Neon lights shattered into a thousand pieces on the rain-glistened streets of Gotham. Batman crouched against a point overlooking the city, his cape billowing behind him in the night wind. The putrid scent of desperation and decay filled his nostrils.
Finally, the tech at the Batcave, along with his amped mind, had located Riddler's hideout. The Reading System churned in his brain-a constant stream of information and analysis.
"Time to move," the voice within his head, dark, purred-the Darkest Knight always inside, always urging.
Batman's lips curled in a snarl. He was enjoying that voice a little too much.
The Batmobile roared down the streets, a black smear of vengeance. Batman killed the engine a block away, sliding out as silent as a shadow. His footsteps were silent, each movement calculated and lethal.
Two goons stood guard outside some dilapidated warehouse. They never saw him coming.
CRACK! The bone in the first one's jaw shattered under Batman's fist.
THUD! A second hit the ground, gasping for air through a crushed windpipe.
Batman stood over them, his chest heaving. The Reading System cataloged their injuries, suggested follow-up strikes. He pushed the information aside. They were done.
"Getting soft?" the Darkest Knight taunted. "Leaving them breathing?"
"Shut up," Batman growled, muscling the warehouse door open.
Inside, a maze of winking lights and whirring machinery made him squint. The Riddler's voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere in the space between speakers.
"Welcome, Batman! Let's see if that cowl hides a brain or just more muscle!"
Laser grids crosshatched the floor. Saw blades whirred from the walls. To anyone else, it would look like certain death.
But Batman watched it all. The Reading System mapped every trap, every trigger, every safe path. He moved with inhuman grace, his body honed into a tool of war sharpened by knowledge beyond this world.
"Show-off," the Darkest Knight chuckled.
Batman ignored him, intent on the task at hand. He reached the center of the warehouse, the Riddler standing behind bulletproof glass, a manic grin on his face that was beginning to show shock.
"Impossible!" the villain shrieked. "No one could have—"
Batman's fist shattered the 'unbreakable' barrier. The Riddler's eyes went wide with terror.
"How?" he whimpered.
Batman grabbed him by the throat, slamming him against the wall. "I read the fucking manual," he snarled.
The ride to Arkham was silent. Batman's mind raced, processing the night's events. The Reading System had made it too easy. There was no challenge, no thrill of near-defeat.
"You don't need anyone else," the Darkest Knight whispered. "Not even a Robin."
Batman's hands tightened on the wheel. Robin. In his old life, the Boy Wonder was that shining light amidst the dark comics. But here? Here, Batman was something else. Something more.
"He'd just slow me down," Batman muttered.
"But the myth demands it," replied the Darkest Knight. "This world's rules are… fluid. But some things must remain."
Batman growled in frustration. The voice was right. He'd need a Robin, if only for appearance's sake. A prop in this grand violent theatre of Gotham.
He dropped the Riddler off at Arkham, ignoring the man's incoherent, pleading words. What should have been an epic confrontation felt hollow. Batman's powers, subtle but undeniable, had robbed the night of its climax.
Back in the Batcave, George Wayne removed his cowl. His reflection stared back at him from a computer screen – a face harder and older than the high school kid who died and was reborn into this nightmare.
"You're evolving," the Darkest Knight said, its presence stronger now. "Embracing what you can truly become."
George nodded slowly. "This city needs a Batman beyond what they imagine. Beyond what I used to read about."
"And Robin?"
He let out a deep breath, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. "I'll find him. Train him. But he'll never know. Never suspect what we really are."
The laughter of the Darkest Knight echoed in his mind. "That's my boy. Now, shall we see what other 'upgrades' the Reading System has for us tonight?"
George Wayne – no, Batman – smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Let's read, old friend. Let's read everything."
Darkness filled the Batcave except for the soft light of computers. Batman hunched over the keyboard, his cape falling around him like a shroud. Exhaustion finally caught him, price paid for a relentless crusader of knowledge and justice.
Heavy footfalls began to echo through the cave. Big Barda, Amazonian in stature and in power, approached the sleeping vigilante. Her eyes softened at the sight of him, for once so vulnerable.
"Wake up, you stubborn bastard," she growled, her voice catching between a loving and exasperated tone.
Batman's eyes flickered open, alert in an instant. He bristled and tensed, ready to strike, before his gaze fell upon Barda.
"Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his face. "How long was I out?"
Barda grinned. "Long enough for me to get the drop on the great Batman. Tough night?"
Batman grunted, memories of the Riddler's capture immediately washing over him. The ease of it all, the power running through him. He cut the thoughts off.
"Nothing I couldn't handle," he rasped.
Barda's eyes narrowed. "I can see that. You didn't need me on this outing, did you?"
A twinge of guilt flickered across Batman's brain. He'd been pushing her away, keeping his new powers secret. Behind his forehead, the Reading System hummed, reading Barda's body language and suggesting responses.
"You know I work alone," Batman growled, hating how rehearsed it sounded.
Barda laughed, the sound rumbling like thunder. "Bullshit. You work alone when it suits you." She leaned in close, the enormous frame of her body dwarfing his. "Sometimes I wonder if you're even human anymore, George."
The name gave him a jolt. George. The high school kid, the one that died and was reborn into this nightmare. The line between that boy and the Batman grew blurrier with each day.
"I'm still me," he lied, the words bitter on his tongue.
The Darkest Knight chuckled in the recesses of his mind. "Are you so certain about that, Georgie-boy?"
Barda's lips crashed onto his, silencing the internal debate. Her strength was crushing, intoxicating. For a moment, he let himself be swept away by it.
Then the Reading System kicked in, analyzing the kiss, suggesting ways to counter her strength, to gain the upper hand. Batman pushed the information aside, disgusted with himself.
Barda pulled away, her eyes searching his face. "You're holding back," she said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. "Always holding back."
Batman stood, shedding the cape and cowl. George Wayne emerged, the mask of the billionaire playboy sliding into place.
"I have a board meeting," he said, the pretentious twang of Gotham's upper crust trickling into his voice once more. "Gotta keep the day job, you know."
Barda snorted. "Yeah. Run off and play with the little mortals who think they are powerful. Just remember who you really are under that suit and tie."
George smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Always," he lied again.
He left the cave, the weight of his secrets pressing upon him. The Reading System whispered possibilities at ways to augment his body, to become truly superhuman. The Darkest Knight implored him to take it all.
George Wayne straightened his tie, stepping into the elevator which would take him up to the boardroom of Wayne Enterprises.
George Wayne rode in the back of his limousine, the leather seat creaking beneath him. Eyes fatigued from the day's corporate battles stared out into neon-lit streets. The city pulsed with a nervous energy-a beast waiting to be unleashed.
Alfred's voice crackled over the intercom. "Home, sir?"
George grunted acknowledgment, his mind already sliding to the night ahead. The suit waited for him, calling to him like some sort of siren song. He could feel the old itch beneath his skin, the hunger for justice gnawing in his very soul.
The voice in his head whispered, dark and seductive. "Tonight, we hunt. Tonight, we become fear itself."
George closed his eyes, a small smile curling his lips. Which of his rogues would reveal themselves? The possibilities alone had sent a thrill coursing through his veins.
The limo pulled up to the manor, and George stepped out into the cool night air. He paused, his hand touching the door, when his phone buzzed. An invitation flashed on the screen: "The Flying Graysons - One Night Only!"
The voice in his head burst into thunderous life. "This is it. The moment we've been waiting for. Dick Grayson. Our Robin."
George's breath caught in his throat. He remembered the comic, the stories about Batman and his young ward. But this wasn't ink on paper anymore. This was real. Flesh and blood and bone.
He made the call to secure a seat for the performance. The voice purred with its approval.
Before him loomed the circus tent, all garish splash of color against the Gotham night. The crowd pressed in about him, excitement a palpable thing. George moved through them like a shark through water, his senses on high.
A familiar face caught his eye. Vicki Vale, her red hair a beacon in the sea of bodies. She smiled when she saw him, that predatory gleam in her eye that began to set his pulse racing. He wasn't ready for her now.
"George Wayne," she purred, sidling up next to him. "Didn't expect to see Gotham's golden boy slumming it at the circus."
He forced a smile, playing the part of the carefree billionaire. "Even I need a little excitement now and then, Ms. Vale."
They sat down and the heat of Vicki's body was pushed against his side. The instant the lights dimmed the roar of the crowd filled the tent. George's gaze was fixed upon the forms so high above them, their bodies twisting and swooping with impossible grace through the air.
The voice in his head was louder now, more insistent. "Watch closely. This is where it all begins."
George's stomach clenched. He knew what was coming, had read it a thousand times in the comics. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it.
The rope snapped like a gunshot. The crowd's awed gasps turned to screams of horror. And then, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.
George was on his feet before he knew it, pushing through the panicked crowd. His eyes found the small figure of Dick Grayson standing frozen in shock at the edge of the ring.
And in that moment, a scream of anguish cut through chaos like a knife. "Mom! Dad!"
George found him, crouched down beside him, and put his hand on his shoulder. A boy with eyes full of some real pain looked into his. Then George saw himself in that small teardrop-filled orb-a lost child thrust into some dark, pained world.
The voice in his head whispered, "This is how it begins. This is how we forge our weapon."
George pushed the voice aside and embraced the boy now trembling in front of him. "I'm sorry," he whispered, conscious of the vocabulary being so small and poor for what was happening. "I'm so sorry."
Dick collapsed against him, small body wracked with sobs. George held him, feeling destiny settle onto his shoulders.
Later, the sirens wailed their mournful song into the night. George stood in the shadows and watched as the police cars pulled away. Dick sat in the back of a social services van, his eyes vacant, lost.
The voice in his head growled, "Take him. Mold him. Make him ours."
George fisted his hands, caught between the path he knew he would have to take and the horror of what that would mean. To take this broken child and forge him into a weapon-to rob him of what little innocence remained.
But he knew, deep in his bones, this was the way it needed to be. Robin was just too important to the legend of Batman-to the very essence of this world into which he'd come.
He remembered his own arrival in this comic book reality: the confusion, the fear, the gradual realization that he was now living a life that previously existed on paper. And now, here he stood, ready to set in motion events which would shape the future of Gotham and beyond.
Decision made, George Wayne stepped out of the shadows. He moved to stand before the social worker, flashing his most charming smile. "I'd like to discuss becoming young Richard's guardian," he said, his voice like silk.
The courtroom was a battleground, and George Wayne stood at its center. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. He could feel the judge's eyes boring into him, searching for the slightest crack in his armor.
"Mr. Wayne," the voice of the judge cut through the dead silence like a knife. "Your reputation precedes you. A playboy. A reckless spender. Hardly father material."
George's jaw clenched as the voice in his head started hissing with urgent demands he let loose his anger. But he reined it back, channeling it into something far stronger.
His Reading System engaged through overdrive. His senses were deluged with information: every micro-expression cataloged and recorded, analyzed; every shift in body language noted and interpreted. He could see the weaknesses in their arguments, the chinks in their moral armor.
"Your Honor," he began in a low, modulated voice. "There are many things I may be, but incapable of love-or responsibility-is not one of them."
The opposing attorney sneered. "Love? Is that what you call your string of conquests?
George's eyes flashed dangerously. The growl of approval was evident in the voice of the Darkest Knight. "Those 'conquests' are consenting adults. Dick Grayson is a child in need of stability, guidance, and protection. All of which I can provide in abundance."
With that, he launched into a blistering counterattack, words precise and cutting. He could almost see the way he picked their arguments apart with surgical precision and left them to fumble in his wake.
"My wealth isn't a plaything," he said, the volume of his voice increasing with every word. "It's a tool. A means to provide the best education, the best care, the best future for a boy who's lost everything."
The Reading System fed data to him about the judge's reactions-what had worked and what hadn't-and he modulated his tone and approach accordingly. And slowly, he could see the tide turning, feel the momentum shift in his favor.
But the opposition was just getting started. They pulled out his parents' murder-a real low blow that sent a spike of pain right through his chest. He may never have known him personally, but it was the purpose of the tactic that mattered.
"How can a man still haunted by his own trauma possibly provide a stable environment for a child?"
The courtroom fell silent. George's hands had formed fists, and his nails raked at his palms. In his mind's eye, he heard The Darkest Knight's laughter, beckoning him to let loose his wrath.
He leaned into the ache instead and let it feed him. When he spoke, emotion raw in his voice was as clear as day.
"I know trauma. I know loss. I know what it's like to have your world shattered in a heartbeat. And that's precisely why I'm the best man for the job to guide Dick through this."
His words were caught between them, heavy with the shared pain. He saw the result of them, the slight softening around the jut of the judge's jaw.
"I can't take away what happened to him. But I can give him a purpose. A reason to keep going. An opportunity to turn his pain into something meaningful."
The Darkest Knight purred with satisfaction. This was it, the tipping point. George pressed his advantage, his words beating down on the other man like a steady barrage.
He spoke of Dick's education, of the boy's physical and emotional care. Of security at Wayne Manor, the team of pros he'd put together to assist in the boy's recovery.
With each one, he could see the resolve of the opposition crumbling. Their arguments seemed weak, petty in comparison to the force of his conviction.
The gavel came down with a loud crack. "I've heard enough. Custody is granted to Mr. Wayne."
The courtroom erupted into a cacophony of voices. George stood still, letting the victory wash over him. The Darkest Knight's laughter filled his mind-a dark triumph that sent shivers down his spine.
He turned to see Dick Grayson-small and pale in his too-large suit. The boy's eyes met his, a mixture of fear and hope churning in their depths.
George knelt and laid a hand on Dick's shoulder. "It's over," he whispered. "You're coming home with me."
Dick nodded, his lower lip quivering. "What happens now?"
The Darkest Knight's voice whispered, dark and seductive. "Now we forge him. Now we create our perfect soldier."
George shut the voice out and looked at the child before him. "Now we heal," he said, "together."
He stood, guiding Dick through the throng of reporters and onlookers. Their cameras flashed on, capturing the moment for the headlines of tomorrow.
But George's mind was already racing ahead-to the training that would come, to the nights of patrol, to the birth of Robin, the Boy Wonder.
Author's Notes: Feeling sad today. Not sure why.
Remember to support my p-a-t-r-e-o-n. I have an original Story called Echoes of The Modern Mind.
p-a-t-r-e-o-n - Bosillic.