Batman's alter ego didn't come down for lunch until 2 p.m. We sat at the table, began clinking forks, and savored the exquisite dishes of haute cuisine.
"I wanted to talk yesterday," my father began, "but business distracted me. Sorry."
"I saw the news," I nodded.
For a moment, surprise flickered in my father's eyes, but his face remained as calm and composed as ever.
"You saw it in the news?" He raised an eyebrow. I clearly inherited my talent for acting from him. If I didn't know the truth, I'd have believed Bruce had no idea what I was talking about.
"Yeah, they wrote about the mafia warehouse. What I'm curious about is, do you have armor for your groin? I saw your suit—nothing bulging between your legs."
"Hmm," he cleared his throat. "So you know about my alter ego."
"Yeah." Though right now, the alter ego was sitting right in front of me.
My father pondered but decided not to comment on my observations.
"So Talia told you."
"That's actually what I wanted to discuss with you," Alfred interjected. "After you left, I found Master Damian in front of the Batcomputer."
Well, I expected nothing less—that's a butler's job, to inform the estate's master of everything happening in said estate.
"And how did you get in there?" my father asked, genuinely curious, not threatening.
"I followed you, just did it unnoticed." I shrugged.
"Hmm, impressive stealth skills," Bruce mused. "I'm a practicing qigong master, and I couldn't sense you behind me."
"Oh? You know Qigong?"
"Yes, I trained in Tibet. Before I met Ra's al Ghul."
"He mentioned it. Praise for your skill could fill a couple of books."
Small talk ensued—about likes and dislikes, travels, familiarity with various martial arts. Just a conversation between two people wanting to learn more about each other. Soon, we emptied our plates. Alfred brought tea, and the conversation shifted to more constructive topics.
"Can you tell me what happened in Nanda Parbat? Why did Deathstroke attack the League of Shadows? What were his goals?"
"Most likely, he wanted the Lazarus Pit, and the organization itself was a bonus. He got neither. The Shadows are now under Talia's leadership—until I come of age."
"Do you want to continue Ra's al Ghul's work?" my father asked tensely.
"In a way. I don't want to reshape the world, but cleanse it—maybe. Not through genocide or killing children, though."
"Killing is never a good solution," my father said calmly, but with a will of steel behind his words.
"But it's always effective."
"No one can be judge, jury, and executioner."
"Sometimes, that responsibility must be taken."
"There's no easy way, Damian. You have to do what's right," Batman replied with a disappointed sigh.
"But 'right' is different for everyone. There's no point in killing without reason—I agree with you. You can't kill for fraud, theft, or parking in the wrong place. But what if it's about murder? What if one person's death becomes a blessing for many? And what if it's about something much darker? Slavery. Violence against children. People are capable of the worst crimes, most of which are irredeemable because they destroy others' lives."
"That's not for me or you to decide," Batman said sternly. "If we start dispensing justice ourselves, we become no better than those we fight."
"Maybe that's exactly what needs to be done to truly help the world."
"But what would the world become then?" my father asked me.
"Into the tyranny of one alien," I had to admit.
"I know how you think, Damian, but you can't be a killer halfway. First, it'll be those who truly deserve the death penalty. Then, accidental killers—those who genuinely didn't want to take a life, but fate decided otherwise. And then, those who simply disagree with your opinion will become deserving of death in your eyes."
"Do things really have to devolve into killing those who disagree with me?" I asked, more to myself than to my father.
I'd already thought about the "no kill" rule among heroes. Thought about what would happen if they started killing. Thought about Superman's potential tyranny, as in Injustice. The latter truly frightened me—Sups is too powerful, and only Kryptonite and a red sun can stop him. But once he stops holding back and starts using his incredible mind, he'll be almost impossible to catch off guard.
But would the same happen to me? Would I become like my grandfather? Would the ends justify the means? Would I create my own Injustice with blackjack and hookers?
After my words, Bruce frowned, thought for a moment, but shook his head, as people do when they want to discard unnecessary thoughts.
"Deathstroke came for the Lazarus Pit. What does he need it for?"
"He wasn't talkative," I said, sipping my tea. "But there are plenty of possibilities. To immerse himself and enhance his abilities. To save a daughter/son/wife. To use it as a reagent for some kind of drug or poison. You know the possible uses of the Pit as well as I do."
Bruce nodded and clearly changed the subject when he realized I had no more information.
"What would you like to do? What hobbies do you even have?"
"Personal projects," I shrugged. "I need a lab, a powerful computing center for experiment simulations, material resources. Everything Wayne Enterprises is rich in."
"What kind of projects?"
"An external spinal implant and nanobots."
"The latter already exist," Bruce raised an eyebrow.
"I need specific ones, tailored only to me, unhackable."
"That's... intriguing."
Both of us fell silent and sipped our tea calmly.
"I'm preparing the documents for your adoption," my father announced.
"...," I stayed silent. What was I supposed to say?
"You'll have to attend Gotham Academy."
Hmm, testing my reaction? How will I react to decisions already made for me? Or is he generally testing my willingness to play the role of his son? What kind of multi-step plan is hidden in such an abrupt announcement?
"Finish via external studies?" I suggested. I don't actually mind school, but it's too early for my father to know that.
"I... worry about your social health. People need society. I don't know how you were raised, but I can guess that neither Talia nor Ra's cared about your psyche beyond their ambitions. You're too calm. Not what you'd expect from a child raised among assassins. It's alarming when someone behaves differently than a mentally healthy person should."
Is this genuine concern or not? Batman is like that—it's hard to tell when he's pulling the wool over your eyes and when he's being sincere, especially when he doesn't trust you. And he doesn't trust anyone, which is fair.
"Do you think school would be good for my psyche?"
"Yes."
"In exchange for the above requirements, I'm willing to play the role of a normal child," my face twisted in displeasure, clearly showing my attitude toward my father's idea. And it doesn't matter that I don't mind—I want him to think I do, so he'll have to bribe me.
"I'll consider your proposal," Bruce nodded.
The man rose from the table, thanked Alfred, and left the dining room. I stood to follow him. Concentration again, unity with the world, and my presence dissolved as if I didn't exist at all.
I don't think so poorly of my father that I'd use the same trick twice, but I haven't come up with another way yet. Let's try this; if Rhythm doesn't work, I'll find a new method.
Bruce headed to that same room, to that same bookshelf, pulled four other book spines, and slipped into the crack that appeared in the wall, then suddenly froze.
I expected something like this, so I entered the opening along the wall, then moved to the ceiling—just in time. Bruce suddenly crouched and swept his leg in an attempt to knock down his pursuer—me. Without breaking his motion, he spun. The practiced movements merged into one; the air hummed as his leg sliced through it at high speed, but he failed to hit the invisible intruder.
This wouldn't stop Batman—he'd keep trying to catch me, but the alternative—not getting into the Batcave—didn't appeal to me. Bruce pulled a smartphone from his pocket, fiddled with it briefly, then raised his gaze to the ceiling.
Oh, come on, I knew he had sensors here, but full-blown scanners?
"Come down, Damian. And how did you even get up there?"
Alright, so it didn't work. I quickly formed five hand seals, dropping out of Rhythm, circulated chakra through my body, and abruptly expelled it in the thinnest layer from myself. At the same time, the quiet jingle of a bell attached to my sweater echoed through the corridor.
Genjutsu: You're looking at your phone, but you see a working screen.
Bruce, seeing me standing upside down on the ceiling, raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"You're full of surprises. Technology?"
"No, a new version of Qigong."
"Promising. Will you tell me about it?"
Hell if I know. I'll definitely have to do that to build a trusting relationship with Dad—or as trusting as it can be in his case. What are the downsides?
He'll know my abilities and thus figure out how to counter them. Am I planning to oppose him?
Not at the moment. Of course, anything can happen—maybe my father and I will become sworn enemies someday, but I don't have that many secrets. He'll find out about them eventually, one way or another.
"I call it chakra," I finally said. "A mix of Qigong, life force, spiritual energy, and probably mental energy. It vaguely resembles mana in its effects. There are many variations in its use."
Bruce frowned—deeply frowned—and I think I know why.
"They didn't experiment on me, if that's what you're thinking. It's innate. Not a meta-gene—it's been tested."
"Alright, come with me."
As soon as Damian Wayne and his father entered the cave, a kick flew at the twelve-year-old boy. Simple, direct, but fast and terribly precise.
A twist of his torso allowed Damian to dodge the strike, and a sharp lunge to the side broke the distance.
"You could've just suggested sparring," the child said, a note of offense in his voice.
"I could've," Bruce Wayne agreed laconically and lunged forward.
A kick—Damian dodged again with a twist of his body. A sweep, immediately transitioning into an ascending toe kick and then a descending heel strike, was ignored with a long jump backward, breaking the distance. The boy dodged with difficulty, but by infusing his body with chakra, he significantly reduced the gap in physical strength and slightly increased his speed advantage.
Bruce's new lunge met Damian's equal surge. As they closed in, the latter suddenly dropped to the metal floor, almost sliding along it, and with a practiced motion, slipped under his father's left side. A chakra-infused fist struck the muscular frame—hard and resilient, like wood.
The adult man exhaled sharply; the blow was sensitive. Bruce's elbow blurred through the air, passing a couple of centimeters from Damian's head. The motion flowed into a quick jab; the fist again passed close to the child's face.
Damian's low kick to the thigh, known in martial arts as a low kick, caused Bruce's knee to buckle, but taking advantage of this, the man performed another sweep. The boy jumped, and finding himself in the air, became defenseless. The man suddenly propelled himself forward, swung his fist, hitting the crossed arms over the abdomen.
"Kha."
Damian spat, flew back a few meters, and landed on his feet. His opponent lunged forward, delivered a classic one-two to the head, making the child sway like a pendulum, and sharply fired his knee. Damian leaned his torso back and, anticipating the continuation, stood on his hands. This saved him; the bent leg sharply straightened and passed over his body.
The boy's feet left the ground; the small body confidently stood on his hands, and his lower limbs spun like a propeller, forcing Bruce to retreat.
A second's pause was spent by both fighters analyzing the clash, and both lunged at each other again. Fast strikes replaced one another; bodies moved energetically and quickly. Damian dodged, struck back, but the blows seemed insufficiently powerful to shake the opponent. Due to his superior speed, Bruce couldn't dodge—he simply didn't have time—so he took most of the hits.
Gradually, the chakra in Damian's body accelerated; his speed increased slightly, just a little, and he began to take advantage over his opponent. Quick lunges alternated with sharp surges; the boy circled around the larger opponent, not allowing himself to lose the initiative.
At one point, Damian finished analyzing his opponent. His accelerated mind calculated the approximate difference in speed and reaction, and the boy abruptly changed his strategy. A powerful jump lifted his body two meters above the floor, and a barrage of blows rained down on Bruce's head.
All were blocked, and it was painful—Damian's strikes were strong. When the jump's inertia ended and gravity pulled the small body to the ground, he dug his fists into his father's forearm, twisted his body, and ended up behind him, where he resumed attacking the lower part of Bruce's body.
A classic tactic of attacking different levels: low, middle, high.
A new jump, a series of blows to the head, a quick rebound off the forearm to break the distance, and a new surge forward. Blows were blocked, deflected, missed; the two fighters pressed against each other with cold fervor.
Ten minutes of the most energetic confrontation didn't even knock the wind out of the fighters, but bruises spread across both their bodies—and there were more on Bruce's, which undoubtedly pleased Damian's ego.
"Good," Bruce announced calmly, lowering his hands. "You have excellent technique and tactical understanding, plus a clear enhancement of physical characteristics."
"It would be disappointing if 12 years of my training turned out to be a waste," Damian replied.
"12 years of training, huh?" Bruce Wayne mused. "Alright, you can look around, but don't approach the Batcomputer, and don't touch anything in the lab. Ideally, don't touch anything at all."
"I already looked around last time," Damian waved it off. "Out of everything here, I actually need your AI."
"...Alright, I can allocate a few streams separately for you," Bruce replied calmly and headed to the next level, to the section housing the supercomputer.
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