“... Up.”

“Edmund…”

“... Wake…”

“Edmund, wake up!”

I awoke to the startling gaze of Bruce Wayne, firm jaw set in a grim mood. His hands were shaking my body so hard that I fell out of the private jet’s couch.

“I’m up! Up, you sumbitch!” I shout, blinking away my heavy lids with a deep yawn. “What’s happening?”

“We’re here.” He says, unbending his knee and straightening his suit as he winked flirtatiously at the passing flight attendant.

“Right.” I stretch my body, not sure why I fell asleep in the first place.

I take out my luggage and descend the plane to a glittering mess and flashes of Gotham’s paparazzi circling the plane like vultures on their best day. Their shouts and unending, inane questions pass one ear and out the other, having been already subjected to such shameless scrutiny my whole current life.

It came with the territory, if I had to guess, what with my father being a coal magnate with a terrible personality and even more terrible business acumen. I merely wave at the mayflies with a condescending grin, thinking of them as poor cannibalistic termites that feed off our emotions to live through the day. A trick I invented to hide the insecurities I used to have.

Luckily for me, our car’s parked next to the flight of stairs and I only have to hide my grimace for a few seconds before we’re inside of the car. By then, I had fixed my glare at Bruce.

“What’s up with them?” I ask.

He gazes at the paparazzi who are banging on his car window, unknown thoughts swirling within his mind.

“I paid for the medical bills of Reaper’s victims,” He replies. “I’ve also promised to set them up for jobs in Wayne Industries.”

“Are you trying to get his attention?” I ask before looking at our driver to see Alfred glaring at the paparazzi who are blocking the car. “Hi, sir Alfred! Good to see you again!”

Alfred glares at me, clearly not yet over my little rule breaking. “Don’t give me that look, young man. I’m still angry at what you did, no matter how proud I am that you saved Miss Samantha’s life.”

I hide the chuckle rising up with a throat clear, maintaining a straight apologetic face. “Understandable. I will, uh, repent.”

The paparazzi finally relented when Bruce, like the hedonist he currently plays, throws a wad of cash in the air and begins a mad rush for money.

“You’re such a dick.” I say, snorting like a pig as the laughter gushes out of earlier.

The drive to Serana Manor crosses over the skyway that overlooks the whole of Gotham. The city is the same as I left it. Skyscrapers and polluted fumes decorated the less-than peaceful metropolis. Construction is rampant in the city, which makes sense given that crime fighting happens every night and supervillain mega-plans are held every Tuesday and weekends. In fact, the biggest and latest construction within the city is the reconstruction of Gotham’s botanical gardens after Poison Ivy stole much of its plant life and destroyed the foundations of the building. Apparently, it was a retaliation for the Penguin’s and City Hall’s recent demolition of Gotham Harbor’s aquatic plant life.

“Uh, Bruce,” I call out, “Do you know what happened to me? I kinda just passed out?”

Bruce nods like a wise sage. “J’onn discussed what he was about to do before he talked to you. He meant no harm, only to help you. It was called, I believe, ‘Ram’Ta Nateka’. A martian coming-of-age ritual to welcome adolescent martians into young adults, or their version of young adults.”

“Oh, it–does it do anything to my soul?” I ask.

Bruce nods. “They do it so that these adolescents can fight off their mental demons. It is akin to purifying their mental poisons.”

'Oh, that must be why that I feel like a million bucks today.'

“Well, I don’t think it's working, though I have to make sure later.” I say, pinching my muscles as if I would just find out anything remarkable had happened. “Anyway, please give J’onn my thanks. He’s been really helpful to me.”

My family’s manor, unlike Wayne Manor, is full of life and greenery, horticulture being my grandmother’s third favorite hobby. Four guards in a suit-and-tie are posted on the front gate, armed with heavy firearms and light kevlar armor.

My father, 'Lucifer bless his soul', wanted no part in increasing the security of the manor with his rationality being that my kidnapping was a one-off thing. He was right, of course, but the real reason he said that was that our financials are kind of in the dump.

My mother, however, was adamant in my protection, even going as far as to take a loan from my grandmother just so she can afford the funerals of the guards the Court of Owls killed and the re-employment of the seventeen guards and adding eight more guards. Fortunately for me, Olgar proved that he was more than capable enough to guard me by himself. Otherwise, I would have be smothered by pale white guys back then.

We enter the manor proper and park right next to the front door where mother and, surprisingly, father are waiting for me. They both have a huge smile on their faces, but even someone as dunce as I was in detective work could figure out the bastard’s smile is strained as fuck.

I scoff at what he’s doing, gaining Bruce’s attention.

“Do you want me to say something?” He asks with consideration.

“Did you eat something good at that party? Why are you asking me that?” I chuckle at his words, but shake my head no before opening the car door.

“Your call,” He says with a shrug, but relented when Alfred gives him a quizzical eye. “He’s been really helpful with the League stuff. Besides, he’s still technically my disciple.”

“I heard that!” I shout as I exit the car and greet my parents with a warm hug. “I missed you, guys!”

“Oh, my sweet baby boy!” Mother Maria pushes off father and hugs me with her entire body, singing sweet melodies that she used to sing when I was a wee old baby.

While I’m being coddled to death, my father takes his chance to strike a conversation with Bruce. I had to tune in to my senses just so I could hear their conversation.

“Ah, Mr. Wayne, I hope that our dear Edmund was not a pain during your travels!” His greeting of the man falls short, however, when Bruce glides past his form and towards Maria.

“My butler and I are quite starving from the travel, Mrs. Serana. I hope you won’t mind joining us for lunch?” Bruce smirks as Maria looks at him with a glare, having been disturbed during her son-time.

I squeeze her hands and give her a smile.

She sighs. “It’s fine, Mr. Wayne. I just got a new recipe from my mother. You will enjoy it.”

Mother holds me by my hands and leads me inwards as Bruce and father converse with each other. Although I wanted to partake in that conversation, the smell of mother’s food beguiled my senses and my hunger took over my feet.

She leads me to her own room and begins her quite thorough inspection of my body, scrutinizing every slab of flesh for any sign of bruises or wounds.

“Alright. You’re safe… at least externally,” She hums to herself before cupping my cheeks and giving me a kiss on the forehead. “I’m so happy that you’re safe. Now, tell me all about your vacation with that Wayne brat.”

“Oh, yeah, vacation.” I scratch my neck as I stall for time, having forgotten about our alibi. “I really don’t think you should call Mr. Wayne a brat.”

“Well, what am I supposed to call someone who just takes my baby boy to Canada, huh? He better be grateful I don’t give him my food.” She mutters under her breath.

I smile awkwardly as I remember what Bruce told my parents as to why he grabbed me to go to ‘Canada’. Apparently, being a child genius does not mean I’m exempt from doing hard work and having a taskmaster for a mentor takes a lot out of me. And in celebration of me beating some vague eastern European world record, Bruce treated me and his other mentee children to an all-paid spa vacation up in Nova Scotia where the Waynes have a private resort.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Well, the spa was really good and, oh, I met this really cool guy.” I say as we exit the room, having finished her inane inspection. “He’s, like, this tall and so wise. Like, he’s a sage or something.”

I tell her everything I went through during my stay at Justice League Headquarters, as we enter the kitchen and she and her retinue of cooks do their work. From my creation of a new-breed of ‘frogs’ to me being so dangerously close to having a rival, substituting names and information that I deem confidential. Not that mother would divulge some information, but her knowing about it alone would get her in danger.

The conversation actually helped me a lot, having not known that keeping such information to myself without so much as a peep to anyone would take a lot out of me. It may have been a bad idea to tell her about it, but who knows when such a cozy, comfortable life would end?

It’s best if I enjoy this as much as I can. After all, this is a fucking crazy world.

I smile at her as I taste her stew. “It’s a little salty; Maybe add another potato. Oh, did I tell you about me creating a new and improved breed of hum–frogs?”

----------------------------------------

*Bruce Wayne (POV)*

It had been a long time since I’ve had dinner with a family. Being Bruce Wayne had its ups and downs, more so when my duty to the city supersedes everything in my life. But, once in a while, it was nice to paddle down a river on a yak, or spend time eating homemade non-British food. As much as I love Alfred’s cooking, there was only so much spicy food that I could stomach after a decade.

The echoes of metal hitting ceramics became the backdrop of the conversation amongst the four of us. Guiesseppe sat at the head of the table, perfectly controlling his extravagant voice without becoming too casual to me. Maria sat to his husband’s left, where she kept pushing food to his son and asking him about his adventures with me.

Edmund, however, was mildly annoyed by his mother’s coddling–as evident by his slightly raised Orbicularis oris and tense Occipitofrontalis–yet there was a sense of warmth and acceptance that came from his genuine smile whenever he tasted her food. Like the person in question, his thoughts were predictable and, at the same time, unknown to me.

“How’s the lemon ricotta pasta, Bruce? Can I… call you Bruce?” Guiesseppe looked at me as if I was his homeroom teacher, vainly vying for my attention with utmost confidence.

'Was it Guiesseppe or Guissepe? Nevermind.'

“Bruce is fine,” I said, which caused him to smile wider, “But Mr. Wayne is better.”

His smile faltered for a brief second before he returned to his usual self, like nothing had ever happened. Such fine control of his outward emotion must have put quite a strain on his personal relationship.

“The pasta is superb, Maria. Here I was, wondering whether Guissepe fell in love with your beauty or your cooking skills. I wonder if you could share the recipe?” I addressed the mother this time, making sure to compliment her without being too strong in my flirtation.

“I’m afraid it’s a family secret. Mister Wayne.” She replied curtly.

“Nonsense, dear!” Guiessepe chuckled nervously. His jaw was clenched tightly as he waved off his wife’s words. “She would be more than happy to reveal the recipe, B–Mr. Wayne. In fact, was it not your butler's, Alfred’s, birthday in the next month? We would be more than happy to attend and bring this delicious delicacy as a gift.”

“No, you cannot, for there will be no party.” I replied, wiping the sauce off my lips.

The man faltered once more, earning a nasty chuckle out of his son, which he hid by clearing his throat.

“Could, uh, someone pass me the butter bread, please?” Edmund asked before ultimately getting it for himself.

It was a welcomed surprise to see the effects of his rigorous training being demonstrated in the most mundane accomplishment. The way he bent his arms to gain an inch or two of length, so that two of his fingers could deftly clasp a piece of bread in between his fingernails before demonstrating the strength of his grip as he put it back to his plate.

There was once a saying in the eastern lands of Koguryŏ, “Fear not the man who wields his sword to fight against heaven, but the man who wields his sword to butcher meat.”

“I believe it was but a few months ago that you took in Edmund as your mentee. How is he faring nowadays?” Guiseepe tried to change the conversation, intent on finding a way inside of my good graces.

“That’s not at all interesting, father. How about we discuss the Reaper! He’s a killer topic, and vigilante. A triple threat, if I may say so.” Edmund, however, was of the mind not to discuss business as he joked about Gotham’s first vigilante hunting the city from beyond the grave.

I showed a hint of interest in the matter, making sure that my expression was seen by the Guissepe.

“Oh, Edmund. I don’t want blood and gore on my table.” His mother scolded softly.

“I’m glad this isn’t your table, then, isn’t that right?” Guissepe chuckled as he took a sip of his drink.

He passed it off as a joke, but there was some unearthed texture between the lines. Maria and Guissepe might have been in love once, but according to her bank statements and his company’s accounts, their love nest was in deep trouble.

Edmund cleared his throat when her mother’s cheeks flushed in response. “Ehem. My, uh, birthday is coming up. Weird time to be nine years old, huh?”

“Oh, Eddy. You always hate your birthdays!” Maria said, cooing over her son and seemingly disregarding Guissepe’s diatribe.

“You do? I thought kids your age love their birthdays.” I asked, sipping my wine.

“Oh, it’s not all bad.” Guissepe scoffed at his family’s words, “Our friends are always to keep us company. It is a family tradition of ours to host a day-long birthday party.”

“Sounds quite expensive.” I remarked.

Guissepe chuckled, “Any expense is worth seeing my son smile. Isn’t that right, Edmund?”

“And, boy, do I smile like a champ!” Edmund raised his glass in respect to his father, who, unbeknownst to the man, was sarcastically responding to him.

Amazing what happened to a man’s perception when blinded by the allure of what he most desired. I had known Guissepe’s father when he visited my father once Christmas Eve, however long ago that was, and the man before me was the same inconsiderate and foul-thinking man my father had warned me of.

Yet I knew that I was giving him another chance. A chance to change my opinion of him. Giuseppe might have been guided by the loathsome personality of his father during his formative years, yet Edmund had neither the proclivity nor aspiration as his grandfather and father.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I scraped the soles of my chair against the hardwood floor and stood up, buttoning my suit. “It seems that the jet lag is hitting my stomach. Where is the bathroom?”

Guissepe stood when I stood and said, “Well, that’s a shame. Down the hall and to the left, Mr. Wayne.”

“The meal was scrumptious, and so was the conversation. Mostly.” I bow my head towards Maria, then to Edmund before offering my gratitude towards the man of the house, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

As I leave the room, I activate the spiderbug I left in the arms of my chair, allowing me to have an ear in the room. I halted by the doorframe, palms grabbing onto the wall to stick another spiderbug–this one giving me visual access to the room–before burping my meal then continuing on.

I turned a corner, settling on a little cove under the stairs that was past the bathroom and the main hallway. I took out the shaded glasses and let it rest upon the bridge of my nose and an earbud unto my left ear before turning on the spiderbugs.

The view fizzled for a while before settling on a black-and-white view of the dining room I had just left. With the vision next came sound as Guissepe came in strong with an insult.

“–antagonizing that fucking manslut? Without him, we’re done. Luthor fucked us over with that angel investment.”

Guissepe had stood up and was now pacing the room as he berated his wife, who was equally angry. She had steepled her hands and sighed into it before gazing at his son with sorrow.

“Don’t you think I know that?” She replied, “Giuseppe, look at me. Just… Edmund, go to your room.”

“No!” Guissepe roared, pointing his finger at his son. “You’re fucking lucy that bastard took a shine to you. If not for him, our business–”

“Your business,” Maria interjected indignantly. “Don’t blame your failings on us, Guissepe.”

“You fucking bitch.” Guissepe strode forward and slammed the back of his hands on her cheeks, which was followed by a loud slap of flesh against flesh. “You’ve got a bad memory, Maria. Your money is in that company, too. You didn’t fucking listen to you’re bitch of a mother. I go bankrupt and all your fucking clothes and that stupid video machine is gone. Gone, I tell you!”

Maria gasped in pain before grabbing a glass and throwing it near Giuseppe. Her aim was less than ideal as it hit the chair beside him, besieging the man with shards without breaking skin.

“Fuck you!” She bellowed.

From across the table, I could see Edmund control himself as he eyed his father in a dangerous light. For a moment, I would have thought we would pounce on him and beat him into submission, but the kid impressed me as he withheld all his instinct and walked over to his father.

“Uh, father. Maybe we settle this later after Mr. Wayne is gone.” He placated sincerely, voicing out a very reasonable point.

Guissepe scoffed and backhanded Edmund, too. “Don’t you fucking talk to me like that again. You think I don’t understand sarcasm, you fucking dim-wit!” He exclaimed.

I could see the anger in Edmund’s eyes as I, too, felt a burgeoning sensation of wrath. Yet I remind myself that this was a plan I had set up and every reaction, conversation, and even the slightest micro-expression would be instrumental to the future.

Now was not the time to feel anger nor would letting it all out be helpful in this scenario. Anger led to violence, and violence was an inescapable root of sorrow and grief.

“Oh, you’re crying now? Fucking hell.” Guissepe scoffed at his wife, slamming the table before leaving the room.

Edmund glared at his father as walked past him and, for the second time in this night, he resisted the call of wrath. He rushed towards his mother, wrapping his arms around her as she dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“He’s going to pay for this, mother. Don’t you worry.” He whispered into her ear as he rubbed her back and consoled her. “Please stop crying. He’s going to pay for this.”

His gaze turned towards me. No, the spiderbug I left.

For a moment, I was second guessing if Edmund was talking about his father or me.