Wayne Manor, Morning After Kraven's Defeat
The eastern sun filtered through gaps in the heavy curtains, casting narrow beams across Bruce Wayne's sleeping form. Despite Alfred's best efforts, the master bedroom remained a fortress of shadow even at this hour—a small concession to the nocturnal lifestyle of its occupant.
Bruce's eyes snapped open at the soft click of the door latch. Years of training had conditioned him to transition from sleep to full alertness in an instant, though the sudden movement sent waves of pain through his bandaged ribs. The damage from his confrontation with Kraven would take weeks to fully heal, something that bothered him more for its tactical implications than the physical discomfort.
"Good morning, Master Bruce," Alfred said, balancing a breakfast tray as he crossed the room to open the curtains. "I thought perhaps some sustenance might aid your recovery, given that you've managed a full four hours of sleep—practically a vacation by your standards."
Bruce winced as he pushed himself to a sitting position, muscles protesting after the previous night's exertions. "What time is it?"
"Nearly nine, sir. I thought it prudent to let you rest given the extent of your injuries." Alfred set the tray on the bedside table, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee momentarily distracting Bruce from the pain. "Master Dick has been awake since six, incidentally. I found him in the library researching martial arts techniques and criminal investigative procedures."
Bruce frowned, accepting the coffee cup Alfred offered. "He should be resting too. He had a traumatic night."
"Indeed," Alfred agreed, his tone carefully neutral as he adjusted the curtains to allow in more light. "Though I suspect the young master processes trauma rather differently than you did at his age. Where you turned inward, he seems determined to turn outward—to learn, to prepare."
"To seek revenge," Bruce added grimly.
"Perhaps initially," Alfred conceded, turning to face Bruce directly. "But motivation evolves, sir, as you well know. Your own journey didn't begin with the pure pursuit of justice you now espouse."
Bruce didn't respond immediately, sipping his coffee while contemplating the previous night's developments. Dick's discovery of the Batcave had accelerated a timeline Bruce hadn't fully prepared for—forcing decisions about the boy's involvement that he'd hoped to delay.
"He wants me to train him," Bruce said finally.
"So I gathered from his rather enthusiastic breakfast conversation." Alfred's expression softened slightly. "He spoke of your encounter with Kraven in considerable detail. The young master seems to have quite the eye for combat analysis despite his age."
Bruce set down his coffee cup with more force than intended. "He shouldn't have been there at all. He could have been killed."
"Yet his intervention proved rather timely," Alfred pointed out gently. "By his account—and the medical evidence of your injuries—Kraven nearly had the upper hand before Master Dick's arrival."
The reminder did nothing to improve Bruce's mood. The boy had indeed saved him, creating a crucial distraction when Kraven had broken free of his restraints. It was a fact that complicated Bruce's stance on keeping Dick entirely separate from his vigilante activities.
"One successful intervention doesn't justify putting a child in harm's way," Bruce argued, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. He'd been younger than Dick when he'd begun his own training, though under vastly different circumstances.
"No, it doesn't," Alfred agreed, surprising Bruce with his concurrence. "But refusing to provide structure and guidance to a child clearly determined to follow this path with or without permission—that carries its own risks, wouldn't you say?"
Bruce's jaw tightened as he recognized the logic in Alfred's position. He'd seen enough of Dick's abilities and determination to know the boy wouldn't simply abandon his pursuit of justice—or revenge—regardless of what Bruce decided. The question wasn't whether Dick would follow this path, but whether he'd do so with proper training and supervision.
"I need to establish boundaries," Bruce said finally. "Clear rules about what is and isn't acceptable."
"A prudent approach," Alfred nodded, moving to collect the breakfast tray. "Though perhaps consider that the boundaries may need to evolve as Master Dick's abilities develop. Rigid restrictions often inspire creative circumvention, particularly in gifted young minds."
The veiled reference to Bruce's own adolescent rebellion—sneaking out of the manor, training in secret, studying subjects Alfred had tried to steer him away from—wasn't lost on him. He'd been singularly focused on his mission even then, finding ways around every obstacle Alfred placed in his path.
"I'll start with investigative techniques," Bruce decided. "Analysis, deduction, forensics—things he can practice without physical risk."
"A reasonable beginning," Alfred approved. "Though I suspect Master Dick's acrobatic background gives him a physical foundation that surpasses most adult trainees. It would be prudent to build upon those existing strengths concurrently."
Bruce eased himself out of bed, ignoring the pain that radiated from his damaged ribs. "One step at a time, Alfred. For now, I need to check the police reports from last night and determine what Taskmaster might be planning for tonight."
"Ah yes, the peculiar gentleman with the photographic reflexes," Alfred remarked, his dry tone belying the seriousness of the threat. "According to your intelligence, he's been in Gotham for weeks, quietly studying your methods from afar."
Bruce nodded grimly. "He's the most technically dangerous of the remaining assassins. Unlike Deadshot or Kraven, who rely on specific skill sets, Taskmaster can adapt to any fighting style he observes—including mine."
"A rather concerning proposition," Alfred observed. "Particularly given your current physical limitations."
"Which is why I need to develop counter-strategies immediately," Bruce replied, moving toward his private bathroom. "Taskmaster's contract will have two components like the others—the Batman bounty, now up to twenty-five million, plus a specific target beneficial to the Falcones."
"And what shall I tell Master Dick regarding his, shall we say, extracurricular education?" Alfred asked.
Bruce paused, considering the question carefully. "Tell him to meet me in the cave at noon. We'll begin with basic principles and assessment of his current knowledge."
"Very good, sir." Alfred's expression remained neutral, but Bruce detected the faintest hint of approval in his tone. "I shall inform him. I imagine you'll want to review the case files before your session with Master Dick. I've taken the liberty of updating the Batcomputer with the latest intelligence on Alberto Falcone's movements and the police reports on Kraven's apprehension."
As Alfred departed, Bruce moved to the window, gazing out over the manor grounds as he contemplated the day ahead. The pristine gardens and carefully maintained landscape seemed a world away from the violence of Gotham's streets—yet both were part of the legacy he'd inherited. The Wayne fortune provided Batman with resources, while Wayne Manor offered sanctuary from the darkness of his mission.
Now, that sanctuary had expanded to include a traumatized boy with extraordinary potential and a burning desire for justice. The parallels to Bruce's own journey were too obvious to ignore, though he was determined to ensure Dick's path wouldn't exact the same heavy toll.
With a grimace that had nothing to do with his physical injuries, Bruce turned from the window and began preparing for the day ahead. Whether he was ready or not, his role had evolved beyond solitary vigilante. The responsibility settled on his shoulders like a weight heavier than the Batsuit itself.
—
Wayne Manor Library, Same Morning
Dick Grayson sat cross-legged on the library floor, surrounded by a small fortress of books. Massive volumes on forensic science and criminal psychology formed the foundation, with slimmer texts on martial arts techniques and acrobatic training creating the upper levels of his literary construction. A notebook balanced on his knee, filled with meticulous notes written in the precise handwriting his mother had insisted he develop despite their nomadic lifestyle.
"The human body has 206 bones," he muttered to himself, eyes scanning a detailed anatomical diagram. "Pressure at the junction between the radius and ulna creates pain without permanent damage." His finger traced the illustration, committing the location to memory alongside the dozens of other weak points he'd already noted.
The library door opened quietly, but Dick was already aware of Alfred's approach, having heard the butler's distinctive footsteps in the hallway seconds earlier. His time in the circus had honed his awareness of his surroundings—a skill, he'd realized, that would serve him well in his new path.
"Master Dick," Alfred greeted him, eyebrows rising slightly at the elaborate book arrangement. "I see you've been making use of the Wayne collection."
Dick glanced up, carefully marking his place in the anatomy text. "Morning, Alfred. Did you know the average human can withstand only four pounds of pressure to the trachea before losing consciousness? But applying that same force to the carotid sinus can cause unconsciousness in less than three seconds without restricting airflow."
Alfred's expression remained impressively neutral despite the macabre breakfast conversation. "Indeed. Though I would suggest that the practical application of such knowledge requires considerable restraint and ethical judgment—topics I believe are covered in volumes you have yet to explore."
Dick had the good grace to look slightly abashed. "I was just getting to those," he said, gesturing toward a stack of philosophy texts he'd pulled from the shelves but hadn't yet opened. "Bruce emphasizes the importance of restraint, right? That's why his techniques focus on incapacitation rather than permanent injury."
"Quite so," Alfred agreed, moving to straighten some of the books Dick had already discarded. "Master Bruce's methods have evolved considerably from his early years. His approach balances effectiveness with ethical boundaries—most of the time," he added with the faintest hint of dry humor.
Dick absorbed this with the same intensity he applied to all new information about his guardian. Despite having uncovered Bruce's secret only hours ago, he was already constructing a detailed mental profile of Batman—both the public persona and the private reality. Each new detail was another piece in the puzzle of the man who had taken him in.
"Master Bruce asked me to inform you that he would like to meet you in the cave at noon," Alfred continued, his tone carefully casual. "I believe he intends to begin your education in certain investigative techniques."
Dick nearly knocked over his book tower in his excitement. "Really? He's actually going to train me? I thought he'd change his mind after sleeping on it." He scrambled to his feet, notebook clutched tightly in one hand. "I need to prepare. Should I bring anything? Does he expect me to have studied specific topics first?"
Alfred's expression softened, a flicker of something like fondness crossing his features. "Simply bring your attention and enthusiasm, Master Dick. I suspect Master Bruce will have quite specific curricula in mind." He paused, then added more gently, "Though perhaps it would be prudent to manage your expectations regarding the pace of your training. Master Bruce is nothing if not methodical in his approach to education."
"I can be patient," Dick insisted, though his bouncing on the balls of his feet suggested otherwise. "I just want to learn. To understand how he does what he does." The excitement in his voice faltered slightly. "To help find the people who killed my parents."
Alfred regarded the boy for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. "If I may offer some advice from my years observing Master Bruce's journey—the most effective training comes when one's focus extends beyond personal vengeance to something larger."
Dick's expression grew serious beyond his years. "Justice, not revenge. Bruce already gave me that lecture."
"Indeed he did," Alfred acknowledged. "And while the distinction may seem semantic at this stage, I assure you the difference becomes quite profound over time." He straightened a final stack of books before adding, "Perhaps you might wish to review the fundamentals of investigative procedure before your session. Master Bruce places great emphasis on proper evidence collection and analysis."
Taking the hint, Dick returned to his reading, though his mind was now racing with anticipation of the afternoon's training. He'd been prepared to argue, to plead, to demonstrate his abilities—anything necessary to convince Bruce to train him. The unexpected acquiescence suggested something had changed in Bruce's calculation regarding his involvement.
As Alfred departed, Dick abandoned the anatomy text in favor of a comprehensive manual on forensic investigation. If Bruce was willing to begin his training, Dick was determined to prove himself a worthy student from the very first lesson.
—
The Batcave, Noon
Bruce stood before the Batcomputer, reviewing the dossier on Tony Masters, also known as Taskmaster. Unlike the other assassins who had only recently arrived in response to Alberto Falcone's contracts, intelligence indicated Taskmaster had been in Gotham for weeks, meticulously studying Batman from afar, recording his movements and fighting techniques through telephoto lenses and hacked security footage.
What made Taskmaster uniquely dangerous wasn't just his arsenal of weapons or his physical abilities—though both were formidable. It was his photographic reflexes, an enhanced cognitive function that allowed him to perfectly replicate any physical movement he observed. If he had indeed been studying Batman's techniques as thoroughly as reports suggested, tonight's encounter would essentially pit Batman against himself—a mirror match where his own methods would be used against him.
The soft hiss of the cave entrance opening announced Dick's arrival. Bruce didn't turn immediately, observing the boy's reflection in one of the darkened monitors. Dick moved with the natural grace of a born acrobat, each step precisely placed despite his obvious excitement. He carried a notebook and what appeared to be a forensics manual Bruce recognized from the library, both clutched with the seriousness of a student attending his first day of university.
"You're punctual," Bruce observed, finally turning to face his ward. "That's a good start."
Dick straightened, clearly trying to project a maturity beyond his years. "Mom always said being late showed disrespect for other people's time." Something flickered across his features at the mention of his mother—grief momentarily breaking through his composed facade—before he mastered it. "I've been studying the investigative procedures manual. I've already memorized the basic principles of evidence collection and chain of custody."
Bruce raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed despite himself. The manual was graduate-level material, dense with technical terminology and complex protocols. "Show me," he challenged, gesturing toward the central area of the cave where he'd prepared for their session.
Dick approached the table Bruce had set up, eyeing the array of equipment with undisguised curiosity. Brushes, powders, lifting tape, evidence bags, magnifying equipment, and various chemical agents were laid out in precise order, alongside a simulated crime scene Bruce had created on a separate surface—complete with fingerprints, trace evidence, and blood spatter (synthetic, but visually identical to the real thing).
"First principle of evidence collection: preserve the scene," Dick recited, setting his books aside carefully. "Approach from a single established path to avoid contamination. Document everything before disturbing anything." He glanced at Bruce for confirmation before continuing. "Second principle: systematic recovery. Work from the perimeter inward, from general to specific, collecting and documenting each item with proper notation."
Bruce nodded slightly. "And the third principle?"
"Maintain chain of custody," Dick answered promptly. "Every piece of evidence must be accounted for at all times, with documentation of who handled it, when, and why. Without proper chain of custody, evidence becomes inadmissible in court."
"Good," Bruce acknowledged. "Now apply those principles to this scenario." He gestured toward the simulated crime scene. "Tell me what you see, what you would collect, and in what order."
Dick approached cautiously, careful not to disturb any of the staged evidence. His eyes scanned the scene methodically, and Bruce noted with approval that he was taking his time rather than rushing to demonstrate his knowledge.
"Victim appears to have been attacked here," Dick began, pointing without touching. "Blood spatter pattern indicates the assailant was positioned approximately here during the attack." He indicated a spot with surprising accuracy given his limited experience. "I'd start by photographing the entire scene from multiple angles before collecting any physical evidence."
Bruce watched as Dick continued his analysis, correctly identifying key evidence and the proper collection procedures for each. The boy's natural intelligence and observational skills were evident, though his inexperience showed in occasional incorrect assumptions about the significance of certain elements.
"You have a good eye," Bruce said when Dick had completed his assessment. "But you missed several important details." He pointed to an almost invisible scuff mark near the edge of the scene. "What does this tell you?"
Dick frowned, studying the mark intently. "I'm not sure," he admitted after a moment.
"It indicates the assailant dragged something across this surface—likely a weapon or tool based on the depth and angle of the marking." Bruce moved to another area of the scene. "And here—what do you make of this pattern in the blood spatter?"
Dick examined it carefully. "It's interrupted," he said slowly, understanding dawning. "Something—or someone—was standing here when the blood sprayed, creating a void in the pattern."
"Correct," Bruce confirmed. "Which tells us there was a third person present during the attack, someone who hasn't otherwise left evidence of their presence. In a real investigation, this could be crucial information."
For the next hour, Bruce guided Dick through increasingly complex scenarios, teaching him to observe not just the obvious evidence but the subtle details that often proved most valuable. The boy's quick mind absorbed the information readily, and his circus background had clearly trained him to notice spatial relationships and physical anomalies that might escape ordinary observers.
"You're doing well with the technical aspects," Bruce acknowledged as they completed a fingerprint lifting exercise. "But investigation isn't just about collecting evidence—it's about understanding the human elements behind a crime. Motivations, relationships, psychological factors."
Dick looked up from examining a perfectly lifted latent print. "Like understanding why someone would become an assassin like Deadshot or Kraven?"
Bruce nodded. "Exactly. Each criminal leaves behind psychological evidence alongside physical traces. Learning to read both is essential."
"What about Taskmaster?" Dick asked, his attention immediately sharpening. "The one who's in Gotham now? What's his story?"
Bruce hesitated, weighing how much to share, then decided that providing information was better than leaving Dick to speculate or research independently. "Tony Masters. Former mercenary who underwent experimental cognitive enhancement that gave him the ability to perfectly replicate any physical movement he observes—what he calls 'photographic reflexes.' He's been in Gotham for weeks, quietly observing my techniques, preparing for tonight's confrontation."
Dick's eyes widened slightly. "So he can fight exactly like you? Copy all your moves?"
"Yes," Bruce confirmed. "Which makes him potentially the most dangerous of the remaining assassins. He doesn't just have his own considerable skills—he can appropriate mine as well."
"That's... not good," Dick observed with characteristic understatement. "How do you fight someone who can counter your every move before you make it?"
"That's what I'm working on," Bruce replied. "Conventional tactics won't be effective. I need to develop an approach he won't be able to anticipate."
Dick was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he looked up with sudden inspiration. "What if you don't fight like Batman?"
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
"Well, if he's studied your techniques, he's expecting Batman's fighting style—controlled, efficient, precise," Dick reasoned. "But what if you used completely different movements? Something he couldn't have observed or prepared for?"
Bruce found himself grudgingly impressed by the insight. "That's essentially what I've been considering. The challenge is developing an effective alternative approach on such short notice."
Dick's expression grew animated as the idea took hold. "I could help with that! Acrobatics creates a completely different movement vocabulary than traditional martial arts. The Flying Graysons had signature moves that nobody else in the world could duplicate." His voice caught slightly on his family name, but he pushed through. "I could show you some techniques that would be totally unpredictable to someone expecting standard combat forms."
Bruce studied the boy thoughtfully. The suggestion had genuine merit, though accepting it would mean acknowledging Dick's direct contribution to Batman's tactics—a deeper involvement than he'd initially intended to allow.
"So how do I learn that part?" Dick asked eagerly.
"Observation and study," Bruce replied. "You need to understand how people think, what drives them—both ordinary citizens and criminal elements." He moved to the Batcomputer, pulling up a series of case files. "I want you to review these—non-violent cases I've solved where understanding motivation was key to identifying the perpetrator."
Dick approached the computer, eyes wide as he took in the extensive database. "How many cases have you solved?"
"Thousands," Bruce said simply. "Though many never reached formal resolution through the justice system due to corruption or insufficient admissible evidence." He indicated a specifically marked section of files. "Start with these. They're organized by primary motivational factor—greed, revenge, fear, power. Understanding these basic drives will provide a foundation for more complex cases."
As Dick began reviewing the files, Bruce moved to another workstation, continuing his analysis of Taskmaster's likely targets for tonight. Wayne Enterprises Applied Sciences Division topped the list—Alberto Falcone's operations would benefit significantly from the prototype technology housed there. The comfortable silence was broken only by Dick's occasional questions—all of them impressively insightful for someone so young—and Bruce's concise responses.
After nearly three hours, Bruce closed his files and turned to find Dick still deeply absorbed in the case studies, making detailed notes in his already half-filled notebook.
"That's enough for today," Bruce announced. "We'll continue tomorrow with physical assessment and basic defensive techniques."
Dick looked up, his expression eager. "Physical training? You mean actually learning to fight?"
"I mean learning to defend yourself," Bruce corrected firmly. "There's a difference. We'll focus exclusively on defensive techniques and evasion strategies initially."
Though obvious disappointment flickered across Dick's face, he nodded acceptance. "Will we train every day?"
"When my schedule permits," Bruce replied. "You'll have daily exercises and studies regardless, but our direct sessions will depend on other demands." He didn't need to specify what those "other demands" entailed; they both understood the reality of Batman's nightly missions.
"What about tonight?" Dick asked, a hint of challenge in his voice. "You're going after Taskmaster, right?"
Bruce considered his response carefully. He'd promised Dick honesty, but there were practical limits to what information he could or should share with a ten-year-old, regardless of the boy's exceptional maturity.
"I'm continuing my investigation into Alberto Falcone's operations," he said finally. "Taskmaster will likely target Wayne Enterprises technology tonight, and I need to be prepared for his approach. His photographic reflexes make him uniquely dangerous—he'll counter my standard techniques with perfect precision."
Dick closed his notebook, expression suddenly serious. "Your idea about using different movements—I really could help with that. The quad-somersault transition we use—used—in our act creates movement patterns that break all conventional rules of physics and combat. If you incorporated elements of that, it would be impossible for him to predict."
Bruce studied Dick for a long moment, weighing the boy's eager offer against his own reservations about involving him too deeply. Finally, pragmatism won out over protectiveness.
"Show me," he said simply, gesturing toward the training area of the cave.
Dick's eyes widened in surprise before a broad smile spread across his face—the first genuine smile Bruce had seen since the tragedy at the circus. Without hesitation, the boy moved to the open space, his entire demeanor shifting as he entered his element.
"The key is misdirection through momentum," Dick explained, his voice taking on a teacher's confidence that seemed utterly natural despite his age. "Most fighters, even the best ones, telegraph their movements because physics demands certain preparatory adjustments. But if you're already in motion when you initiate, you can bypass those tells entirely."
What followed was an impromptu master class in acrobatic movement principles. Dick demonstrated techniques that defied conventional combat logic—transitions that changed direction mid-air, momentum transfers that seemed to violate basic physics, and approach angles that no traditional fighter would consider viable.
Bruce watched with increasing interest, his tactical mind immediately recognizing the applications. Taskmaster's photographic reflexes would be significantly less effective against movements he couldn't anticipate or categorize within established combat frameworks.
"The quad-somersault creates four distinct moments where you can change the expected trajectory," Dick explained, demonstrating a simplified version adapted to the cave's limited ceiling height. "Even someone who can perfectly copy movements would be forced to react rather than anticipate, because each phase allows for multiple possible continuations."
For the next hour, Bruce incorporated elements of Dick's acrobatic principles into modified combat techniques, creating hybrid movements that retained Batman's power and precision while introducing the unpredictability of circus acrobatics. Dick proved to be an excellent teacher, his explanations clear and his demonstrations flawless despite the emotional weight of sharing techniques that connected so directly to his parents.
"That's enough for now," Bruce said finally, noting both Dick's growing fatigue and his own need to prepare for the night ahead. "This has been... helpful. Thank you."
Dick beamed at the acknowledgment, his pride evident, although it faltered slightly as he asked "Will it be enough to beat Taskmaster?"
"It gives me options I didn't have before," Bruce replied honestly. "Sometimes that's the difference between success and failure." He moved toward the computer, bringing up a security schematic of Wayne Enterprises. "Now I need to prepare for tonight's mission. You should get some rest."
To his surprise, Dick didn't argue the point. Instead, the boy gathered his notebook and carefully returned the forensics manual to its proper place, his movements deliberate and precise—already mimicking Bruce's methodical approach.
"Same time tomorrow?" Dick asked as he headed toward the cave exit.
Bruce nodded. "Same time tomorrow. And Dick—" The boy turned, eyebrows raised in question. "You did well today. Your parents would be proud of how you're channeling their teachings."
Something complex passed across Dick's features—grief and pride intertwined with a flash of fierce determination. For a moment, Bruce could see the shadow of the man Dick might become, the potential that lay beneath the trauma and anger.
"Thank you," Dick said simply before disappearing up the stairs, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts and the weight of the responsibility he'd just formally accepted.