that Dick Grayson doesn't turn dark and brooding the same way he did when his parents died. He doesn't want Batman 2.0. "Why do you want to talk to me?"

He looks at me, eyes unwavering. "I want to help."

Of course, he does. He's Batman. He's part of the Justice League. Helping is what he does. "Help how?" I ask coyly.

Dick Grayson may want retribution for his parents' deaths, but he's not going to just trust some stranger out of the blue. If anything, this would be a point in time that Dick Grayson should be the most skeptical of people. How does he know Bruce Wayne doesn't have ties to the mafia? Rich people can be shady, too.

"By bringing justice to your family, to you," He tells me in a serious tone. "I'll do whatever I can to help catch the man responsible."

Hey, it could have been a woman who did it. You don't know, Bruce. I mean, I do know, and it is a man, but equal opportunity and all that, right? Reexamine your personal biases, huh?

I lazily pull at the neck of my scrub gown. "Isn't that a job for the police? What good could a businessman do?" My eyes lift up to meet his and I add, "No offense."

Bruce seems to understand that I have reservations about this. Well, that Dick Grayson does, at least. I couldn't care less about all of this. I don't even know if Tony Zucco is actually ever caught in the comics; I'm just presuming he is. Batman wouldn't allow that scumbag to stay on the streets for long.

"I have resources that I can supply to the GPD. I can make sure that this case stays on the top-burner for them," he explains. "There are too many murders that go unsolved in this city."

That's for sure. Isn't Gotham like the murder capital of the world in this universe? I can never understand why anybody would willingly choose to live here.

"And you want to see this one through?" I'm not sure why I'm questioning him so much. Maybe it's because I want to see how much information I can get out of him.

Bruce nods. "Yes."

I cock my head to the side and ask perhaps a bit too playfully, "Why the special interest?"

"Believe it or not, but I see myself in you. And I think that I can help you through this."

And like the true idiot I am, I blabber the very next thing that pops into my head.

With a small shake of my head, I say, "Wow, it's just…I can't believe you're Batman."

I freeze up immediately, realizing what I had just said.

Dang, it.

I'm – no, Dick – isn't supposed to know that he's Batman. He's just some random, orphaned circus kid. Why would he know that Bruce Wayne secretly dresses up as a bat and fights crime in the middle of the night?

Bruce's face – through much training, I'm sure – remains stoic as ever, and for a second, I think that I must have broken the man. Then, a glimmer passes through his dark blue eyes and his jaw tightens. I then think that he's going to kill me because I know his deep dark secret.

Without another word, he stands quietly, walks over to the door and closes it. I hear it click with the lock. Then he makes his way to the windows and shutters the blinds, all without saying a word.

Yeah, Bruce Wayne is totally going to murder me right now.

Way to go Me, you've managed to make the superhero with biggest no-killing policy want to murder one of the most important characters in his own mythos!

Me and my big mouth.

I watch as he makes his way back to the chair and sits. His stare pierces into my own and oddly, I find myself petrified. Without so much as a scowl or snarl, Bruce Wayne's is somehow absolutely terrifying. It's like there's an aura around him that releases intimidation pheromones.

Hey, maybe he really does have a superpower after all?

His eyes narrow dangerously. He does not blink. He means business.

I can only imagine what it's like when he wears the cowl.

He's not real, I tell myself. He's a comic book character and this is still all a dream. Don't freak out.

"How do you know I'm Batman?" His voice is deadly serious.

And for the second time, I speak without thinking.

"Because I'm psychic!" I blurt out in a half-panic state. My eyes go wide.

Shit.

Looks like I'm winging this.

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■ A/N: And so the protagonist is still in denial and believes that this is all still a dream. How will they deal when it becomes more evident that their theory is not the case? This chapter was originally a lot longer (over 9,000 words!) so I decided to split it into two parts. The good news is, chapter three will be up soon - just need to finish editing it some.

I'm having a lot of fun writing this story because I don't have to think everything out to a tee. It's fast and a bit sloppy, but that's the feeling I want. This person is experiencing these things at the same time we are reading it, so thoughts are all over the place. I hope that's the feeling you guys get from this, at least! The back-and-forth of "Oh, none of this matters, I don't care" attitude to the "I'm so nervous, what if I mess everything up?" mentality is coming from an extra-dimensional mind merging with a body belonging to the DC universe. A bit Jekyll and Hyde, perhaps.

Anyway, love to hear your thoughts and ideas!

QUESTIONS:

1) Do you find the protag to be annoying? I'm trying to find that sweet balance between a real person finding themselves in this bizarre world while not being too sarcastic or rude. I'm naturally a skeptic, so I'm afraid that my own salty-ness is coming out too much and making the protag a bit of a jerk. But maybe that's okay? IDK.

2) Is it too much swearing? I don't mean to offend anyone. But like, I feel it wouldn't be unnatural if this were real. Should I bump the rating?

3) Is anyone interested in possibly being a beta-reader for this story? If so, hit me up! I'm looking for someone who's familiar/comfortable with present tense writing, because I'm finding that I'm still struggling with keeping my tenses straight. Thanks!