Bruce and Barbara strolled side-by-side down the street, listening to the sounds of the city. This was not a pleasant experience, but it was something to pass the time as they made the long journey. Taking a bus, like Eric had, likely would have taken much less time, but Bruce suggested it was worth walking. The weather had warmed considerably, to a fairly pleasant 72 degrees; for Halloween in Gotham, this was all but unheard of, and Barbara couldn't deny the need to enjoy that heat.
Barbara took a few glances at Bruce as they walked, noting the slow shift in his expression. He'd been as cheery as he ever had when they left, but there was a charge in his eyes now, scanning the streets and every corner with energy like a cornered animal. Frantic little motions of his pupils darting this way and that.
"Bruce?" she asked, starting to feel worried. "You look nervous."
"Not nervous." He clarified, inching closer to her as they crossed another street. "Just on guard; we're close to Crime Alley."
The words stung Barbara with a dose of venom. She marveled at how negatively Bruce reacted, just going near the place. Every day, it seemed she understood what was going on in his head less and less. She put a hand—encased in a mitten, not trusting the deceivingly warm weather for a second—on Bruce's shoulder, getting his attention enough to look at her. She relaxed a bit as she saw the charge dull.
"Halloween's pretty quiet in Gotham. We're perfectly safe. Just… come on, let's go enjoy some ice cream, all right?"
His face faltered for a moment, but a weak smile crossed his lips as he nodded back, patting Barbara on the back as he upped his pace a bit. "All right; ice cream."
Call her crazy, but Barbara didn't feel convinced. There was still something off in his demeanor; broad shoulders, a puffed-out chest, standing straighter than any teenager really needed to. She mused on whether this was even a conscious reaction. Alfred had mentioned the kind of upbringing Bruce had received under him; traveling the world, better himself under the masters of the crafts he pursued. Maybe this was what he was naturally like?
She hoped not.
She drew up her jacket closer to her, scrunching up within it to preserve the warmth; a chill in the wind suggested their wonderfully mild weather wouldn't remain that way for long. They passed down three more blocks; the place was just a few more minutes away, when the sounds of a scuffle caught their attention. They looked to their left, at a small market across the street. The door was almost smashed down by a boy about their age rushing out.
He was short; not much taller than Barbara, but he was inordinately thin. He looked like one of those gymnasts that, she reckoned, would be found at the Olympics more often than some back-alley Gotham neighborhood. His skin was light, just a bit pale even in the sparse light. His face was smooth, thin and… the only word Barbara could use was youthful. His bright blue eyes sparked with life, and his downright devilish smile told that he was having the time of his life dashing mad out of that store. His black hair was uncombed and looked like a wild mess blustering about in the wind, going about halfway down his neck.
He was dressed simply, but surprisingly well, with a primarily red windbreaker that didn't seem half as ratty as it should in this part of town; his jeans weren't ripped, and his Converse shoes seemed… new. Newer than Barbara's, actually.
I could stand Bruce having better stuff, but the street rats? That's just mean.
With long strides he scurried out of the shop, cackling in a scratchy, higher-pitched voice. Four young men came careening out of the shop after him, shouting profanities and waving whatever weapons they could get their hands on. A few shards of glass from a wine bottle, a pocket knife, and a wrench by the looks of it. As it happened, the boy ran straight past Barbara and Bruce, cutting between.
"'Scusemecomingthrough!" was all he managed to get out between his giggles as he ran into the alleyway behind them. They both turned to look at him turn a corner, completely forgetting about the four others chasing him; the group smashed into them like stampeding buffalo, knocking them in different directions. Barbara yelped as she fell flat on her back, head clonking against the concrete.
She shut her eyes on reflex, waiting for the terrible throbbing in her skull to die down. She could hear the voices waning as they went after their prey in the alley.
"…Barbara? Barbara, are you all right?"
Groaning, she opened her eyes to the very blurry image of Bruce kneeling over her, face on the edge of panic. She tittered at the stupidly terrified expression, which really only made it worse.
"The hell are you laughing at?!" he groaned, taking her hand as she held it up to lift her back onto her feet. "I thought you'd been hurt, you jerk."
She swayed on her feet a bit, but Barbara managed to regain her balance just enough to point and laugh at her friend. "I'm sorry! It's just—your face was so!.."
She trailed off mid-sentence as the latest pulse of pain smacked her upside the head. She hunched over, gripping her scalp and gritting her teeth. "Ah, god, I hit the ground harder than I thought."
She opened one eye and peered at Bruce, who wasn't looking at her anymore; his attention was directed down the alley, a fire burning in his eyes as he fished a Batarang from his back pocket. Barbara nearly blanched in shock.
"Bruce!" she hissed. "Put that away, you'd kill punks like that!"
"They could use a healthy dose of fear… and besides," he added as he narrowed his eyes. "I'm not exactly digging the idea of four on one."
"Right, that kid… we should probably help him, shouldn't we?"
"Yes." Bruce agreed, running down into the alley. "I should."
Barbara glared at the boy as he went around the corner, not oblivious to the subtle warning to stay put. She scoffed and ran after him. As if she'd ever do that. The alley was cramped, dark, and a little moister than she'd like, but it was simple to follow. Whoever had designed this section of town was a real sucker for wasted space; there was enough square footage to fit a few houses here. She ducked left, zagged right, and a given a cold reminder that she was most certainly not a runner in the leagues of Bruce as her fatigue slowly grew. Sweat was practically caking her skin with the warm state of dress she had chosen. She mused if maybe, just maybe, some terrible force was somehow amused by forcing her to make poor decision after poor decision in life.
But that was crazy.
She turned a corner to find that the next section of alley was no more than three or four feet long. Most of that space was occupied by a frame carefully looking around the corner, a hand jutting out in her direction. Barbara hit the hand so hard against her chest she could've sworn she'd impaled herself on it.
"GAH!" she yelped. "Bruce, you—"
The icy-eyed boy turned back her way and shushed her with a gesture, waving her to move up and look at what was happening with her. She did so, and saw that just around the corner the alleyway had ended. The boy leading the chase was backed against the wall, seemingly fairly confident standing against the taller, more muscular hoodlums that he'd aggravated. The blond boy with the buzzcut that seemed to lead them was saying something in a growling rage at him.
"…think you can smash our stuff and run?"
"If it was yours," the smaller boy wondered. "how much did you pay for it?"
The thug went silent. Barbara was no mind reader, but it wasn't hard to guess he didn't like that question. With a cutting motion, he signaled his friends to advance. They put their fists up and inched closer, leaving the shaggy-headed boy to shake his head at them.
"Man, stupid."
Of all moves, the boy turned around. That was shocking enough, but boring compared to what he did next. With a flurry of leg motion, he ascended no less than six feet up the wall, kicking himself off and doing a flip in the air to bring his foot straight into the face of the first man to reach him. He and his target hit the ground with a painful thud, the latter's nose being reduced to red gravy by the weight and force. The boy stepped back from the unconscious punk, dusting off his windbreaker with a proud grin.
"Why would I lead you into an alley, unless I wanted to put you in a place you couldn't escape?"
The boy moved towards the next brute, who swung with a wrench in a horizontal arc. The smaller, more nimble of the two ducked beneath it, grabbing the first unlucky boy's shard of glass and jamming it straight into a gap in the aggressor's elbow.
"WAAAAH!" he shrieked in baffled agony, tears cloud up his vision just long enough for the other boy to spring up, kicking him straight in the throat. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.
"One at a time, even!" the boy gloated, that diabolic grin never once leaving his face as he clapped his hands at the carnage. "It's like you're lining up for a pouni—ACK."
His gloating was cut off when the blond boy wrapped his arms around him in a full nelson, pulling him up into the air. "Thanks for the tip." The boy hissed, watching with delight as his legs flailed uselessly.
Besides him, one thug was still standing, and came at the boy with a tire iron. Winding up for a nice blow, the weapon made a noise like a firecracker going off as it smacked the side of his head. Blood splattered out onto the wall right of them, then the left as a follow up strike rocked him.
"Bruce!" Barbara screamed.
"Going, going!"
"Like a freight train" was just about the only way to describe Bruce's charge into the alleyway. The gangbangers barely got a look at him before his left hand released the Batarang it had been holding; the black little shard of metal embedded itself in the tire iron boy's stomach. His hands went limp, dropping the weapon as he struggled to process the pain. That got harder when Bruce got close, using one hand to jam the projectile even further in. The choking sounds the dark-skinned boy had been making became out and out yowls of pain, only shut up by an efficient elbow strike to the right side of the head.
The boy was out like a light, and smacked against the ground like a flopping, lifeless fish.
Bruce advanced to the buzzcut boy, who dropped his unconscious target long enough to draw a pocket knife and go in swinging.
The blade was too fast to duck, though the Wayne boy didn't seem to care much. His left hand caught the balled fist of his opponent, the blade cutting into the edge of his palm as he did. That only seemed to focus him; his pupils shrank to miniscule dots as he slammed his free fist over and over against the baffled face of the blond boy. He took a step back, and Bruce advanced a step. He brought up his free hand to block, and that was cast aside with a single sweep of the arm. Bruce punched again, letting the skull fly back in an arc and rebound back. He caught him by the face with an open hand, gripping the squishy flesh tightly and slamming it straight back into the brick wall.
He felt the muscles go lax under him, and started to retract.
The moment he was free to do so, the stranger's right hand whipped away from Bruce's fist, and jammed the knife into his side. Blood pouring down his gray shirt, Brue snarled and stepped back as the buzzcut boy advanced. He threw down a heavy strike from above, that Bruce only managed to power through by luck, his arms clutched together in front of him to form a shield and take the blow. Wayne had more at his disposal than punches, though, and responded with a roundhouse kick to the boy's ribs. At least one broke from the force of impact, and he flinched long enough for Bruce to draw back and bring a front kick right into his lower jaw. His head went shooting straight up, his jaw pointing towards the sky as Bruce shifted his weight back. A downward axe kick shattered teeth and made gums bleed with more grace than brutality like that ever needed.
Once his foot was back on the ground, Bruce shifted stances to let his right foot lead and threw a left hook. Barbara wasn't sure what, if not human, but that word didn't describe her friend's opponent. The man still had enough stamina to pull back, letting Bruce's blow miss and slam against the brick wall. He charged, wrapping his arms around the young heir and crashing him headlong into the wall. Bruce shouted in pain, and reflexively threw a headbutt against the other boy. His astoundingly thick skull took it in stride, and on the rebound he responded with a bite straight into Bruce's shoulder muscle.
Barbara felt distraught watching, forced to look away as she heard Bruce scream. But even as she did, a voice in her head that she didn't recognize kept telling her to move—to fight. She was going to be Batgirl, right? PROVE IT.
Though by what power she didn't know, she felt her legs move. She stepped out from behind her cover, and clenched her fists. She strode forward, ready to—
Ready to be cut off. By, of all people, the street rat. Gnashing his teeth and groaning, the boy hopped back to his feet, picking up the wrench his "pal" had been using and charging the leader of the little troupe he'd gotten so riled up. By now, he had Bruce pinned against the back corner of the alley, with his back turned and giving a prime target. Running forward and leaping into the air, the boy seemed like he was spinning in an arc as he slammed the wrench right into the blond one's spine.
A growl and a roar like a dying wolf echoed through the alley. Lost in the midst of the fight, the gangbanger was nearly frothing with rage as he turned around to swing at the troublemaker. He'd conveniently forgotten that Bruce was not yet out of the fight, and an elbow coming down right in the back of his neck gave him a sore reminder of that fact.
The three dove into a vicious melee, punching and kneeing and swinging like there was no tomorrow. Barbara could hardly believe the ferocity of it all. But the sound of pained movement caught her attention, and she sat the third goon to go down—with a Batarang in his abdomen—was standing back to his feet, brandishing that tire iron yet again as he looked the way of the other fighters.
Barbara felt her muscles tense—she was no fighter, yet, but when you're in a mansion for the better part of a month with the man who cared for Batman, you're given a few bits of advice.
What would Alfred say to do?
She rushed in, practically on auto-pilot as the wizened old voice of the Wayne's butler rang in her ears.
"No matter how strong the opponent, the fact is they still have weak points. Find them, and capitalize on them."
Good advice, as far as she could tell. The man she was charging was looking her way now, and surprised as he was she only had one free shot before he started reacting properly. That is to say, before he beat her fifty shades of black and blue. He looked top heavy. Maybe that was opposed to a lighter bottom? Weak knees, hopefully.
Anyone who'd ever had a gym class knew how to do a base slide from years of kickball. Barbara hoped that was the right idea to base all this off of.
She let herself fall, going into the slide and slipping down and just away from the swing of the tire iron. Almost on reflex, her right leg—as, facing left, it was on top—shot out and slammed shin-first into the boy's knee from between his legs.
To her shock and bewilderment, her guess had been right on the money. Like a domino nudged to fall, his knee slipped straight out of place and sent the rest of him crashing down like a bawling, infantile set of them. Straight on top of her legs, pinning her beneath his entire weight. A curse or two in her head carried her through the inconvenience of dragging herself out from underneath of his body, finally getting free with a single drag, falling flat on her stomach against the cold cement beneath her.
She laid there a moment, face-down, feeling suddenly very sick as the adrenaline passed. She looked up and saw a sweaty palm stuck in front of her face, visibly shaking. It wasn't Bruce's, though; it belonged to the kid they' chased back here, giving a fairly timid smile to her. She grabbed it, and he pulled her up with a surprising amount of strength.
"Phew." He groaned, letting out a long sigh. Barbara looked over to the corner of the alley, to see Bruce hunched over and gripping his knee, with one hand balancing himself against the wall. At his feet was the thoroughly battered body of the blond boy. She was drawn back to the voice of the other boy, who had started talking again.
"Hey, uh, thanks for the help back there, both of you." She noticed he looked rather embarrassed by the whole incident, nervously chuckling to blow it off. "Hell of a fight, huh?"
"Hell of a-?! You nearly died!" Bruce yelled from his corner, his voice going an octave higher than normal from the exhaustion. It sounded pretty funny, really, to hear him stressed like that. Barbara had to suppress a few giggles at his expense as he continued on his rant. "We both could have died, and for what? To pick a fight with some gangsters!"
"Hey, I didn't 'pick a fight'." The boy clarified with an earnest sort of look. "Those guys were there to steal some beer, or something. They had the weapons and had a bunch of booze in a cart. So, I kinda…"
"You kinda what?" Barbara asked in a scolding tone.
The boy gave a pitiful little laugh, and finished in a smaller voice: "I kinda smashed all the booze and smacked their leader upside the head."
Barbara snorted, embarrassedly clamping a palm over her mouth in response. After she calmed down she still couldn't help smiling at the absurdity of it. "Well, that took a lot of guts, I guess."
"It took a lot of stupid, going against Crime Alley kids." Bruce responded, stumbling over towards them. His hand grasped at the blade in his side loosely slipping around the handle and removing it with a tug. The boy's eyes bugged out like he'd seen a ghost, and his face went a little paler as he saw the wound.
"O-oh, man, jeez! I didn't know you got shanked! I'm so sorry, man, I didn't—"
Bruce held up a hand and stopped him. His face was calm enough, and he assured him "I've taken worse."
"He's taken worse." Barbara agreed.
The boy didn't seem consoled by this face, and new sweat was dripping down his face as he stared at the wound. Bruce finally worked his way over to in front of the boy, and grabbed his attention with a snap of his fingers. He looked up at Wayne's face, who was giving him a curious once-over.
"What's your name?"
"Oh, uh, my name's Dick." The boy responded, displaying a genial smile. "Dick Grayson."
"Well, you're one hell of a fighter, Dick. The name's Bruce Wayne." He offered a hand, and Dick accepted it. They shook, and Barbara leaned between them to wave.
"And I'm Barbara Gordon."
He shook her hand as well, and even as his eyes began to fog said, "It's a pleasure to meet you both."
With greetings out of the way, he promptly collapsed and fell face forward. Bruce and Barbara nearly shrieked in surprise as they leaned forward and scooped him up before he hit the ground.
"Give us a little warning next time?" Bruce asked, lifting the boy up to carry him bridal style. Dick looked woozy, and his head was bobbing back and force as he struggled to keep awake. The smile never faltered, though.
"Ah, heh… uh, sorry, dude. I don't… I don't think tire irons agree with me very much."
"Oh, great." Barbara groaned. "We found another funny one." She stepped over and tried to reach for his pocket, but he deftly smacked her hand away. She stared at him with a hint of annoyance. "Fine, if you won't let me check I'll just ask: you have a home, Dick?"
"Uh…" the boy seemed to pause, as if he needed to give it some serious thought. "Y-yeah. Mom and Dad're… at… Haly's."
Dick's head tilted to the side, rubbing against Bruce's chest as he fell into a deep sleep. Drool began to run down the latter boy's shirt, and Barbara pretended not to hear his disgusted groans as she thought about that name. Haly's?
Oh, crap.
Barbara spun on her heels, grabbing Bruce by the shoulders and pulling him in to look frantically into his eyes. "Bruce! He means Haly's Circus! I think Dick's one of the Flying Graysons!"
Bruce's countenance was wracked with a thorough case of confusion. "The Flying who?"
Barbara's left eye scrunched up as she resisted the urge to slap her consistently, purposefully ignorant friend. "The family of acrobats. That work. At Haly's. This isn't just some kid!"
She gestured at the sleeping boy and exclaimed, "He's tonight's act!"
She kneeled down by the man she'd managed to topple, and yanked the Batarang out of his stomach, sticking it back in Bruce's pocket—not without complaints from the boy himself.
"Oh, eww! Thug blood!"
"It'll wash, you pansy." She replied, gesturing to follow as she started marching out of the alley. She grabbed her bags and Bruce's from where they'd been left out of sight, tossing them over her shoulders as she soldiered on.
"We've gotta get him back to the circus, before anybody worries where he's gone."
She waited for some kind of response, but none came. After a minute, she looked back to see Bruce diligently following her. All the same, he seemed to have a forlorn bearing. "What's wrong?" she asked.
Bruce sighed, and bowed his head. "I just… I really wanted that ice cream."
"BRUCE!"
The utter rage in Barbara's voice bellowing reached far out of the alleyway, echoing through most of this part of Gotham. On the corner just across from that alleyway, a man in dress too good for this part of the city stood. Black, vertically-striped dress pants, a white button-up shirt to match, and a simple red tie. The suspenders would seem out of place anywhere else, but matched that style 90 years out of touch that he seemed to be going for.
Remil Sionis heard the Gordon girl's voice coming from back there easily enough. He stared for just a moment, biting his lip as if contemplating. His right hand tensed around a simple, heavy briefcase he'd been carrying for some time now. A bitter chill wafted through the Gotham streets, spurring him to move on. With a final glance at the alley, Remil turned left and continued walking on his way, uninhibited.