I know not many things in my previous life, but of the things I have knowledge about, there is an emotion I am an expert in and that is fear.
There are two kinds of fear in this world and the previous one.
False fear, often called nervousness or horror; a negative emotion which affects millions of people, but, like the birds that migrate north during winter, it fades as fast as it infects.
Typically used by criminals, hoodlums, and politicians alike. It is a demonstrative tool, one that preserves what little power one has in their life. Gently or ruthlessly, employing such a technique can only delay the inevitable, but such is the way of the weak.
It is at this time that I tend to remember a quote I totally made up when I was a teenager.
“Shallow is the man who uses fear to oppress the people, shallower, then, is the people who fear the oppression of man.”
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Such was my reasoning in abandoning my curfew, opting, instead, to patrol the streets of Gotham under the guise of darkness.
How stupid and callous I was, thinking a four-month long training camp would engender me to fight toe-to-toe against Gotham’s most profuse foe: Hooligans.
I block the haymaker thrown to my left, receiving the pain from the grown man’s diverted arm. The pain radiating from my lower forearm to my elbow nearly breaks my concentration and almost cost me my life as I stumble onto the wall of the alley.
My quick-laden foot hastily evades the dark murky puddles as I barely duck yet another haymaker. Although, this time, the man’s rash actions brought pain unto himself. His fist, missing my face, hits the brick wall and breaks a finger or two.
Nearly out of breath, I treated the series of attacks as a welcoming gift to the underbelly of Gotham. I, of course, have to return a similar gift because my mother had taught me proper manners.
My right hand snakes its way past my belt, unbuckling the baton stick sheathed on the side before destroying the man’s larynx with it. He brings his hands to his rough face, flushed and quickly becoming bereft of oxygen. The baton quickly makes its way to his inner thigh, smacking the poor chap in the gonad, and, as he kneels down in dreadful astonishment, I finish him off with a vicious uppercut.
His body fell with a loud THUD!
The sound startling the other three not-yet-unconscious henchmen as they surround me with ill intent and terrible halitosis.
“Ya fucking brat!” An obnoxiously thin Scottish accent comes out of the large man behind me, having been merely an observer when I first appeared.
‘Sorry, when WE first appeared.’
As if responding to my internal monologue, a badly beaten and bruised man burst out of the alleyway door. His back, clad in a leather jacket with a surprisingly tasteful image of a half-naked buxom woman, first smashes against the metal door and then slams against the elevated concrete.
Then entered Richard Grayson, clad in an all-black cotton clothing that securely hugs his petite form without exposing how dangerously small he truly is. He might have looked like a ninja, if not for the obvious bumps of multiple weapons all over his torso. Unlike my snarling and panting form, Dick takes no time and effort to defeat his first opponent.
“Who you calling a brat, dickweed?” He yells, taking on a fighting stance.
Just as the three of them are distracted by the rather awesome entrance by the future-Nightwing, my feet bounce up and land on top of one hoodlum’s right foot. I bend my knees as I crush his foot, using the metal soles of my boots to crush his toes and any hopes of upright lateral movement. When he looks down, it becomes my signal to jump up once more and smash the top of my head against his unguarded chin.
It hurt like hell, of course, but the sound of his jaw cracking sure was worth it. So is his gargled scream as he falls on his ass, spasming in pain.
His scream distracts the other two, paying forward what Dick had done earlier as he uses those brief moments to take out three freshly shaved ninja stars. The six-pointed projectile weapons soared through the air, taking on three distinct paths which are completely beyond what I'm currently capable of. Its target—the rather foul-mouthed leader of the hoodlums—is completely unaware of its flying doom. The stars had struck true; one in the gap between his armpit and elbow; another on the nape of his neck, barely covered by his leather jacket; and the last, the back of his left ankles, hitting a nerve even through those tight-fitting maroon corduroy jeans.
He falls down the elevated platform, hitting his head on the loose garbage bags that had overflowed from the bar’s garbage bin.
“Whoo!” Dick hollers.
The smirk on his face is visible even when behind the thick black mask on his face. My exasperated sigh might have caught the attention of the last hoodlum as he looked at me with terrified eyes.
“L-look, man. W-we were just looking to score. I didn’t know that bitch had-ugh!”
The hoodlum’s words are cut short when Dick threw another star at his chest, embedding itself deep enough to elicit a painful sensation on the guy. I run my hands over my face, annoyed at how anti-pleading Dick truly is.
“Dude! You gotta let him finish his speech.” I admonish him. It was futile, of course, but I could at least train him to respect my rights as a fellow vigilante. God knows he still gloats about the age and height thing whenever we argue.
He just smiles at me, jumping down the platform and next to the profusely bleeding leader. “My bad. What should we do with them? Call the police?”
I shake my head, bending down to fish out their wallets. “Later, they won’t die. I think. Hey, check this out.”
Inside of their various wallets, money clips, and pockets was a picture of a blonde woman with freckled cheeks and a thin rose-tinted shade. A candid photo if I see one.
“All four of them have this picture?” Even Dick could sense the mystery brewing behind this picture.
Unfortunately, we did not have time to interrogate the men as curious on-lookers and patrons of the bar had taken notice of our fight. With a well-placed anonymous call on 9-1-1, we leave the scene of the crime and flee towards the manor.
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Unlike the rest of the city proper, Wayne Manor is remarkably silent and in tune with the darkness surrounding the estate. If a normal person were to catch the sight of the billionaire’s modern castle, one would presume it to be as defenseless as a mouse in an alley. Unfortunately, it is everything, but defenseless. Guarded by an array of detectors that analyze the changes in motion, light, and the changes in the oxygen. Pressure-sensitive flash mines, shrub-hidden dart guns, noxious gas chambers, and even state-of-the-art Wayne Tech Lumen Floodlights.
That's what Dick and I had to evade the moment we step foot upon the barrier between the manor and the outside forest. Our steps are light, knees bent, hands to ourselves, and had strained our eyes to prevent the catastrophe I dare not even mention. Our movements are so precise, our concentration trained upon the very path we take that it is a marvel of juvenile delinquency.
That is, of course, before Dick tries to grab my attention.
“What?” I whisper, irate and sweating like a pig.
Dick, however, had a goofy smile on his face. “Do you think Alfred threw away the apple pie-”
“Shut it, man. I need to concentrate.”
'God, this boy.' I turn towards the front, careful not to trip on the thin rope that hung across both dinosaur-style hedges.
My efforts and concentration, however, are all too naught as my ears pick up the very faint sound of Dick swaying in the darkness. My head had not even begun to turn around before he landed on his ass with an unapologetic, “Oof!”
It was then that a dull BOOM! Resounded across the vast courtyard as the searing light of multiple flood lights illuminated our surroundings, showcasing our rather comical situation.
“Ah, crap.”
If that isn't enough, both hedges lights up with a red glow and instantly reveal the metallic gleam off their shiny new dart turrets as it orients towards us, lighting up our foreheads with ease. Then came the worst of them all; Covered by a silken crimson robe and stirring a piping hot tea, Alfred reveals himself to the both of them.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Well, well…” The butler had a shit-eating grin on his face as he took a light sip of his tea. His gaze was so cold that he did not bother with how hot the tea was. “Aren’t you a bit too late for curfew?”
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“This fabric is very hard to come by. Do you know how much it costs to make this? Master Bruce only uses this for training purposes…”
“Blood and bones! You could have died or, worse, you could have come across the worst criminals in Gotham. Have you thought of that? Oh, what am I thinking? Of course, you have not!”
“Unbelievable! Do you know what this means to the both of you? Do you know the ramifications of our actions, the consequence with which you will have to bear? Just because Master Bruce is busy handling the invasion, does not mean you have the right to be hooligans. Undermining my authority, that of your mothers, and for what? Delivering justice to punks? Is that why you are training? To be a skull-crusher? A ne'er-do-well with a chub for violence and blood, constantly under evasion from the light of society!”
“Sorry…”
“Sorry, sir Alfred!”
Alfred harrumphs, cheeks beet red as he finishes his five-minute rant. “Your apologies do not matter to me. Your actions do. Remember this well, children, being a hero does not mean you are above the law. Sooner or later, your choices will catch up to you… make sure you made the right one.”
I hang my head low, ashamed of what I had done. Alfred was right, as always.
To think that I would let a child–a ten-year-old, no less–to fight crime with me, just so I can satisfy this insatiable hunger within myself. I wanted to accustom myself to fighting for inflicting damage to other people would be the bread-and-butter of me living in this wonderfully dangerous universe.
“I… Thank you, sir Alfred.” I say with as much sincerity as my heavy heart could muster. “I must take my leave. I’m sure my mother is worried sick.”
As I say my goodbyes to them, Alfred’s warm hand suddenly covers my head. Ruffling a few hairs loose as he gave me a warm smile, nodding me along. But before I truly leave, I turn back, only to see Alfred glaring at Dick.
“Ah, sir Alfred. I know we’re in trouble, but… we found this picture on the goons we beat up.” I took out four pieces of the same picture from within my pants pocket. “I, uh, I think they were looking for her.”
Dick, having been taking the brunt of the rant, suddenly beamed at my words. He puffs his chest and took on a toothy smile. “Yeah, Alfred. We saved a red-head from being ganged-up by them. I think those bozos thought she was an easy bag!”
'Bozos? When was this kid born?'
I shake my head of Dick’s peculiar chattering and merely assents to his words. “They really were riled up.”
“I see.” There's a strange glint in the eyes of the butler. “Well, in the spirit of justice, I shall go ahead and contact Master Bruce with this information. And since you saved a poor girl’s life… I will not tell him about this matter.”
We both share a smile.
“Unless, of course, you do this again.” Alfred threatened. “Will you?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“I’m going to sleep right after dinner.”
Alfred smiles. “Good. Now, young master Edmund, hurry along now. I’ve already contacted your bodyguard. Discreetly.”
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I did, of course, follow Alfred’s advice. Mother had no inkling as to what I was doing that midnight, having taken her nightly sleeping pills and being out like an Irish drunkard.
Staying at home, finished reading that sci-fi book about sand and worms and genocide, watching movies with mother, practice fighting with Olgar–being effectively one-armed made my chances of winning against him good–and losing to Olgar was my routine in the next few days. I do not, however, stop sneakily conversing with Dick about our previous night out. My personal watch, gifted by Bruce, is connected to an encrypted messaging service used by the inhabitants of the Wayne Manor–which I am a part of now.
According to Alfred’s research, the picture popped up within Gotham’s underbelly a few weeks ago. It's being distributed by two masked individuals, alongside a bounty of $10,000 which will be paid upon her delivery. Since the bikers we fought are still looking for the red-head, it means that the bounty is still up and the girl is still missing. Unfortunately for her, it's only a matter of time before someone catches her, once the more sophisticated and broke mercenaries within Gotham’s underbelly hear of the bounty.
I asked Dick to ask Alfred to run the picture on the Batcomputer’s facial recognition software and, to his surprise, they got an 80% match a few hours in. I got engrossed reading that I connected my watch on the small flat-screen television in his room. I even invited Olgar in, seeing as the man is a former spy and quite proficient in kidnapping.
“Samantha Farris. Senior Biochemist at Windcell Laboratories and a former chief of Arctic Research Squadron at DARPA. That’s a… downgrade.” His Russian accent comes thick as he ingested the information in front of him.
“Not if she’s not actually working on frogs at Windcell.” I retort, swiping the files and revealing a CCTV video of Samantha and a group of scientists surrounding a large cylindrical tube.
A humanoid figure with an oxygen mask on their mouth is inside of the tube, sunk in a yellow-green liquid. Naked and bare for all to see, the bubbles inside of the tank increased greatly and seemed to fill the whole tube before dissipating completely. Once all gone, the tank was now empty, save for, of course, the clearly dead humanoid figure. Slack jawed and bleeding from all over their body.
“Playing God…” Olgar trails off, shaking his head in dismay. “This is your target for elimination?”
My brows furrows in surprise. “What? No, this is the girl those fuckers were looking for. She’s been missing for two weeks now. Looks like she’s in hiding.”
“What did she do for her to hide in Gotham, no less?” He takes a drag of his cigarette, something I had asked him not to do in our past conversation.
“I do not know, but if my guess is correct, then we’ll be seeing the very best of Batman’s enemies.” I can not suppress the grin coming off my face.
Although I know I'm not a match for the caped crusader’s rogue gallery and it does dwell on me that I would sooner die the moment I came across their shadows, the kid inside of me is giddy about actually and physically seeing their forms. Besides, it's not like we’re actually going to fight them. Dick and I are merely going to do reconnaissance, scout the enemy, and figure out a bit of their plan. Sure, Bruce will disagree with our method and reasoning, but I'm sure he will get over it once our little get-together saves a thousand innocent civilians.
“What do you need of me, then?” Olgar asks.
“There’s a bar off 7th and Main. ‘Rising Tooth’. Word is, those two will be going there to distribute pictures. Hang around, look for something… clues, hints, whatever, then report back.” I ordered as I headed towards my nightstand and opened up the false bottom in the third drawer. There I take five hundred dollars–money I’ve saved over the years–and hand it to him.
“Pocket money. I’ll be in the Wayne Manor training. Report back once you have something.”
Olgar nods. “I tell your mother nothing about this?”
“Fuck. No!” I reply, shaking my head vehemently. “Be safe, alright. I don’t want to break in another Russian spy.”
Olgar chuckled, counting the money in his hands as he left my room.
Having been cooped-up inside of the house in the past few days, I eagerly reviewed the information given to me by Dick in the next few hours before heading to return the television back to its usual channel as I head towards the bed.
As I lay my head on the soft pillow, my ears could not help but pick up some interesting information on the evening news.
<~he Flash and Superman has finished battling the monstrous golden giant bird and is now helping the trapped civilians to escape in~>
Having earned my attention, I grabbed the phone on my nightstand and searched the web for any more information regarding the battle on the news.
[Who’s The Fastest Man In The World?]
[Wild Cat Answers Wild Questions Gets Interrupted!]
[Rocking The Roc! Two Superheroes Battling A Mythical Bird]
[Invasion Of The Appellaxians!]
[Dark Knight Confirmed Sighting!]
[A Green In Green Tights Took My Baby: An Alien Mystery!]
[Heroes Coming Out Of The Woodwork!]
[Ambassador To Themyscira Has Fallen To The Invasion!]
[Wild Cat Is Down For The Count!]
[Is My Girlfriend A Shapeshifter?]
All kinds of headlines rammed into my head at a fast pace.
From gossip tabloids dreamily making up a romantic relationship between Superman and the newly crowned Ambassador for Themyscira, to investigative journalists exposing the corruption of State troop commanders as they withheld reinforcements for the devastated areas, and even a column for Wild Cat as he answers question after question on his decade-long run as one of the country’s top superhero.
It was mind-boggling how much more brain rot this world’s media gushed out than my old world’s. Frankly, this changed my mind as to why I needed to handle my secret identity and answered a few questions as to why Batman perfected his stealth craft first.
I’m sure the press would run amok for decades to come once they found out that Bruce Wayne beats people to a comatose state every night. Oh, what world would it be like if they knew Oliver Queen was shooting people with a deadly weapon whilst espousing his liberal spiel?
Anyway, it was good that the invasion had been halted. Better, even. The scenes of the bloodbath resurfacing in my memories as I clicked on the newest article.
It reminded me of how much worse things are going to get and how I’m impossibly weak against the enemies of these heroes were about to overcome. How am I going to survive against Brainiac, or that damn beetle army, or, worse comes to worst, Darkseid’s Parademons when I could barely defeat a thug in a one-on-one fight?
With my natural ability for exponential growth, it's only a matter of time before I do, but before it happens, I need to train more and to have more fighting experience. Also, I really need to beat Olgar when we spar.
'That dude needs somebody to humble him. Just because he survived the Court of Owls does not mean you can just smoke in my room.'
In other more joyful news, the article I clicked on was about the collection of heroes teaming up and defeating the gigantic invaders. It seems that they had wisened up about the current status quo.
If they still kept being solo heroes, many more civilians are going to die.
I have a smile etched on my face as I shake my head to remove the excitement from my bones.
“Man, looks like the Justice League’s forming up!”