Kids these days. They had no respect for their elders, Bruce thought. Oh, Jesus. He was starting to sound like his late father, or what he remembered of him. Bruce looked at the barrel of the gun, then the safety. It was still on. "If you're gonna try to rob someone, at least do it right," Bruce said.
"...What?"
Bruce pulled the door latch and shoved the door hard into the kid's chest, causing him to fly back and slam into the cracked asphalt street. The gun tumbled into Bruce's lap. He fumbled with it as he climbed out of the car—it had been a while since he'd held any kind of weapon—and took the safety off. Bruce raised the gun and pointed it at the kid sprawled out on the ground. She had a ponytail. And breasts. Bruce lowered the gun. He didn't know why, but she reminded him of that girl from Teen Mom.
She groaned and tried to stand up, rubbing her chest with the palm of her hand. "God, I thought old people were supposed to be easy," she grumbled. "Where'd you learn those moves, Gramps?"
"I'M FUCKING BATMAN," Bruce roared laboriously. He pulled the gun back up to her chest. This girl needed to be put in her place. How dare she not recognize the iconic Dark Knight, even if he put on a couple pounds! And Jesus, all that movement was too much; Bruce needed to sit down. "I AM FUCKING BATMAN, AND I AM NOT EASY, CHELSEA!"
"Whoa, 'Batman'," she said. "Calm your bitch tits. And who the fuck is Chelsea?"
Bruce took in a deep breath as a hand fell on his shoulder. Chelsea's accomplice. Bruce elbowed the asshole in the abdomen, which felt harder than the steel he used to reinforce the Batcave, and Chelsea's accomplice fell to the ground with a thud.
"Holy cheese and crackers," the voice croaked.
Bruce whipped around to find Dick on the ground, trying to get back up. His costume was black and blue like a bruise instead of the rather exciting color scheme of the Robin costume. Bruce felt anger simmer in his stomach. Was the Robin costume not good enough for him? Was he looking to get hit by a car?
"You might not be at the top of your game, but man, those reflexes are still there," Dick said as he slowly peeled himself off the sidewalk. Bruce extended a hand, but Dick didn't take it. "Hey, what happened to the girl?"
Bruce turned back to the street, and she had disappeared. He narrowed his eyes.
"Chelsea," he said.
"You know her?" Dick said.
"Did I hurt you?" Bruce asked playfully, reaching out to his former sidekick.
"Fuck you," Dick laughed.
Dick led Bruce through the deserted streets and back alleys, making Bruce feel like he was being led to a slaughterhouse. As Bruce trailed behind Dick, he finally felt the distance between them. The little boy wonder—Bruce's little boy wonder—grew up, a little too quickly. The worst part was, he grew up and replaced Batman.
To Bruce, being Batman had meant so much to him; it expressed his desire for revenge for the life he lost, but he could never truly grasp and savor the feeling. At the same time, he thought he was protecting others from the same fate, of dead parents and an orphaned child. Bruce had felt like the catcher in the rye, saving innocence through his need for justice, but Dick didn't feel the same way. Yes, Dick's parents were murdered too, but Bruce had made sure to bring him justice. Dick slept at night, knowing his parents were avenged.
Dick stopped in an alley way, right in front of a rusting garage door dimly lit by a flickering streetlamp. Long strands of ivy ripped apart the crumbling brick walls. The place looked abandoned, at best. He knocked on the garage door, slowly twice, then quickly three times. It slowly rose, revealing a bunch of kids no older than Dick gathered around a worn billiards table. Most of them held chipped glasses full of a piss-colored liquid, probably a cheap brew of beer they coerced a stranger to buy them. One of the kids stepped toward Dick, a large, white "S" stamped on his taught black t-shirt.
"The fuck is the old guy, Nightwing?" the kid asked.
"Superboy, meet Bruce Wayne. You know, Batman," Dick said, motioning for Bruce to come in. Dick took off his mask and stuffed it into his belt.
Bruce stepped inside the garage, and he smelled old vomit and stale cigarettes. Alfred and Selina were right. The whole town was turning into the Devil's asshole with these kids in charge. Bruce just wanted to knock this kid onto his ass, turn him inside out. He hated Superboy's black crew cut and cleft chin, the blue eyes and pounds of hard muscle. Superboy's face suggested he was barely 18, reckless and dominant from his surging testosterone.
"Bruce Wayne, huh?" the kid said. "Bullshit. Bruce Wayne is cut, Nightwing. I don't know where you found this guy, but it looks like I've gotta teach him a lesson for lying." He took off his shirt and threw it onto the billiards table, showing off his sculpted body. He flexed his back muscles. "C'mon, Batman. Show me what you got."
Bruce shook his head. He already fought two people today; he didn't need to fight more. At the same time, breaking the smug-ass punk's Roman nose sounded very satisfying. Bruce threw down his sport coat and motioned for Superboy to come at him. The other young costumed heroes moved out of the way, clearing out a small patch of dirty cement flooring. Superboy and Bruce circled each other, arms out and ready to charge when the other least expected it. Bruce gritted his teeth. When was the last time he fought like this? When he was drunk in the Philippines? He guessed that wasn't too long ago; maybe a good six months had passed since that night Bruce fell into a cockfighting ring and defended himself from angry betters.
Superboy lunged at Bruce and wrestled him to the ground, pinning the old man with one arm while balling up his free hand. He swung, but Bruce caught the boy's fist, twisting it and then sucker punching him right in the gut. Bruce stumbled to his feet as Superboy doubled over in pain, raising both arms in the air in victory. That's right; this overweight, Italian Four Cheese Cheez-It loving fuck could still beat up a kid less than half his age. God, but when he thought about it that way...
Superboy tackled Bruce to the floor again, and this time, Bruce headbutted him right in the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted out of the boy's nostrils and onto Bruce's white dress shirt. Dammit, and he was going to wear that to his meeting at Wayne Enterprises tomorrow. Superboy rolled off the old man and wiped his face with his sleeve gingerly, his Roman nose was already purple and swelling from the impact. The Young Justice members stared in awe. Bruce looked over at Dick, who looked vaguely proud of his old man, or so Bruce hoped.
Bruce heaved and wiped the sweat and blood from his brow. "Can you just take me home?" he asked Dick. "I gotta go catch up on Teen Mom." Dick draped an arm around Bruce's shoulders, and they left the garage together, Dick waving goodbye to his young friends. The former hero and sidekick walked through the rundown streets and into the better side of town. It was brightly lit with young people outside in armchairs, drinking sangria and dancing to the soft bossa nova flowing out of the speakers. They walked into a glass structure with a marble lobby, where the old desk clerk smiled at Dick. "Mr. Grayson, just remind your father the payment's due next week now," the clerk said politely. "I apologize for the inconvenience."
"Father?" Bruce whispered, staggering towards the elevator.
"Don't worry about it." Dick nodded to the clerk and pressed the down button.
In the parking deck, Dick walked toward a white and black motorcycle and handed Bruce a worn helmet with flames on the sides. "You remember how these things work?" Dick teased. The black Ducati lettering flashed under the bright, fluorescent lights. From the looks of it, the bike was brand new. Where the hell was Dick getting this money from, and who was his "father"?Bruce crammed the helmet onto his head and clicked the clip into place. The helmet squeezed his face, and he felt like his head was a balloon getting ready to burst.
Dick started the engine, and Bruce gripped his former sidekick's waist. Dick accelerated out of the parking deck and into the early autumn night, the orange streetlamps slipping by them. Bruce stared into the bruise-colored uniform. "I NOTICED YOU'RE NOT WEARING YOUR ROBIN COSTUME ANYMORE," Bruce shouted, instantly regretting it. Maybe he shouldn't have brought it up. Was he even prepared to hear the answer? What if Dick hated him for just retiring? What if Dick moved on with his life, without the Dark Knight?
"WELL, THE JAMAICANS THOUGHT I WAS A RASTA, AND THEN SOMEHOW EVERYONE THOUGHT I WAS A DRUG DEALER, SO I THOUGHT IT WAS TIME TO GO A DIFFERENT ROUTE." Dick whipped his head around to catch Bruce's eye for just a second. "YOU LIKE THE NEW SUIT? I THOUGHT NIGHTWING SOUNDED PRETTY BADASS."
Bruce said nothing.
They pulled up at Wayne Manor, and Dick killed the engine. Both of them stood in the long driveway not looking at each other, filled with thoughts but not with words. They muttered their goodbyes, and Bruce started up the long, arduous staircase leading up to the front door. He stopped and turned around, hoping Dick was still there, waiting for his old man to tell him a thing or two. But Bruce was alone, drunk on adrenaline and sick with loss.