Robin: Beginnings - Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I Become a Professional Detailer

The Penguin stands at his window overlooking his city. Yes, his city. Below him, the Narrows sprawl, more alive at night than in the day. Here, the criminals are free. Here, the police do nothing. 

The night brings the safety of shadows, where most do not fear the alleyways or dark corridors. For here, the Batman rarely comes. It is his greatest vice and the criminal’s greatest triumph. Even so, the Penguin does not rest.

He stands, dressed to impress, his suit pressed, top hat jaunty on his sleek salt and pepper hair. From the back, he seems like a fine gentleman, someone who would be respectable in the eyes of Gotham. The first sign of something wrong, however, comes at the sight of his gloved hands. The misshapen mitts tell of something horrible, something cruel. If you were to see his face, you would know. The scars marring what would have once been a handsome face. His nose hooks over a pressed mouth, his eyes small, dark as coals, one shining behind a monocle. 

Features that gave him his name, which he embraced. The Penguin. He lords over his empire, enjoying his roost above the rest, but even the big birds have predators. 

As he stands, framed against the smoke and filth of the Narrows night, behind him flickers a screen. For it is not the politicians who rule Gotham. It is not the police that executes justice. It is not even the Batman. For they do not know the truth. 

Tony Zucco might fear the Penguin, but the Penguin fears a shadow. A bedtime story.

“We have been patient, Oswald.” The voice is cold, smooth, like ice in the veins. “We have waited long for this. Where are our results?”

The Penguin does not answer. For if Zucco is being backed into a corner, caught between both sides of the law, the Penguin is strung by his webbed feet. No one denies the shadows of Gotham what they want. “My extortionist is working on it, Sir. But the boy is being protected by Wayne.” The Penguin does not turn around; instead, he clasps his hands behind his back. “And was I not instructed to not draw attention to you or your interest in the boy?”

“We were promised the Grayson boy.” The voice hushes. “You are running out of time, Oswald. Do it, and do it right or suffer.”

Click.

The call ends, leaving the Penguin to think. He will let Zucco run his course. If he succeeds, then his buyers get their prize. If he fails? There is always the contingency. 

———

I didn’t sleep that night. I mean, how could I? Would you if you knew that there was an entire superhero hideout under your basement? Would you if you found out that the person you were living with was actually a superhero who dresses like a Bat and leaves the house every night to kick super-villain-butt?

Would you if that same hero accepted you as his protegé, promising to show you more of the cave and secret passageways in the Manor in the morning after training?

So I laid awake in bed all night, my heart beating faster than rabbits, my mind whirling, my eyes tracing the shapes in the plaster. My life as I knew it ended when that line slipped when Zucco removed those bolts, and it’s been changing ever since. First for the worst then… I don’t even know what to call my first few weeks at the Manor. It wasn’t all good, but it wasn’t all bad either. 

But now I know things will be better. Because I’ll be with Bruce. And I’ll be kicking butt with him soon, at least, after I kick his butt. Which, honestly, I can’t see myself doing. Okay, that’s a lie. I can see myself flying in like a professional hero, impressing Bruce and winning my place at his side. But who I am now is not who I am in that fantasy. 

I can’t beat Bruce. But I will. Alfred and Bruce will make sure of that, which is kind of weird. What kind of grownups are like, ‘say, we’re going to take you in and train you so you can beat us in fights soon?’ I mean, besides Sith lords, which Bruce and Alfred are not. 

As soon as the light peaks in through my windows, I’m up and out of bed, rushing through my morning routine, which is basically throwing on a tank and leggings, taming my bed head, and brushing my teeth. I don’t know if Alfred’s already up, but I run to the gym anyway, my heart pumping. 

I’m not too happy about the added ballet lessons, but I’m excited, more than ever, to train. At least now I know what I’m training for. I shouldn’t be surprised when I burst into the gym and find Alfred waiting for me, his hands behind his back, his suit as pressed and trimmed as usual. 

“Good morning, Master Dick.” I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe a mention of what happened last night? How exciting this all is? How he’s been right the entire time? But then, I shouldn’t have expected any of that. He’s Alfred. “Ready to get started, are we?”

“As long as there’re no tutus, I’m ready to roll.” I crack my knuckles, looking around at the different gym equipment. “What’s first? Weight training? Flexibility? Trapeze?”

I really hope he doesn't say ballet. That would really bring me back down to earth. Maybe even below it, depending on what he makes me do. But my spirits lift when Alfred gestures behind him to the fighting arena. “We will go straight to the point, Master Dick. Your upcoming spar with Master Bruce.”

He means me getting ready to kick Bruce’s butt, as crazy as it seems. I jog, following him to the arena, sliding under the wiggly barrier, and grabbing my hand wraps from the duffle sitting in one corner. Do I take my eyes off Alfred? No. I learned never to take my eyes off him the hard way. “So, more martial arts, then?” 

As crazy as it sounds, I am now a successful, if not rushed, black belt in most of the martial arts that Alfred taught me. Which is pretty much all of them, or at least most of them. Including arts like Jiu-Jitsu, Taekwondo, and Judo. 

More than that, Alfred’s been teaching me fencing, wrestling, kickboxing, and parkour, on top of all my trapeze and gymnastic training. 

“No, Master Dick. Not martial arts.” Alfred doesn’t move, which is surprising. Usually, he’s attacking and talking to me at this point, giving me pointers and actual practice at the same time. “We are here to craft your own style.”

My own style? What’s that supposed to mean? “What?” I stand, finishing with the straps of my hand wraps, warming up my shoulders with helicopter rotations. “Isn’t each of the martial arts a style?”

“Each warrior has his or her own style, Master Dick, depending on what they study and what best suits them.” Alfred still doesn’t move, so I drop to the ground in the splits, stretching out my legs and core. Alfred keeps going. “Currently, your strengths lie heavily in Jiu-Jitsu, Taekwondo, Judo, Muay Thai, Savate, Karate, Kung Fu, boxing, Capoeira, Krav Maga, Aikido, and Ninjutsu. But more than that, your acrobatic skills are something I have never seen before.”

“Oh yeah?” I push myself into a backbend, looking at Alfred from between my legs. “So, a combination of everything?”

“Quite so, Master Dick.” Alfred clasps his hands in front of him, looking right at me, though upside down. “A harmonious mix, as it were. Focusing on your strengths in each art and taking away your weaknesses with something from yet another art. All bound together by one thing.”

I lift my legs and push into a handstand. Am I showing off? No. Alfred’s seen me do way cooler things than this. “My acrobatics.” It’s obvious. I was able to knock Zucco back by flipping over him and slamming into his back. And now that Alfred’s brought this up, I can just see myself repeating the motion, but honed with skill and focused power. 

“Indeed, Master Dick.” Alfred pulls something out of his pocket, holding it out to me. “Let us begin.”

I flip onto my feet and stare at the thing in his hand. It’s a blindfold. I raise my eyebrow, though it doesn’t have the same effect as when Alfred does it. “You want me to do—”

“I want you to fight without seeing, Master Dick.” Alfred’s lips twitch. “I want you to act on instinct. When you find the rhythm, we will work from there.”

I put my hand over the blindfold, slowly closing my fingers around it. Alfred’s lips twitch more. I think this is his equivalent of laughing at me. He’s enjoying this way too much. “So… I find my own style, play to my strengths, and beat Bruce?”

“Indeed.” Alfred’s hands drop as I pull the blindfold toward me, lifting it halfway to my eyes. I don’t know if I really want to get embarrassed and humiliated by my Butler, of all people. Then again, he’s not one to hold it over my head. Though Bruce might. Good thing he’s in bed. “You are small, fast, and agile. Master Bruce is solid, deliberate, and powerful. He is very fast, of course, but he is much bigger than you, Master Dick. Size will be your advantage.”

I put the blindfold on. I’ve been trained to see with my nose, my ears, and my sense of touch. Even still, not being able to see isn’t the greatest thing in the world. Especially when you know, you’re about to be attacked by your own butler. 

We’ve spared countless times, but then he was training me in a specific art. Now, I’m on my own. So when the punch comes, I do the only thing that comes naturally to me. 

I fly. 

The rest of the training is a blur. Alfred’s assessment of my best martial art skills was correct, as usual, so we practice honing those, stringing moves from different arts together, and pairing them with quadruple flips, back springs, and mid-air splits. Flying kicks and attacks are my forte, and while Bruce favors fists and kicks, I really do find it more comfortable to fight with my bō staff. 

By the time I walk out of the gym, I’m slick with sweat but satisfied. Even after Alfred made me do all five positions of ballet. I want to complain, but I don’t help my case any, especially after performing a flawless ciseaux and penché on the first try. Hurray. I have a gift. Yay me. 

After that, I sit down for breakfast and more studies. And let me tell you, if I thought all my school work was piled up before, it has nothing on this. Apparently, the requirements are doubled up, and not just in the things you would think, you know, that would aid detective work. Oh no. I have to know everything. 

So, yeah, by the time lunch rolls around, my brain is mush, but I’ve learned about two more countries, some fascinating things about penguins, and four more phrases in Latin. Well, five, but when I tried to submit that one to Alfred, he told me no. Ubi est latrina, anyone?

“Welcome to the security room, Master Dick.” Alfred stands by the door as I walk into a room full of monitors, showing every room in the house— except for the bathrooms, to my relief. My eyes scan all the monitors until I find Bruce’s bedroom. He’s not there. Go figure. “Here,” Alfred ignores my search. Instead, he walks forward and sits in the seat, motioning to the board full of neatly labeled buttons. And, is it just me, or is one labeled, electric fence, ten thousand volts? What? Is the fence active?

And what about that other button that says ‘security doors’ or ‘gun towers’? What’s Bruce planning for, an invasion?

I sneak up to Alfred, peering over his shoulder. Okay, even if someone came here and didn’t know Bruce Wayne was Batman, this is still a little excessive. I mean, cool, but extreme. “Familiarize yourself with the functions, Master, Dick.” Alfred stands up, allowing me to sink into the chair, my chin almost slamming into the desk. Okay, embarrassing. I find the lever and pump the seat up until my elbows reach the desk, ignoring Alfred’s raised eyebrow. “Ahem, yes. I will fetch you for dinner.”

 So I spend the rest of the afternoon in the security office of my Manor House. What? Would you think that it’s boring? Okay, so the manuals are boring… and just sitting and watching an empty room like Alfred’s office is a snooze. But spying on Alfred in the kitchen? Practicing the anti-missile system— okay, well, not actually practicing it, but doing a sim of it is pretty awesome. 

What boy wouldn’t want to see how many raccoons he could get by turning on the electric fence? Okay, okay, so I did fry a few, but they’re trash pandas! Basically burglars!

By dinner, I’m ready for the next thing. You know the one. The tiny little phrase on my schedule that says ‘time with Bruce.’ And while most casual readers would think we would play a game, watch a movie, or work in the garage, I get to go on a ‘real’ tour of the Manor and work in Bruce’s mancave— the Batcave.

Some things never change, though. Bruce doesn’t come to dinner, but then again, I don’t even bother trying to get him here to eat my crab—stuffed mushrooms and salad. For once, I’m not angry at him for not being around. How could I be mad? He’s going to show me around the Manor, the hidden passageways, the Batcave, and what the different equipment does, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll start training. Or I could help him work the case!

Basically, by the time Bruce walks into the banquet hall, I’m bouncing in my seat, biting at the bit, pawing the ground like a horse ready for the races. Then he says the best thing I’ve ever heard. “Are you ready, Chum?”

I want to scream a resounding ‘yes!’ and lunge forward. Instead, I leap out of my seat and manage a few cartwheels, flipping up to a stop at Bruce’s side, my grin splitting my face as I look up at him. His steely eyes twinkle, and an amused smile teases his lips. “Born ready, B!” I plant my fists on my hips. “First night of orientation! Let’s go!”

It's cliché, but there are entrances to the Batcave everywhere around the grounds and in the Manor. The one Alfred used last night and the one I exited through is behind the grandfather clock in Bruce’s office. I know, right? But that's nothing compared to the sliding bookshelf in the library and the arcade game in the living room. 

So yeah, basically any strange or suspicious piece of furniture in this house is a secret entrance. Oh! And the garden shed. Yup, the garden shed has an entry. 

The Batcave itself is a lot bigger than I first thought. Like the newspaper room, there are a lot of one-off chambers or tunnels leading to the secret entrances. And when Bruce shows me the map of our systems, I finally find out how he can always be wherever he needs to be and always have what he needs. 

We have hideouts all over the city. There’s even a second Batcave, or ‘storehouse’ as Bruce calls it, underneath Wayne Tower. Figures. 

The first few hours with Bruce are really just finding out what I now have access to: a bunch of maps, passwords, and rooms. Still, wouldn't you be excited if you're told the voice commands to the Batcave and the Batmobile? 

“—Files. You have access to not only the GCPD data but also everything in my own database.” Bruce scrolls through the list of files on the computer. And when I say list, I mean list. Like, thousands, millions of names. All alphabetized. “Just search under a keyword or phrase. Such as—” Bruce clicks the search be and types 'League of Assassins’ and a shorter, but still lengthy list pops up. I scan the names. Oof, who would want the last name al Ghul? That would stink. 

“Cool!” I lean forward, drumming on the desk. “So… What now?” I know I need to know all of this, but honestly, I'm ready for some action or any sort of training, really. “Tossing batarangs? Training? Oh, oh!” I resist the urge to jump up and down. This is a long shot, but maybe: “Can I drive the Batmobile?”

The way Bruce looks at me, you’d think I have a third eye or rabbit ears. My cheeks burn. Okay, so maybe that was a long shot. A really, really long shot. He doesn't even answer me. Instead, he hands me a bucket of soapy water, a brush, tire wax, and a handful of clean rags. I stare down at the items, then look up at Bruce. 

“Umm, what’re these for?” I pick up the clean rag, holding it between my fingers. I'm pretty sure I already know what it's for, but I don't want to believe it. Is Bruce really going to—

“Clean the tires.” Okay, so maybe he is. Bruce turns and sits back down at the desk. “I will quiz you on how much you know while we both work.”

“Is this supposed to be one of those tests about discipline and patience?” I gather all the supplies in my arms and raise my eyebrows. “Like in those Kung Fu movies?”

Bruce doesn’t answer, so I shrug, sliding down the pole with the supplies. When I get to the Batmobile, I plop down and stare at the wheels. Okay, I know Gotham’s dirty and grimy, but these wheels? These wheels look like Batman was mud-bogging all day. I purse my lips, glaring at the filth, trying to figure out how to do this. What? Have you ever scrubbed and waxed tires before?

“Wash and dry the rims first.” Bruce offers from his place on the upper level. “And no water spots.”

So I do. I scrub the tires with the water, drying them with a clean towel, working until I think my fingers might fall off. You know, the training montages are so much cooler in the movies. When you watch them, you laugh at the hero, thinking about how dumb or whiny they are. But let me tell you, actually working like this? Even to learn a valuable lesson? Stinks. It stinks worse than the Vestri’s animal cages. 

At least, when I scrub the tires, I get to answer interesting questions that Bruce throws my way. He quizzes me on the Super Villains of Gotham, their territories, and MOs, and poses scenarios where I have to figure out who’s responsible. Things like ‘out of control growth in the Gotham City Parks’ or ‘A string of robberies where only diamonds are missing’ are easy to figure out. Poison Ivy and Mr. Freeze. 

But questions like random robberies or general thefts are harder to place. It’s only after he drops a vital clue that ‘all the objects taken are things that have to do with cats’ or ‘all the robberies have been off the rivers’ that I can figure it out. Catwoman and Killer Croc. 

By the time I’m waxing the wheels, my fingers are red and singing, my brain wrapped up in a riddle. Literally. 

“The one who makes it sells it. The one who buys it never uses it. The one that uses it never knows that he’s using it. What is it?” Bruce asks without hesitation. We’ve passed the more… I don’t know what to call them, normal super villains? And are on to the big ones. Right now, obviously, I’m trying to figure out how to talk to/figure out the Riddler. 

The one who makes it… the one who— My mind whirls with the possibilities. Of course, there’s a thirty-second time limit. You’ll never know how long the Riddler will give you to answer a riddle, Bruce says, so I have to be prepared. Hurray for me.

The one that uses it never knows— “A coffin.” I answer just before the timer echoes through the cave, disturbing the bats overhead. “The answer is a coffin.”

“Very good.” Bruce still types at the computer. Honestly, how can he multitask like this? Does he have a second pair of ears and eyes? “Keep up on that rim, Chum. Now, another riddle. Whoever makes it tells it not. Whoever takes it knows it not. Whoever knows it wants it not.”

Okay… I scrub at the rim of the tires, my tongue sticking through my teeth, my brain squeezing. Whoever makes… takes… knows… huh? “I don’t—” I start to say, but then I notice something. Bruce’s fingers are no longer clicking on the keyboard. I notice that the cave just got eerily quiet. I notice the sound of almost imperceptible breathing. 

I hear the whoosh of an arm coming down, and I dodge, launching myself up and over the Batmobile, tossing the dirty rag right at the attacker’s face. I already know who it is, of course. I mean, who else would it be?

I land on the other side of the Batmobile in a roll, leaping to my feet, just in time to see Bruce jump over, his cape spreading like bat wings. I exploded into a string of backflips, my palms digging into the stone and gravel of the cave. His movements are quick, precise, and insanely skilled. I mean, this guy is unreal. Batman is unreal. Bruce is unreal. 

“That was a low blow, B.” I start chattering. I can’t stop myself, even as I duck and dodge his attacks, not daring to go in for any of my own. Not yet. Not when I’m still working on my style. If I’m going to kick his butt, I need to catch him by surprise. Then again, who surprises Batman? “I mean, attacking a defenseless kid? Shame on you.”

I slide under a roundhouse kick that would’ve knocked me out cold. Does he know that these blows could really do some damage? Does he want me to be whacked over the head? Or does he actually know I’ll dodge them? “And after all I did for those wheels, which, let’s be honest, really needed a bath.”

My tongue flaps without a filter. How can I be Batman’s partner if I talk so much? But then I realize something. Why shouldn’t I keep talking? Why shouldn’t I be loud, obnoxious, and annoying? Distracting? “Look at them—” I grab the pole to the upper levels and swing around, launching right past Bruce’s ear, “Even after all that hard work, rubbing my fingers raw, there’s still mud flecks! Oh, and is that a water stain?”

I land in a crouch, looking for all the world like a frog on a lily, and grin, my laugh echoing around the cave like an imp’s. “Oh no!” I leap up and twist to the side, dancing out of Bruce’s way. “I think I got grease on the paint! Do they have car-safe masking tape?”

I think I’m doing pretty well. Until it happens. I don’t see it, but all of a sudden, I can’t breathe anymore. I’m on the ground, holding my stomach, wheezing. Bruce landed one hit. One hit and I’m down. “Gosh, B!” I hiss, sitting up with a wince, squinting up at his towering shadow. “That was harsh.”

“No. That was a mercy hit.” Bruce holds out a hand to me. “And you just let millions of people die.”

I blink at him. Then, I hear the timer still beeping from where it sits on his desk on the upper level. The riddle! I forgot! “Oh.” I rub my neck, my cheeks tomatoes, you know, the sundried, burning kind?

“Yes. Oh.” Bruce’s eyes narrow. “If you can talk and fight, you should be able to fight and figure out a riddle. Or fight and come up with a plan.” Bruce’s eyes soften, if only the tiniest bit, as he sets his heavy hand on my shoulder. “Never simply fight. Fight with a plan. Fight to win.”

“Yes, sir.” I drop my grin, if only for a second. Then, I lean forward, my eyebrows raised. “But… was I distracting and annoying?”

Bruce smiles. It’s small, but it’s real. And it's for me. “Very.” He lets out his short laugh, his hands finding his hips. “That is a very effective tactic. And the laugh is a nice touch. Very unsettling. We can work with that.”

Overall, I can say that Bat orientation was a complete and total success… other than actually skimming past a water spot on the tires. That and—

“Oh, and Dick?” Bruce sits back at his computer as I return to my very important job of making sure his hubcaps are spotless. 

“Yeah, B?”

“The answer to the riddle was Counterfeit Money.”

Huh. Go figure. 

To be Continued...