Robin: Beginnings - Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

I Jump a Few Grades

In Gotham stand many towers reaching to the dark skies. Old and new, of the rich or the despicable. Sometimes both. In the Narrows stands a tower, the home of the late Carmine Falcone, who ruled Gotham with an iron fist, untouched by the law. Of his vast criminal empire, there was no equal; of his deeply rooted control, there was no substitute. That is, until Batman began his Caped Crusade. Many in Gotham remember the war on the streets— the shifting of power. The potential it created for those in the shadows to step into the light, to claim their place. 

Falcone was gone, but perhaps what he left was worse. A city divided, split, and fought over by the rising leaders of the underworld. And while the Batman kept simple muggers and criminals off the street, even he could not root out the corruption that runs deep. 

Even the Batman cannot frighten the likes of the elite from their perches in the decaying streets of his city. Even Batman cannot see the fingers of influence that run deep.

The tower in the Narrows stands untouched, unthreatened, and untraceable. This mafia leader rides the wings of legitimate business. 

Even now, he sits, a dark, portly shadow at his office desk, the light of his computer screen illuminating his ugly features. Before him stands Tony Zucco, one of his many enforcers. 

“You failed me, Zucco.” His voice is warbling, croaking. “You were supposed to bring me the boy.”

Zucco’s arms clasp behind his back. “I thought they would bring him back to the circus. Everything—“

Crunch! Something slimy finds its way into the dark shadow’s mouth. He doesn’t speak until he is done chewing, and Zucco doesn’t dare to say anything until he does. “You thought? He was at a Home for a week, Zucco. Easy pickings.”

Zucco nods, his fingers trembling. “Yes, well, the GCHB is in the Riddler’s territory, so I thought—”

“Again, you thought?” The man sneers. “The Riddler and I are on good terms. Don’t lie to me. Tell me—” Crunch. More chewing. Zucco shifts in his boots, swallowing hard, “What really kept you away.”

Zucco’s voice is thick, strained. “The Batman… Sir.”

“Ah yes, the Batman.” The man leans back, the screen's light fading from his face. “I knew Riddler’s activities would draw the Bat’s attention. You can always trust those… extravagant types to catch the eye of the law. Such a pity. But not an excuse.”

Crunch! 

“S-sir.” Zucco swallows hard. “We can still get him. We—”

“Do you know who has the boy now?” The man croaks, hacking on something lodged in his throat.

“We… we followed him all the way to Wayne Man—“

“That’s right.” Crunch! The shadow chews again, slower this time. Sweat beads on Zucco’s forehead. “Wayne Manor. The very same manor we tried and failed to infiltrate. The very same Manor with the unbeatable security system.” The shadow leans forward, his beady eyes locking onto Zucco. “Do you understand what we have just lost, Zucco? What you have lost me?”

Zucco swallows hard. Out on the streets, he is in control. But here, his proper place is beat into him. He shakes his head, his voice thick. “N-no, Sir.”

The shadow grasps the computer screen with his misshapen hands, turning it slowly. The bright light blinds Zucco until he squints, barely able to read the figures on the screen. 

His eyes widen. “Sir… if I had known—“

“The kid is invaluable to us, Mr. Zucco.” The voice croons, turning the screen back around. “I want all your men on this. Do not dare try to infiltrate the Manor. Wait for the kid to come to you. I do not want to cross Wayne.”

“That useless piece of dough?” Zucco’s fingers tremble as he tightens them. “I am sure that you can—“

Click. 

The sound is so simple, but Zucco flinches. Something sharp is under his chin, teasing Adam’s apple. If it was any other person, he would pull out one of the knives waiting for him in his jacket pockets. But no one pulled a knife on the boss. 

“Leave. Wayne. Out. Of. It.” The shadow hisses, beady eyes glistening over a sharp nose. “Get the kid, or you will owe me twice what he's worth.”

Zucco would nod, but that motion would cut him. “I—of course, Sir.”

The point is away from his chin, but the threat is not out of the air. “Luckily for you, Mr. Zucco, I have a contingency plan should you fail.”

Zucco swallows hard. He knows that he will wish the boss had ended him if he fails. 

No one crosses the Penguin. 

———

“Time to wake up, Master Dick.” Lights snap on, and I groan, taking one out of Uncle Rick’s book and slamming my pillow over my head, moaning into the soft fabric. 

How much sleep did I get after all was said and done? Not enough, I tell you. “No… Alfred.” My voice is muffled through the pillow, but I don’t care. At least it’s dark and comfortable under here. “It’s too early.”

“It is six-thirty a.m, Master Dick.” Alfred’s clipped tones are too peppy for this time of the morning, though I don’t think ‘peppy’ is really the right word. I can’t see the old butler as anything more than deliberate. 

“Exactly!” My pillow’s snatched from me, leaving me to scowl at Alfred, squinting through the fresh sunlight beaming in from my huge, floor-to-ceiling windows. “I usually wake up at eight!”

Most of the time, people complain that they don’t get enough sleep. Well, how can they complain when they purposefully wake up this stupid early? Early bird gets the worm, I get it, but honestly, how can the bird get the worm if it’s so tired it can’t fly straight?

“Not anymore, Master Dick.” Alfred drops my pillow onto my bed, his lips thinning into that now familiar line. I can’t tell if he does that when he’s upset, amused, or annoyed. Maybe all three? Maybe it’s just the ‘Alfred Special?’ “When you live in this house, you will wake up promptly at six thirty. Come on, chop, chop. There is much to be done.”

I want to roll my eyes or turn my back to him and hide under my blanket, but I don’t. I actually like Alfred. Maybe waking up so early won’t be so bad. Okay, so that’s a lie. It’s going to be horrible. But… what do we have to do? Alfred cleans and cooks, but what am I supposed to be doing?

My mind whirls with all the possibilities as I drag myself out of bed, stumbling into the bathroom. My reflection looks back at me, just as asleep as I am, bags under its eyes, a massive nest of tangled hair on its head, and a giant yawn cracking its face. Mom would think I’m adorable. Raya would pester me about how awful I looked. But… I can’t think about them. I can’t.

I put my toothbrush in my mouth but only manage to suck on my toothpaste. Apparently, my efforts are unacceptable. “Master Dick, what are you doing?”

Alfred’s standing at the door to the bathroom, his eyebrow raised, his smokey eyes piercing through my brain fog. “Hm?” I mumble through a mouthful of toothbrush. “Immwa brwushwing mwy tweeth!”

“Goodness me.” Alfred’s oxfords click into the bathroom, and he opens a drawer. “Brush well, please, Master Dick. And let us see what we can do about that… mess on your head.”

I grab my toothbrush and scrub my teeth, ignoring the comment about my hair. I’ve heard enough about it to last a million lifetimes. Instead, I watch Alfred take out a brush, a comb, and a small, round container. By the time I spit out the toothpaste, Alfred has assembled so many things on the counter that it might as well’ve been a hair salon. “What’s all that for?” I stare at the clippers and shears sitting on the glistening counter. Maybe he’ll buzz it all off and save me the trouble. If he does that, he will achieve the highest honor. Legendary status in the hall of grown-ups. Is this actually a thing? No. Should it be? Yeah, it should. 

“Grab that stool, Master Dick.” Alfred motions to a swiveling stool sitting in the corner. I grab it, setting it in front of the mirror. “I’m going to give you a trim.”

“Just a trim?” I try not to sound as disappointed as I feel. Why can’t grown-ups ever understand that I’m serious about shaving it all off? What’s it gonna take, me joining the military? Alfred wraps a towel around my neck, clips the cape around me, and drapes it over my front. I gaze at the stacks of bottles sitting next to the sink and the towel Alfred’s draped over the edge. 

“You are also in need of a good, thorough scrubbing.” Alfred sniffs lightly, turning me around and pushing me back, so my head rests on the edge of the sink, my eyes staring at the lights. I let him do this because I know he’s right. My hair’s a greasy mess. Shower times were cut short at the Home, and I figured I’d rather smell good than have clean hair.

The water splashes into my face as the faucet turns on, but it feels good. Alfred’s hands are purposeful, rubbing the shampoo into my scalp and cleaning every inch of my head. When I sit up, at last, I feel better already. Okay, yeah, yeah, call me a sissy. But having greasy hair isn’t fun, okay?

I close my eyes as the comb glides through my hair. I mean, glides. Usually, I have to yank it through, but whatever miracle shampoo Alfred uses actually works because nothing tugs, pulls, or catches on my ears. Where’s this stuff been all my life? 

Laugh it up, why don'tcha? I can appreciate beauty products… sometimes. So what if this actually excites me? 

I watch as my hair gets trimmed, as the bedraggled ends fall away, the sides shaved down to a proper length. The clippers feel so good on my head. Finally, when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. I know my hair still parts in the middle, shorter hairs framing my face, the sides trimmed up, but Alfred has slicked it all back with hair gel like Bruce’s, leaving it all neat and tidy. Sophisticated. I actually look like a rich boy now. 

“Wow.” I lean forward as Alfred unclips the cape, shaking the shed hairs into the trash. “I look so… different!” Maybe I won’t shave it off after all. Maybe I don’t need a professional stylist. I just need Alfred. 

“You are most welcome, Master Dick.” Alfred’s polished tones remind me of what I forgot. You’d think I was untrained or something. 

Oops. 

“Thanks, Alfred.” My cheeks heat up as I slip off the seat. What now? Should I help him clean up? Should I get dressed? Head to the banquet hall? Can I go back to bed? Now that really would make me love him. “Um… Alfred—”

“Get dressed in workout clothes, Master Dick.” Alfred doesn’t meet my gaze as his broom darts across the floor, somehow catching every speck on the white marble tiles. “We are going to the home gym.”

I try to keep the dumb look off my face. I try to keep my mouth shut. But I can’t. What? Oh no, not now! Not this early! He can’t be serious! “What? The home gym? But—”

“No ‘buts’ about it, Master Dick. Now, off you go. Get in your clothes, and I will meet you there.”

Wow. Just, wow. I shake my head, mumbling about overbearing butlers who shouldn’t exist anywhere except on TV shows, as I enter my department store— er— closet. I take a tank top and shorts off the hangers and pull them on, tossing my PJs into the hamper. It feels good to get out of the sweat and grime and into something fresh, not ruined by nightmares. 

The house is so quiet when I step out of my room that I wince as my footsteps echo down the hall. Honestly, how can anyone live in a place like this without getting freaked out at every little sound? If I was in charge, I’d be blasting music everywhere just to keep the creaks and shifting of the house away. Right now, I think a morgue would be louder and less creepy. If you came in here and didn’t know what this place was, you’d really think this place’s abandoned but kept up by a ghost butler who’d scare your socks off by showing up out of nowhere. 

I get lost on my way to the gym, ending up in the library instead, which isn’t so bad. I never really liked reading, well, that’s not true. I do like reading. I just never had the time for it. Maybe now—

“Master Dick.” I jump so high I might as well’ve broken through the roof. Honestly, how does Alfred do it? Does he teleport? Phase through walls? “This is no time to dawdle. Off we go.”

I find that I can’t argue with Alfred, which is strange because I'm supposed to be the boss around here. Right? Then again, the way he talks to Bruce and me, someone would think he’s my grandfather, not my butler. And not just any grandfather, oh no, one of those ones with the suits and stuffy attitudes who expect so much from their wayward grandchild on their second day at their colossal manor. What? I’m not that upset. Not really. 

We arrive at the home gym. I’m half wishing that Bruce’ll be here, waiting for me to join him. Maybe we’d have something to talk about other than our dead parents and messed-up lives. But no, the gym’s empty, the equipment waiting, just asking me to use it. 

“Run eight laps, Master Dick.” I have to blink at Alfred a couple times. I couldn’t have heard that right. I thought he said run eight laps around the track. He’s not that crazy, is he? I’m still asleep; that’s what this is. 

I look at the track, which is a standard size for indoors, wrapping around the home gym, the white lines separating the lanes perfectly, then I look at Alfred. “What?”

“Run eight laps.” Alfred holds out a large glass filled with a brownish-green liquid. “Then you may drink your smoothie.”

What? He’s kidding. He’s joking. Or at least, that’s what I’d think if Alfred weren’t the stiffest person I’ve ever seen in my twelve years of living. What, does he have a plank of wood stuck down the back of his suit? “Um… why?”

Alfred’s lips thin, and his eyebrows raise. “This is an assessment. If you are to be a part of the Wayne family, you need to be ready to defend yourself against kidnappers and muggers. Cardio is essential.”

I can’t believe him. Who drops this on a kid on his second day at a strange place, the second day of being declared the ward of a billionaire? Still, I don’t grumble as I start to jog at the starting line; at least, I don’t grumble much. By the time I’m on my seventh lap, my legs burn, my chest heaves, and my tank top runs with sweat. I just want to get it over with, so I run faster, sprinting the last lap. 

Don’t ever do that. Just don’t. I collapse as soon as I cross the line, heaving on the squishy ground. I know some people kiss the ground after they fly, but honestly, I’m tempted to do it now. “H-how w-was th-that?” I wheeze, turning to look at the Alfred shadow looming over me. 

“Ten minutes.” Alfred hands me the ‘smoothie’ that looks like spinach and bark blended together as he looks down at his watch. “Not perfect, but not horrible either. We still have a lot of work to do.”

I sip the smoothie, my nose wrinkling. How do people drink this stuff? It’s like someone walked into the fruit and veggie aisle, bought it all, then tossed it into a blender. I know a coupleof rabbits who’d love it, maybe a few horses too. But I drink it anyway because Alfred’s lips are already pressed, and I don’t want to see what he’s like when he’s actually angry. Maybe he’d raise both eyebrows. “Wh-what?” I stammer, trying to keep my eyes from popping out of my face. “What work?”

“Up you go, Master Dick.” Alfred beckons to me, already halfway to the gymnastics equipment. Seriously, how does he move so fast? “More to do.”

I can’t believe this guy. First, he makes me do the vault, which I’ve never done before, then he makes me do the pommel horse, still rings, parallel bars, horizontal bars— In fact, after an hour, I think I’ve done everything in the gym. Weights for every muscle in my body, some of which I didn’t even know I had, the climbing rope which I’m good at, the balance beam which I could do in my sleep, the rowing machine— honestly, how did people in ye olden days do this—, the climbing wall, on and on and on until I think I might drop dead. 

I’m a kid! I want to yell at Alfred. I don’t need to see how much I can bench press other than for bragging rights! And there’s no one around to brag to!

When we go outside, my tank top’s off, my upper body slick with sweat. I wonder why Alfred even bothered washing and styling my hair in the first place. Though I have to say, having it slicked back is kind of nice when you’re trying to see where you’re going. 

Outside, there are even more things to do, and thankfully, a lot of them are more exciting than the bench press. There’s a fifty-meter pool, complete with diving boards, a basketball court, and a tennis court, all fenced in by a hedge that keeps them hidden from the back porch. 

I have to say, living in a Manor house does have its perks. You never really have to go anywhere for anything. You want to watch a movie on a big screen? Boom, screening room. You want to go to the library? Boom, home library. You want to go swimming? Boom, outdoor pool. 

Soon, I’m in a brand spanking new pair of swimming shorts and sitting at the bottom of the pool. Apparently, it’s important for Alfred to see how long I can hold my breath. 

My cheeks bulge as bubbles float from my nostrils. I’ve never really swam before, except in the huge tubs the clowns jump into. This is a whole different thing. The pool’s massive, clear, and glistening. The water moves around me in comforting waves, the silence and coolness a relief. 

I’d want to stay down here all day. Down here where it’s safe. Down here when I can dream about my parents and Uncle Rick without anyone seeing my face. Down here, where I can cry, and no one sees. 

What? Did you think that I’d forget? Did you think that distraction helps? Maybe it does, and maybe it will. But I’ll never forget. I can’t. Every time I see that trapeze in the gym, every time I do a flip or a cartwheel, I see them. I hear them. 

So I’d stay down here, where I can think, but my lungs burn, and my cheeks let out precious air. I push off the bottom, my bare toes digging into the bumpy grit, and break the surface, lazily swimming up to the poolside, looking at Alfred expectantly. “Well?” I want to ask more, like, what the heck is this all about? But I don’t. I wipe my face and keep my mouth shut, waiting for the verdict.

“Three minutes.” Alfred nods curtly, stepping aside and motioning towards the outdoor changing rooms. “Again, not horrible, but it could be improved immensely.”

I raise an eyebrow, not making a move to slip out of the pool. I could sit here in the water all day. Here, where it’s nice and cool. Here, listening to the birds chirping, watching the sun slide higher into the sky. Here, where all the happy times are clear in my head. Their laughter with the bird’s song, their smiles kissing me with the daylight. I know, I know. We’ve gone over this before. But can’t a guy miss his family? Can’t a guy be sentimental? Can’t a twelve-year-old boy have feelings, too? I’m not Batman, for crying out loud!

“Are you gonna tell me why I need to improve?” I don’t know what else to ask. What was I going to say? ‘Hey, Alfred, can I please go back to bed or stay out here? All this stuff is super confusing, and all I want to do is sit in my room and play video games before running and cartwheeling through your house.’

“It is simple, Master Dick.” Alfred steps back as I heave myself out of the pool, my arms burning, whining more than I am. “As the ward of Bruce Wayne, you need to be the best at everything. From defending yourself to the arts, you hold dear to intelligence.”

Well, now, no pressure or anything. “So… what you’re saying is… that all of this….” I want to whine, pout, and be angry, but all I manage is a surprise, “Is going to be a typical morning for me?”

“You need a distraction, Master Dick. To keep yourself busy.” Alfred hands me a towel, which I accept, wrapping it around my shivering shoulders. “And what better way than exercising your body and mind? Much better than rotting it out with TV and video games.”

He’s not wrong about the distraction part, but the rest? I open my mouth, then shut it. I have to bite my tongue hard to keep from pointing out that a good puzzle game can be stimulating. Mom and Dad thought the same way as Alfred, though. Practice was fun, helping out was fun, and ordinary pastimes like TV and games were an afterthought. We went and went and went, not stopping until we went to bed or if we had a family movie night, which was a very special occasion. 

So I keep my mouth shut as I dry off and pull on the clothes Alfred brought for me. I’m afraid we’ll go into the gym for more training, but we don’t. Instead, I bite back a cheer as we find our way into the banquet hall, my place set with a simple fork and knife. Finally! Just the way it’s supposed to be! A classic setup, not that whole overkill thing with the bazillions of forks and spoons. If I had to figure out which was the salad fork from the fish fork this early in the morning, I might just pass out from a fried brain. 

I plop down in my seat and look around. The banquet hall’s just like it was last night. Huge, elegant, and empty. Very, very empty. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see. Bruce? Maybe. I sigh when I realize that his plate is not set out for a reason. He’s not coming. 

“Bruce?” I ask anyway when Alfred brings out the holy grail of pancakes, the stack dripping with syrup and butter. Maybe I do like him after all. I don’t know anymore. 

“Master Bruce sleeps in late.” Alfred sets the masterpiece in front of me, taking his place by the side of my chair. “He works late into the night.”

“Doing what?” I say through my mouthful of pancakes before I feel Alfred’s glare boring into me. If looks could kill, just put ‘He spoke with his mouth open’ on my grave.

“Many things.” That’s not an answer, but that’s all I get. So I try to picture what Bruce does. I can see him polishing his hundred-some sports cars, sitting in his office on a video chat with his board, talking about some boring something or other at his company. Is that why they call them ‘board’ meetings? Because they’re so boring?

But the more I think about it, the more I think of how stupid it is. Bruce can’t do those things all night long, can he? And the house is so quiet at night. What does he do, patrol around the fence with Ace? Or does he just not want to spend time with me? I thought that last night we actually made a connection. Alfred even did that whole speech thing. 

But… who is Bruce Wayne? And why do I even care?

BANG! My fork flies out of my hand and skids across the table as a stack of huge books plops onto the table. I gawk at the booklet sitting in front of me. Is it just me, or is this some sort of ‘placement’ test? What, now that Alfred’s worked my muscles to death, he’s gonna scramble my brain? What kind of butler is he? Or is this what they’re all like?

“I’m in seventh grade.” I shouldn’t have to point this out, but I do anyway, poking the stack of huge, college-sized textbooks. I could knock someone out with one of these things. Maybe instead of the fancy titles, they should put ‘Warning: Lethal Weapons’ in giant red letters on the front. 

“I am aware, Master Dick.” Alfred sweeps my breakfast away, replacing it with a sharpened pencil, a brand-new eraser, and an extra notebook. Well, that’s just horrible. Who replaces food with books? Scandalous. “But just because you are in a certain grade does not mean your education is at that level. You could be ready to move on or not.”

“I don’t want to do school.” I want to pull the ‘my parents just died’ card, but then again, they’d want me to do school. They’d want me to keep busy, to keep going. They’d want me to keep smiling, to do the best I can. They’d agree with Alfred. So I leave it at that, knowing that Alfred will shoot it down anyway. Besides, that’s really a low blow. I’m not that petty.

“You will do school as long as you live under this roof, Master Dick.” Alfred’s lips thin, and he nods. Really, does he have any other expression? “Finish the test, and we will see where you are. We will add the necessary subjects from there.”

I hate tests. Especially when I’m not prepared for them. I was homeschooled since we were always on the move in the circus, and whenever my mom would pull a pop quiz on me and the only other student in my class, Raya, we’d try to get out of it. But there’s no getting out of this. Alfred might’s well have tied me down to my chair. 

So I snatch the pencil and flip open the booklet, my hand grabbing my hair as I puzzle through one question after the other. Math, Science, Grammar, English, History, it’s all here, mostly just the basics, but sometimes more. 

By the time I’m done, my brain’s mush. I need more pancakes, which aren’t as good as my mom's but are still a reminder of home. But I can’t think about that. I can only think about the good times and how much Mom would smile if she knew I was working on school. How much Dad would grin at how much I worked out in the gym. And how much Uncle Rick and I would joke about Alfred together. But even that, thinking about ‘how much I would’ve’ hurts. 

It’s an ache that won’t go away. A hole that’s just chilling in my heart. It’s not supposed to be there. But there’s nothing I can do about that. 

Alfred takes the test from me and does the unthinkable. He hands me another book. I take one look at the cover and push it away. Oh no. No, no, no! “I’m not reading this.”

“Yes, you are. It’s literature, Master Dick.”

I scowl at the book. No way this thing counts as ‘literature.’ “Romeo and Juliet is a sobby, girly romance.” I pick up the book like it’s covered with slime. Raya obsessed over this story last year in Lit. And from what I heard about it, it’s stupid, and I won’t like it. 

“It is a piece of history, Master Dick. Read it while I grade your test.” That’s that, and Alfred walks away, leaving me stuck at the table. Now, you may be thinking, ‘but Dick! This manor is huge! You could run away and goof off, and he wouldn’t know!’ To which I say, uh, have you been paying attention? The guy finds me anywhere and everywhere I go!

So I read, and I actually, reluctantly, enjoy myself. I don’t like the love story; that’s lame, mostly, but the sword fights are cool, and it’s fun reading through the book that’s a mouthful of words. Like, Shakespeare just thought a word sounded cool and had the characters say it just because. Half of the time, I don’t really know what they’re saying, but I know what’s happening, at least. 

I’m putting the book down right as Alfred comes back with my test.  I’m itching to know what grade I got, but he doesn’t tell me. You know that feeling when you’re waiting for someone to tell you how you did? Yeah, that’s what twists my stomach now. I want to bounce up and down in my seat or run away. I want him to say something. Instead, he pulls so many books up to my chair that I’m almost drowning in ink and pages. 

“Every morning, except Sundays, you will study the following subjects.” Alfred puts a schedule down in front of me, but keeps the test out of my reach. My stomach churns like a pot of Mrs. Vestri’s gumbo. How’d I do? Am I dumb? Smart? Won’t he tell me? “I expect nothing but the best from you, Master Dick.”

And there it is again. 

Alfred leaves. Leaves me alone with the schedule and the maze of books. I look down at the condemning slip in front of me, scowling at the numbers. At six-thirty, I’m supposed to get up and get dressed. At six-forty, I’m supposed to go to the gym and train with Alfred, ‘see another schedule—’ Oh no. No way! I pick up the paper and look at the next schedule stapled neatly underneath. Apparently, Butler Alfred’s going to have me work on strength, cardio, flexibility, endurance, and skill. I raise an eyebrow at the strange names popping up all over the page, and it’s not until I read Karate that I realize those are different martial arts forms. 

So maybe that’ll be cool. Maybe. 

I drop the first paperback and continue to read. After I train, I eat breakfast. After that, I study until snack time at three thirty. From then on, it’s my free time. 

My eyes scan the listed subjects, and my mouth hits the table. Well, not really, but you get the idea. There are not only basic subjects, such as Math, History, and the like, but also Biology, Technology, Physics, Mythology, Geography, Criminal Science, Forensics, Computer Science, Chemistry, Medical Sciences, Linguistics, and Engineering Sciences. 

My brain melts just thinking about it. I’m not some child genius. I’m not some prodigy of science or athletics. Why’s he making me do all of this? Because the Wayne men have to be ‘the best at everything?’ By why? I don’t want to be the best at everything! I don’t enjoy normal school! I’m not even a Wayne!

I don’t think about it too much. I don’t want to be angry with Alfred; I like him and Bruce. Yes, I’ve finally made up my mind. But this is only my second day— not even, really. Can’t I just use this day to, oh, I don’t know, adjust? But then again, this is adjusting, isn’t it? Adjusting to expectations. Adjusting to my new life, my new routine. 

I’m more than just a boy who lives in the house and eats the food. I’m expected to be a Wayne or at least be trained and intelligent like one. But… where does that line stop? Am I supposed to be like Bruce? I don’t want to be. I don’t want to stay in this house, all alone, except for Alfred. 

But I still open up my ‘History of Gotham’ textbook and start to read.

To be Continued...