abberations

by peltonea

Summary:

The Gray Son is the perfect weapon, the perfect tool for the Court of Owls. CADMUS made sure of that. All he needs are orders. And yet his newest master, Bruce Wayne, seems reluctant to deploy him.

Alternatively: Bruce adopts. Again.

Alternatively alternatively: Dick’s clone, a living weapon, learns how to be a son, a brother, and a friend.

Chapter 1: Prologue - Siegel-Schuster Scientific Research Park, Metropolis

Notes:

Warnings: This story deals with topics of dehumanisation and body horror, as well as recovery from these things. This includes discussion of similar topics within canon character backstories (e.g., Cass & Damian’s upbringings as living weapons, Cyborg’s unwilling body modifications, Kon-El/Conner’s origin as a clone/weapon, and so on). The 'temporary character death' refers to the main character's Talon regeneration abilities. The main character is not Dick, but an OC. Please read the tags.

On another note, while this story does have a long-term plot concerning the Court of Owls, please know that plotline moves at an absolutely glacial pace. The focus of the story is almost entirely on the main character's integration into the Wayne family/civilian life and his introduction to the simple pleasures of life, with everything else relegated to the background.

Someone opens the storage container. The laboratory air is much cooler than the warmth of the container, and it's filled with ambient humming and clicking noises from nearby machines.

The Gray Son does not move. Nor does he open his eyes. A tool should not act of its own accord. He is not curious.

The timing of this visit is unusual. Normally the container is opened between the hours of 9 AM and 6 PM. It is currently thirty-four minutes past one in the morning. Perhaps this is another set of night-vision tests. 

The storage container remains open for twelve seconds. Nobody speaks, and nobody touches him. This is also unusual. The doctors and the Court always do something.

The Gray Son waits for orders.

“Uh… is that who I think it is?” asks a voice.

Young, male, American. Probably a teenager. All of the doctors so far have been adults. However, the Gray Son cannot smell the expensive kinds of perfumes and colognes normally worn by the members of the Court.

The Gray Son does not open his eyes. A tool should not act of its own accord.

Another moment of silence. A different voice replies, a boy of a similar age to the first.

“I need to call Batman.” 

The storage container door closes again. 

Batman.

The Gray Son knows that name.

Batman is a vigilante from Gotham City. Enemy of the Owls. Numerous Talons have tried and failed to kill him.

The Owls have not ordered the Gray Son to kill Batman. They have not ordered him to kill anybody yet. Instead, the Court is preparing him for service. 

This preparation involves hours of downloading information directly into his brain. Mathematics and many forms of science, particularly those concerning the human body and forensic evidence. Many forms of athletics, including gymnastics, acrobatics, parkour, and near enough every martial art ever invented. Many languages, including English, ASL, Arabic, Mandarin and Cantonese, Spanish, French, and many others besides. Various other skills, including make-up, lock-picking, rope-tying, orienteering, and driving all manner of vehicles. The list is endless. Even the Gray Son is not entirely sure what he knows, only that he has a wide array of skills at his disposal. 

Every day, he is asked to demonstrate several downloaded skills to the satisfaction of the Court. And he does.

Every day, he spars with lesser Talons and completes various timed tasks in a sim room, usually involving some form of infiltration.

Every day, the doctors perform various medical tests, drawing black blood from his body. Sometimes they take X-rays, and sometimes they test his accelerated healing. Sometimes they administer some form of medication. Most of it is painful.

All of this is necessary to make the Gray Son the best a Talon can possibly be, worthy of his designation. When he is fully prepared, he will be the perfect tool for the Court of Owls' needs. 

The Gray Son continues to wait. He waits for twenty-three minutes and forty-six seconds in total. Then the storage container opens again. 

“See what I mean?” says the second boy from earlier. 

“Okay, that’s creepy,” says a man. He sounds young, likely in his twenties or thirties. His voice is not unlike the Gray Son’s own. “That’s… wow. Might be the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.” A sigh. “At least they gave him pants, I guess.”

There’s a pause. Cool, gloved hands lift the Gray Son's right arm, fingers pressing into his wrist. A doctor, then.

The Gray Son does not resist. A tool should co-operate and do as humans require. A tool should not act of its own accord.

“No pulse,” says the doctor. He sounds older, with a much deeper, gruffer edge to his speech. “He’s not breathing, either. Sensors indicate a body temperature two degrees below normal.”

Talons do not need to breathe. Nor do they need a heartbeat. The electrum sustains and heals living tissue, while revitalising dead tissue. According to a previous doctor, the electrum is the cause of the lowered body temperature.

“Well, that doesn’t mean much where the Court is involved,” says the man. “Did I mention this is creepy?”

“Nah, I don’t think you did,” replies the first boy. 

The doctor speaks again: “Get everything disconnected and secure the lid.”

The storage container door closes, cutting off the voices and ambient noise of the laboratory.

Five minutes and forty-seven seconds later, the container begins to move.

Notes:

This story's canon does not take place in the current prime DC universe, Earth-0, although it is heavily based on current Infinite Frontier/Rebirth comics with some early noughties characterisation (e.g. 'Hush', 'Gotham Knights' and 'Under the Red Hood') and a little dash of Wayne Family Adventures to tie it all together. Think of this as 'current canon, but a step to the left'. Earth-53, if you will? :P

Also, the not-Tim teenage boy isn't listed in the character list, since he won't have a substantial role in the story until later. Guesses in the comments :P

Chapter 2: Arrival - The Cave, Bristol County

The Gray Son silently counts the minutes, then the seconds. Nobody instructed him to count, but nobody instructed him not to count, either. 

The container moves for nineteen minutes and thirty-five seconds, before being set down again. After that, it’s another fourteen minutes and twelve seconds before the container is opened again. 

Although the temperature inside the container has dropped a few degrees since it was taken from the laboratory, it’s still warmer than this new location. It’s cool and humid and smells of machinery and earth, and the lights are dimmer than they were in the laboratory.

An audible gasp echoes through the air. The new space must be vast. A small, not-very-object-like part of the Gray Son briefly wonders what it looks like. Nobody gives him permission to look, though, so he doesn’t. The Court does not like tools that act without permission.

A new man breaks the silence, his voice quiet and shaky. 

“I see what you mean, sir. The resemblance is… well, it’s uncanny.”

This new man has an accent the Gray Son has never heard in-person before, but he’s familiar with the phonemes thanks to his training. The new man is from England, somewhere in the southeast. Middle-class.

“Right, Alfred?” says the younger man from the laboratory. He laughs, short and high-pitched. "God. You'd think with all the weird stuff we see on the daily..."

“Are you sure you don’t want to go upstairs?” the English man - Alfred - asks. “I’m sure your brothers would appreciate your presence. We have the situation in hand down here.”

“It’s pretty tempting, I won’t lie,” comes the reply. “I know you can care of yourself, but I’m not comfortable leaving anybody alone with… uh… this. Not until we know exactly what was going on in that lab. You guys remember what that Talon did to those ambulance workers a couple years back, right?”

“Unfortunately,” Alfred replies. “Does this mean you think Master Tim is right? He’s a Talon?”

“I don’t know what to think,” the doctor speaks this time. “Can you examine him? I need to take a closer look at that container.”

“I see,” Alfred replies. “Then I’ll begin preparations. If you two wouldn’t mind getting him on the table?”

“Sure,” says the younger man.

Two pairs of hands, both gloved, wind around the Gray Son’s shoulders and his legs. Then they lift him up, out of the container, and set him down on a hard, cool surface. Metal. 

There’s a bright light above the table. It practically burns through the Gray Son’s closed eyelids. Somewhere nearby - around a metre to the right of the Gray Son - there’s the sound of metal and plastic and glass clinking together. The gloved hands remove the shirt and pants from the Gray Son’s body, and a cloth is quickly draped over his lower half. It’s lightweight, providing no warmth. The Gray Son almost wonders why it’s there, before remembering that tools are not supposed to wonder about anything.

“Thank you,” Alfred says, and there's a gentle clinking noise as he puts something down near the table. Then he takes a long, shuddering breath. “That really is an awful sight. I’d hoped to only ever see it in my nightmares.”

“Sorry, A,” replies the younger man. 

“It isn’t your fault,” Alfred replies, quickly. 

“I mean, if I hadn’t refused to—” the younger man’s words are cut off, Alfred speaking louder suddenly. 

“No, I mean it. Whatever was done to this poor young man is the fault of CADMUS and the Court and whoever else was involved in that laboratory. Do not for one moment blame yourself for their cruelty.”

It’s strange that Alfred speaks of another young man, when the only people present are the doctor, the younger man, and Alfred himself. Maybe something happened to the teenagers who opened the Gray Son’s container. It's equally strange that he speaks of the Court as though he's not part of it. The Gray Son quickly cuts off that train of thought. Tools do not think.

Nobody speaks for approximately ten seconds. Then heavy footsteps begin to retreat.

“If anything happens - anything at all - hit your panic buttons and initiate lockdown,” the doctor orders.

“Okay, B,” the younger man says. “Alfred, you want me to start the camera recording?”

“If you’d be so kind, yes.”

The doctor leaves, his heavy footsteps accompanied by the sound of something wheeled - some kind of cart or pallet, maybe. There's a quiet bleeping noise and the sound of latex snapping against skin.

The examination that follows is much less painful than those the Gray Son experienced previously. Cool fingers carefully probe his skin, lifting his limbs gently. The blanket always covers part of his body, from navel to hip. Alfred narrates his findings aloud, and the younger man occasionally interjects with a comment.

“Rigor mortis has not yet set in. The skin is pale, but I can’t see any blood pooling on the underside of the cadaver.”

“Huh. That’s weird. I’d expect to see some patches on his back, at least. It was definitely more than half an hour between Tim finding him and us arriving here. Even if he died seconds before Tim found him, we should see something by now. Unless there’s something really wrong with his blood, I guess.”

“I can’t see any signs of external injury, so you may have a point there.” Alfred uncovers one calf and foot, gently examining it in the same way as the rest of the Gray Son’s body. “Actually, I can’t see any scars at all. Look at his feet.”

“No calluses. And the nails, there’s no free edge. Just the nail plate, but the edge doesn’t look like it’s been filed or cut. Kinda like a newborn, except… uh… he’s an adult.”

“Well, I suppose Master Tim will be able to tell us how old he is once he’s finished with the files. I’d suspect it’s only a few weeks, if that.”

A few weeks? One week is seven days. 

No, it’s been longer than that. It’s been at least five months since the Gray Son first remembers opening his eyes. Those first days were so full of confusion, it’s hard to tell exactly how long it was between awakening and beginning training.

Eventually, Alfred moves onto the Gray Son’s head, pulling his jaw down. 

“The gums and tongue appear healthy, though the colour is… hm…” he says. “Master Dick, would you open your mouth, please?”

“Aah,” the younger man - Master Dick - says. 

“Yes, the colour is definitely different,” Alfred says. He places a small metal device into the Gray Son’s mouth, pressing it against his tongue briefly. It’s circular and mounted on a metal stick. “The interior of his mouth has a dark, greyish tint. The teeth appear healthy - although I note that the first molar on the upper right side is an implant with the Court insignia.”

“The electrum,” Master Dick says. 

“Perhaps the implant is unfinished,” Alfred says. He removes the metal disc. “I’ll take some X-rays once we’ve finished the autopsy.”

The Gray Son’s eyes are next. Alfred pries one eye open, but the Gray Son doesn’t get a good look at him or their location, because a painful, blinding light shines into his eye.

“That’s odd,” Alfred says. 

“Eyes don’t dilate after death,” Master Dick says, his voice hushed. 

Nothing happens for exactly seven seconds. 

“Perhaps we saw it wrong. It’s been a long night,” Alfred says, his gloved fingers gently reopening the Gray Son’s eye again. This time, the Gray Son gets a good glimpse of his face: an older, balding man with dark eyes and a pencil moustache. In the corner of the Gray Son’s vision, someone with dark, shaggy hair is barely visible.

“That looks like dilation to me,” says Master Dick, out of sight, and Alfred shines the light in the Gray Son’s eye again. 

“Definitely dilation,” Alfred agrees, tugging the eye closed once more. 

“No pulse. No breathing. Pupil dilation,” Master Dick mutters. He pokes the Gray Son roughly in the shoulder. “Hey, you alive?”

A direct question. Ignoring direct requests for information is not permitted. 

But he doesn’t know the answer.

But he must answer.

“I don’t know,” the Gray Son admits, and silently hopes that he won’t be punished for not knowing.

Master Dick yelps, cursing loudly. There’s a loud clattering noise, two sets of footsteps retreating quickly.

And then there’s silence for a total of five seconds. Alfred and Master Dick are clearly communicating non-verbally - he can hear the rustling of their clothes and the nearly inaudible, wet sounds of their mouths moving silently. But without opening his eyes, he has no way of knowing what is being said.

“Young man, have you been awake this whole time?” Alfred asks, placing one hand on the Gray Son’s shoulder.

This question is much easier. 

“I do not sleep,” the Gray Son answers.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Master Dick asks. “Or do anything?”

“I was not instructed to say or do anything.”

More near-silence. More inaudible communication.

“We were performing an autopsy,” Alfred says. “Do you know that is?”

The Gray Son rifles through the information in his head.

Yes. Yes, he knows what an autopsy is.

“An autopsy is the examination of a dead body and its internal organs in order to determine the cause of death,” the Gray Son recites. “It begins with an external examination. Then the internal organs are examined, weighed, biopsied or otherwise tested as necessary, then placed back in the body.” 

If they need a more detailed explanation, he can give them one. He knows all the tests a medical examiner in the state of New Jersey is supposed to go through, as well as those of most other states and territories. A good Talon should be able to evade detection.

“And… you’re okay with that?” Master Dick asks. “I mean, would you have let us do that to you?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously? Even the… the organ stuff? You know that would hurt, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you wouldn’t have said or done anything to stop us?”

“I was not instructed to say or do anything.”

There is silence for about three seconds, broken by the doctor’s voice. It’s louder than it was earlier, even though it sounds like he’s further away. 

“I told you to hit your panic buttons if anything happened,” he says. “I told you to initiate lockdown.”

“Nothing did happen, B,” Master Dick replies. “We just got startled, that’s all.”

“You discovered that the Talon you were preparing to dissect is alive, underneath our home. The home where my— where a family is sleeping upstairs.” 

“I don’t think they’re sleeping,” Master Dick whispers, so quietly the Gray Son barely hears him. 

“Do you understand what the consequences of him getting free could have been?” the doctor’s voice gets quieter. “They could have been killed. You could have been killed.” 

“I understand your anger, and normally I'd agree,” Alfred says. “But this time...” Alfred clears his throat, hand tapping gently at the Gray Son’s shoulder. “Young man, do you have any instructions to harm anybody?”

Another easy question.

“No.”

“Are you going to harm anybody without being instructed to do so?”

A tool that harms without permission is a liability.

“No.”

This time the doctor asks a question.

“Why haven’t you opened your eyes yet?”

“I was not instructed to do so.

“Are you gonna do anything without being instructed?” Master Dick asks.

Acting of his own accord is not permitted.

“No.”

Silence. 

“It could be lying,” the doctor says. 

“Could be, sure,” Master Dick says. “But I’ve got a theory.” He taps on the Gray Son’s hand. “Hey, man, what’s your name?”

Talons do not have names. The Gray Son is a title rather than a designation.

“I don’t have a name,” the Gray Son says. “Sometimes the Court members refer to me as ‘the Gray Son’.” 

“Creepy, but not surprising," Master Dick says. "How'd you meet the Court members?"

“They came to the laboratory to check on my progress. They did not meet me. They looked at me and spoke to the doctors.”

“That’s interesting," Master Dick hums. "Did you see their faces, or were they wearing masks?”

Another easy question.

“They always wore masks when I was allowed to look at them.”

Silence.

Three seconds pass.

Five seconds.

“I think you know what I’m thinking, B,” Master Dick says. “And I think A’s thinking it, too.”

“We do have the space and the resources,” Alfred says, and then he switches to more non-verbal communication. 

Silence.

Ten seconds pass.

Twelve seconds.

Fifteen.

Finally, at the twenty-second mark, the doctor speaks again.

“We’re keeping him in a cell until we can verify whether he poses a threat."

"I didn't expect anything less of you, B."

Chapter 3: Confinement - The Cave, Bristol County

The cells are not like the laboratory. Nor are they like the storage container. 

When Alfred tells the Gray Son to open his eyes, he can see that there are five cells, side by side. They’re situated on a walkway overlooking a massive set of computer screens, at which a small, caped figure works, and there is a short set of stairs leading down to an area containing several sleek black vehicles. 

The walls surrounding them are mostly made of stone, and irregularly-shaped, with stalactites and stalagmites dotted throughout. Some kind of cave, with poured concrete floors that feel cold and rough against the Gray Son’s bare feet. The clothes he re-dressed in provide little warmth, but they do not need to. As long as he remains in an environment above freezing, he will continue to function adequately: his storage container was only heated last night because he sustained an injury during the previous day’s training, and warmth speeds up his healing abilities. 

Alfred moves into the Gray Son’s field of vision, and although the Gray Son does not intend to, he catches a much more detailed glimpse of Alfred’s face now that there are no dark shadows to obscure his features. He is marginally shorter than the Gray Son, with a slim build. He looks like he might be in his sixties, or perhaps a little older, the same as Doctor Williams. His eyes are brown, and what remains of his hair is a mixture of black and silver, the same as his moustache and his eyebrows. 

The Gray Son lowers his gaze immediately. He hasn’t been given permission to look. 

“You’re gonna be in cell three,” Master Dick says, gently pushing the Gray Son forward. The Gray Son cannot see him at this angle, but judging from the warm breath that tickles behind his ear and the direction Master Dick’s voice comes from, they must be a similar height. “It’s a lucky number.”

Cell three is surprisingly large, considering its sole purpose is to contain one person. The shortest wall is about two metres wide, and the longest is five. It is illuminated by a series of canister lights set into the ceiling. Three walls are plain white, while one wall - one of the long walls, the one with the door - has a large window stretching from the doorway to the edge of what appears to be a small wetroom area. The wetroom is separated from the rest of the cell by a divider wall roughly five feet tall and too narrow and flimsy-looking to stand on. The rest of the cell contains a bed and a table with two chairs, as well as a small shelving unit bolted to the wall. From inside the cell, it’s not possible to look down at the computer area on the other side of the ledge: only a faint glow from the screens below reflects from the cave walls. 

“Wait here, sir,” Alfred tells the Gray Son. “I shall be back shortly with some bedding. Would you like something to eat or drink, too?” 

“I do not eat or drink,” the Gray Son replies. He remains where he is, about five paces into the cell, back to the door, because there is no storage container here and there are no good vantage points to wait in. He holds his hands behind his back, as Doctor Lee usually instructs him to do.

There’s silence. Judging by the lack of sound, neither Alfred or Master Dick move from the doorway behind him.

“I didn’t see any surgical ports,” Alfred says, after approximately eight seconds. “Did they feed you through a nasal drip? I can have one prepared for you shortly.”

“They did not feed me. It is not necessary,” the Gray Son says. “The electrum keeps my cells in optimal condition. And it would be inconvenient."

Master Dick is the one who speaks next, his voice quiet, almost trembling.

“Inconvenient.” 

It’s hard to tell whether this is a request for information, so the Gray Son hastens to explain.

Master Dick and Alfred do not seem familiar with Talon physiology. Maybe the Court forgot to tell them.

“Yes. Feeding me would be a waste of food and the resources required to prepare it, because I do not need nutrition,” he says. “And it would interfere with my work. A Talon may need to spend days or even weeks tailing a target. If I needed to eat or defecate, I would not be able to devote sufficient time or attention to my task. The target may notice me or escape while I am preoccupied.”

Master Dick lets out a long breath and mutters something too quiet for the Gray Son to hear properly. 

“I shall return shortly with bedding,” Alfred says. “Although I suspect now you’re going to tell me that you don’t need to sleep either.”

“I do not. The electrum—“

“—keeps your body in perfect condition. I understand.” Alfred swallows, the sound audible in this small space. “Please wait here. I’ll return soon.” Alfred’s voice drops a few decibels. “And you, young man, are going upstairs.”

"But-" Master Dick protests.

"But nothing. This is a difficult situation for us all, and I can only imagine how much worse it must feel for you."

Alfred closes the door, and, judging from the clicking noise, it locks automatically behind him and Master Dick. Once the door closes, all ambient noise from the rest of the cave stops too. The only sound is a gentle hum and cool breeze in the air, rustling his clothes. This cell has a climate control system. Presumably for the same reason as CADMUS: to help him heal when needed, and to punish when necessary.

With no other orders or instructions to follow, the Gray Son waits. 

---

There is no clock in this cell, but the Gray Son has never needed a clock in order to keep track of time. It is a basic skill instilled in all Talons. Clocks can be unreliable and require constant upkeep. They can be misread or mislaid or even give away a Talon’s position. 

After twenty minutes and five seconds, the door opens again. 

“Good evening,” Alfred says. There’s another set of footsteps, too. Not Master Dick’s agile, almost inaudible footsteps. These belong to someone slightly lighter and shorter, though their footsteps are significantly louder. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting for so long. I brought Master Tim with me in order to run some necessary tests. Please co-operate to the very best of your ability.” 

Alfred walks past the Gray Son, carrying a large bundle of blue cloth in his arms, making his way to the bed. A teenage boy steps in front of the Gray Son. This boy smiles briefly. He’s a couple inches shorter than the Gray Son, with straight black hair and bright blue eyes. He’s swamped in a big, green hoodie and the hands that clutch an opaque box to his chest are almost as pale as the Gray Son’s own. 

Is the Gray Son allowed to look at them? He’s not sure. He quickly averts his eyes, just in case they are Court members and not new doctors.

“Hi,” the boy says. “I’m Tim.”

The voice. He knows this voice. This is the second boy from the laboratory. The one who found him. 

“Dick said you don’t have a name yet,” Tim continues. “The Project Talon records just refer to you as ‘the subject’. Is there a name you want us to use for you? Or a name you like?”

That’s a strange question. Tools don’t want. Tools don’t like.

Tim doesn’t say anything else. He clearly expects an answer. 

“No,” the Gray Son says. 

“Okay. I guess we can work on that later,” Tim replies. “Can you sit down at the table over there? I need to draw some blood from you and it’ll be easier if we’re both sitting down.”

There’s only one table could be referring to. The Gray Son sits in the chair closest to him, while Tim sets his box on the table and starts rifling through it. He draws out a small cushion, a length of elastic, and several sterile packages: a syringe and several barrels, as well as alcohol wipes, cotton, and band-aids. Then he slides into the seat across from the Gray Son. 

“Give me your arm, please,” Tim says. The Gray Son obeys, and Tim gets to work finding a suitable vein in his elbow. “I’ve been watching on the security cameras and noticed that you didn’t move at all when Alfred and Dick left you in the cell earlier. Is there a reason for that?”

“I was instructed to wait,” says the Gray Son. “So I was waiting.”

“But you could wait and do other things, too. Like walking or sitting or looking around the cell,” Tim replies. He taps harder at the Gray Son’s skin, before making a humming noise and taking up a syringe.

“But that isn’t waiting,” the Gray Son says. The needle stings as it presses through his skin. “I am not allowed to do those things.”

“You are now,” Tim says. He grunts, and the barrel slowly starts to fill with black, tarry blood. “Is that how your blood normally looks?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Tim mutters, and then he continues. “I also noticed that you don’t look directly at people. Is that because you don’t want to look at people, or because you’re not allowed?”

“I’m not allowed to look at members of the Court without permission.”

“Am I a member of the Court?” Tim asks. 

Is there a correct answer for this question?

"You might be," he says. Surely they won't punish him for not knowing, when nobody told him and he's been trying so hard to keep all the rules.

Tim ejects the first barrel and slots another one into place. 

“Where are we are right now?” Tim asks. 

That is a difficult question. 

“A... a new Court facility,” the Gray Son guesses. It has to be. "To finish my augmentations and training?"

Tim hums. 

“What do you know about Batman?”

The Gray Son opens his mouth and regurgitates every fact the Court downloaded into his brain. 

“The Batman is the vigilante persona of Bruce Wayne. He is an enemy of the Owls and a close ally of Commissioner James Gordon. Wayne’s parents were murdered when he was eight years old and he was subsequently raised by Alfred Pennyworth. He graduated Gotham Academy several years early and then studied at Gotham University before travelling the world. Upon his return, Wayne used his inheritance to fund his vigilante activities. Not long after this, he became the legal guardian of Richard Grayson, the original Gray Son, after the deaths of his parents at the hands of Tony Zucco…”

It takes a long time to regurgitate all the facts. By the time the Gray Son’s explanation comes to a close, there are three more barrels of black blood on the table, and Tim is carefully sticking a cotton ball and band-aid over the puncture wound.

“…The current Robin is Damian Wayne, the biological son of Bruce Wayne as well as the grandson of Ra’as Al Ghul. The newest addition to the Wayne household is a metahuman named Duke Thomas, whose parents are in long-term recovery from a Joker attack. Wayne is currently the joint head of the Justice League, along with Superman - identity unknown - and Wonder Woman - Diana Prince.” The Gray Son pauses. “That’s everything I know.”

“It’s a lot,” says Tim. “New question. Hypothetical. What would you do if I told you that my name is Timothy Drake?”

“Excuse me?!” Alfred calls out.

“Just trust me, Alfred,” Tim says, twisting briefly to address him. He turns back to the Gray Son. “Talon, what would you do?”

The Gray Son does not know. 

“I… would refer to you by that name,” he says. 

“Anything else?”

Timothy Drake was a Robin. He is Red Robin. He is an ally of Batman. He is an enemy of the Court. 

The Gray Son was given no instructions about dealing with Timothy Drake. But Tim wants an answer. Refusing to answer is not permitted. Especially not when today's questions have been so difficult.

“No. I would not do anything else. There… there were no instructions for this situation,” the Gray Son whispers. It feels as though there is no correct answer this time. 

“I see,” Tim says. “And what if I took you to meet Bruce Wayne? The Batman? What would you do then?”

He doesn’t know. 

“There were no instructions.”

“I see,” Tim says. He begins to put his equipment away in the box, the syringe going into a smaller, separate container. Then he draws out a black band and fastens it around the Gray Son’s wrist. “Don’t take this off. It’s for measuring your vital signs.”

“I will not take this off,” the Gray Son says. He doesn’t think he has vital signs to measure, but tools do not argue or question.

“We shall return in the morning,” Alfred promises. “In the meantime, do remember what Master Timothy said. You may sit, walk, sleep, and otherwise use this room as you wish. As long as you do not attempt to leave without permission, or harm yourself or others, that is. I’ve taken the liberty of leaving a few books for you to read, should you wish to do so.”

With that, Alfred and Tim both leave. Once the Gray Son sees their legs pass the window, through the corner of his eye, he raises his head. The room is almost entirely the same as it was before, except that the bed has been made up with a deep blue duvet, with Superman’s logo printed in bright yellow and red. The books Alfred mentioned lie on a matching pillow: The Hobbit, The Secret Garden, and Anne of Green Gables. 

The Gray Son looks at the books for a while. He has never read before, not for pleasure. Tools do not experience pleasure. He has only read and interpreted the kinds of texts that he might use as part of his work, such as newspaper articles and signs.

Then he looks at the rest of the room. 

Tim and Alfred had both expressed some kind of negative emotion about his earlier waiting, so he probably should not do that again. Walking seems pointless, since he cannot go anywhere. Lying down seems pointless, because he can’t sleep. Examining the room in further detail might normally be a good idea, but with cameras watching, it might also make B think that that the Gray Son poses a threat.

In the end, he simply sits on the bed, on top of the blue duvet, and waits. 

And waits, and waits, and waits. 

Notes:

The chapter count went up, whoops! In part because this chapter got so long and I didn’t end up getting all the way through the plot I wanted. Next chapter will deal with more tests and the Bats figuring out a good cover story to tell their newest addition.

Chapter 4: Meetings - The Cave, Bristol County

Notes:

Note for fellow non-Americans: thirty-two Fahrenheit is the same as zero Celsius.

Time passes. Minutes, then hours.

For the most part, nothing happens.

The cell is warmer than the cave, but not as warm as the storage container is when he’s healing. Will they store the Gray Son in it again, once B’s done with his examination?

The container is not as soft as this bed, but it’s familiar. While being contained, he knows exactly what he’s supposed to do (nothing) and he knows nobody is observing him. He doesn’t have to remain perfectly still and silent. Sometimes, when he’s being contained, he moves his hands or feet or even his head, sometimes just because he can, and sometimes he spends time tapping softly along to a song he remembers the doctors listened to earlier in the day. 

Sometimes, when the Gray Son is sure that everybody has gone away for the night and nobody is going to open his container, he’ll try to copy the expressions or the phrases of the doctors - Perez and Stevens always seem to smile and laugh together, and Lee has a distinctive laugh, and Williams never stops frowning. The Gray Son only made the mistake of doing it outside the container once - Doctor Patel had said that it was good, because a Talon should be able to blend in with humans when necessary, and Doctor Williams had said that it was bad because servants should not mock their masters, and Doctor Griffiths had said it was bad because a Talon should not do anything without permission, and the Gray Son had spent several hours stored at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit for his mistake. 

The air in the cell is warmer than thirty-two degrees. The Gray Son hopes it will stay that way.

The hours pass slowly, and nothing continues to happen until seven-forty-two AM. A small figure walks outside the cells. A boy. He has black hair and stands a little over five feet tall. He wears a shirt, blazer and tailored pants, as well as a black domino mask. He stops about a metre from the edge of the window, right in front of the Gray Son. 

The boy does not say anything. He just stands there, looking at the Gray Son, blinking occasionally. 

The Gray Son is always allowed to look at masked people, so he looks back.

The boy’s mouth is tight, and the longer he looks at the Gray Son, the more tense his body appears. His shoulders hunch and his fists ball and his lips curl, and after four minutes and fifteen seconds, he says something.

A single syllable. From the position of his lips and tongue, it appears to be something with a hard D or T sound. Then the boy turns on his heel and leaves, striding away much faster than he did when he arrived at the cell. 

The Gray Son continues to wait. Four hours and fourteen minutes remain of the morning.

He thinks about the music that Dr Lee had listened to earlier. There had been three songs crackling through her radio over the course of the post-training medical examination. One with heavy bass and synths, another with a fast tempo and acoustic guitar, and yet another with soft piano and a man singing about love. The Gray Son very carefully does not move a single millimetre. Not one blink, not one tremor, not one twitch. Not here.

Finally, the cell door bleeps and swings open again, and Alfred and Tim stand in the doorway. They look much the same as they had earlier - Tim is even wearing the same hoodie, though this time he isn’t carrying any boxes. However, they are both wearing black domino masks, not unlike the boy from earlier. 

“Good morning,” Alfred greets the Gray Son with a smile, stepping inside. He is carrying a plastic bag. “I hope you found the cell adequate for your needs. If there’s anything you’d like, you need only ask.”
 
Silence. 

Alfred walks over, producing a pair of socks and a pair of black slip-on canvas shoes from the bag. Tim stands near the centre of the cell, about a metre from the Gray Son. His arms are crossed, and his head is tilted, watching the Gray Son silently.

“Put these on, please," Alfred says.

The Gray Son obeys. The socks are the same blue as the bedsheets. Both they and the shoes fit perfectly.

“Did you like the books?” Alfred asks, picking them up from the pillow when the Gray Son is finished. “They were highly recommended to me.”

“I do not have the capacity to like or dislike anything,” the Gray Son answers.

“Have you ever tried?” Tim asks.

Once. Months ago.

Four words, whispered as needles stabbed into his skin, filling his veins with something that burned from the inside out. 

I don’t like this. 

The punishment had been unpleasant. He never wants to be stored below freezing again.

“It is not permitted,” the Gray Son says.

“I see,” Alfred says, very quietly. He moves to the other side of the room, stacking the books neatly on the shelving unit. 

“Come with us,” Tim says. “We need to discuss a few things.”

It is strange that Tim wants the Gray Son to be present while humans are having a discussion. Nevertheless, he obeys, following Alfred out of the cell, Tim a few steps behind him. They walk though the cave, along walkways and down steps and over concrete floors, until they reach the landing underneath the cells.

It’s a large, open space. Under the cells, opposite the computer bank, are a series of doors. At one end of the room is another chamber filled with vehicles - the same one he saw yesterday. And at the other end of the room is an antechamber containing stairs and an elevator, and beyond that, a laboratory. 

In the centre of the computer room stand three people: a man and two woman. The man is around the same height as the Gray Son. He has shaggy black hair, and wears dark jeans and a blue jacket. The first woman is much paler than the man and wears a long hooded cloak with a long dress underneath. The second woman has tan skin, and has short, straight black hair. She’s wearing black pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Another man - taller and broader and dressed in black-  stands at the computer, hunched over one of the many keyboards. Both men and the second woman are wearing the same kind of mask as Alfred and Tim. It’s not clear whether the first woman is also wearing a mask - only her mouth is visible under her hood, painted a deep purple that matches her clothes.

“With me, please,” Alfred says, and leads the Gray Son to the man and woman, while Tim heads toward the computer. 

“Hey, good morning,” says the man in blue, and he smiles and lifts a hand to wave at Alfred. He sounds exactly like Master Dick. 

“Good morning, Master Dick, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred nods at him and the second woman. He holds out a hand to the first woman. “And Miss Raven, it is lovely to see you. Will you be staying for lunch?”

“I think it’s better if I don’t. I know that I am not welcome here,” Miss Raven says. 

“You are always welcome in my abode,” Alfred tells her. “But if you feel uncomfortable, I won't keep you. Will you at least take some cookies with you when you leave?”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Miss Raven says, and then she tilts her head at the Gray Son. “Hello. You must be Richard’s friend.”

The Gray Son does not know who Richard is.

“Yeah, he is,” Master Dick says. “I’m sorry I had to drag you over here, Rach - I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“I know. I can see this is… a unique situation,” Miss Raven - Rach? - nods. She steps closer to the Gray Son. “Richard tells me that you don’t have a name. What I can call you?”

“The doctors called me ‘subject’,” the Gray Son says, thinking back to his conversation with Tim yesterday. “The Court called me either Talon or the Gray Son.”

“I see,” Miss Raven nods. “Well, Talon, I would like to look inside your mind.”

The Gray Son waits for her to continue, but she doesn’t. Nobody speaks, not until Miss Cassandra does.

“Not question,” she says.

“Oh, right… can she look inside your head?” Master Dick asks. 

How is the Gray Son supposed to know that? Was there a clue he missed earlier in the conversation? 

“I do not know,” the Gray Son says. “I am not aware of her capabilites.”

Miss Raven’s mouth turns down slightly. Master Dick’s mouth twists in a way that looks uncomfortable. Miss Cassandra tilts her head slightly. Alfred clears his throat.

“I believe Master Dick meant to ask whether Miss Raven could please have your permission to look inside your mind."

Permission means consent. Authorisation. To be allowed to do something. 

Is there another meaning that he is missing? Why would anybody need the Gray Son’s permission for anything? Nobody has ever asked the Gray Son for permission before. The others are all looking at him, though, so he nods. 

If a person wants to do something to a tool, then they have the right to do so. He could not refuse, even if he wanted to.

Miss Raven reaches up to cup the Gray Son’s face.

“Close your eyes,” she says, so he does. “Try to stay calm. This will feel a little strange.”

Nothing happens for a second. Then two, three, and four.

And then he’s falling.

---

Darkness. 

He’s lying in darkness. The surface underneath him is firm, though not uncomfortable. He reaches blindly out, his fingers quickly meeting a familiar, hard surface. It is not possible for the Gray Son to feel relief, but the tension in his body dissipates.

This is his storage container. And it's warm.

The lid cracks open, letting in light so bright it hurts. The Gray Son squeezes his eyes shut for a moment to let them adjust before opening them again. Miss Raven is leaning over him, shadow and fabric still obscuring her face. 

“This is interesting,” she says. “Do you want to come out of there?”

“I cannot want to do anything,” he explains. Wanting things is not permitted, and he doesn’t have the capability to want, anyway. 

Miss Raven hums, long and low, before stepping back. 

“You really believe that, don’t you?” she whispers. “Go to sleep, then, Talon. I’ll wake you when we’re done.”

The Gray Son opens his mouth to tell her that he cannot sleep, but his eyes are already sliding shut and everything… everything becomes fuzzy and slips away. 

---

“Wake up, Talon,” Miss Raven says, and the Gray Son opens his eyes. “It's finished. Thank you for letting me examine you.”

Everything seems exactly as it was when the Gray Son closed his eyes, except that… except that the man at the computer and Tim are much closer, standing mere feet to his left. And he has no idea how much time has passed since he closed his eyes.

He has never lost track of time before. He glances down - Alfred and Master Dick both wear watches - but he can’t see the clocks from this angle. 

“What did you find?” Master Dick asks.

“There’s no danger,” Miss Raven replies. “It’s exactly as Timothy thought. Especially the… social stuff.”

“Then we go with Option C,” the man in black says. His voice is deep and gravelly, just like B. 

“Option C?” Miss Raven asks. 

“I’ll tell you everything later,” Master Dick says. “I have to tell the others, anyway. Thanks for coming out here, Rach. I know it couldn’t have been easy, especially not at such short notice.”

“I can teleport, Richard,” Miss Raven replies, the corners of her mouth quirking up slightly. “Anyway, you’re my friend. Even if I had to take a plane to come here, I would. And I know the others feel the same way.”

“I’m lucky to have you guys,” Master Dick says.

“You are. I'll see you soon, Richard,” Miss Raven replies, and then she looks at Alfred. “About those cookies you mentioned…”

“I shall make sure you have enough for all of your friends at the Tower to share,” Alfred says, with another closed-mouth smile. His eyes crinkle at the edges. “Follow me, Miss Raven. Young man, please stay here. Everything will be explained to you.”

The Gray Son watches Alfred and Miss Raven head toward the vestibule with the elevator. Someone - Master Dick, he thinks - clears his throat, and the Gray Son turns his attention to him.

“Okay, option C,” Master Dick says, and then he sticks a hand out. “I guess we never got introduced properly, right? My name is Richard, but most people call me Dick. You can call me whichever you’d like. Nice to meet you.”

Richard is the first name that was provided. The Gray Son will use that. 

Richard waits with his hand out. It is a familiar greeting, but never one that has been extended to the Gray Son himself. Handshakes are greeting for people. He is only permitted to behave like a human when he is pretending to be one for a mission (or, as he has never been deployed in the field, a simulation). Otherwise, he is supposed to remain still and calm and carry out any instructions he is given. 

After twelve seconds of waiting, Richard reaches down and grasps the Gray Son’s hand, bouncing twice before letting go. 

“We’re going to practice that,” Richard mutters. 

“You remember me, right?” Tim asks. He seems uncomfortable. Stiff.

“Yes. You are Tim.”

“That’s right,” Tim says. He gestures at Miss Cassandra. “This is my sister, Cass. And this is…” 

The man dressed in black regards the Gray Son in silence for a moment, his jaw tight. Every muscle in his body looks tense. He reaches up and peels the domino mask from his face.

“My name is Bruce,” he says. “Bruce Wayne.”

Notes:

This chapter became much longer than I anticipated, so I cut it in half.

Apologies for any inconsistencies in Raven's characterisation - I did a lot of research but am not very familiar with most of the Titans.

Chapter 5: Solution - The Cave, Bristol County

Bruce Wayne. The Batman. Enemy of the Court. 

The man in front of the Gray Son matches the images that were downloaded into his training programmes. Bright blue eyes and a square, sharp jaw, black hair slicked back. The only thing missing is a wide, drunken grin. But Bruce looks… odd. He seems paler than he should be, with dark circles under his eyes and stubble coating his chin. And Bruce’s voice sounds much deeper and much rougher now than it was in the video-clips included in his training.

The Gray Son almost wonders whether these mean that Bruce is getting sick, before he remembers that tools are not supposed to wonder anything, and quickly stops. Instead, he remains very still, unsure of what to do. 

Bruce Wayne is not a member of the Court. The Gray Son may or may not be allowed to look at his face - to be safe, he drops his gaze to the floor. But he wasn’t given any other instructions about Bruce or the Batman. So… so that means that the best course of action is to fall back on his standing orders: to remain still and calm and wait for further instructions.

Alfred said that they would explain everything. Maybe they will give him more orders. 

Nobody says or does anything.

“Do you understand?” Bruce asks, after five further seconds pass.

“Yes,” the Gray Son answers. “You are Bruce Wayne. You are the Batman. You are an enemy of the Court.”

“And?” Bruce asks. His hands, at his side, are curled into white-knuckled fists. Cass silently moves clockwise - behind Richard, out of the Gray Son’s field of vision.

“And…” the Gray Son repeats. What does Bruce want to know? Maybe he should tell Bruce everything he knows about Bruce himself? “And… you are a close ally of Commissioner James Gordon. Your parents were murdered when you were eight years old and you were subsequently raised by Alfred Pennyworth. You graduated Gotham Academy several years early and then studied at Gotham University before travelling the world. Upon your return, you used your inheritance to fund your vigilante activities. Not long after this, you became the legal guardian of Richard Grayson, the original Gray Son, after the deaths of—“ 

“Enough,” Bruce says, and the Gray Son stops speaking immediately.

He waits. He can hear the faint rustling of clothes to his left - Tim might be using sign language. Or just shifting his weight.

Seven silent seconds pass.

“You are permitted to look at me,” Bruce says. “You are permitted to look at all of us.”

The Gray Son raises his eyes once more. Bruce’s arms are crossed over his chest, and his gaze is fixed squarely on the Gray Son. He seems tense. The Gray Son can almost count all the muscles in his jaw and throat. In the corners of his vision, he can see the others removing their masks, too.

“I am Bruce Wayne,” says Bruce. “And you were… given to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” says the Gray Son. “I was given to you. I belong to you. I will serve you.” 

It is strange that the enemy of the Court should be given the Court’s greatest weapon. But the Gray Son was not created to think and is not permitted to do so, so he carefully does not think about this oddity any further. Bruce is his master now, so Bruce will issue orders or instructions. That is all that matters. 

Bruce closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes again, then continues.

“I want to know the extent of your training,” Bruce says. “My children will test you. You will co-operate and follow their commands to the best of your ability. Do you understand?”

“I understand. Your children will test me. I will co-operate and follow their commands to the best of my ability.”

“Good,” Bruce says, and then he addresses his children. “Start with his mental faculties. Testing his physical abilities can wait until tomorrow, when everybody is available. In the meantime, I need to figure out how to deal with the… contaminants.”

“You need to sleep, Bruce,” Richard says, instead of following Bruce’s orders. “You’ve been up since… what? This time yesterday? You’re not as young as you used to be. Go sleep for a couple hours, and we’ll handle things down here.”

If it were possible for the Gray Son to feel anything, he might feel it unfair that people are allowed to choose whether to follow orders while tools are not. 

“Impulse and Flash are on the Watchtower, trying to figure out how to isolate the, uh, additional compounds,” Tim says. “And Oracle said she would get in touch with T— with Calvin and Strix.”

“I told you to keep this quiet,” Bruce says, voice low. His brows have drawn even lower.

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell Impulse or Superboy,” Tim says. “I handled it, though. After I got the call from the Watchtower, I e-mailed all of the primary League members and asked them to contact me if they can think of anything that might help us with this mess, and to wait for further information from us before sharing the news.”

Bruce makes a noise - a short, deep grunt. His lip curls.

“B, c’mon, we have no shortage of friends and allies who can help us,” Richard says. “If you’re serious about option C, then we’ve gotta get this figured out as soon as possible. Potential security risks aside, you-know-who is suffering, B. He’s suffering and he doesn’t even know it. You heard what Raven said.”

B’s gaze flickers over the Gray Son briefly, before snapping back to Richard. 

“Which is why I am going to take charge of finding a solution to—“ Bruce begins, before getting cut off by Richard. 

“You know I’m right, B. You need rest. We can’t miss an opportunity to help him just because of your ego.”

There is silence for approximately three and a half seconds.

“My ego.” Bruce’s voice is flat, his eyes fixed on Richard. 

“Your ego,” Richard replies, meeting Bruce’s gaze. 

“Oh, boy…” Tim mutters, taking the Gray Son’s arm and steering them both away from the room. “You do not want to be in the room when they start yelling at each other.”

“I do not want anything,” the Gray Son agrees, and Tim grimaces. 

“We’re going to work on that, too,” he murmurs, as Bruce and Richard begin to raise their voices, the echo from the cave walls distorting the sound of their words. Tim leads the Gray Son past the elevator and through to the laboratory he saw earlier.

It’s a gigantic space. One end of the room resembles an infirmary, with stainless steel workbenches and several hospital beds. The other end is not dissimilar to the laboratory the Gray Son has spent most of his life in, though there is a lot more equipment here. He can even see his storage container, hooked up to unfamiliar equipment. It is still whole, not disassembled, so maybe he will get it back.

Near the elevator vestibule, the cave opens up into another vast area, containing various kinds of gym equipment and a wide, raised space about twenty feet by twenty. About five feet from the opening to the new area is a set of metal stairs that lead up to a mezzanine platform overlooking the rest of the room. There’s a desk not far from the stairs, with a small desktop computer sitting atop it. 

Tim instructs the Gray Son to sit with him at the desk, and pulls up a series of tests papers. Some of the questions are familiar, and some are not. 

“I figured we’d start with high school exams, and go from there,” Tim explains, even though nobody asked. He brings a keyboard up onto the screen, directing Talon to type his answers using the touch-screen.

The minutes pass quickly, flowing into hours. Tim does not give him a time limit for each test, only instructing him to read the questions carefully and to skip questions he does not know.

The social studies tests are impossible. The Gray Son does not know who George Washington is, and he does not know the factors leading to the Second World War, or even that there was a first. He cannot answer a single question. He performs equally poorly in English literature. Mathematics and the science are slightly more comprehensible, depending on the questions: he does not know the anatomy of a frog, but he is well-versed in kidney function and how to disrupt it. He does not know how to balance an equation or how to simplify an expression, but he understands angles and calculating force.

By the time they reach the world languages papers, the echoes of Richard and Bruce’s argument have faded, and Richard joins them in the laboratory. He drags a chair over from one of the workbenches on the other side of the lab, before settling down next to Tim.

“Cass talked some sense into B before I had to threaten to call Supes or Alfred,” he murmurs to Tim, almost too quietly for the Gray Son to hear. Tim nods, bringing up the next test paper on the Gray Son’s screen while examining the results of the previous one on his tablet.

The world languages papers are much easier than the previous papers. The Gray Son hardly has to think at all before answering each question, easily regurgitating the necessary information in each text. He only struggles with the essay portions of the papers. Tools are not permitted to have an opinion.

Richard whistles low, eyes fixed on the computer screen. 

“Okay, that’s impressive. French, Spanish, Japanese, Italian, German, Portuguese, Mandarin, Latin…” 

“I’m trying to find more papers for him,” Tim says. “There was a lot of stuff listed in the training programme document. It’s going to take ages to verify how far they got.”

“A lot, huh? I wonder…” Richard turns to the Gray Son, then speaks in another language. It is a form of Romani, the Gray Son thinks, a British dialect mixed with a North American one. "How many languages do you speak?”

It’s a hard question to answer. Some languages are not spoken. Does Richard count dialects separately? The doctors never told him how many languages they were putting into his brain.

“I don’t know,” he says, in the same tongue. “They didn’t tell me.”

Richard raises an eyebrow, then switches back to English. 

“Okay, wasn’t expecting that," he says.

“How’d they teach you so many languages?” Tim asks. “It was tech, right? There’s no way they had you sitting in a classroom - you’ve only been alive ten months, there’s nowhere near enough time for learning even one extra language traditionally.”

“Yes. They downloaded the information into my brain.”

It had hurt. 

The electrum in his body does not dampen the pain. 

"I wonder how they got Romani," Richard murmurs. "Maybe William Cobb knew some..."

“I wish they’d written more about it in the records I found,” Tim says, and he shakes his head. “If WayneTech could copyright whatever they did…”

“That’s corporate espionage, and very illegal,” Richard replies. Then he grins. “Maybe you and Superboy can go back next week and see if you can find it. Grab Impulse and Wonder Girl while you’re at it - seems like you guys never get a chance to hang out any more.”

Tim gestures at the Gray Son. 

“We literally hung out yesterday,” he says. “This whole situation is the direct result of us hanging out.”

“Debatable," Richard says, and then he slings an arm around Tim’s shoulders, sighing heavily. "Ah. I remember being young once… hanging out with my friends... The trouble we used to get into...”

Tim swats at the arm around his shoulder.

“You’re barely thirty,” he says.

“And it feels like I never have time to hang out with anybody anymore,” Richard replies. “It’s always ‘end of the world’ this or ‘evil alternate universe invasion’ that. We can never just relax and catch a movie together, you know? Enjoy it while it lasts, Timothy.”

“You’re so melodramatic,” Tim says, shaking his head. Richard huffs, starts grinding his knuckles on Tim’s scalp. “Hey! Cut it out!”

“You cannot call me melodramatic when Jason and Damian exist,” Richard grinds a few seconds longer, before Tim manages to wiggle out of his grasp, swatting his hands away.

“Where do you think they got it from?” 

Richard jabs a finger upward, a grin spreading over his face.

“The big bad bat upstairs,” he says.

“Touché.” Tim raises one eyebrow before turning his attention back to the computer. “And speaking of the big bad bat… if we don’t finish verifying Gray’s training, we’re in trouble. Do you want to find papers or do the write-ups? I’ve already started a spreadsheet to track what I’ve been testing against what little I could find in the CADMUS records.”

“Write-ups, I guess,” Richard says. 

“Good, because I just found a bunch of new tests,” Tim says. He looks at the Gray Son. “You want to start with Russian or Hindi?”

“I cannot want anything,” the Gray Son reminds him. 

Both Richard and Tim grimace, for some reason.

“Right,” Tim says. “I forgot.”

“It’s going to be a long afternoon,” Richard mutters. 

Notes:

I'm feeling less and less confident about this chapter count as I write... this intro section is already at least two chapters longer than I initially planned, lol . He'll meet more of the bat-fam in the next part, I promise.

Chapter 6: Pause - The Cave, Bristol County

Richard is right. It is a long afternoon. 

Alfred appears a few minutes after the Gray Son finishes the Hindi paper, pushing a small serving cart laden with plates and glasses and jugs. 

“Gentlemen, I apologise for the delay,” Alfred says. “Miss Cassandra and I became somewhat sidetracked in preparing the new room.”

“Delay?” Tim glances at his watch. “Oh, it’s one-thirty already? Argh. I wanted to have the high school stuff finished by now.”

“Maybe we should pause the languages thing for now,” Richard says.

“Maybe,” Tim says. “Mapping what Gray already knows onto the US curriculum is a probably higher priority right now, even if we can’t start schooling or tutoring yet.”

Richard raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, rapidly fingerspelling a word: G-R-A-Y.

Tim glances at the Gray Son, then quickly signs an answer: I won't call him S-U-B-J-E-C-T.

Alfred pushes the cart so that it’s between Richard and Tim, who both thank him and quickly take the sandwiches and fruit and cookies piled on the plates.

“Now, young man…” Alfred starts, setting a hand on the Gray Son’s shoulder. “I know you do not need to eat, but do you know if you can?”

“No, I don’t know,” the Gray Son answers. “I have never tried.”

Alfred hums. 

“You said earlier that the electrum keeps your cells in perfect condition,” Alfred says. “Your medical records indicate that all of your organs are healthy. Presumably this means that your digestive system is in working order.”

There’s a pause, and then Alfred urges him up to his feet. 

“The Flash is still working on analysing your earlier test results and the laboratory medical record,” he continues, leading the Gray Son toward the infirmary area of the room. “There’s a lot of information to sift through, and many more tests we’d like to run in order to discover exactly how your body works. But for today, we shall run only the most basic tests.”

This seems like a waste of resources. Surely the Court or the doctors ought to have told Alfred and the Flash about his biological quirks? But if Alfred is asking, then clearly they did not. 

There must be a reason for that. Tools should not question the reasons of their masters.

The Gray Son is a good tool. He obeys. No questions.

Alfred weighs him, then measures his height. He swabs the inside of the Gray Son’s mouth and nose, runs a series of reflex tests, gently pinches the skin on his arms, and then performs several vision tests, including one with a screen of letters and numbers. Alfred finishes by examining his eyes with a painfully bright ophthalmoscope.

Alfred hums as he puts down the ophthalmoscope. The Gray Son blinks away the afterimages from the light. He does not need to blink - it is uncomfortable - but it seems to help his eyes adjust to light changes.

“I suspect you’re dehydrated,” Alfred says. “The signs made sense when I thought you were a corpse. But since you clearly are not...” 

Alfred trails off. He glances in the direction of Richard and Tim before making eye contact with the Gray Son again.

“Would you like to try drinking water?”

It’s a strange question. Alfred asks many, many strange questions.

“I cannot like to try anything,” the Gray Son reminds him. 

“Ah. Of course,” Alfred says, pursing his lips for a moment. “In that case, I will give you some water. You may drink it.” 

Alfred put a lot of stress on the word ‘may’. 'May’ implies a choice. Tools are not permitted to make choices.

The Gray Son needs more information. Tools are not allowed to ask questions, but clarification is usually acceptable. Alfred has been lenient so far. 

“Do… do you want me to drink the water?” the Gray Son asks. 

It would be strange if Alfred did want him to drink. Drinking means that the water will pass through his body, resulting in waste that will need to be expelled. Did Alfred not understand his earlier explanation of how inconvenient that would be for future missions?

Alfred does not say anything for a few seconds. He merely looks at the Gray Son. 

“I believe that you will feel better if you drink some water,” Alfred says, slowly. “That is why I am going to give you the water.”

That is not an instruction. The Gray Son does not have feelings to make better. 

The Gray Son watches Alfred approach the desk, pour a cup of water, and speak briefly to Richard and Tim. Then Alfred returns, pressing the cup into his hand. It is a plastic cup, and holds approximately three hundred millilitres of liquid. The Gray Son looks again at Richard and Tim. They are still eating and drinking together.

He has seen people eat and drink before now - it was included in his downloaded training on basic biology and poisoning techniques. He also had to practice obeying members of the Court in mundane ways, such as serving refreshments, before he was allowed to handle weaponry. And he has seen the doctors drink coffee as he was walked past the breakroom window at the laboratory.

Nevertheless, there is a big difference between knowing how to do something and actually doing it. That’s part of the reason he shattered so many bones during his first days of gymnastics training. 

Richard and Tim glance his way, catching the Gray Son staring, so he looks away to Alfred instead. Alfred is not looking at him. He is not even standing next to the Gray Son. He is quietly typing up a report on a nearby computer instead.

Alfred wants the Gray Son to drink, but did not word it as an order. 

Maybe this is a test. Maybe if he fails, the cell’s temperature will be lowered, as his storage container often was when he failed previously.

He should obey. 

The Gray Son looks back at the cup in his hand, and cautiously raises the glass to his lips. He surreptitiously glances around again - Alfred still doesn’t do anything other than type slowly, not even looking in his direction. On the other side of the room, Richard and Tim have stopped looking at him, going back to eating their lunch. 

Drinking. Humans do it all the time. It must be easy.

He tilts his head back, opening his mouth slightly, and — and he gets a face full of cold water.

It spills down his chin and his cheeks, instantly soaking through his shirt and pants. Some - less than a mouthful - enters his mouth, some his nose, and some his eyes. He quickly rights the cup, preventing the rest from spilling too.

“Oh!” Alfred cries, warm hands quickly tugging the cup out of the Gray Son’s grasp. “I’m sorry - you’ve never done this before. I should have given you a straw.”

The Gray Son stares at him as he grabs a roll of blue paper towel, tearing off a handful of sheets. Alfred should not be apologising for the Gray Son’s failure, and yet he is. 

Alfred pushes a paper towel wad into the Gray Son’s hands, then starts dabbing at the wet patch on his shirt. The Gray Son hesitates, then starts to copy Alfred’s actions. The soft bedding in the cell won’t protect him from below-freezing temperatures for long, since he has no core body temperature. And if he’s wearing wet clothes…

“I daresay the electrum stops you catching cold, but you really shouldn’t wear wet clothing, especially not down here,” Alfred says, tossing damp paper towels into a nearby trashcan. “Master Bruce and Master Dick kindly agreed to share some of their surplus clothes with you for now - we’ll get more for you later. Come, let's get you dressed in something dry.”

Alfred takes him to one of the rooms underneath the cells: a changing room lined with benches and shelving units and hooks and mirrors and cases displaying various vigilante costumes, with a doorway leading to what appear to be showers at the far end, next to a larger, heavily-locked door. Alfred plucks a few items off the shelves and gives them to him, steering him into a changing cubicle. 

“Dress in these, please,” he says. 

The Gray Son obeys. The bundle contains a blue t-shirt and black sweatpants and underwear, as well as a black hoodie that’s slightly too large for him. When he emerges, Alfred takes his old clothes from him. 

“Would you like me to launder these or would you prefer them to be thrown away?” Alfred asks. 

“I have no preference,” the Gray Son says.

“I thought you might say that,” Alfred says. He tosses the old clothes into a hamper near the door, then brings the Gray Son back to Richard and Tim, to the same chair as before. They seem to have finished eating, their dirty plates stacked neatly on the serving cart. 

“Thanks, Alfred,” Tim says, when Alfred takes the cart away. “Do you need any help upstairs?”

“I’m quite all right. Miss Cassandra has been quite invaluable. We should be finished by dinner time. Now, if you'll excuse me...”

The Gray Son watches Alfred leave with the serving cart, heading back toward the elevator, until someone gently taps his hand.

“Ready for more papers?” Richard asks.

The Gray Son nods.

Notes:

"Gray is gonna meet the other batkids next time!", the author said last time. "I'm sure that this chapter's plan will not be massively derailed by a minor detail, like all previous chapters have been so far!"

(the author was wrong. BUT NEXT TIME DUKE AND DAMIAN, I PROMISE, FOR REAL. I am DYING to write Damian and the Gray Son. Dying, I tell you.)

Chapter 7: Failure - The Cave, Bristol County

Notes:

In a previous chapter I said that Dick is 26. That was a mistake. I know his age is kept pretty vague, but I'm sure he's gotta be pushing 30 by now. I've gone back to change this detail.

The remaining tests Tim and Richard give the Gray Son are very difficult. A few questions can be answered.

What do the storefront lights represent in this poem?

The storefront lights mean that the store is open, the Gray Son writes. There may be witnesses in addition to cameras. Proceed with caution. 

Read the paragraph about Bill’s daily life and tick ‘True’ or ‘False’ next to the questions below. 

The Gray Son ticks all the ‘False’ boxes. They are all false because Bill is not real. And even if Bill were real person, people are prone to lie and make mistakes. Observation is a much more better way to learn about someone’s daily life.

Most questions are unanswerable. He stares at them for a few moments, trying to consider if there are any alternative meanings he is missing, before giving up and moving on.

Rewrite these sentences using possessive nouns. 

How did the bus boycott help the civil rights movement? 

Write a letter to your friend about your hobbies. 

Write the next number in the sequence: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, ___.

What year did Neil Armstrong and his friends land on the moon?

He understands all of these words individually. But he does not know the people or events or if they are even real, and making deductions and solving problems are not permitted. Tim and Richard both seem displeased by his results. 

“Okay, so literacy is… somehow both at second grade level and well past college level,” Tim mutters. “No social studies knowledge whatsoever. Math and science is… splotchy.”

“How am I supposed to write ‘splotchy’ in your spreadsheet?” Richard asks, gesturing at the tablet in his hand. “Argh. This is a mess. I give up, I’m just going to write the report.”

“But I spent ages making that spreadsheet,” Tim says, his mouth contorting. “I even colour-coded it.”

“And you did a great job,” Richard replies. One hand snakes out, reaching for Tim’s hair, and Tim swats it away. “But I’m exhausted, and sitting this long at a desk is driving me stir-crazy.” Richard glances at the Gray Son. “You too, right?”

The Gray Son blinks. Stir-crazy?

“I have no mental health problems,” he says. 

“Oh my god,” Richard groans, covering his face. “I need a break. Timmers, I’m gonna hit the rings. The report can wait until I don’t feel like screaming anymore.”

Tim nods, leaning back in his chair. 

“Okay.”

Both Tim and the Gray Son watch Richard leave. Once he vanishes, rounding the corner into the gym area, Tim speaks again. 

“Have you ever done anything for fun, Gray?”

Fun. Enjoyment, amusement, or humour.

The Gray Son thinks about when he copies the doctors and when he remembers music in the privacy of his storage container. Tools are not allowed to have fun. He has already failed multiple times today. If he admits the truth, the inevitable punishment will be much worse. But tools are not allowed to lie, either. 

He doesn’t know what to say. One second passes, then two, and after ten seconds, Tim sighs and answers for him. 

“I’m going to take that as a ‘no’. Since Dick is taking a break, we might as well too. I think Duke left some playing cards down here, so how about a game?”

A game?

Games are fun. Tim is offering him fun. Is this another test?

The Gray Son waits for further instructions, and Tim sighs a second time. 

“Okay, you got me. The game has a secondary testing purpose,” he says. “But I promise it’s going to be fun.”

Tim searches through the desk until he finds what he’s looking for: a pack of Justice League-themed playing cards. Then he brings the Gray Son to an empty workbench and shuffles the cards together. 

“Tell me what you know about playing cards,” Tim says. 

“Playing cards are usually made of paper or plastic. They can be used for a variety of purposes, including playing games and causing minor soft tissue damage,” the Gray Son says.

“That… isn’t wrong,” Tim says. “I can work with that. Listen carefully.”

First, Tim explains the structure of a standard fifty-two card deck, including each card’s numerical value. He splits the deck into two smaller, equal decks, sliding one in front of the Gray Son and one in front of himself. In the middle of the workbench is the ‘discard’ area. 

The goal of the game is to discard all of one’s cards as quickly as possible. They will take turns to discard their cards, and they must discard cards that have either one value below, one value above, or the same value as the previous player’s stated discard.

“You can discard as many cards as you want,” Tim says. “You discard the cards face-down, so I can’t see. And you tell me what you are discarding. For example, see this card?” Tim shows one card. “The two of hearts. I’m only discarding one card, so I’ll say ‘one two’. If I were discarding three cards of this value, I would say ‘three twos’. Understand?”

It seems simple, so far. It sounds like the aim of this game is to test his loyalty and willingness to lie to his masters. 

“Good,” Tim says. “Now, because we’re discarding face-down, either of us could lie when we discard. We could lie about the number of cards or the value. Whenever we suspect each other of lying, we have to say ‘cheater!’. We’ll then show the cards that were just discarded. If the player lied, they will take all the cards in the discard area. If they didn’t lie, the accuser takes all the cards. Does that make sense?”

The Gray Son nods. So it is a test of loyalty. And since Tim has the other half of the deck, he will know if the Gray Son attempts to lie.

He will not fail this test.

“Then let’s play,” Tim says. “I’ll go first. One two.”

The Gray Son selects two cards with the number three on them, placing them face-down on top of Tim’s cards.

“Two threes.”

The game continues. It is not very fun at all. It is nowhere near as fun as thinking about music or mimicking the doctors. Actually, the Gray Son is pretty sure that he has completed simulations more fun than this test-game. 

At first, Tim seems satisfied by the Gray Son’s performance. He seems relaxed, with a small smile on his lips. But after a few minutes, he seems tense and the smile is gone.

“Two Queens,” Tim says, eyes fixed on the Gray Son rather than his cards.

The Gray Son can see that there are three Queen cards in his own hand of cards. They are painted with Wonder Woman, Black Canary and Supergirl’s faces. He selects the King sitting next to them, with Superman’s smiling face printed in glossy colour.

“One King.”

“Really?” Tim frowns. “Okay. In that case… four Kings.”

Tim places three cards on the table, looking at the Gray Son. The Gray Son picks the Aces from the other end of his hand. 

“Three—“

“Wait,” Tim says, reaching out a hand to stop him. “You’re really not going to say anything?”

The Gray Son looks at him. Was he not doing a good job of proving his honesty and dedication to his masters?

“Let’s backtrack,” Tim says. “I said that I discarded four Kings, right? What did you discard before that?”

“One King.”

“And how many Kings are in this deck?”

“Four.”

“So one of us has to be lying, don’t you think?” Tim asks.

“Thinking is not permitted,” the Gray Son says. And neither is accusing one’s master of lying.

“But that’s the point of the game,” Tim says. “We talked about it and— urgh, okay. Okay, let’s count. How many cards did I just discard?”

“You said four.”

“But did I physically discard four?” Tim presses.

Lying to a master is not permitted.

“You placed three cards on the table,” the Gray Son says.

“And does that match what I said?”

“No.”

“So in other words, I was lying, wasn’t I?”

There isn’t a good answer to that question. The Gray Son does not answer. Maybe Tim will continue, like he did last time. 

Two seconds. Four. Six. Tim continues, but not in the way that the Gray Son had hoped.

“So, we’ve established I was lying. And when we know that someone is lying in this game, what do we say?”

The Gray Son shouldn’t say it. Even if it’s only a game, he’s sure to be punished for accusing his master. Maybe this time it won’t be so painful. He’s wearing warmer clothes, so maybe that will stave off the worst of the cold for a while.

“The word is ‘cheater’,” Tim says. “You know I’m lying, so…”

Just like Alfred. Issuing orders without stating them as orders. But this time, there’s no ambiguity as to what Tim wants. He has to say it. He has to accuse Tim.

The Gray Son closes his eyes. At least if his eyes are frozen shut, he won’t have to watch his body reconstitute itself.

“Cheater,” he whispers. 

It had taken three full days to heal last time. The doctors had not put him into a heated container until the end of the first day. His sight had not returned until the second day. His fingers and toes were not functional until the end of the final day.

The Gray Son waits for punishment. 

However, Tim does not grab him. Nor does Tim shout or scold or demand an apology. Instead, Tim says “okay, let’s look at my cards”. 

It’s a clear order. 

The Gray Son cracks open his eyes to watch Tim’s hands. Behind Tim, there’s a new person - the small boy from this morning. He’s not wearing a mask anymore, but he’s still wearing the same suit and the same frown. His eyes are fixed on the Gray Son.

“I put down one, two, three cards. You were right,” Tim says, flipping the cards over. “And they were a seven, a three, and a nine, so you were right in two different ways. Great work.”

The Gray Son looks at the cards. 

This game is not fun. It would be best if it ended soon.

“Okay, your turn to start,” Tim says, as he flips the cards back down and takes the pile. He begins to sort them and slot them into his hand. He easily has two-thirds of the deck now.

The Gray Son stares at his cards. Three Aces, a four, two fives, two sevens, a nine, a ten, a Jack… 

He does not know what to pick. What if he picks the wrong number to begin the game with? 

“This one,” a voice says, a small, tan finger jabbing at the four of spades. 

The small boy is standing beside him, staring up at him. 

“Damian,” Tim says, looking tense again. His voice is low, and his jaw is clenched.

The Gray Son plucks the card from his hand and sets it down. 

Instructions. Good. He can follow instructions.

“What is it?” Tim asks. 

“It’s a ten,” the boy says. 

“Damian, he’s playing, not you,” Tim says. 

“He is bad at this game,” Damian replies. “I am helping. Unless you want him to stare gormlessly at his cards forever.”

“Ugh,” Tim rolls his eyes, then tosses down a pair of cards. “Two Jacks.”

Damian points at another card. This time he does not speak in English, but in another language. Arabic. Not Modern Standard, but an older dialect. 

“This one, stupid,” he says. And then, a moment later: “move faster, you’re too slow!”

It is not Saidi Arabic, but it sounds somewhat similar.

The Gray Son obeys, letting Damian call the numbers. He is not lying if he is not saying the numbers. He cannot fail the test-game if he is only obeying instructions.

In the end, Tim loses two games in a row. By this time, mouth and brows are both turned down and his shoulders tense.

“How did you trick Grandfather into thinking you are a good detective?” Damian says in English, shuffling the cards again, before switching back to his previous dialect. “Even with this dead weight, I am beating you easily. Clearly you haven’t improved much. Stupid.”

“You know I understand you, right? I know when you’re insulting me,” Tim says, flatly. “And I know when you’re insulting him, too.”

“You don’t know anything,” Damian replies in English, before switching languages again: “Morons, the both of you! How did you survive to adulthood?”

“Whoa! Dami, c’mon,” Richard’s voice rings out. The Gray Son looks in his direction: Richard is walking near-silently toward them, his jacket slung over one arm and shoes and socks held in one hand. He switches to stilted Modern Standard Arabic next, his American accent distorting the consonants. “Little brother, what are you saying? You’re being very mean. I’m disappointed.”

“Why do you care?” Damian replies, switching to the same dialect - although he speaks flawlessly, fluently. “Everything I said is true. He is an idiot and he is a poor imitation of you.”

“It doesn’t matter. He needs help.”

“Why do we have to help him?” Damian asks. “He is useless! He can’t even play a card game without help!”

“Why does he have to be useful?” Richard counters. And then, in English: “Alfred called me. Dinner should be ready in about forty minutes.”

Damian huffs, switching back to the same language: “is it going to eat with us?” 

“Gray doesn’t eat,” Tim says. “And he’s a ‘he’, not an ‘it’.”

“Is it too stupid to eat, too?” Damian asks, squinting up at the Gray Son.

“Dami, I really wasn’t kidding,” Richard says, and Damian huffs again, crossing his arms as he stalks away. 

“Suit yourself!” Damian shouts. “Waste your time! I don’t care!” 

Richard and Tim both watch Damian walk away, his little fists curled into white-knuckled balls.

“You know, I would have thought the little brat would’ve been all over this,” Tim says, gesturing at the Gray Son. “I mean, a second you to constantly pester? You’re like, his favourite person in the world.”

“I think that’s the problem,” Richard mutters, shaking his head. “I’ll be here for a while, but I won’t be here for him. I’m going to be preoccupied with—” Richard waves a hand vaguely “— all this. And so will Bruce, and Alfred, and… well, all of us, I guess.”

“So he’s an attention seeker,” Tim raises an eyebrow. "Who'd've thought?"

“He’s a thirteen-year-old kid with more issues than either of us can count,” Richard replies. He groans, rubbing his eyes, and then straightens. “Okay, let’s get back to business. How did the testing go?”

“The card game was the testing,” Tim replies. “At least until Damian got involved. I’ve got another test I want to run, though.”

“Okay, then you do that,” Richard steps back, heading toward the vestibule. “See you in five, I have to wash the sweat off.”

“See you.”

Tim waves him off, then packs away the cards and brings the Gray Son back to the desk. This time, he shows the Gray Son a map of Marylebone, London. 

“We’re here, on Baker Street,” he says, drawing a dot on the screen with a stylus. “We have to get to… here, on the high street. Mark what you think is the best route.”

The Gray Son stares at the map as Tim presses the stylus into his hand.

There is not enough information to determine the best route. He does not know how high the buildings are. He does not know what kinds of architecture are available. Subterranean options are not displayed on this map, only the street level. 

He hesitates, then draws a line directly between the two dots, diagonally across the screen. 

“Really?” Tim asks, raising his eyebrows. “Okay, try this one.”

This time, the map is of a neighbourhood in Cheongdam-dong in Seoul. After that, the map changes to Kalbadevi, Mumbai. Then Remuera, Auckland. Deira, Dubai. Saint-Roch, Quebec City. Richard returns not long after the Gray Son completes Asa Norte, Brasilia. He doesn’t sit down, but leans on Tim’s shoulder as he peers at the screen. Tim tries unsuccessfully to pry him off.

“Was this a navigation test?”

“Yeah,” Tim says. "And look. All straight lines."

“You know parkour or something?” Richard asks the Gray Son. “Some of those cities have buildings I’d have a hard time climbing. How are you gonna get all the way up a fifty-storey skyscraper?”

“Talons are always equipped with grapples, gliding capes, and other aids to make traversing cities easier,” the Gray Son explains.

“I see,” Richard says, and then he doesn’t say anything else for a while. He starts tapping on his tablet, while Tim digs up a new language paper: Korean.

“Here,” Tim says. “Let’s try this one.”

---

Alfred comes downstairs to fetch them for dinner. He keeps one hand on the Gray Son’s shoulder, as they step into the elevator and out into a softly-lit study lined with bookshelves. The Gray Son does not get much time to examine his surroundings, but the carpet under his feet is soft and plush under his shoes, and there is a big desk and a grand piano and a small couch. Behind the couch are some heavy green drapes that match the carpet. 

Down, down, down winding hallways they go. The Gray Son memorises the route they take, surreptitiously sneaking glances at their surroundings. This building is gigantic, with arched ceilings easily fifteen feet high and glossy wooden floors. There are vases and paintings and statues decorating the walls. 

When they enter a grand hall, with an equally grand set of stairs, Alfred veers left into a room that contains a large table set for six. It’s laden with food, and there are four people already sitting there.

“Sit here, please,” Alfred says, leading the Gray Son to a seat that, unlike the others, has no plate and cutlery in front of it. Only a small glass filled with water, with a bright blue straw stuck in it. All the other seats also have a glass of water with a straw, but they’re much larger glasses.

On one side is Cass, who smiles as he sits. The other side is empty, but Richard slides into that space. Across the table is a new boy, who has deep brown skin and short curly hair, who smiles at the Gray Son. To the new boy’s left is Damian, who refuses to make eye contact, and to the right is Tim. 

Bruce sits at the head of the table, looking much healthier than he had earlier. Now he is wearing a turtleneck and a jacket. Bruce nods at the Gray Son.

“It’s good to see you,” Bruce says. “Have you decided on a name yet?” 

The Gray Son shakes his head. 

“I see.” Bruce clears his throat, then gestures at each person at the table in turn. “You have met some of my children already. Cass, Tim, and Dick. This is Duke —“ the new boy lifts his hand and smiles again “— and this is Damian.” 

Damian simply glares. 

“The Flash and Alfred have agreed that water will be good for you while we work out a diet plan,” Bruce says. 

A diet plan.

The Gray Son looks at the food on the table. He recognises the dishes: a meat stew and rice. There is also a bowl of salad, a plate with bread, and several bowls containing vegetables. Will he have to start eating food, like the humans? Or is it a liquid diet?

He does not know which option would be more inefficient and unpleasant.

“Please drink slowly,” Bruce adds. “If you want more water, just ask.”

The Gray Son already knows that he will not ask. He is only going to drink because he is being ordered to.

As the others begin to serve themselves from the dishes in the middle of the table, he curls his hands around his glass. He has seen people drink using straws before. It surely can’t be as hard as drinking from a normal cup, can it?

Richard taps the back of his hand, and the Gray Son looks. Richard carefully lifts his glass so that the Gray Son can see it, sticks his straw into his mouth, and - judging from the water level in the glass - sucks approximately twenty mililitres out before swallowing and setting the glass down again. 

A demonstration.

The Gray Son is not capable of feeling relief, but he thinks that if he could, he would feel it now. He copies Richard’s movements, and this time the water does exactly as he expects. Most of it stays in the glass, and a small amount enters his mouth. 

It is easy to swallow. There is no mess. Nothing spills. His clothes remain dry.

Success.

Dinner lasts for approximately twenty minutes. Alfred seems to have vanished for the duration of the meal. The room is mostly quiet, the sound of cutlery and wet chewing and slurping noises filling the space. Richard talks a lot, asking seemingly meaningless questions to Duke and Bruce in particular - How was your day? Did you sleep well? He talks so much that it’s almost a wonder he manages to eat at all. Duke and Tim converse briefly about a movie that has not yet been released, agreeing to go to the theatre and watch it soon. 

The others are mostly silent, with Damian giving one-word answers to anything directed at him, and Tim interrupting Richard’s questioning every so often with a comment or a short explanation of something. Cass does not speak at all, although she watches everybody else with intense focus. 

Nobody asks the Gray Son anything, not until the humans begin to stack their plates, and Alfred appears again. 

“Are you finished?” he asks, looking at the empty glass.

“Yes.”

“You did well, young man,” Alfred says, and then he takes the glass away.

Bruce remains in his seat, and so do Richard and Tim. The Gray Son was not given permission to leave, so he stays too. Bruce takes some note-cards out of his jacket pocket, looking at them briefly.

“Tomorrow, you will come here at seven-thirty in the morning,” Bruce says. “You should wash your face, brush your teeth, and change your clothes before you come here. Alfred and Richard will show you how to do that. We will eat breakfast together, and then we will go downstairs so that we can assess your physical capabilities and so that some friends of mine can speak to you.”

“Friends of mine, you mean,” Richard mutters. Bruce squints at him briefly, his mouth tightening. Then he turns his attention back to the Gray Son, producing a small touch-screen device. A cellular phone. He places it on the table in front of the Gray Son, as well as a charging cable.

“This belongs to you. It has no internet access. You can only contact myself, Alfred, and the other members of this household using this device. If you want to talk to someone else, ask one of us, and we will make it possible. Do you understand?” 

These instructions are clear and easy to understand.

“I understand.”

“Now that Raven has confirmed your intentions, you will primarily stay here, in this house. We are creating a legal identity for you, and we will brief you when it is appropriate,” Bruce pauses, glancing at the cards in his hands again. “There are a few rules you must follow. Firstly, you must treat yourself and everybody else in this house with respect and care. Do not deliberately harm anybody or break anything. If you accidentally harm someone or break something, you must inform me or Alfred. Killing or maiming is absolutely prohibited. Do you understand?”

This rule is clear, too. It will be easy to follow.

“I understand.”

“Secondly, secrecy is of utmost importance. If you meet anybody who is not part of this family, or who you did not meet in the cave downstairs, you may not speak to them about the Batman, other vigilante identities, and any similar topics. This includes your identity as a Talon and your knowledge of the Court of Owls. Doing so will result in punishment. Do you understand?”

This rule is also easy. He will not speak unless spoken to, anyway.

“I understand.”

“Lastly, when you do not understand something, you must ask for help or for clarification. You will never be punished for asking for help or clarification. You may ask anybody in this family for help or clarification. That is why I gave you the phone. Do you understand?”

This is a strange rule. But it is not unpleasant. It will make following the other rules even easier than it is already.

“I understand.”

Bruce nods and looks down at his note cards again.

“Finally, I will add to or change the rules as I feel necessary. I will always inform you of any changes to the rules, or any additional rules. Do you understand?”

Sometimes the doctors forgot to update the Gray Son on new rules. It is good that Bruce will not do the same.

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, please follow Dick and Alfred. They will get you settled in,” Bruce says. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure you want to rest.”

“I cannot want anything,” the Gray Son dutifully reminds him, as he obediently rises from the table. 

“I see,” Bruce mutters. He waves a hand. “Goodnight.”

As Richard and Alfred guide him from the room, Bruce starts speaking again. 

“Tim, we need to discuss the report. Downstairs.”

Alfred and Richard takes the Gray Son upstairs to a new room. It is even larger than the cell and contains a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a dresser, a bookshelf, and a plush-looking armchair. There are two sets of closed drapes on the far wall, and a door on the right-hand side of the room, and the floor is covered in soft, plush carpet. There is a chest at the end of the bed, which is made up with red covers this time. Richard takes the phone from the Gray Son and plugs it into the wall behind the bedside cabinet.

“This is your room. I’m afraid this was the best we could do at short notice,” Alfred says. “Come. This door leads to the en-suite bathroom. Do you know how to use a bathroom?”

He knows enough. Bathrooms are where humans excrete waste and clean themselves. Humans are vulnerable in the bathroom. It is an excellent space for an ambush, and it is easy to set up the room to look like an illness or a suicide.

Alfred steers him toward the bathroom, leaving Richard in the main room. It contains a deep bath, a separate shower, a toilet, a sink, a small closer, a laundry hamper, and several mirrors, including a mirrored cabinet above the sink. The Gray Son has not seen his reflection before. The reflection is almost identical to Richard, though it is much paler and its dark hair is shorn roughly an inch long all over its scalp.

“You may use this room as you see fit,” Alfred says, drawing his attention. He shows the Gray Son how each feature works, where supplies are stored, and a very brief explanation of each supply. “I expect you to keep this room clean by yourself, though I will help you for the first few weeks. On Mondays, you must bring the laundry hamper downstairs to the kitchen. I will show you where it is tomorrow. If something needs repair or you feel you need assistance, please call me.”

The Gray Son is asked to demonstrate some basic self-cleaning tasks, including washing his face, hands, and his teeth, and asked questions on other self-maintenance tasks. How does one use a toilet? How often did he clean himself at the laboratory? Good, he should keep that cleansing schedule. How does one shave or clip their nails? Are there any items he would like, but are not available?

“I would not like—“ the Gray Son starts, and Alfred cuts him off. 

“—anything, you do not have the capability, I understand. I should have remembered that. Nevertheless, if you can think of an item you are missing, then please do tell me.”

When they re-enter the main room, Richard is laying out clothes on the bed. A light shirt and pants, not unlike those the Gray Son had worn earlier. But this time, they are made of a brightly patterned, shiny fabric. 

“Got some pyjamas for you,” Richard says. “I think they’ll fit. You should wear these at night, when you’re resting. They’re stored in this drawer."

Richard shows him where the other clothes are stored. Pyjamas, underwear, socks and accessories live in the dresser. Pants, shirts, jackets, and shoes live in the wardrobe. Next to the bedroom door hangs a bathrobe and two coats. Richard gives him another pair of shoes, too: they are soft and blue and made of a fluffy material. 

“Slippers. Normally, we take our shoes off and change into slippers when we enter the house, because otherwise the floors get dirty and Alfred has to clean them. Today was a little different, but that’s the rule going forward. If you aren’t sure, just follow everybody else’s lead, and you’ll be okay.”

The Gray Son is very good at watching other people. It is good that he can copy the others in the house if he is unsure.

Richard talks more. He seems to enjoy talking. He talks about how this room used to be a guest bedroom and how he used to play hide-and-seek here. He talks about how he likes the view and how Bruce put in some triple-glazing so it doesn’t get so cold in the winter, and how he wanted to paint it bright orange but Alfred said no. He talks about the books on the shelf, picking out two. 

“These are my favourites. You should read them if you get bored.”

He talks more and more and more and more, until Alfred puts a hand on his shoulder and interrupts. 

“I think it’s been a rather long day for us all. I know you don’t need to sleep, young man, but I’m sure you’ll benefit from some rest. Before we leave, do you have any questions for us?”

There is only one question the Gray Son can think of. 

“When will Bruce finish examining my storage container?”

Alfred frowns.

“Your storage container? The... coffin?”

The Gray Son thinks. It does look a little like a coffin, yes. He nods. 

“You don’t need a storage container,” Richard says. “You have a bedroom.”

“I’ll ask Bruce about it,” Alfred says. “But Master Dick is right. You do not need the storage container any longer. If there is any reason this room does not meet your needs, please tell me and I shall do my best to fix it at the earliest opportunity. Do you understand?”

The Gray Son nods. 

No storage container. No more mimicking the doctors. No more tapping along to remembered songs. No more safe darkness or healing warmth.

“When we leave, you ought to dress in your pyjamas,” Alfred says. “Then you may do whatever you like. You may read your books or turn off the light and rest in the bed, or anything else you would like to do. As long as it is done within the confines of this room, and you do not disturb others with the noise, you may do as you please. Do you understand?”

The Gray Son does not like to do anything. He does not have the capacity to like. The others seem to forget that often.

“Yes.”

"I shall come back here at twenty-five minutes past seven to take you to breakfast,” Alfred says. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Richard says, and then: “you should say ‘goodnight’ to us, too.”

“Goodnight,” the Gray Son says, and they leave. 

The Gray Son changes into his pyjamas, as asked, and throws his old outfit into the laundry hamper. Then he comes back to the main room. He cannot see any cameras, but he assumes they must exist.

The bed looks soft and inviting, but he does not need to sleep. The books Richard picked out lie on the bedside cabinet, but he does not feel bored. The only thing the Gray Son can really think about doing is crawling into his storage container and closing his eyes. But there is no storage container here. 

Or is there?

The Gray Son’s eyes fall on the chest at the end of the bed. The bed is king-sized, and the chest lines up almost perfectly with the bedframe. It should be easily big enough for him to lie in, with plenty of room to spare.

He opens the chest. There is some bedding in here: a comforter and some cushions, as well as a few worn-looking stuffed animals. There is a lot of space left for him to lie on top. The Gray Son smiles to himself, before remembering that tools should not smile.

Then he climbs into the chest, arranging himself and the items inside so that he can lie as flat as possible, and carefully closes the lid. 

Yes, he thinks, closing his eyes. Despite all the strangeness, this is good. This is a good facility.

Notes:

I probably should have split this chapter in two, too, but I really wanted to move onto the main story lol

Also, disclaimer: Damian is actually my favourite Robin (I love them all very much, though). I promise I'm not intentionally bashing him, he is just having more trouble dealing with the situation as he is so young.

Chapter 8: Storage - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Time passes slowly, now that the Gray Son has no immediate orders to complete. 

Dinner had been served at six o’clock. Richard and Alfred had left the Gray Son here at nine twenty. That leaves ten hours and five minutes before Alfred comes back. Ten hours and five minutes in which to wait. No - nine hours and forty-five minutes. Bruce instructed him to wash and dress before Alfred comes to take him to breakfast. That will take some time.

The Gray Son closes his eyes. This chest is comfortable, much more so than the storage container ever had been. The pyjamas are soft, softer than anything he’s ever touched before, all slippery and feather-light against his skin. The cushions and comforter support his body, and the stuffed animals are squishy and covered in a fleecy material that feels good against his fingers. 

He pulls one of the stuffed animals into the crook of his elbow, so he can dig his fingers into it. Alfred said he could do anything. Touching stuffed animals is ‘anything’. But just in case it’s not, nobody can see him in here.

The chest is not soundproof, unlike the container, so he can hear indistinct, muffled sounds on the very edge of his hearing: voices and creaking and footsteps. But mostly, this house is quiet. It’s not the cold, echoey quiet of the cave downstairs, and it’s not the clinical quiet of the laboratory, filled with the faint hum of machinery and the air-conditioning. This house is a different kind of quiet. A strange quiet, one he doesn’t know how to categorise.

The stuffed animal continues to be soft and good and the chest continues to be quiet and dark and safe, and the Gray Son waits. Minutes pass into hours, and at eleven minutes to midnight, there is a very quiet creaking noise. 

The noise is so quiet that is is almost unnoticeable. But the Gray Son was trained extensively to notice such things. This particular noise was close. Not in the hallway or a neighbouring room, but this one.

Tools do not feel curiosity. The Gray Son carefully does not think about the noise any further, as he has no instructions relating to it. He simply waits, and tries not to wonder about tomorrow’s tests and Bruce and Richard’s friends. Tools are not allowed to wonder. 

But some part of him does anyway - who are Bruce and Richard’s friends? And will they play music during the debriefing, the same way Doctor Patel and Doctor Stevens do? They should. Music is good. Music is more good than silence. 

The Gray Son tries to remember the songs that were played yesterday. His fingers twitch against the silky fabric on his stomach, into the soft fuzz of the stuffed animal. It is hard to think about the music when the room surrounding him is so silent.

Wait.

No, it’s not silent. 

Breathing. He can hear breathing. Someone is breathing nearby.

The breathing is quiet, muffled, and barely-there, but the Gray Son can hear it. And then he hears an equally quiet whisper in Arabic, the unusual dialect from earlier: “where is he?”. 

It is Damian’s voice. 

Footsteps, leaving the room. The Gray Son hears the creaking again, followed by a door closing. 

If the Gray Son were allowed to think, he might think it unfair that he has to stay in one particular room, but Damian can come and go as he pleases. But he is not allowed to think, and so he does not, and so he waits. 

And waits, and waits, and—

Footsteps again. More of them this time, coming down the hallway. Five people. 

“—you sure?” Bruce’s voice echoes, barely audible. 

“Yes! It is gone!” Damian shouts. “I looked everywhere!”

“But the sensors didn’t trip…” Tim’s voice sounds louder and clearer as the footsteps approach.

A loud knocking noise. 

Silence.

The door creaks again. Footsteps enter the room.

“Well, the light is still on and the phone is still here,” Richard’s voice rings out. “He might be in the bathroom. I don’t think he’s ever used one before.”

“I checked the bathroom!” Damian replies. There is a loud tutting sound. “It is not here! I told you it would escape!”

“Dami, what did I tell you about jumping to conclusions?” Footsteps crossing the room. The quiet click of a light switch and the gentle humming of an extractor fan. "Okay, not in the bathroom."

Click again. The extractor fan stops.

“He asked about his storage container just before we left,” Alfred murmurs. “Perhaps he went downstairs for it.” 

“I’ll check,” Richard says, and the footsteps near the bathroom quickly thud away. “Cass? You still in the Cave?”

“Wait for me!” Damian cries, more footsteps leaving.

“The storage container?” Bruce asks. “What did he say about it?”

“He asked us when we thought you might finish examining it,” Alfred says. “He didn’t seem particularly enthused about it, but it’s the closest thing to a request he’s made so far. We explained that the container was no longer necessary, but I wonder…”

There are more footsteps again. Then a rapid knocking on the lid of the chest. Rat-tat-a-tat-tat. The Gray Son does not startle, because that is not allowed. 

“Young man? Are you inside the chest?” Alfred asks. His voice is quiet and calm.

The others are looking for him, the Gray Son realises. They are looking for him, even though he has shown that he is obedient and good at instructions and he was instructed to remain here.

It is not fair that they think he is disobedient.

It is not fair. He is doing his best to understand this strange house and its strange rules.

“Yes,” the Gray Son says. It is hard. His jaw is tense. All of his muscles are tense, suddenly, for no reason at all. The Gray Son carefully unclenches his jaw, forces his fingers to relax. If he is too rough with the stuffed animal, it might tear. And if he ruins his tooth implant, there will be punishment.

“Would you open the chest, please?” 

The Gray Son obeys, because he cannot do anything else. He props himself up and lifts the lid. Just in case he misunderstood the rules - and it seems he has, since they think he is disobedient - he is very careful to keep the stuffed animal in his arm underneath him, pressed against the chest wall, out of sight. 

Alfred is crouched close to the chest, with Bruce and Tim visible a few paces behind. They are all wearing sleeping clothes. Tim is typing on his cellphone.

“What are you doing in there?” Alfred asks. He is not frowning, but Bruce and Tim are. “Are you hiding from something? There is nothing to be afraid of in this house.”

“Except Damian,” Tim mutters, almost too quietly for the Gray Son to hear. 

“Tim, please.” Bruce says. “Now is not the time.”

“I am not hiding,” the Gray Son says. “I am in storage.”

“What do you mean by ‘storage’?” Tim asks. He looks up from his phone and his eyes narrow as he stares at the Gray Son. “Like an object?”

“Yes,” the Gray Son says. Just like an object. Because he is an object. “When not in use, tools should be stored away.”

Alfred’s jaw drops. 

“But you are not a tool,” he says, faintly. “You… you are a person.”

All of a sudden, many strange things in this new place make sense. His new masters do not know that he is an object. That explains why Tim played games with him and Alfred gave him water and warm clothes and Richard brought Raven to meet him.

They almost autopsied him because they thought he was a dead person. They gave him books and a Superman bedsheet and new clothes because they thought he might feel bored or cold or tired. They performed tests to figure out what is wrong with him, because he is not like a normal human, because he is not a human at all. And now they have given him a storage unit for a human - a bedroom - because they think he is a human being.

Shouldn't the Court or the doctors have told Bruce all of this?

It does not matter. They did not. The Gray Son must rectify this immediately. Surely the punishment for deceiving his masters will not be so bad if he tries to rectify the situation.

“I am a Talon,” the Gray Son says. “Talons are tools. Tools must be stored between uses.” 

Alfred stares at him.

“Child,” he manages, raising one hand to his mouth. “I— I don’t know what to say. You are most certainly a human being. A medically unusual human being, but one all the same.”

“I am a Talon,” he says. 

“Half a Talon,” Bruce corrects him, stepping closer. “The doctors didn't finish the augmentations before you were brought here, did they?”

That is true. The doctors said that he was due to have eye surgery next week. And the Court instructor said they would start doing blind drills while they waited for the night-vision implants to heal. And there is still a lot of information he has not downloaded yet - the doctors mentioned aneurysms and seizures as consequences of too many downloads too quickly. And he is supposed to have more chemical treatments, to enhance his strength and durability - which need to wait until all the surgeries have been performed. And there are real-world practice assignments he has yet to to complete. And he has not yet performed his final test. He is not ready to face and kill William Cobb.

“I have not been fully augmented,” the Gray Son agrees.

“So you are not a Talon yet,” Bruce says. “You are only partially a Talon. Do you understand?”

The Gray Son stares at Bruce. He is crouching now, next to Alfred, his blue eyes fixed on the Gray Son. 

The logic is sound. He is not yet a full, true Talon.

“I understand.”

“And if you are only partially a Talon, you must partially be something else. What are Talons made from?”

The Gray Son knows this. It is easy to answer.

“Talons are created from human beings scouted by the Owls. Gotham Talons are always made from humans from Haley’s Circus.”

Bruce nods.

“That's correct. If you were created from a human being and are only partially a Talon, then you must also partially be a human being, too. Do you understand?”

The Gray Son stares at him.

That is not… 

The logic makes sense, like before. The premises of the argument fully support the conclusion. But the Gray Son knows that the conclusion is wrong. Talons are made from humans, but they are not human. They just aren't.

But Bruce did not say that Talons are human beings. He said that part of the Gray Son is still human. He has not finished all of his modifications or all of his training. But the Gray Son was never really human at all. He was grown from human cells - from Richard's cells - but he is not human. He has never been.

Bruce is still looking at him. He is frowning now, his head inclined slightly as he continues to stare. That expression is… not good. It is bad. That expression always means punishment.

“I un— I understand,” the Gray Son stammers. He is not supposed to stammer. He is supposed to speak clearly, and always agree with his master, but he is not supposed to lie. His tongue cannot do both of those at once. 

This seems to satisfy Bruce, because he stops staring, and his head and shoulders seem to relax. His expression no longer means punishment.

“If you are partially a human being, then I wish to treat you as a human being,” Bruce says. “Human beings sleep in beds, not containers.”

“I do not sleep,” he whispers. Maybe Bruce is trying to be nice, because he thinks the Gray Son requires the same kind of rest as a human. Maybe that is why he does not want him to be stored.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruce says, immediately proving the Gray Son’s inferences wrong. “You are not a Talon. You cannot be stored away.”

They stored him away at the laboratory, the Gray Son thinks.

Maybe he was wrong earlier. Maybe this is not a good facility. Maybe this is a bad facility. A bad facility where they make him drink water and play lying games and answer impossible questions and won’t let him spend time in storage.

“Do you understand?” Bruce finishes. 

The Gray Son nods, and turns his gaze to the floor. 

“I understand,” he says. “I will not go into storage again.”

He will not go into storage. The Gray Son’s stomach feels heavy at that thought. 

“Good,” Bruce says. “Get out of the chest.”

The Gray Son obeys, his limbs feeling like lead. The chest is good. It is safe and nobody can see him. The bed looks soft and comfortable, but… it is not good. It is exposed. Like a lab table. Anybody walking into this room could look at him or touch him or issue new orders. It is not safe.

Bruce and Alfred also rise, and Alfred looks down. 

“Is that a teddy bear?” he asks, gesturing at the stuffed animal in the Gray Son’s hand. The Gray Son looks at the stuffed animal. It is a rabbit, not a bear, but his linguistics training gives him a clue: in most dialects of British English, a ‘teddy bear’ is synonymous with any type of animal-shaped plush or stuffed toy. 

“Yes,” the Gray Son says, and moves to put it back. 

“You don’t have to put it away. You may keep it, if you li—“ Alfred stops, then clears his throat. “You may keep it. I only ask that you do not take it into the bathroom, as prolonged exposure to water will damage it, and that you bring it to me if it gets dirty. I shall launder it and give it back to you.”

The Gray Son nods. Storage containers are not permitted, but stuffed animals are. He glances into the still-open chest. The other stuffed animal is still in there. That one is slightly bigger, and shaped like a bear. 

“You may keep that teddy bear, too,” Alfred says. He pauses. “Would you like any more teddy bears? I’m sure I can find some for you. Plenty of children have lived in this house over the years.”

“No,” the Gray Son replies. “I do not like anything. I do not have the capability.”

Alfred sighs.

"I see," he says, his mouth turning down at the edges. Beside him, Bruce stares at the Gray Son with narrowed eyes.

“You said that you don't sleep,” Bruce says. “Are you sure about that? When was the last time you slept?”

“I slept only during the gestation and maturation phases of my creation,” the Gray Son replies. “After I was aged appropriately, the doctors began electrum transfusions, thus eliminating the need for sleep. I have not slept since then.”

“Horrifying, but not surprising,” Tim mutters, still typing on his cellphone. "Matches with the records."

“In that case, I have a task for you,” Bruce says. He crosses the room to the bookshelf and selects several slim volumes. “I want you to study. Choose one of these books. Read it while you wait for the morning. Remember the information. At breakfast, I will ask you a few questions. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” the Gray Son says, although he does not understand the reasoning behind Bruce’s orders. Surely it would be more efficient to simply download the necessary information into his brain? But tools are not permitted to question their masters - even if their masters seem to think that they are not tools at all - and so the Gray Son simply looks at the books as Bruce plucks them off the shelf. They are all brightly coloured, with pictures on the front. 

My First Encyclopedia: the history of the United States of America, says one. Myths and Legends Around the World, says another. The World Around Us. My Family. Holidays and Celebrations. 

Bruce places the books on the desk.

“Alfred’s rules from earlier still apply,” he says. “I am adding a new rule: you may not place yourself in storage. Do you understand?”

You may not place yourself in storage. You. 

“I understand,” the Gray Son agrees. Maybe someone else will place him in storage if he behaves well enough, or when they realise that he is not really a human.

“Good,” Bruce says. He steps back, glances at Tim. “Tell Dick and Damian to stop searching.” 

“Already done,” Tim says. “I’m sending a summary to Duke, so he sees it when he wakes up."

“That’s very thoughtful, Master Tim.”

Bruce looks at the Gray Son again.

One second. Three. Five. 

“Damian will apologise to you in the morning,” he says, finally turning on his heel. “Goodnight.”

The Gray Son says ‘goodnight’ again and does not question why Damian will apologise. Tim and Alfred also say 'goodnight', and then they leave. The door closes behind them. The chest remains open. The Gray Son wonders if it counts as storage if he doesn’t close the lid. And then he stops, because objects are not supposed to wonder anything. 

He picks up the first book on the pile Bruce left. 

Kid’s Guide To The Universe, it says, in shiny and bright lettering. It is approximately a hundred pages long. 

The Gray Son begins to read. Around him, the house is quiet. 

Notes:

This chapter was supposed to continue through to the morning and end with Gray meeting some of Bruce's Dick's friends after breakfast. But it was already getting pretty long and I want to update this at least once a week (or twice, if I have the time and spoons), so I cut it short.

Chapter 9: Dawn - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

I was not expecting so many people to empathise so deeply with Gray’s love of containers! (Honestly, same - I used to love sleeping in boxes and wardrobes and such as a kid and I lowkey really want one of those nook beds even now I’m an adult) I solemnly promise that Gray will be allowed ‘storage time’ after the bat-fam realise that he actually enjoys it <3

Also, you may notice that there is now no estimated chapter count on this story. That’s because this was originally supposed to be the third or fourth chapter before I accidentally started word-vomiting and the chapters started racking up. Hah, and to think I thought I could tell this story in only 12 chapters!

The Gray Son reads and reads, with the stuffed rabbit sitting in his lap. He cannot tell whether the book contains fact or fiction, but he does his best to memorise it all anyway. The desk chair is comfortable, and he absently digs his fingers into the rabbit’s soft fuzz as he reads. 

The book says that universe is big. Bigger than anything the Gray Son has ever concieved of. There are countless galaxies and planets and stars and celestial bodies in the universe. Some planets are known and sustain life: Tamaran and Oa, for example. Some used to contain life, like Mars and the now-non-existent Krypton. The planet humans live on is Earth.

Earth is one of the eight major planets which orbit the sun. The same sun that rises in the morning and sets in the evening - these movements are merely the result of Earth’s rotation. There used to be two other major planets - Ceres and Pluto - but they were stripped of their designation and downgraded as they were inadequate. There was also a potential planet named Eris, which was rejected for the same reasons. All three are now considered dwarf planets, of which there are many. There are also many asteroids and planetoids and other objects within the solar system. 

The Gray Son wonders whether being designated a human is a downgrade from being a Talon. Talons are physically better than humans in almost every way - they are stronger and faster and more accurate and more efficient. They do not age after being fully modified. They do not die of natural causes - only from electrum withdrawal and exposure to extremely low temperatures.

By contrast, humans are woefully inadequate in every way imaginable, reliant on sleep and nutrition and hydration, their bodies slowly breaking down as time passes. But humans are allowed to do many things. They are allowed to make choices. They enjoy all kinds of odd activities, like fashion and music and sex and cooking. And they have core temperatures. They feel warm on the inside all the time. 

The Gray Son does not really remember ever feeling warm inside. Maybe when he was first awoken, but that was a long time ago. So much happened in the first days and weeks and months after, he has very little memory of that time. Only the vaguest impression of lying on cold tiles, bare skin slick with something slimy, while hands pulled electrodes off his muscles and removed the oxygen and feeding tubes, and the horrible sensation of needing to breathe but not quite knowing how to. He’s almost glad he doesn’t have to breathe now, though he’s gotten much better at it since then.

Had he been warm on the inside, back then? Before the electrum made him cold?

He doesn’t know.

The Gray Son stares at the names Pluto and Ceres and Eris, printed on the book page next to colourful pictures of themselves. The inadequate planets. He is inadequate, too.

He has not completed his training or his modifications. He has made a bad impression here. He performed poorly on his not-language tests. And even though he tried to be good and obedient, everybody thought he was dishonest and untrustworthy. He has performed so inadequately that Bruce had said that he was not truly a Talon. Bruce had even said that he wanted to treat the Gray Son like a human instead of a Talon. 

If he performs poorly in the remaining tests, too, then… then…

Inadequate tools are thrown away. 

The black-and-white typeface looks blurry, the planets now blobby and unfocused. The Gray Son’s eyes feel too moist, probably because of the water from earlier. He blinks the moistness away, and then he brings the stuffed rabbit up a little higher, squeezing it against his chest. 

It is good. A reminder that he is here, in the present, and not downgraded yet. Alfred seemed to think he would not be thrown away for some time, despite his poor performance - he said that he would help the Gray Son keep his room clean for a few weeks, and he was given a specific laundry day.

Maybe everything will be fine, the Gray Son thinks. All he has to do is show just how good he can be, both in following instructions and in the next series of tests. And the doctors always said that he was very good - Doctors Patel and Lee especially. And they smiled when they said it, so it must be true.

He is good, he thinks. He is good and he will memorise all of the information in this book and he will impress Bruce by regurgitating all of the correct information when asked. He will perform well in the physical tests. He will not be stripped of his designation and downgraded. 

At least, not yet.

---

Light begins to shine from behind the curtains at around six thirty. 

Alfred said that he could do anything in this room, and Bruce said that he could do anything Alfred had allowed, except for be stored, so the Gray Son lifts one corner of the curtain slightly. 

The curtain hides a window. And not just any window. He’s seen windows before, windows that look into other rooms. But this window does not look into a room. 

It looks outside, across a flat green space - a lawn - and a forested hill and a brightly-lit city sitting on the ocean. The sky is half-dark, brightened with streaks of orange and pink at the horizon. It’s the real sky, too, not a picture or a screen or someone else’s memory. The lights from the city and the horizon cast reflections on the water.

It’s… it’s good. Very good. He thinks he might understand why the people in the music talk about the sky so much. After a moment, he raises the stuffed rabbit in his hand slightly, so it can look out of the window, too. It is only an object, but so is he. 

The Gray Son puts the curtain back after allowing himself ten seconds to look. The others already think him untrustworthy. Even though he is probably allowed to look outside, they might think he wants to escape if he spends too long looking at the sky or keeps the curtains open. Then he re-reads the book, checking he memorised it correctly, and then begins to ready himself for the day. 

Firstly, he chooses clothes. Unfortunately, all the clothes in this room are different colours. Neither Richard or Bruce or Alfred mentioned which clothes he ought to wear, so he simply picks the leftmost item from several categories: socks, underwear, t-shirt and pants. Then he puts them on the bed with the stuffed rabbit, making sure the rabbit is propped comfortably against the pillow, and heads into the bathroom to begin his daily cleansing routine.

It is a very short routine. He strips, stands under a spray of cold water, methodically scrubs his skin with soap and a washcloth and his scalp with the shampoo Alfred showed him, and then rinses. When all the suds have gone down the drain, he shuts off the water and dries himself with one of the soft and fluffy towels hanging on a railing near the shower. It is almost as soft and fluffy as the stuffed rabbit. After that, he brushes his teeth and combs his hair. 

The Gray Son does not have much hair to comb, as it is too short to really tangle, but Doctor Stevens always said it was a good idea to do so anyway. Sometimes, on the days he smiled the most, Doctor Stevens would take out his personal comb and a small tin of pomade, and run a little through the Gray Son’s damp hair before ruffling it with his fingers. 

There is no pomade here. The Gray Son does not want any, because he does not want anything, but the smell was good. It was sweet and a little spicy. And the feeling of someone else playing with his hair was good, too. He wonders if any of the doctors will come and visit this new facility. It seems that Alfred and Bruce and Tim are missing a lot of information, so it would be good if they came. Patel, Lee, and Stevens would probably like it here. Lee used to talk about celebrities like Bruce Wayne all the time. Maybe they can bring their music.

The Gray Son spits and rinses his mouth and the toothbrush, and then gets dressed. The clothes fit well, and the slippers Richard gave him yesterday are comfortable. The clock says that there is still half an hour before Alfred comes, so he reads the planets book twice more, and then he quietly reads the planet names aloud to the stuffed rabbit, because it would give Bruce a poor impression if he were to stumble on them.

As promised, Alfred knocks on the door at precisely twenty-five minutes past seven. By then, the light from the outside has formed almost a halo around the edge of the curtains. 

“Good morning,” Alfred says, with a gentle smile, and then he looks at the curtains. “Would you like—“ 

Alfred stops, then clears his throat. 

“I apologise,” he says, which indicates that he still thinks the Gray Son is a human. “What I meant to say is that it is… it is a tradition in this house to open one’s curtains in the morning. And we also open our windows slightly, in order to allow fresh air to circulate. You are most welcome to partake in this tradition.”

Another order-without-an-order. The Gray Son obediently goes to the curtains. Just like the medical wing curtains at the lab, these curtains - heavy, bright, velvet, instead of papery and light - slide along a railing. He opens them and tries not to stare at the sky. The view is exactly the same as it was earlier, except it is completely different. The sky is blue, with hazy white clouds and a bright, white sun hanging above the ocean and the dark silhouette of a city. 

The window seems to be a single-hung window, which he remembers from his training on breaking into various kinds of buildings. He carefully lifts the lower window by a single inch. Enough for air. Now that the curtains are fully open, he can see several motion sensors stuck around the window. 

“Did you rest well?” Alfred asks, when he returns to the door. The Gray Son nods, and Alfred continues, leading him along the hallway. “I’m sorry about Damian’s interruption. He cares a great deal about everybody in this house, you see. He simply has difficulty expressing it in an appropriate manner.”

Alfred does not elaborate on what an ‘appropriate manner’ is, and continues to walk. The route they take to the dining room is exactly the same as last night, but the curtains hanging on the walls have all been drawn, and the bright daylight makes it seem different. Just like the view from the window. 

“Did the water pass through your body yet?” Alfred asks. "We'll need to take urine samples soon."

“No,” the Gray Son replies. 

“Are you sure?” Alfred’s brow creases. “If your kidneys are in good working order, it should have.”

“I am sure. I have not needed to expel any waste.”

“Hm,” is all Alfred says, before they enter the dining room. 

Bruce is already sitting at the head of the table when they enter. It, too, looks different with the curtains drawn and the greenery beyond the windows. There are fewer places set at the table today: only Bruce’s place, and the one the Gray Son was sitting in, with a glass and straw.

“Good morning,” Bruce says, glancing up from the newspaper in his hands. Like yesterday, he is wearing black clothes and his face shows signs of fatigue. A cup of a dark, pungent liquid sits near his elbow. Coffee. He has a plate of food, too.

The Gray Son sits in his seat. Bruce continues to look at him. He looks back. He is careful to look only at Bruce and not at the windows behind him, in case Bruce thinks he will try to escape.

“Young man, you ought to say ‘good morning’ too,” Alfred whispers. 

“Good morning.”

Bruce inclines his head slightly. He sets the newspaper down, next to his plate. There is a small, handwritten sticky note stuck to the newspaper. The Gray Son cannot read it at this distance and angle.

“Normally, we eat breakfast in the kitchen,” Bruce says, looking at the note briefly. “Everybody has a different schedule, so it’s easier that way. But you and I will take our meals together, in this room. If we are going to eat in another place, or if the schedule changes, either Alfred or I will tell you in advance. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

So the Gray Son really will have to start eating at some point. The thought makes his stomach feel heavy.

“Good,” Bruce says. “Today we’ll test your physical skills. But first… I asked you to do something yesterday. What did I ask you to do?”

“To not put myself into storage, and to choose and read a book.”

“Which book did you choose?”

“Kid’s Guide to the Universe.”

“I see,” Bruce says. “Drink your water, please.”

The Gray Son does. For the next fifteen minutes, he silently sips water, while watching Bruce eat and attempting to answer the questions Bruce gives him. 

“What is the name of our planet?”

“Earth.”

“How many planets are in our solar system?”

“There are eight major planets, including our own, as well as an unspecified number of dwarf planets.”

“What are the names of the other major planets?”

“Mercury, Mars, Venus, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, and Uranus.”

Bruce asks about asteroids and black holes and other galaxies and stars. And then… 

“What sector are we in?”

The Gray Son does not know anything about space sectors. Sector can also mean part, division, department, territory, or region. 

“We are in the Milky Way galaxy.”

“No, I mean the space sector. The number.”

“I don’t know,” the Gray Son says. He did not know that space had numbered sectors. The training didn’t say so, and neither did the book.

Bruce doesn’t seem angry at his ignorance, though. He just nods, putting another forkful of egg into his mouth, chewing slowly.

And then the questions continue, until the Gray Son’s water is inside his stomach and Bruce’s cup and plate are both empty. Then Bruce stands. 

“Come with me,” he says. 

---

The cave is almost exactly as it was yesterday. The only difference is that Richard, Duke and Cass are standing in front of the computer array. They are wearing strange clothes. Richard and Cass have black skintight suits, both noticably armoured. Richard’s has blue detailing on the chest and arms and two fingers on each hand. Cass’s has yellow detailing, including a brightly-coloured bat on her chest. Duke is wearing neon yellow body armour and has a helmet tucked under one arm. 

The Gray Son knows these costumes. Nightwing, one of the Batgirls, and Signal. 

“Hey,” Richard greets them. He has a matching domino mask and a bottle of spirit gum in his hands. “B, you want Gray armoured up, too? I think I have a couple old suits in the back.”

There is no need. He will quickly heal from any damage caused by the tests. Unless those tests involve exposure to extremely low temperatures, that is. And a bodysuit like Nightwing’s probably won’t provide much protection from that. 

“Gray?” Bruce asks. 

“Tim’s idea,” Richard says. “C’mon, a nickname is better than no name. Give the guy a break.”

Bruce stares at Richard for a second, before patting the Gray Son’s shoulder.

“Get him dressed,” Bruce says. “I’ll greet our friends.”

“Make sure he plays nice, you two,” Richard says to Cass and Duke. 

“I’m not making any promises,” Duke replies, with a small smile and a shrug.

“Hurry,” Cass adds. 

Richard leads the Gray Son to the changing room, heading immediately to one of the display cases. He opens it, retrieving a black, long-sleeved bodysuit, a pair of matching pants, gloves, and boots. All of the pieces seem to be armoured, much like Nightwing’s costume. The only obvious difference is that the detailing on this outfit is a bright red instead of blue.

“Put these on,” he says, handing them to the Gray Son. “Make sure you keep your underwear and socks on - the chafing is unreal if you don’t. Ask me how I know.”

“How do you know?” the Gray Son asks, obediently.

“Er…” Richard’s face twists, as though pained. “One very uncomfortable summer night. Never again.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, you can keep your clothes in the changing cubicle. Nice outfit, by the way.”

The Gray Son nods, and does as Richard asks. The pieces are easy to put on, sliding comfortably into place. The armoured parts hug his body perfectly. The fabric is so lightweight, it almost feels like he isn’t wearing anything at all. He folds his clothes and puts them on the bench in the cubicle. When he emerges, Richard is carefully sticking his mask to his face in front of one of the mirrors. 

The Gray Son approaches, and Richard gestures. He is familiar with this gesture - a sweeping motion which Doctor Patel always used to mean ‘come here’. He obeys, standing next to Richard. 

“I’m gonna stick one of these to your face,” he says. “Technically we don’t have to - everybody visiting today already knows who I am, for one reason or another, but it’ll be good practice for you. You know, in case you decide to come out in the field with us at some point.”

It is strange that he thinks the Gray Son should have any say in the matter. He will do whatever Bruce orders. 

“Close your eyes, okay?” Richard says, picking up a new mask - this one black rather than blue. 

The Gray Son obeys. The glue is sticky and cool on his skin, when Richard presses the mask onto his face.  A few seconds pass, Richard holding the mask in place. His breath is warm, tickling the Gray Son’s skin. The Gray Son’s own breath, when he does breathe, is not warm. He wonders what it feels like, to be warm on the inside.

“Okay, I think that should be on. You can open your eyes.”

Richard removes his hands, and the Gray Son blinks into the mirror. They look even more similar now that they are dressed almost identically. If not for their different hairstyles, and the Gray Son’s pallid skin, they would probably be indistinguishable. 

“Just like twins, huh?” Richard says. He smiles briefly, the mask moving with his face, then quickly turns away from the mirror. “Okay, one final thing before we head out there: we never use real names when we’re in costume. So when I’m dressed like this, you have to call me Nightwing. Tim said you know everybody’s hero identity already, but if you ever get stuck or forget, you can just ask me or one of the others, and we’ll help you out. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Okay, then let’s go.”

This time, when they enter the main room there are more people standing in front of the computer. The Gray Son recognises most of them from his training: Signal and Orphan, of course, with their helmets and masks now on. Red Robin stands next to them, alongside a blonde girl wearing a purple Batsuit. They're speaking to a boy with a Superman t-shirt and a leather jacket, another with a red-and-cream costume, and a girl with blonde hair. The boy with the jacket is Superboy, but the others were not mentioned in his training.

In the middle of the room is Batman himself, with Robin, flanked by Superman and Wonder Woman. A man in silver - name unknown - and a man in red - the Flash - stand at the computer, discussing something with a green-skinned being with a black cape. And there are two people in green and black costumes milling around - a man with a covered face and a woman with long brown hair. They’re both wearing a symbol identical to the Green Lantern logo, although the Gray Son’s training really only mentioned the possibility of facing one Green Lantern - either a white man with floppy hair or a black man with short hair.

Nightwing leads him to the centre of the room. Everybody looks at them.

“It’s good to see you guys,” he says. “Thanks for coming to help us out. This is… uh… Talon, I guess. We’re working on a better name.” 

Talon. Raven called him that. Yes, he is a Talon, even though Batman thinks he is not. He can be a good Talon.

“Talon,” Nightwing says, gesturing around the room. “This is the Justice League.”

Notes:

This chapter also ended up much longer than I expected, so apologies for that, too. I just really wanted to get to the meaty bit of the introductory arc - the Justice League and Young Justice. The Titans and remainder of the Bat-fam are not present solely because Dick and Tim worried about introducing too many people at once. But they will all meet Gray soon enough, I promise.

Chapter 10: Sparring - The Cave, Bristol County

Notes:

Hi all! Apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I am not very good at action scenes, or multiple characters, and….. well, this was all action and multiple characters. This is actually only about half the length I originally planned, but I figured I'd better cut things short and give you all an update. (Plus, I got sick, and real life is kind of busy right now. I’m actually not sure if there will be another update before October.)

Also, a warning: I realised I had forgotten to add temporary character death to the story tags when I first posted this story (do not worry. it is gray, our friendly super-healing zombie, he’s gonna be a-okay.) I have gone to the first chapter to add it to the general fic warnings. It does not come up in this chapter specifically, but it will come up soon (again, gray is gonna b just fine, it’s everybody else who’s gonna need some support/brain bleach).

Many things happen after Nightwing’s introduction. Some of the League members smile and wave, like the Green Lanterns. Some greet him verbally, like Red Robin’s friends. Others give him a nod of acknowledgement, like Wonder Woman. Talon is aware of Batman rapidly signing something at Nightwing — calling him T-A-L-O-N — and Talon doesn’t catch Nightwing’s response because both the Flash and Superman approach him.

“Hi! I’m the Flash,” the Flash says. He speaks quickly, grinning widely, and he holds out his hand. “I’m Nightwing’s friend. He’s told me a lot about you, nice to meet you.”

Talon looks at the Flash’s hand. Another human greeting. Batman thinks Talon is human. Maybe the rest of the Justice League think he is human, too. Talon hopes not. Fixing that misunderstanding will be difficult, unless Batman instructs him to work alongside them frequently.

“No shake?” Flash asks, and then he lowers his hand. “No worries. If you ask me, handshakes are pretty overrated anyway.”

“It’s good to meet you in person,” Superman adds, with a friendly smile. “We were all pretty worried when B told us the news. I hope you’re settling in well.”

The mental files Talon has on Superman and Flash contain lots of phrases like ‘do not engage in combat’ and ‘invulnerable’ and ‘highly destructive potential’ and ’unstoppable’, and yet neither of them seem like a threat. Superman seems like Alfred, somehow. And the Flash’s relaxed demeanour is not dissimilar to Nightwing.

Talon looks at them. They both seem to want him to respond somehow, and out of the corner of his eye, he catches Batman rapidly signing another sentence to Nightwing: do not undermine me.

“I understand,” Talon says, and hopes that it is a good answer. He is dimly aware of Red Robin and his friends conversing amongst themselves, though he cannot make out their words.

“Okay, we’ll work on small talk later,” Flash says, and he clears his throat. “Today’s gonna be us figuring out what you can do, what was done to you, and how to fix it.”

Talon does not feel relief, because he cannot feel relief. But it is good to know that the Justice League will help him complete his half-finished modifications and be a better Talon. He is not supposed to think for himself, but part of him had thought that they would test him, to see if he is worth keeping around or if he deserves to be thrown away. But they will keep him and help him, even if he performs poorly. He will be allowed to go back to the room with the stuffed rabbit and look out of the window, as Alfred had implied earlier. And maybe, if he is very obedient, someone might order him into storage.

This is good. This is very good. 

“Yes,” Talon agrees, and obediently follows them when they lead him through the cave to the gymnasium. The Green Lanterns float overhead, chatting to each other, and Wonder Woman strides confidently ahead with Batman and Robin.

The Flash talks a lot, and Talon does his best to listen to him. The Flash has arranged a schedule of thorough testing, including all of Nightwing’s skills, and those mentioned in Talon’s medical files. That is why some members of the Justice League are here: Wonder Woman and the Flash both wish to spar with him. The silver man - Cyborg - is here to help Oracle assess Talon’s familiarity and expertise with computer-based skills. The green being - Martian Manhunter - is a telepath even more powerful than Raven, and will carefully monitor each sparring match in order to reduce the likelihood of accidental injury. The Green Lanterns are mainly here to simulate weapons with their light-based projections, without running the risk of injury.

“Perks of being Batman’s least-unfavourite Lantern,” the male Lantern says. He grins. “Jordan’s gonna flip when he realises what he missed.”

It is strange that the male Lantern uses the floppy-haired Lantern's real name, even though they are in costume and that is against the rules. The female Lantern laughs, brushing her long hair out of her face. Talon can see now that she has the lantern symbol stamped over her eye, too, not just on her suit.

“Supes is basically here for moral support,” the Flash finishes. “Plus, he’s indestructible.”

“Not quite indestructible,” Superman says, with a small shrug. 

“Oh, fine - he’s not quite indestructible,” the Flash corrects himself. “Anyway, I figured we could start with the sparring first, since that’s the most physically intensive activity, and technically most of the other tests can be done without us. Except maybe the hacking one, but Cyborg just needs to plug in somewhere with an internet connection - he doesn’t have to be here specifically.”

“I understand,” Talon says. He is good at sparring. He has won ninety-seven percent of his sparring sessions. He has won eighty-one percent without debilitating injury. That is better than most Talons manage in their first six months, the Court Judge said.

Martian Manhunter is here in order to prevent accidental injury, which Talon supposes makes sense. After all, intentional injury is a vital part of sparring, as is the killing blow. Since today is about testing Talon, of course they need to be able to distinguish between those kinds of moves. Talon is not sure which members of the Justice League share his regenerative abilities - his files only contain the necessary information to avoid detection by them - but perhaps they do not need to share those abilities. The files make it quite clear that the Justice League greatly outclass Talon. He will not be able to land such a blow on them, even if he tries.

Part of Talon thinks it would be better if Raven had come to help with this testing. Raven was powerful, which is good. And she looked good, too.

Talon is instructed to stand on a blue-colored platform in the centre of the gymnasium. It’s about forty feet by forty feet and heavily padded, raised about twenty centimetres above the rest of the floor. 

As he waits for further instructions, he takes note of the other people present. Most have gathered in smaller groups around: Red Robin and his friends are lounging on a nearby mezzanine, which houses various kinds of exercise equipment, while Signal and Orphan stand with Robin a couple metres from the sparring platform. A few paces away, Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman and Cyborg stand, quietly discussing something. The Green Lanterns and Martian Manhunter stand fairly close to Nightwing and the Flash, who are right next to the platform. Talon almost wonders where Alfred is - it would be good to show him that Talon is better than his previous poor performances.

“How about I go first?” Nightwing asks. “I’m probably the best initial test, right?”

“Right,” Flash agrees. “Start with hand-to-hand, no weapons. That way we can easily figure out which abilities we need to test more. Then we’ll cycle through various weapon and ability specialists.”

Nightwing nods, joining Talon on the platform. 

Talon’s stomach feels strange. Tight. As though his guts are… as though they’re knotted. Even though that’s not possible, and he wouldn’t be able to feel it even if they did.

Sparring Nightwing is not good. Nightwing is not virtually indestructible or inhumanly powerful, like the Justice League. If Talon lands a killing blow, like he is supposed to during sparring sessions, then Nightwing will die. 

Batman said that killing and maiming was prohibited, but sparring requires killing. It is the only way to avoid being torn apart by fellow Talons. Healing from fatal injury is unpleasant.

Talon has not known Nightwing long, but Nightwing seems kind. He is at least as kind as Doctor Patel and Doctor Stevens. He may even be kinder than them - they did not give Talon soft pyjamas to wear or show him how to complete simple tasks like drinking water.

“Ground rules first, okay?” Nightwing says. “I know B told you all about the no-killing, no-maiming thing - that’s even more important when we’re down here, sparring with each other. Because the aim of sparring is to test our limits and practice new techniques, we actively try to avoid injuring one another. That’s why we’re both wearing these costumes - they're heavily armoured. Understand?”

This is not a form of sparring that Talon is familiar with. 

“I understand,” Talon says. He is not wholly lying - he understands the rule itself. But he does not understand why the rule exists, or how one can spar without killing one’s opponent.

“Great. So, the first rule is ‘no serious injuries’. Don’t do anything potentially fatal, don’t do anything that requires a hospital, and definitely nothing that’ll cause long-term damage or permanent injury or disability. If it’ll take longer than a week or two for a normal person to heal, then don’t do it. Bruises, minor abrasions, and similar injuries are okay, though. Got it?”

‘Got it’ is a slang term that means the same thing as ‘do you understand?’. 

“Yes,” Talon says. 

“Good. Second rule: three strikes to win. Normally, our goal is to render our opponent unconscious. Obviously, if you do that, it’ll be hard for us to spar. So whenever you see an opportunity to land an incapacitating blow or render your opponent unconscious, you’re going to gently tap that body part and say ‘strike’. Forfeiting is allowed - if you want to do that for any reason, then you should tap three times on the closest surface - which can include your opponent’s body - or verbally say that you are forfeiting. If someone forfeits, everybody sparring must stop immediately. We normally forfeit for stuff like accidentally injuring each other too hard or a broken weapon. Understand?”

“Yes,” Talon says. The strange feeling in his stomach has dissipated. No killing. He only needs to demonstrate that he could potentially incapacitate Nightwing. That is good.

“Great,” Nightwing smiles. “Then let’s get started.”

“Yes,” Talon agrees, and then he punches Nightwing in the face. 

It is a simple and effective way to stun an opponent, and Talon will be able to quickly pin Nightwing and tap an easy ‘strike’ against his throat. Nightwing will suffer only minor bruising if Talon hits the correct part of his cheek.

Except… that’s not what happens at all. 

Talon’s fist stops half an inch from Nightwing’s face. His whole body stops, actually, even though he’s stepping forward to put more force into his punch. He cannot move. His head feels… it’s oddly cold. Even though he is always cold, he feels more cold now, ice seeping through his skull and into the crevices of his brain. Nightwing steps back, blinking rapidly. 

“Okay,” he says, moving out of Talon’s immediate range, glancing somewhere to his left. “Was not expecting that. Thanks, J— thanks, Manhunter.”

“I knew it!” Robin’s voice echoes through the room, out of Talon’s field of vision. He cannot turn his head to look. “I knew it would try to kill Grayson! Father, I told you!”

“Robin,” Batman’s voice cuts across the rising babble of voices in the background.

“You are welcome, Nightwing,” Martian Manhunter replies. “It is a simple misunderstanding.” The cold sensation intensifies. “I believe his previous experiences with sparring are rather different from the norm.”

Is that true? It must be, or Manhunter would not say it. Sparring would be an ineffective training technique for humans, because humans cannot regenerate. They cannot tear one another apart - or rather, they can, but only once.

“Oh, I see,” Nightwing says. He looks at Talon. “Don’t panic, Manhunter is going to let you move again in just a couple seconds. When that happens, we’re going to move about two metres apart and do some basic warm-ups. We won’t start sparring until we hear the countdown from five to zero. On zero, we can begin fighting. The others will observe us and time our fight - if there’s no clear winner after five minutes, then we’ll tie and move onto a different test. These rules apply to every sparring match from now on. Understand?”

Talon cannot open his mouth to say an affirmation. He cannot even breathe to draw in the air that would enable him to speak. 

“He understands,” Martian Manhunter says, and then the coldness is gone, along with whatever force that was stopping Talon moving. He stumbles forward a step before righting himself. Even though the coldness is gone, he feels strange. It’s a bad strange. Like… like when the doctors opened his skin and checked his organs. Like his insides are exposed. 

It does not make sense. His organs are fine. He is fine. And yet he feels strange.

“Don’t feel bad about the punching thing,” Nightwing tells Talon. “Misunderstandings happen, and that’s exactly why Manhunter is here - to make sure those misunderstandings don’t get anybody hurt. Let’s both just try our best, okay?”

Talon nods. As instructed, he moves so that he and Nightwing are approximately two metres apart. Talon watches as Nightwing begins to perform a series of stretches. 

“Aren’t you going to stretch, too?” Red Robin calls, from the mezzanine. He has a tablet clutched in one hand again. 

“It’s not necessary. The electrum—“

“—keeps your body in perfect condition, I remember,” Red Robin tilts his head slightly. “I guess it makes sense. Have you ever gotten cramp?”

Talon shakes his head. He is vaguely aware of what cramp is - the word has the meaning of a muscular spasm, or pain, or stiffness. He has not experienced any of those things. Not outside of modification procedures, anyway, and it doesn’t seem like Red Robin is talking about that.

“How about a sprain? Or a torn ligament?”

Talon is not sure. There was one sparring session - the worst one by far - in which his body had been torn apart. The debriefing had taken place eighteen hours later than usual, once enough blood had been replenished for his regeneration abilities to kick in again and he had regained consciousness. He had not been able to move until the ligments had repaired themselves

“I heal quickly,” he says. It had only taken about six further hours before he had been able to move normally again. Twenty-four hours of recovery in total. Much faster than a human could recover - if they could recover at all. 

When Nightwing indicates that he is ready, the Flash blurs slightly, producing a timer that had not been in his hands before. 

“Okay, guys! Starting in five… four… three… two… one… zero!” 

Nightwing moves quickly, diving forward into a roll, using his momentum to kick Talon backward before easily rising to his feet again. Talon stumbles backward a half-step before regaining control, darting forward to deliver a kick to Nightwing’s knee. Nightwing staggers, but uses his momentum to hit Talon near the diaphragm, the impact cushioned by his armour, and then strikes him in the jaw. The combination would stun a human, but Talon is a Talon, and he manages to strike Nightwing in his armoured stomach, before Nightwing flips out of arm’s reach and out of sight. 

The fight is a very different experience to Talon’s previous spars. Nightwing is not an easy opponent by any means, but neither is he an implacable machine intent on completely destroying Talon’s body. Talon has to think hard about how to hit Nightwing and where, instead of simply lashing out with his most recently-downloaded moveset. Conversely, Nightwing already seems to know exactly how and when to strike, unleashing a flurry of rapid blows that are difficult to dodge or redirect, the stripes on his fingers drawing Talon’s attention away from the rest of Nightwing’s body. He frequently manages to hit Talon with precision and force far beyond what Talon would expect from an ordinary human target. 

Strangely, Nightwing does not seem to employ many defensive tactics, making almost no attempts to block or dodge, but it is difficult to take advantage of this as Nightwing is so fast. He constantly utilises acrobatic maneuvres to prevent Talon being able to pin him down. At one point, he simply vaults over Talon’s shoulder just as Talon is about to land a ‘strike’ on his throat, flipping into a kind of twisting somersault that leaves him tantalisingly close to Talon’s reach before darting away with a smile on his face.

Talon loses the first match, flat on his back, Nightwing’s boot on his throat. 

“Strike,” Nightwing says. 

“Two minutes, forty-seven seconds,” the Flash replies. Nightwing removes his boot and reaches down with one hand. 

Talon looks at Nightwing’s outstretched hand. There are many reasons humans reach out to one another. Nightwing’s palm is up, indicating he wants something. Is Talon supposed to give Nightwing something? 

“It’s considered good sportsmanship to help your opponent up when you’re sparring,” Nightwing says. 

Talon takes Nightwing’s hand and gets up off the floor.

“That strike would not have incapacitated me,” Talon says. 

“It wouldn’t?” Nightwing asks. “What, because you don’t have to breathe? I mean, I could do some pretty serious spinal damage if I stomped hard enough.”

That’s true. But a broken neck wouldn’t keep Talon down for longer than thirty seconds. 

“It might have caused sufficient damage for you to escape while I healed,” Talon concedes.

“So my strike still counts,” Nightwing says, patting Talon’s shoulder with a grin.

The second match is much the same as the first, except that it lasts longer. Nightwing performs an excellent feint after distracting Talon with a flurry of rapid punches that do little damage but take a lot of attention. As Talon moves to block the anticipated attack to his torso, Nightwing instead launches himself into the air and performs a complex, spinning kick that barely - deliberately - misses Talon’s head - a kick that would definitely incapacitate and possibly permanently injure a regular human. The resulting damage to the spinal cord would probably briefly stun a Talon, too.

“Strike!” Nightwing calls, then lands gracefully beside Talon.

“Three thirty-two,” the Flash replies. “Getting slow, old man.”

“C’mon, you’re older than me!” Nightwing protests. 

“Only legally,” the Flash replies. “And only by, like, two months. Anyway, the Speed-force and my playful personality know better.”

The third match is close. Very, very close. Talon wins by chance more than anything else.

At first, Talon thinks they might tie, as the clock keeps ticking onward. The previous two attempts have helped a lot: he’s managed to learn a lot about Nightwing’s particular fighting style, like when to dodge and when to block, slowly identifying the weak points in his performance. But then Nightwing executes a somersault that sees him flipping right over Talon’s head, and grabs him from behind. To counter, Talon quickly drops to the floor, pushing all his weight backwards. As Nightwing hits the floor, the weight of Talon’s body winding him, Talon twists and grabs him. Talon is gentle, so that he does not break the rules, but his grip is firm. 

The end result is Nightwing pinned to the floor, Talon’s fingers closed around his throat. Talon’s head feels strange again - not cold, but a little… a little cool. Like someone just rinsed the inside of his skull.

“Strike,” Talon says. 

Nightwing makes a noise which could mean anything at all, but that Talon chooses to interpret as agreement. He rises, carefully letting go of Nightwing, and the coolness subsides. Then he leans down, offering his hand the same way Nightwing offered his earlier.

“Four fifty-one,” the Flash announces. Nightwing shakes Talon’s hand before stepping away. He wipes a few sweaty strands of hair out of his face, and goes to the edge of the platform, where Robin stands, holding out a bottle of water.

“I knew you would win overall,” Robin says, and then in Modern Standard Arabic: “I told Father that you vastly outclass him. He isn't needed.”

Talon does not overhear the rest of that conversation, because the Flash appears in front of him. He’s now holding a clipboard and pen instead of a timer. Batman enters the sparring arena, a bottle of water in hand.

“All right,” the Flash says. “The next set of matches are going to be against Batgirl II, and we’ll ask you to use specific fighting styles and weapons. You want to take a break first, or…?”

“I cannot want to do anything,” Talon tells him. It seems that the others forgot to inform the Flash. It’s strange - a bad strange - that they cannot remember such a simple thing.

“Right,” the Flash says, his mouth pressing into a thin line. 

“Drink some water first,” Batman instructs, and so Talon does.
 

---

Several hours pass in much the same manner. Talon spars against most of the regular humans present, and learns many things.

Talon learns that Red Robin vastly outclasses Talon with his use of gadgetry and staffs. Talon only manages to score one single strike because Red Robin gets distracted when Talon copies one of Nightwing’s agile somersaults, his jaw dropping just long enough for Talon to jab his green-light staff into Red Robin’s mouth as he passes overhead. As the Green Lanterns promised before the match started, the light passes harmlessly through the back of Red Robin’s throat. Probably not a killing blow, depending on how quickly an ambulance could arrive, but absolutely incapacitating.

“That was good,” Red Robin says, as the light-construct vanishes.

“Yes,” Talon agrees, and holds his hand out for Red Robin to shake. Red Robin makes a humming noise before taking his hand.

Talon learns that the other Batgirl, the one in purple, is a very good fighter. Talon only manages to win when he grabs a fist full of blonde hair, and holds a green-light dagger to her eye. Even then it’s close - she manages to hit him multiple times in ways that would definitely disable a human man before he manages to get the dagger-construct in position. 

“Ow! You win, okay? Let go!” the blonde Batgirl kicks Talon again, and he does. 

“This is why I told you not to show your hair,” Batman calls from the sidelines, and Batgirl rolls her eyes.

Talon learns that Signal is the least experienced fighter, but that he makes up for it with his light-based powers. Talon has not been trained in blind combat, and he doesn’t have his night-vision implants yet. Talon manages to get a few hits in, but ultimately loses twice and ties once. Signal gives him a fist-bump before departing. 

“We’ll work on it,” he says, a smile stretching across his exposed mouth. 

Talon learns that Cassandra-Batgirl is the best martial artist he has ever seen - she defeats him quickly, no matter which weapon he tries or which fighting style he uses. The only time he comes close to a tie is the final round of their second set of matches, in which he tries waiting for her to strike first. He fails to adequately grapple her, but he does manage to draw the match out for longer as she seems to struggle slightly when he actively tries to avoid moving.

“You move weird,” Batgirl tells him, shaking his hand after her final win. “Good strategy.”

Talon learns that Robin is a cheater. He tries to take a real sword into the arena, even though the rules are for light-weapons only, and Manhunter outright stops him entering when he tries to smuggle a real dagger in anyway. Manhunter even freezes them both during the second match, when Robin grabs Talon’s face, forcing his mouth open in an apparent attempt to tear his jaw off, and Talon thinks about how it would be very easy to bite Robin’s fingers off, if only permanent injury were permitted.

“Little brother, I asked you to behave,” Nightwing calls, in his stilted Modern Standard Arabic. He’s standing with Superman, the two having been deep in conversation before Robin’s match began.

“This is a test! I am testing it!” Robin protests, before leaving the arena to go stand with Batman again. Unlike the others, he never addresses Talon directly. 

“I told you, you need to be nice. And don’t think I didn't notice that you didn’t apologise yet,” Nightwing replies, still in American-accented Arabic. He switches to Romani, addressing Talon this time. “You’re doing well.”

Talon nods. 

He is doing well. This is good - he had thought that his performance today is rather poor, since he has not managed to fully win against anybody. But Nightwing thinks he is doing well, and he is Batman’s trusted son. Talon cannot feel anything, but his stomach is no longer tense, and his mouth almost quirks up into a smile. He manages to stop himself just in time, though - he is a tool, not a person. He does not wish to be frozen again. 

This is good. This is very, very good. Talon will go back to the bedroom with the stuffed rabbit and look out of the window. He will get more instructions. He will finish his modifications. And he will finally be useful after a very long time of being useless, as Doctor Griffiths wanted.

Talon, shamefully, almost does not notice that Batman himself steps up onto the platform next. He is not holding a bottle this time. He is not holding anything at all - his utility belt is filled with green-light constructs. Talon’s stomach sinks. It feels twisted and knotted again.

“You’ll fight me, then the Justice League,” Batman says.

No, this is not good at all, Talon realises. This is bad, actually. He cannot fight Batman - Batman is the mortal enemy of the Court, but Batman is the Court, and Batman is Talon's master now. It is not permitted for a tool to strike its master. Not ever. That is even worse than accusing a master's son of lying. The punishment will be severe - if Talon survives it at all.

Talon watches Batman approach.

He cannot think. His stomach hurts.

This is bad.

Chapter 11: Clarification - The Cave, Bristol County

Notes:

Hi all! Apologies for the wait - I have much, much less free time and energy now.

I am not sure how the update schedule will be, but I would imagine I’ll be able to post a new chapter either fortnightly or monthly depending on workload and general real life stuff. I’m also attempting Nanowrimo this year, so I don’t know if I can update anything during November. We’ll see what happens.

Also, I have gone back to change a few details in previous chapters, as there were some mistakes that were pointed out to me. In particular, Gray now typed his answers for the digital test papers, and I corrected several instances of Damian using ‘it’ to refer to Talon in Arabic, instead of ‘he’ (the reason for that detail is that Arabic grammar has a very different relationship with gender than English grammar, all nouns are either masculine or feminine, similar to French or Spanish).

Also, also, I apologise in advance for any issues with Young Justice’s characterisation. I actually haven’t ever read their comics - though I do plan to.

Talon stares at Batman.

There is no way that Talon can fight him. Raising a hand against one’s master is not permitted. It’s more than not permitted - it’s not possible. 

Just thinking about fighting Batman makes Talon’s stomach hurt. He can already feel the chill of the inevitable punishment waiting for him at the end. 

“Do you understand?” Batman asks. 

“I understand,” Talon says. He understands the instructions. Batman wants him to spar. He understands the instruction, but he does not understand how to carry the instruction out. He cannot attack Batman.

“Okay, let’s get started!” Flash calls. “Five!”

Unless… unless Talon’s goal here is not actually to win. Batman wants to see his skills and what he has been taught so far. He has been taught not to attack his masters. This is a test.

Perhaps Talon should just try to dodge Batman’s blows. That will satisfy Batman’s instructions, won’t it? He can show his skills without breaking the rules.

“Four!”

No, that won’t work, because this is not just a test, Talon realises. It is also a punishment. 

Talon has done a lot to deserve a punishment. He accidentally made everybody think that he had abandoned them yesterday, and he has performed poorly in almost every test thrown his way: the non-language papers from yesterday, and the lying game Red Robin forced him to play, and he has failed to adequately win against his sparring opponents today. And although there have been consequences for those things, like Batman’s storage ban and the water-drinking, those consequences are not punishments. There has been no pain.

The secondary purpose of this test must be to punish Talon. The Court Judge said that corporal punishment is necessary when training Talons. The Court is always right.

“Three!”

Batman needs to know how much Talon has learnt. He needs to know how obedient and committed Talon is. Damian’s accusations last night prove that Batman and his family do not understand that he is a good Talon.

This is the perfect time to showcase his devotion. He can show Batman just how good of a Talon he is. He will not argue or beg for mercy. He will accept Batman’s punishment without any protest, without any attempt to avoid pain at all. 

“Two!”

Batman readies himself, changing his stance slightly. Talon’s stomach hurts less, now that he has worked out what to do, and he prepares himself for the impact of whatever attack Batman will throw his way. 

Pain is temporary, he reminds himself. His cold flesh will quickly knit back together. Not as quickly as it would be with the healing and durability enhancements he is scheduled to receive in the not so distant future, but quickly by human standards. Minor injuries can be healed fully in minutes, rather than days or weeks. Severe injuries might take hours, or even days, but a human might never recover at all. 

Talon will recover, no matter how Batman decides to show his displeasure.

“One!”

Talon looks Batman in the cowl lenses. He carefully keeps his feet shoulder width apart and his arms loose at his side, unclenching his jaw (when did it clench in the first place?). He is prepared.

He is not afraid. Talons cannot feel fear.

“Zero!”

Batman punches Talon square in the nose. 

Something crunches under Talon’s skin, and he staggers back, the force of the blow unbalancing him briefly. He steadies himself within moments, or would if Batman did not kick him square in the stomach, knocking him onto his back. Talon only moves as much as he needs to in order to land safely, and does not attempt to get up. His nose throbs, something wet starting to drip through his nostrils.

Batman pauses, looking down at him. Talon cannot read his expression under the cowl. He cannot read human expressions very well anyway, but it is impossible to figure out Batman’s intentions from just looking at his mouth.

Batman does not move for several seconds. Three, five, ten, then twenty. Thirty. Forty-five.

Talon does not move either. He tries not to think about what the next strike will be. He only needs to anticipate his opponent’s moves when he is trying to defend himself or fight them. He is doing neither of those things right now. The wetness tickles at Talon’s upper lip. 

Batman hums, a low and angry sound. The pain in Talon’s nose spikes as the pieces of his nasal bone snap back into the correct position, then the pain stops entirely. 

“I forfeit,” Batman says. 

This seems strange, but it is not Talon’s place to question his master. He simply nods. 

“I understand.”

“Get up,” Batman commands, and Talon does. 

Batman steps closer, grasping Talon’s jaw with his glove. Leather-coated fingers gently probe the skin around Talon’s nose, Batman’s thumb smearing away the black blood that had collected above Talon’s lip.

“I broke your nose,” Batman says. 

There is silence.

“I broke your nose. Yes or no?” Batman says, sounding slightly different this time. His voice is louder. Faster. Talon doesn’t know what feeling that signifies. Displeasure?

“Yes,” Talon says. Batman broke his nose.

“You could have dodged. Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Batman should know this, shouldn’t he? The Court should have told him about the rules.

Of course he knows, Talon thinks. This is also part of the punishment. It would not be a good punishment if Batman did not ensure that Talon knew exactly why he was being punished in the first place.

“It’s not permitted,” he says. 

“You dodged earlier, when you fought against the others,” Batman says. “Was dodging permitted then?”

“Yes,” Talon says. 

“But not with me.”

“Yes. Not with you.”

Batman is silent for a moment. 

“Why?” he asks. 

“It’s not permitted,” Talon says. 

“Why is it not permitted?” Batman asks, his voice low again. Talon isn’t sure if he is angry or not. It would be easier to tell if Talon could see his face. He is not very good at telling different facial expressions apart, but he knows anger well.

“Because you are my master,” Talon says. “Fighting back or avoiding punishment isn’t permitted.”

Batman does not say anything for three seconds. Then he raises one hand.

Talon does not flinch. Batman does not hit him. Instead, Batman curls his fingers into a fist, raising one. Then he speaks.

“Question one, I ordered you to spar with me. To fight against me. Is that how you understood my orders?”

“Yes.”

“And you did not follow through with those orders because they clashed with the orders you were previously given about not fighting back. Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Talon says.

“I see,” Batman says. He lifts another finger. “Question two. You said ‘fighting back or avoiding punishment isn’t permitted’. Do you think you are being punished?”

‘Do you think’ is a strange way of wording that sentence. It sounds as though… as though Talon had thought wrong. As though he isn’t being punished at all. But that doesn't make sense.

Giving the incorrect answer is bad. But he doesn’t have much choice. Refusing to answer his master is also not permitted.

Talon nods. 

Batman’s voice is low when he speaks again. Low and… and bad. 

“Why?”

It doesn’t matter which answer Talon gives, Talon thinks. Batman is displeased with him. Further punishment is not just a possibility, it is a certainty.

It’s going to be worse this time, isn’t it? Worse than being frozen solid. 

Talon doesn’t know how it’s possible to be punished worse than that, but he’s sure Batman will find a way. He is highly intelligent. 

He is also waiting for an answer. Talon can’t not answer. 

Talon’s stomach hurts again, like his intestines are twisting and untwisting under his skin.

“I… I have performed poorly,” Talon manages. “In the tests. Yesterday and today.” 

“And you think that I will punish you for that?” 

‘Think’. That word again. Talon is in some way wrong about the situation.

Talon nods. 

“That wasn’t in the rules we agreed yesterday,” Batman says. “Were you previously punished for performing poorly?” 

If Batman thinks that Talon often performs poorly, he might decide to simply have Talon destroyed.

Talon’s body feels strange. His head is light, and no longer feels quite connected to the rest of his body. His knees feel oddly weak, and his gums ache where his teeth are pressed so tightly together. His vision is blurry again.

He cannot answer. He cannot not answer.

Batman looks to his right, where the Justice League have assembled. He nods at someone. Talon isn’t sure who. He can’t move to look at them, not when Batman is here and so clearly unhappy. Looking away from an angry master always makes the situation worse. Always, always, always.

A cool feeling washes over Talon again, but this time it’s not bad. This time, it’s… it's like cool water lapping gently at the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders. 

Batman lowers his hands, stepping back. He’s still looking at someone else. Talon cannot help but relax. His limbs feel slack, his jaw a little loose, and the cool feeling… it feels somehow soft. Like the slippery pyjamas against his skin and the air that came in through the window in the bedroom upstairs. 

Batman nods at the other person, then returns his attention to Talon.

“I am making some new rules,” he says. His voice is no longer low and angry. “Firstly, you will never be punished for performing poorly in training or testing. If someone attempts to punish you for performing poorly, you may non-lethally resist the punishment and you must inform either myself or Alfred as soon as possible. Secondly, if you are ever given an instruction that is incompatible with your previous orders, you must immediately inform whoever has given the most recent instruction. Instructions given by myself and my family always supersede the instructions that were given to you at the laboratory. Do you understand?”

Talon understands the meaning of the words, but he does not understand why Batman is giving these instructions. 

But Talon does not need to understand the reasons for the new rules. He is not being punished. He understands how to follow the new rules. That is all he needs to understand.

Talon nods. The cool feeling dissipates, and he almost misses it, even though he cannot miss anything.

“I understand.”

Batman nods.

“Go wait with your siblings,” he says. “I have a few things to discuss with the League.”

Batman turns on his heel and stalks away as Talon opens his mouth to ask who his ‘siblings’ are. A voice calls out to him. 

“Gr— Talon, up here!”

Talon looks. Red Robin leans over the mezzanine railing, his friends assembled around him. 

“Come hang out with us for a few.”

“I was instructed to wait with my siblings,” Talon replies. 

“B didn’t tell you yet?” Red Robin asks. “It’s a little complicated - come on up here and I’ll explain it.”

Talon obeys.

---

The mezzanine is quieter than the sparring platform. It is smaller and more enclosed and less exposed, but still gives a good view of the rest of the cave. From his place on the floor, next to Red Robin, Talon can peek through the railings and observe the others. 

Batman is huddled with the League members, all of them discussing something intently with him, occasionally glancing up at the mezzanine. Nightwing is with Signal and the Batgirl IIs. Robin is sitting on his shoulders. Robin keeps staring at Talon and catching his gaze, and Talon keeps glancing away, doing his best to focus on the people surrounding him. Red Robin’s friends are strange. A good strange. They smile a lot and talk a lot and they touch Talon a lot - gentle slaps to his shoulders or fingers ruffling his hair or what Red Robin explains is  called a ‘fist bump’ - while Red Robin explains what Batman meant.

Legally, Batman - or, rather, Bruce Wayne - is the legal guardian of Duke Thomas, and the parent of Damian Wayne, Timothy Drake, Cassandra Wayne, and Richard Grayson. He is also the parent of another person, who is not present. Jason Todd, otherwise known as the Red Hood, who is Bruce Wayne’s long-dead son, who is not dead anymore, who is estranged from his family, and who kills a lot of people and sometimes puts their decapitated heads into duffel bags for intimidation purposes. 

“Well, he definitely did it at least once,” Red Robin explains, leaning back against the railing. “Uh… decapitating people is forbidden, by the way. Very, very forbidden. So is putting body parts into duffel bags.” Red Robin clears his throat. “He’s not around right now because he’s off-world with Bizarro and Artemis. At least, that’s what he told Oracle.”

“It’s probably a good thing,” Red Robin’s female friend, Wonder Girl, adds. She takes a sip of water from a bottle. “He’s, like, beyond trigger-happy. You don’t really want to spend the day dodging bullets, do you, T?”

“I cannot want anything,” Talon tells her, and for some reason she shivers. 

“They really did a number on you at the lab, huh?” Red Robin’s tallest friend, Superboy, asks. The boy with the Superman shirt and leather jacket. He’s leaning on the railing next to Red Robin. Red Robin said he was a clone, too. He did not say a clone of who.

“They did many things to me,” Talon agrees, and Superboy grimaces. 

There’s a long moment of silence, which is broken by Red Robin clearing his throat.

“So, as I was saying, you’re Nightwing’s clone. Which means you look exactly like him,” Red Robin explains. “The easiest way to integrate you into the family’s cover identity is to tell everybody that you’re his twin brother, and make it look like B adopted you both at the same time. So when he says ‘your siblings’ to you, he’s talking about his children. Me, Nightwing, Robin, Signal and Batgirl - Cass's Batgirl. Sometimes Red Hood, too, depending on how well he and B are getting on. Oracle is forging all the documents you’ll need, that’s why she’s not here. I think B is going to make you choose a new name later today.”

Talon already has a name. He has two. Talon and the Gray Son. Of course he will submit to his master’s will, but it seems strange that Batman wants to rename him. It is even stranger for Talon to rename himself. Is that going to be a test, too?

Red Robin continues speaking.

“You see, ‘Talon’ and ‘Gray Son’ are both titles. You could maybe use one as your code name if you want, but neither of them are human names. You need a human name to go with your human cover identity. I’ll show you a list of human names later, and we can work it out together.”

The reasoning makes sense, but the idea of changing his name still seems strange. But if Red Robin helps Talon, then he is sure to choose the correct name for his cover identity. 

“I understand,” Talon says, and silence falls again. This time, it is broken by a different person.

“You know, I thought you were gonna be super different,” says Red Robin’s red-headed friend, Impulse. He speaks even faster than Flash, and constantly moves around and fidgets in the corner of Talon’s eye. “Like, I thought you were gonna be like Conner, all rebellious and stuff. Or maybe you’d be all cheerful and flippy, like Nightwing is. But you’re really calm and quiet.”

“Hey, I can be calm and quiet when I want to be,” Superboy says, squinting at his friend. His voice sounds angry - Talon is sure of it, his face looks angry, too -  but his body language is relaxed and he doesn’t move at all. Impulse barely seems to notice Superboy’s reaction at all.

“Codenames!” Red Robin says, throwing his hands into the air briefly. “C’mon, it’s Batcave 101.” 

“Whoops, sorry, Rob,” Impulse laughs, and then he starts speaking quickly to Talon again. “I'm curious, are you quiet and stuff because they taught you stuff at the lab? Superboy broke out before they were done cooking him, but they finished growing you. Rob said they were teaching you how to kill people and stuff.”

Talon was taught many things at the lab, killing included.

Be still, be silent, only speak when spoken to. Do not do anything of your own accord. Obey orders at all times. Do not think, do not feel, do not, do not, do not. You are a tool, and nothing else.

Bad tools are punished and eventually destroyed. Good tools are repaired and kept safe and warm.

Superboy escaped the lab. Does that make him a bad tool?

He does not seem bad to Talon.

“Well, you know what they say,” Superboy shrugs, “if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. Except it wasn’t heat, just boredom. I bet they tightened up security big time since I was there. I saw so many cameras while we were snooping the other day.”

If there were fewer cameras, there would be blind spots in the rooms and corridors. Maybe that is how Superboy escaped. 

Talon does not remember any blind spots at the laboratory - there had always been a camera watching in every room. And in the rooms without visible cameras, like the wetroom Talon had been allowed to clean and dress himself in, Doctor Griffith had explained that there were lots of hidden cameras, always watching. The only space without any cameras at all had been the storage container. 

There are many cameras in this cave. But Talon did not see many cameras in the house. Maybe they use hidden cameras instead.

“You must be happy to be out of there, right?” Wonder Girl says, jerking Talon out of the thoughts he is not supposed to have. “I mean, I can’t imagine what it was like. But now you’ve got a family and friends to help you, and you can do whatever you want.”

Talon opens his mouth to tell Wonder Girl that he cannot feel happiness and he does not have a family or friends and he doesn’t want anything, but Batman calls his name. 

“Talon!” 

Talon rises, looking over the railing. Batman and Wonder Woman are standing on the platform together. 

“Come here.”

Talon does, vaulting over the railing to land on the platform. 

“You have excellent form,” Wonder Woman says. Her voice has a light accent Talon has never heard outside of his training. Themysciran. 

“Yes,” Talon replies. He has been adequately trained in gymnastics. He has not broken or fractured any bones in several months.

 “It has been a difficult day for you,” Wonder Woman says. “It was not easy for you to fight Batman’s allies, but you did well despite your lack of experience in non-lethal fighting styles. I wish to see how well you can fight using the skills you have worked hard to master.”

Batman addresses Talon. 

“Wonder Woman is not human. She is an Amazon, and she is far stronger and much more durable than you or I. Because of this, the rules about lethality I previously gave you do not apply when fighting her. You will spar with Wonder Woman, and you will claim a ‘strike’ when you think you are about to land a lethal or incapacitating blow. Three strikes to win. Three consecutive taps or a verbal admission to forfeit. Like before, the Flash will referee and Martian Manhunter will ensure nobody is actually killed. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Talon says. His body almost feels like it’s buzzing with energy. It takes all of his self-control not to move without permission.

This is good. This is very, very good.

Talon will finally be able to showcase his skills. Batman will finally understand just how good Talon is. Maybe it will be enough for Batman to allow Talon to store himself in the dark, warm comfort of his storage container.

“Then go ask Baz - the male Green Lantern - for your first weapon.”

Talon nods, barely managing to stop a smile breaking out across his face. Tools are not supposed to smile.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and does just that.

Notes:

This chapter was originally supposed to feature Wonder Woman and Superman's sparring sessions, and then a debriefing/lunch break. But it's already been almost a month, so I wanted to give you all an update. I'm hoping to update again before the end of this month.

Chapter 12: Testing - The Cave, Bristol County

Notes:

I absolutely hate writing action, so I chickened out a bit here. Apologies to anybody who wanted to read another fighting scene. There will be more later, just not right now.

‘Wonder’ is a word with several meanings and uses. 

It can mean the feeling of awe or amazement, or it can refer to a miraculous or interesting object. It can also mean a type of thought or the feeling of surprise.

Although Talon cannot feel awe or surprise, and he is not permitted to think for himself, it seems that ‘Wonder Woman’ is an accurate alias for Diana Prince. The files were correct: she is a formidable opponent. Not only is she faster and stronger and more durable than he is, she also completely and utterly outclasses Talon in every skill imaginable. 

Talon finds himself unable to land a single scratch on her, let alone a strike. Simply dodging and parrying her onslaught takes all of his skill, every ounce of concentration - after his third loss, he takes a page from Nightwing’s book and begins relying heavily on speed and agility over his learned swordfighting skills. The change of tactics pays off - there’s a moment where he manages to gain the upper hand for a split second after contorting backwards to avoid a slash, simultaneously kicking forward hard enough to unbalance a regular human. 

Wonder Woman is not a regular human. She’s nowhere close.

Although Talon is fast and agile and strong and understands how and where to strike, Wonder Woman is… more. She is naturally stronger and faster and more durable than any human ever could be. She is a seasoned warrior with centuries of experience. She is well beyond Talon’s capabilities. 

Talon loses all ten matches he participates in. It is no contest at all. Really, ‘loses’ is not the correct word, as it implies that there was at some point a chance to ‘win’. But Talon does not know any better-suited words, so ‘loses’ it is. 

Although he loses every single match, Talon is sure that he performs significantly better against Wonder Woman than he did against Batman’s children. For a start, he is much faster when he is relying on his training and muscle memory rather than thinking carefully about how to minimise harm.

Talon manages to perform a median average of five almost-strikes per round, all of which are ultimately thwarted by Wonder Woman’s superior speed and reflexes. Each round lasts for a mean average of two minutes, although Talon does manage to stall Wonder Woman just long enough to gain a tie in three of the thirty rounds they fight: in sword-fighting, hand-to-hand, and when armed with a pair of daggers.

Talon had expected to fail every single round by a significant margin - a sound defeat in less than fifteen seconds. He had expected to suffer extensive injuries, including non-lethal stab wounds, broken bones, or eye damage. But he has been able to dodge and parry well enough that he has really only sustained minor injuries, including grazes, bruises and shallow scratches, all of which healed within minutes. 

This is a far better outcome than ever could have calculated, Talon thinks, flat on his back as Flash calls the final round in her favour. Batman is a member of the Justice League - surely he knows how powerful Wonder Woman is. Surely he will understand that Talon has performed well in this test, despite his lack of victory.

The green-light spear Wonder Woman holds to Talon's throat vanishes, as does the one lying three feet away, where it fell after being knocked from his hands. Wonder Woman leans down and offers Talon a hand up, just as she has done in every other round. She isn’t out of breath or visibly exhausted, as a normal human would be after fighting so intensely for such a long period, although her hair is somewhat messy and there is a faint sheen of sweat catching the light on her skin. 

Wonder Woman smiles. She looks good. 

“You were well-trained,” she says. “You are a challenging opponent.”

Challenging has only one meaning, to be demanding or difficult. For Talon to cause Wonder Woman to feel difficulty in combat, he must be even better at fighting than he thought. That is good.

“You are very skilled,” Talon replies. He is not warm, cannot be warm with the cold electrum sitting in his blood, but he almost feels it now. There’s a… a kind of lightness inside his chest, a bright feeling that… that… he’s not sure how to describe. But it’s good. He’s sure of that. It’s good.

“I worked very hard for a very long time to gain those skills,” Wonder Woman says, still smiling. “And I am sure that if you continue to practice, you will improve. Perhaps one day you might be able to defeat me.”

Wonder Woman thinks highly of Talon and his combat skills. The strange, good feeling increases. His mouth feels strange, too. 

“Do you enjoy combat?” Wonder Woman asks. 

“I do not enjoy anything,” Talon tells her. “I am incapable of feeling joy.”

Wonder Woman frowns.

“Is that so? Batman mentioned something about that...” Wonder Woman reaches down to her belt, where a golden rope hangs. The rope glows when she touches it, and she holds it out to Talon. “Hold this for me, please.”

Talon does. It is warm beneath his fingers. Rope is not supposed to be warm, but this golden rope emanates warmth, a warmth that seems to flow up his arm, through every muscle, and into his core. Is this how humans feel all the time?

“What makes you believe you incapable of feeling joy?” Wonder Woman asks. 

“I am an object,” Talon informs her. “Objects are not permitted to feel. They lack the capacity for it.”

“Are you not permitted, or do you lack the capacity?” Wonder Woman asks. Her smile is gone, even though Talon is doing as she has asked. Her brows have drawn low. Perhaps he is holding the rope wrong. He did not know it was possible to hold rope wrongly.

“Both,” Talon answers. “I am not permitted and I lack the capacity.”

“But you were smiling just now,” Wonder Woman’s eyes narrow. “You were smiling as we fought. What were you feeling then, if not joy?”

“I… I wasn’t feeling anything,” Talon says, the heavy cramping feeling settling in his stomach again. He is not allowed to smile. He is not smiling now, and he does his best to remain not-smiling, his mouth pressing into a neutral line. “I am not permitted to feel. I lack the capacity.”

“You keep using those phrases,” Wonder Woman says. Her lower lip curls. “Who told you that you are not permitted to feel?”

“The doctors. And the Court of Owls.”

“Are they also the ones who told you that you lack the capacity to feel?” Wonder Woman’s voice is low. Her facial expression is… bad. Talon does not know exactly what feeling she is expressing, but it is bad. It is because he accidentally smiled earlier. He is not supposed to smile. He does not know the punishment for smiling - he does not remember exactly what they did in those early days, only the lesson the punishment left behind: he cannot feel and is not permitted to feel and is not permitted to pretend to feel.

Talon nods. 

“Yes,” he says. And then, even though he has not been spoken to first and is not permitted to try to evade punishment, he tries anyway - he will surely be punished, won’t he, so what does it matter? “I did not intend to smile earlier. I know that I am not allowed to do that. I will not do it again.”

Wonder Woman stares at him for three very long seconds. Her lips purse for a moment.

“Tell me,” she says. “What do you feel now?”

“I don’t feel anything,” Talon says. “I… I can’t. I’m not allowed. I can’t.”

“Why?”

He does not understand the question. There is no ‘why’.

It just is, isn’t it?

“I… because I am not human,” Talon tries to explain. “Because I was made. I am an object.”

“I see,” Wonder Woman says. “Give me the rope, please.”

Talon does, and he watches as she coils it up and fastens it to her belt again. Her skirt is very short and her legs are very long. The belt no longer glows. The warmth fades. 

“Thank you for sparring with me, Talon,” she says. She smiles again, but it is not the same as before. “And thank you for speaking with me.”

Talon looks at her. He is not sure what he is supposed to do now. 

“I will tell you a secret,” Wonder Woman says, and then she leans in close, her voice low. “I was made, too. I was not made in a laboratory, as you were, but my body was sculpted from clay. The same clay that lies in the earth beneath our feet. I, too, was an object. Then the Gods breathed life into me and I became a living person. And now here I am.”

Wonder Woman was made, like him. She was an object. And now she is not. 

This does not make sense. Or does it?

Superboy was made, too. But he is not an object.

“It is not easy to be a person,” Wonder Woman continues, stepping backward slightly. “Nobody gives me permission to act. Instead, I must give myself permission. Of course, I have sworn allegiance to Queen Hippolyta. As the ambassador of Themyscira, I represent her and all other Amazons in the world of men. But, ultimately, I choose my own path. I choose to follow Queen Hippolyta’s word. And I choose to fight alongside the Justice League.”

Being a person sounds difficult. It is good that Talon is not a person, because he is not permitted to act of his own accord. It is good that he does not have to give himself instructions.

“I hope that one day you will choose your own path, too,” Wonder Woman says, and then she looks away. Talon follows her gaze: Nightwing, Superman and Batman are huddled together,Robin glaring at Talon beside them. Wonder Woman’s voice drops to a whisper. “Clark, please.”

Superman vanishes, then blurs into being beside Wonder Woman, accompanied by a short, cold gust of wind. He smiles at Talon.

“My turn, huh?”

“Good luck, Talon, though I am sure you will not need it,” Wonder Woman says, before turning on her heel and hopping out of the sparring platform.

That is a strange thing to say. According to Talon’s files, Superman is even more absurdly powerful than Wonder Woman. He is completely invulnerable to everything except for a substance derived from specific kind of radioactive meteor: Kryptonite. Kryponite is not a normal part of a Talon’s equipment. 

Talon looks at Wonder Woman’s retreating figure: she approaches Batman and Nightwing. Nightwing grins in Talon’s direction and makes a thumbs-up gesture. There is another gust of cold air, drawing Talon’s attention. When he looks, the Flash is standing next to Superman. 

“Wow, that sure was something,” Flash laughs. “I’d say something like ‘remind me never to piss you off’, but, uh… I’d probably still win because of the super-speed thing.” The Flash clears his throat. “Anyway, good fight. I can’t wait to see you against the Titans. They’re all dying to meet you.”

Dying? 

Talon almost asks to know who is capable of killing the likes of Starfire and Raven and Changeling, before he remembers his linguistics training. ‘Dying to meet’ is a slang. It means ‘excited’. The Titans feel excited to meet him.

“This match is going to be a little different,” Superman says. “You did a great job showing us your combat skills, but if I’m honest… I don’t like fighting. I want to see some of your other skills. So…” 

Superman holds out one curled fist, fingers facing up. He opens his hand to reveal a very small metal implement, shaped similarly to the logo emblazoned on both Talon and Nightwing’s armour. 

Talon knows it from his training: it is a wing-ding. It is a variation of a batarang, Batman’s small projectile weapons. This variation was created specifically for Nightwing’s use, and this specific one has been carefully blunted - Talon can see the file marks on the edges. The other Bat-related vigilantes have similar weapons, with the exception of Red Hood who uses Batman’s batarangs rather than a unique design of his own.

“My son loves these,” Superman says. “Nightwing is his favourite hero, you see. And when he was very little, Nightwing helped him, and he gave him one of these little wing-dings. And since then, they’ve kind of been a lucky charm for him.”

A lucky charm is an object believed to hold special good luck for its owner. Good luck is an important cultural concept for all kinds of people - humans, Atlanteans, Amazonians, and many aliens. 

“You’re going to take this from me,” Superman says. “No fighting. No weapons. No time limit.”

Talon stares at Superman. 

He does not understand. How is he supposed to take something from another person without fighting for it?

Talon looks at the Flash, who gives him a thumbs-up with one hand and holds up the timer in the other. 

“You got this,” the Flash grins. “Okay, three… two… one… go!” 

Flash zooms away, and Talon looks in the direction of the red blur. Everybody is looking at the sparring platform. At him. 

Red Robin and his friends smile, making silent gestures that Talon’s behavioural data suggests mean encouragement and soothing. So do Signal, the Green Lanterns, and Cyborg - although their body language is subtler. Nightwing gives him a thumbs-up and a smile, just as the Flash did. Robin scowls. The others simply watch with neutral expressions and body language. 

Talon turns back to Superman, his hand still outstretched, wing-ding sparkling in the bright light.

This is not a combat test. Talon needs to perform some tests himself, to determine how to succeed. He reaches out to take the wing-ding, and Superman closes his hand, drawing back slightly. 

“It isn’t very nice to snatch,” Superman says, mildly. 

Snatch. This word has several meanings. It can mean to take something in a quick and rude manner. It can mean to steal or abduct. It can also mean to take an opportunity to do something when under unfavourable conditions. The latter two meanings do not make sense in this context. 

It seems that Talon may not take the wing-ding quickly and rudely. 

Talon lowers his hand. He had not moved very quickly when he tried to take the wing-ding. So Superman thinks he was rude. Talon only has a passing understanding of rudeness and politeness. 

Superman moves his hand forward again, opening it to reveal the wing-ding again.

Talon thinks very hard. Politeness is a social contract wherein people behave in particular ways to show respect and consideration to one another. 

Talon does not know enough about Kryptonian culture to know how to be polite to Superman. But Superman does not reside on Krypton - he knows that this planet no longer exists. So perhaps… perhaps he needs to be polite by Earth standards. 

The Justice League is generally considered an American organization, despite their actions worldwide. Perhaps Talon should behave in a polite manner by American standards. 

Americans often show consideration and respect by communicating clearly with one another. At least, that’s how the doctors and the Court spoke to one another.

“That,” Talon starts, pointing at the wing-ding. He pauses, unsure what to say. 

“Yes?” Superman asks, making direct eye contact. Yes. That is polite, isn’t it?

“I need it,” Talon explains. “To pass this test.”

“That’s right,” Superman nods. He does not say anything more.

Perhaps Superman didn’t understand. Talon tries again.

“You… you should give it to me,” he says. That is not an instruction, is it? He is not instructing Superman to do anything - Talon does not have the right to instruct anybody at all. He is merely explaining the situation. “So that I can pass the test.”

“Maybe I should,” Superman agrees. 

Talon waits. Superman still doesn’t move. 

“Um… you should give it to me now,” Talon clarifies. “Then the test can end quickly.”

“That’s a good idea,” Superman says. “But you should ask me nicely.”

Nicely. What is nicely?

Talon bites the inside of his lip, thinking hard. This test... it is difficult. It is very difficult.

Superman said 'nice' before. He said ’it isn’t very nice to snatch’, and he meant that it is rude and fast. 

Maybe Talon needs to be polite and slow. But how?

A movement catches Talon's eye. Superman is mouthing something. A syllable. 

B. Buh, buh, buh.

No, not that, Talon realises. Superman’s lips pull apart too forcefully. 

P. Puh, puh, puh.

There’s one word Talon can think of that begins with P and is polite. But it is only used for making requests, and he is not making a request, and Talon doesn’t want Superman to think that Talon thinks it’s permitted to request things. 

But there isn’t another word Talon can think of. 

“Please?” Talon tries. 

Superman smiles wider. 

“Well done,” he says, and he quickly grabs Talon’s arm in a gentle, warm grip, pressing the wing-ding into his hand. As Talon expected, it is not sharp. “You passed the test.”

Talon stares at the wing-ding in his hand. 

He passed. He passed the difficult, unusual test. He has no idea how, but it is good that he passed.

“It’s very easy to fight,” Superman says. “Diplomacy is a lot harder. I think you’ll be very good at it once you’ve had a little more practice.”

Diplomacy. It has two meanings. First, managing international relations. Second, interacting with people in a tactful and discreet way. 

Neither of those fall into a Talon’s capabilities or possible missions. Maybe there is a third meaning Talon does not know yet. 

Talon nods, pretending to understand, then holds out the wing-ding. Superman blinks, tilting his head.

“You’re giving it back to me?” he asks. “Why?”

“Your son,” Talon says. “He loves these.”

Superman laughs a small, quiet laugh. Talon is not sure why Superman is laughing at all: Talon has not monumentally failed a task, and neither is he injured.

“You’re very kind,” Superman tells him, with a smile. “But I think Jon would want you to have it. He’s got a lot of Nightwing merch already, and I feel like you could use a lucky charm of your own.”

Talon looks at the wing-ding. He rifles through his data files.

Luck is not real. It is just a cultural concept. 

It would be good if luck were real, Talon thinks. He tucks the wing-ding into a small zipped pocket on his hip.

Just in case.

Notes:

Debrief/lunch and more testing next time. ^.^

Chapter 13: Assessment - The Cave, Bristol County

Notes:

'debrief next time!' she said, severely underestimating how long everything would take. have no fear, the next chapter will definitely be the last in this testing arc. it's been fun, but it's also at least twice as long as i intended.

Superman lays a warm hand on Talon’s shoulder and squeezes. 

“Well done,” he says, and the bright feeling from earlier somehow brightens even further inside Talon’s chest. “I know that today’s been difficult for you, but you’ve done a great job.” Superman pauses, cocks his head slightly before smiling again. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, Alfred’s about to call us for lunch.”

Superman is not mistaken. That is precisely what happens, and everybody begins to leave the gymnasium.Superman walks with Talon, heading toward the doorway to the other room, the one with the big computer screens. It’s empty at first, except for a few serving-carts laden with food, but Alfred speaks briefly with Baz, who raises one hand. His ring glows and a long table appears, large enough and accompanied by enough chairs for everybody to sit at.

“Thank you,” Alfred says, as Superman and Talon pass them by, “I’m afraid that I didn’t have enough time to visit the halal butcher in the city, but every dish is suitable for vegetarians. Is that all right?”

“It’s more thought than I usually get,” Baz replies. He smiles. “Next time I’ll bring ma’amoul. My sister has the best recipe.”

“I look forward to it.”

Superman leads Talon to a chair near the computer screens. Nightwing is already standing nearby, a bottle of water in hand and Robin next to him. 

Nightwing smiles at Talon. Robin scowls. 

“I gotta go talk to your dad. Stay with your brothers for a while, okay?” Superman says, squeezing Talon’s shoulder before walking toward Batman, currently hunched over the keyboard near the screens. 

Brothers. Male siblings. 

Talon considers Tim’s earlier explanation. Superman means that Talon should stay with Nightwing and Robin for an unknown amount of time. 

It is an easy instruction to follow. Talon stands still and watches Superman walk away until Nightwing speaks, drawing his attention.

“You must be pretty tired, huh?” Nightwing drags a chair out, gestures at it. “Sit down. Rest up a little - you and I are gonna do some gymnastics together later.”

Sit down. A clear instruction. Talon obeys. As he does, a red blur begins depositing dishes of food on the table.

“You’d better drink some water, too,” Nightwing adds, uncapping the bottle of water and placing it in front of Talon. “Flash and Alfred say you’re still really dehydrated.”

“Why bother?” Robin mutters, in Modern Standard Arabic. “It’s not as though he’s going to die if we withhold water.”

It is a good question, Talon thinks. He is not allowed to ask questions, but it Robin is. But Nightwing does not answer the question. Instead, he looks at Robin, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“You and I are going to have a long talk later,” Nightwing replies, his American accent distorting the vowels. And then, to Talon, in English: “I’m gonna go ahead and eat. Did you want to try anything on the table?”

Talon does not need to look at the food. He does not need to eat. He is not capable of wanting to. He shakes his head.

“Guess I should’ve seen that coming,” Nightwing chuckles, awkwardly. He sits down and picks up a sandwich from a nearby plate. Robin does the same, though his posture is tense compared with Nightwing. 

Robin remains silent as Nightwing speaks, commenting positively on the food, today’s schedule, the assembled Justice League and allies, and Talon himself. Orphan slides into the seat beside Talon, saying not a single word as she reaches for a piece of fruit.

Talon remains silent, too, slowly sipping at his water until there is nothing left and his stomach feels even cooler than usual. He has no instructions other than to remain with his brothers, so that is all he does. He glances around the room occasionally - Batman and Superman talk together, as do Martian Manhunter and Wonder Woman. Red Robin and Signal wave at Talon when they catch him looking, and the female Lantern smiles at him.

Talon does not know how to respond, so he spends most of the mealtime looking at the table. It is strange, he thinks. It is real and not-real. Light made solid. It illuminates the bowls and plates atop it, shining through the water bottle whenever Talon places it down. No shadow. 

It is strange that the light-furniture does not pass through his body, when the weapons earlier did. It is strange, but it is not bad. 

Near the end of the meal, Flash comes to talk to Nightwing. He is accompanied by Cyborg. 

“It’s good to meet you,” Cyborg says, extending one hand toward Talon. Nightwing mouths the word ‘shake’, and so Talon does, bouncing Cyborg’s hand in the way humans do when they greet each other. 

“Cyborg here is a really close friend of mine,” Nightwing says, smiling again. He smiles a lot. “We used to go on a lot of adventures together. You know the Titans, right? You met one the other day.”

Titans. A semi-active superhero team based largely in San Francisco and New York. Its members are powerful and varied, and the roster has included many different heroes at different points in time. The current incarnation includes heroes such as Starfire, Raven, Changeling, Nightwing, and Troia. 

“Raven told me about you,” Cyborg says. “She thinks you’re great. She thinks that maybe you and I could be friends, too.”

Miss Raven. The pale girl with the dark lipstick and hood. Richard’s friend. She is the same person as the Titans member ‘Raven’. 

“How do you feel about that?” Flash prods, having already forgotten that Talon cannot feel. He seems to do everything quickly. “More friends would be nice, right?”

Talon is saved having to answer by Batman approaching. 

“Are you finished?” he asks. “We’re behind schedule.”

“Are you subtly hinting that we should go set up the computer stuff?” Flash asks. 

Batman snorts. 

“I don’t do subtle,” he says, and then he addresses Talon. “Do you think you can produce a urine sample yet?”

Talon shakes his head. He does not need to evacuate waste.

“Try anyway.” Batman places a small container in Talon’s hand. “Nightwing, help him.” 

“Why does Grayson have to help?” Robin scowls, speaking in Arabic once again. “Even a baby can do that. Father, we don’t need this facsimile. We should just put him back in his box and forget about him.”

That would be good, Talon thinks. It would be good to go back into storage and not think about any more tests or drink any more water. 

“No,” Batman replies, in English. 

“Be nice, little brother,” Nightwing hisses, in Arabic. He takes Talon’s arm and then takes Talon away.

---

It turns out that the changing room from earlier not only has a shower section, but a small toilet block, too. Nightwing ushers him into a cubicle and gives him some brief instructions, then closes the door. 

“Don’t worry if you make a mess - nobody will get mad at you,” Nightwing calls. “Just make sure you tell me, then I’ll get you some new clothes or help you clean up, okay?”

Talon nods. Then he remembers that Nightwing cannot see him. 

“Okay,” he agrees, and tries his best to follow the instructions.

It is difficult. In part the difficulty is caused by the fact that the armour he is wearing does not seem designed to facilitate waste expulsion, so he needs to undress significantly in order to complete the task. In part the difficulty is caused by the fact that he simply does not have much waste to expel. Nightwing seems displeased somehow when Talon emerges, fully-dressed, and shows him the sealed container, less than half-filled. 

“Huh,” Nightwing says, after a long pause. “Um. Is it always that colour?”

Talon looks at the container. The liquid is a dark greyish-black colour.

“I don’t know,” he replies. 

“I have no idea what I was expecting. You’re… uh… not in any pain, are you?”

Talon shakes his head. 

“Right,” Nightwing takes the container, then guides Talon to the door. “Uh… I’ll go get this analysed, then.”

Nightwing leads them back to the computer in the main room. The light-construct furniture is gone, and so have most of the people. Batman, Red Robin, and Cyborg stand near the main computer.

“Time for more tests,” Nightwing says, clapping Talon on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll do great.”

Talon opens his mouth to tell Nightwing that he does not have the capacity to worry, but Nightwing is already gone, quickly and quietly jogging toward the infirmary area.

“How do you feel about computers?” Cyborg asks drawing Talon’s attention. This is an easy question. 

“They are useful tools,” Talon says. He has only used computers five times in total: all five times were part of his espionage tests, which he passed. He can disassemble computing devices to obtain components such as hard drives, then reassemble them. He can navigate computer systems in order to find information that can help him assassinate targets.

Talon explains this to Cyborg, who nods. 

“Oh, I see,” Cyborg says. “It’s a good start. Have you ever done coding or hacking before?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Cyborg says. He carefully taps one computer screen with a finger. “Come take a look at this. Does any of it look familiar to you?”

The program displayed on the screen is not familiar at all. Talon shakes his head.

“Let’s try this one,” Red Robin suggests, tapping at a keyboard. A new program appears. “How about this? Recognise it?”

“No,” Talon says. 

“What about this?”

This program does look more familiar. 

“It is a… a social media,” Talon says. This program is often displayed on Doctor Stevens’ monitor, and always quickly goes away when Doctor Griffiths enters the laboratory. 

“That’s right,” says a female voice. It is a new female voice, not belonging to any of the women Talon has encountered so far. “What can you tell me about social media?”

“It can be used to get information about targets,” Talon says. 

“That’s true,” the woman says. Her voice is coming from the computer. “Anything else?”

Talon cannot think of anything.

“No.”

“Okay,” says the woman. “I’m Oracle, by the way. Nice to meet you, Talon.”

Nice to meet you. A human greeting. Oracle is another person who has mistaken Talon for a person. 

“Yes,” Talon mutters. 

“I see what you meant, B,” Oracle says, after a short, three-second pause. “Talon, let’s continue.” 

Oracle and Cyborg continue to show Talon more programs, most of which are completely unknown to him. He knows about spreadsheets and financial data systems. He knows about inventory databases and mapping systems. He knows about word processors and e-mails. He does not know the brightly-coloured games Cyborg shows him, except for one. 

It is a game involving coloured blocks falling. TETRIS is emblazoned at the top of the screen. Doctor Stevens plays this often, too. Whenever Talon has to have transfusions or the doctors need to wait for new implants to heal, Doctor Stevens opens this game. 

Talon’s bones ache at the sight of it. He can almost hear Doctor Stevens' voice. 

“Kid, you know you’re not allowed to whine like that. Do I have to open up the freezer again?”

“Do you know what this is?” Cyborg asks.

“It’s a game,” Talon says. “A bad game.”

“A bad game?” Cyborg’s eyebrow rises. 

“Elaborate,” Batman orders. It is the first thing he has said since Talon re-entered this room.

“It… it’s a bad game,” Talon tries. 

“Why is it a bad game? Did you play it before?”

Talon shakes his head. 

“Did someone else play it?”

Talon nods. 

“Is it bad because you weren’t allowed to play it?” Red Robin asks. 

“It… it went on for a long time,” he tries again.

“Okay,” Oracle says. “Can you give me another example of a bad game?”

This question is easy. 

“The game from yesterday,” Talon says. “The lying game I played with Red Robin.”

“You were playing games yesterday?” Batman asks, and Talon remembers that he had only instructed Nightwing and Red Robin to test Talon. They disobeyed him.

“It had a testing purpose,” Red Robin replies. And then, to Talon: “Why was it a bad game?”

“I’m not allowed to lie,” Talon says. “And it lacked fun. Fun is an important component of games.”

“The lying thing, I get. But you said that you can’t feel,” Red Robin says. “So how would you know if it was fun or not?”

Talon’s body feels strange again. His stomach is heavy and his legs are weak, even though he did not eat and his muscles are strong.

“I don’t know,” he says, and his mouth stumbles on the words. 

There is silence for a moment.

Talon cannot read their facial expressions. 

“That’s okay, Talon,” Oracle says. “We’ll move on for now.”

“Take a look at this,” Cyborg adds, opening a new program. “What can you tell me about it?” 

---

Nightwing returns to the main room forty-two minutes after he left with the sample container. 

“How are the tests going?” he asks. 

Talon considers this.

These tests do not feel like tests. There is no punishment for not knowing the answers. The others - other than Batman, who silently observes - often seem to guide Talon to the answers they want to hear. 

“He’s doing well,” Batman says. “We’ll do a full debrief after finishing all testing. Since you’re here, I assume there’s something you want to tell me.”

“You know me too well,” Nightwing shrugs. “We figured out the samples, but figuring out a way forward… well, that’s another story. I just dropped by to tell you that Flash is bringing Mr Terrific onboard. I mean, he was like eighty percent onboard anyway, we’re just making it official now.”

Batman stares at Nightwing, who raises his hands. 

“Hey, I’m just the messenger!” Nightwing exclaims. “You have a problem, you bring it up with the others. Would you rather we brought Luthor in?”

Batman does not answer. He simply turns and strides away, in the direction of the infirmary-laboratory area. His cape billows behind him, almost obscuring him from view.

“Thought so,” Nightwing mutters. He looks at Talon. “Don’t worry. B’s just sore because Mr Terrific is just about the only person on the planet capable of one-upping him. And B’s already mentally designated himself in charge of this whole situation.”

Talon was not aware that there was a situation for Batman to become in charge of.

“I think I should go after Batman,” Red Robin mutters. 

“Good idea,” Nightwing agrees. “You guys mind if I take T here for some gymnastics? I could use a breather, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same.”

Talon does not know who T is.

“Sure,” Cyborg says. “You mind if I watch?”

“Knock yourself out,” Nightwing answers with a smile, and three minutes and twenty-four seconds later, Talon finds himself standing on some blue mats in the gymnasium. 

They are not at the sparring area this time. Instead, they are on the uppermost level of the room. There is a pit filled with soft spongy blocks nearby, and a series of slings, cradles, bars and rings suspended from the ceiling above. Talon can also see a tightrope and several trapeze bars up there. The equipment on the floor includes a pommel horse, vaults and springboards, as well as various kinds of blocks, hoops and balls, and a trampoline.

Cyborg seats himself on a nearby bench. He is not the only spectator: both Batgirls are present. The blonde one leans against the wall near the stairs leading up here and Cassandra stands on another mat in the area, twirling a ribbon on a stick with one leg outstretched behind her. Superboy sits on one of the trapeze bars, stretching out like a cat as he watches them.

“We’ll keep it simple today,” Nightwing says. “Did they teach you any gymnastics at the lab?”

Talon nods. 

“Show me,” Nightwing says. “Let’s start easy. How about a forward roll?”

Talon obeys, and is rewarded with a grin. 

“Awesome! Let’s do a handstand next. How long can you hold one for?”

The manoeuvres slowly segue from easy to challenging. They feel good - spinning and flipping and balancing, stretching Talon’s body to the limit in terms of flexibility and agility.

It would be good if he could do more gymnastics training in the future, Talon thinks. Especially if Nightwing trains him. Nightwing is patient and good at explaining what he wants Talon to do, often demonstrating the more difficult movements with his own body. He seems satisfied with everything Talon does, and the people watching this test are equally easy to please. 

“Whoa!” the blonde Batgirl claims, when Talon successfully completes a Silvias. She even applauds him for a full six seconds. 

“Do another one!” Superboy yells, so Talon does. 

“I wasn’t sure you were going to manage that one,” Nightwing admits. “It can be pretty tough to learn.”

Yes. Talon knows. He has shattered and dislocated several bones trying to execute that move in the past. 

“Better be careful, Nightwing,” Cyborg calls. “He’s giving you a run for your money.”

“A run for my money, huh?” Nightwing laughs. “Okay, then how about my signature move? Quadruple flip. Watch closely.”

Nightwing demonstrates the move for Talon, beginning with a running leap onto a springboard. He sails through the air, spinning rapidly, landing hard.

“The hardest thing is getting enough height,” Nightwing says, straightening up to the sound of enthusiastic applause and cheers from their audience. “You try.”

Talon nods. He mentally calculates how much force he would need to generate, then copies the manoeuvre to the very best of his ability.

Sprint, leap, flip, land.

Talon is not perfect, landing awkwardly enough to briefly sprain a muscle in his leg and fracture some of the bones in his feet. But he performs the movement satisfactorily enough to get praise and applause, and it’s almost enough to distract him from the white-hot pain of healing.

Nightwing hums, crossing his arms. 

“Okay, that was really, really good. Honestly, my pride is feeling a little bruised right now,” he mutters. “That’s my best move.”

“And it’s a great one!” Cyborg calls. “You should do a pair routine sometime. You’ll blow the minds of everybody in the room.”

Nightwing laughs at that. 

“You know what? We should,” he says. And then, to Talon, he continues. “B told me to figure out your limits. How about something I can’t do?”

Talon nods. 

“Okay,” Nightwing says. “You were great with the quadruple flip. Try a quintuple flip this time. Five full rotations. Superboy, Cyborg, keep a close eye, okay?”

Talon is certain that he can do it. He has performed well on all the other manoeuvres. By the time he reaches the starting position for a running leap using the springboard, the healing pain is gone. 

Calculation and force. That is all this is. 

Talon sprints, launching himself from the springboard with enough speed and momentum to flip once, twice, three times, four —

— and Talon realises, a fraction of a second before hitting the floor face-first, that he did not calculate this flip correctly. 

Chapter 14: Analysis - The Cave, Bristol County

Notes:

Apologies for how late this chapter is. I was aiming for fortnightly updates but I feel like monthly may be more likely for the forseeable future.

ALSO WARNING FOR TEMPORARY CHARACTER DEATH HERE

Talon awakens to a cool feeling in his head. The low hum of air conditioning and the quiet roar of industrial freezer units whisper into his ear. 

You are safe.

It is not a bad or painful coldness. It is good. It is the fresh air from the window. Slippery, silky pyjamas. A secure cave. The weight of a blunted wing-ding in his hand.

Talon cracks his eyes open. It is bright, and his eyes water, but there is green in front of him. 

The green makes a noise. Talon blinks slowly. Something cold wipes the water from the corners of his eyes. 

How do you feel? asks the cold, and an unintelligible voice echoes through his ears. 

“I don’t know,” Talon answers, but his tongue does not work and his mouth is clumsy and his voice is little more than a moan. His mouth tastes like metal.

His nose and much of the right side of his face has the same bone-deep, white-hot ache that comes from healing, and he cannot feel most of his body. It is as though everything below his cervical vertebrae no longer exists. 

What is the last thing you remember? the cold and the unintelligible voice speak as one again. There is red in the green, and blue around it.

Talon does not know. Had he been fighting? He remembers sparring in a cave. 

No, that is not right. There… there was a glowing green table. Computers. And then…

“Gymnastics,” Talon answers, and his mouth almost obeys him this time. Zzim-nas-ihh. 

He had been flying, and then he hadn’t.

He failed Nightwing’s test.

You did not fail, the cold promises, and it gently begins caressing the pain in his face. The earlier sensations return: this is the coolness of fresh air and soft pyjamas and the tranquility of this cave, not punishment. 

Talon still hurts, but it is less present. Less overwhelming. 

He blinks, slowly, the world starting to come back into focus around him. He is lying on the gymnasium floor. He can hear low voices, far away, but not what they’re saying. 

Something in Talon’s spine snaps audibly back into place, and his body exists again. He reflexively gasps from a mixture of the white-hot pain burning through most of his upper body and the sudden ability to move, before remembering that he is not allowed to make such noises and stops breathing again. 

Oxygen will help, the cold and the voice promise, and this time they speak as one. You do not have to remain silent.

The cool feeling swirls through all the parts that hurt — his spine, his shoulders, his arms, his ankles — and those pains, too, feel less present. Talon sucks in a deep breath, and then another one, until the pain fades entirely and a slightly blurry Martian Manhunter kneels before him. 

“I have never seen anything like that before,”  Manhunter says, and the pleasant coolness retreats. “Can you sit up?”
 
Talon does. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“You seem remarkably well,” Manhunter says, and then Batman is beside them both.

“Talon, report,” he says. “What happened? How did you come to be here, on the floor?”

Talon blinks. The memory is clearer now than it was earlier. He had started the quintuple flip that Nightwing requested, but partway through realised that he would not land correctly. He vaguely recalls bringing his hands up to shield his face, someone else’s loud voice echoing through the gym, strong fingers closing around Talon’s legs as he hit the mat face-first.

“I… The test. Nightwing’s test. I miscalculated the force necessary to complete the rotations.”

“How many rotations?” Batman asks.

“Five.”  

Batman’s mouth goes taut and tight. Beside him, Manhunter nods his red gaze fixed on Talon, and then he rises and leaves Talon’s field of vision.

“And your spotters failed to catch you,” Batman says, his voice low. His gloved fingers wipe something from next to Talon’s mouth. Blood and saliva, Talon realises. He must have bitten his tongue as he fell earlier. There’s a gust of air, and then Flash is leaning over Talon, too. 

“You’re awake!” Flash exclaims. “Can you stand up for me?”

Flash helps Talon up, talking all the while. Talon glances around - they are standing on the mats, just a couple metres from the springboard. Most of the people present earlier are no longer here: only Cyborg is here, speaking to the Green Lanterns, on the far side of the room. There is a smear of black blood on the mat. 

“Looks like you’re healing up okay. We were all pretty worried, Nightwing especially. He feels awful about it - you know it was an accident, right? C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Flash grabs Talon around the torso. Everything shifts around them, and Flash gently pushes Talon down until he’s sitting on a medical bed, and then he is gone again.

They’re not in the gymnasium any more, but the infirmary. Talon’s head and stomach feel strange and unsettled. He swallows.

“It’s all right, poppet, we’ll just run a few medical tests,” Alfred says, slipping into Talon’s field of vision with a small bottle and a cotton pad clutched in his hands. “But first, we’ll take that mask off so we can see your pupils properly.”

Alfred is here. Alfred is good and safe and always knows the correct instructions to give. 

Talon stays still while Alfred applies a solvent to the glue keeping the mask attached to his skin, then presses a small heat-pack against the mask to activate the solvent. 

“Hold this, please. While we’re waiting for the glue to dissolve, I’ll ask you a few questions. Please answer to the best of your ability.”

Talon nods. The heat-pack is warm, the heat slowly trickling through the gloves and the mask. It is good.

“Who are you?” Alfred asks. It is an easy question, although Talon is a ‘what’, not a ‘who’.

“I am a Talon.”

“Where are you?”

Another easy question.

“Downstairs.”

“Do you know today’s date?”

This one is slightly harder. Talon has been unconscious twice since coming to Bruce Wayne. He does not think he was unconscious longer than ten or fifteen minutes with Miss Raven, and he likely spent only four or five minutes unconscious just now. Although a broken neck would normally take only thirty seconds to heal, Talon is fairly certain that he was hurt more severely than that. The difficulty he’d had with thinking and with perceiving Martian Manhunter could be attributed to brain damage. This would have slowed his healing significantly. 

In total, Talon has been here for roughly two days. The last day he spent at the facility was September twenty-first. He remembers not only because of his internal timekeeping, but also because Doctor Stevens sang a song about it. It had been a very good song, too. 

Do you remember? The twenty first night of September?

Doctor Stevens had loudly sung and danced all around the lab. Talon had not been permitted to move. But he had listened and remembered and the song is safely stored in his head now and he can remember it any time he wants. 

“Yes,” Talon answers.

There is silence. 

“What is today’s date?”

“September twenty-third.”

“And what were you doing before you fell?”

“A quintuple flip.”

A sigh echoes through the room. The heat-pack is removed, and warm fingers peel away the mask from Talon’s face. He opens his eyes to see Alfred’s face, his mouth downturned and shoulders slumped. If Talon were not aware that nothing saddening has happened, then he might mistake that expression for sadness.

“Master Dick is terribly sorry about that,” Alfred says. “I sent him upstairs briefly. I expect he’ll return soon. He was rather shaken, you see.”

Talon cannot imagine why Richard would feel sorry or shaken because of Talon’s mistake. He does not have time to wonder, as the Flash appears next to Talon with an opthalmoscope in hand. 

“Look straight ahead for me, okay? Faster we get this done, the faster you can get back to, uh… whatever you like doing.”

Talon opens his mouth to remind the Flash that he is not capable of liking anything, but Batman’s voice rings out before he can do so.

“I have a reward for you. For doing such a good job today,” Batman says. “You will receive this reward after this final testing phase.”

And then Flash speaks again, issuing instructions to look up, to the left, blink twice, look at Alfred’s moving fingers. Talon is very good at following instructions and knows better than to interrupt.

Talon is pliant and obedient as always, allowing the others to examine him with ease and efficiency. Alfred checks Talon’s hand-eye co-ordination and Batman instructs Talon to go behind a curtained-off area of the infirmary and change his clothes, so that they can draw blood and take X-rays of his head and abdomen. Talon removes the wing-ding from the armour’s pocket, slipping it into one of the front pockets of his pants. As Talon positions himself for the X-ray, the Flash appears beside him to swabs his mouth and speeds off again.

The tests are all very familiar: every time Talon died at the lab, the doctors would examine him carefully once he reawakened to ensure his brain and body had healed correctly. Then he would be put back in storage and his training would resume as normal. 

Talon is not put back into storage this time. Even though his container is still in the lab part of the room, less than ten metres away, Batman’s earlier ban is still in effect. Instead, Batman has Talon sit on one of the beds and produces a small brown, bear-shaped toy with button eyes - and presses it into Talon’s hands. 

“Here,” he says. “You worked very hard today. This is your reward, Gray.”

Gray. Talon remembers Nightwing’s earlier words - ‘Talon’ is his codename. It is not his designation now that he is unmasked and unarmoured. He is the Gray Son once again.

The Gray Son nods, digging his fingers into the toy. It fits perfectly in his cupped hands. It is just as soft as the stuffed rabbit, but it is soft in a different way - it is not made of a faux fur, but a fabric with a velvety texture. It is his reward. It is good.

“Sit down and rest. We’ll debrief soon. If you need anything, ask Alfred.”

The Gray Son has no needs, and reminds Batman as such. Batman does not respond. Instead, his mouth tightens and he turns on his heel and strides away. 

“Ah, that’s right,” Alfred murmurs. “I forgot that you don’t need anything. In that case, is there anything you think it would be good to have?”
 
The Gray Son considers this. He looks around the room. It looks similar to earlier, only now the Flash is standing at the other end of the lab area, showing Batman something on a screen. Superman and Wonder Woman have joined them. A man with brown skin and a black, T-shaped mask is visible on another screen.

The heat-pack from earlier has been discarded on a tray near the bed the Gray Son is sitting on, next to the mask and a bowl of the cotton balls and alcohol wipes that had been used during the final tests. 

The heatpack was good. Maybe it would be good to have another.

“A heat-pack,” Talon says. 

Alfred does not say anything. He simply nods, crosses the room, opens a drawer, and takes out a new heat-pack. He cracks the activation mechanism and gives it to the Gray Son. The Gray Son places it against his stomach.

“Are you cold?” Alfred asks. 

The Gray Son does not know how to answer that. 

“I am never warm,” he replies. 

Alfred nods. 

“I see,” he says. “That is to be expected, given the data Red Robin retrieved. Is there anything else you can think of?”

The Gray Son tries, but cannot think of anything more. He shakes his head. 

“That’s all right,” Alfred says. And then: “let’s wait here for a while. We’re almost finished for today.”

The Gray Son nods. He waits. And in his head, he carefully remembers the September song. 

---

The minutes pass slowly, now that the Gray Son has nothing to do and no tasks to carry out. Red Robin returns and stands over a nearby computer, speaking softly with Alfred. Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman continue to talk to the Flash. The Gray Son is not able to make out the conversations. Perhaps he will be able to after his hearing enhancement implants are installed, some time after the night vision implants. 

The toy in the Gray Son’s hand is soft and fluffy, and the heat-pack provides warmth that slowly permeates the Gray Son’s body and the memory of the song about September is clear and good. 

The Gray Son waits patiently and silently, just as he is supposed to, and eventually Nightwing and Robin arrive.

The Gray Son hears Nightwing and Robin before he sees them, heralded by the sound of friendly voices. When they appear, both Robin and Nightwing have changed into their civilian clothes and identities - although Damian is still wearing his mask and the hooded part of his green jacket has been drawn up around his head. 

Damian and Batman speak briefly, and then Richard makes his way to the infirmary. He takes a few steps before turning to speak to Damian, who has not left their father’s side. The Gray Son can’t hear what Richard says, but he is able to lipread about half of his words. 

— — — about this remember — — so kind — believe — you

This time, when Richard starts walking again Damian follows a few steps behind him. His feet seem to drag on the floor, and his shoulders are slumped, while Richard has a wide smile and tense shoulders. 

“What’s this?” Alfred asks, looking up from the screen he and Red Robin have been sharing for the past few minutes. “I thought I told you to go upstairs and rest.”

“You did, and it definitely helped, but there’s something I have to do,” Richard says, the tone of his voice light even though he still looks tense. He stops in front of the Gray Son. “Gray? I have to talk to you about something. Damian has to say something, too.”

Damian does not move. He simply stands where he is, a few paces behind Richard. His arms are crossed, and he is looking at the floor. Richard is not smiling any more and his expression is difficult to read. His mouth is tight, but he does not look angry. 

“I spoke to B and the others, and they said that you’re okay. Do you agree with that? That you’re okay, I mean?”

The Gray Son nods. 

“I am perfectly functional,” he says. 

“Are you sure?” Richard asks, and his voice goes soft and quiet. “When you fell, you looked a lot like my dad did, when he and mom fell. And, you know, my parents didn’t get up again. Even if they did, I don’t think either of them would have really been okay.”

Richard is referring to John and Mary Grayson’s murder some twenty years ago, falling from a sabotaged trapeze. Richard’s words make sense: human beings cannot heal well. But the Gray Son is not a human.

“I am sure.”

“All right,” Richard says. He lifts one hand and places it on the Gray Son’s shoulder, the warmth of his skin seeping through the Gray Son’s shirt, and he takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I’m really sorry, Gray. I shouldn’t have asked you to do that flip. It was a stupid idea, and I should have thought it through - if I’m not capable of it myself, it’s physically impossible and unfair to ask you to attempt it. But I didn’t think, and you got severely injured because of it. So I’m really sorry. I’ll be much more careful in the future.”

The Gray Son stares at Richard. There is no reason for Richard to apologise for the Gray Son’s failure. The Gray Son failed because he is inadequate and miscalculated and needs to improve.

Richard’s warm hand squeezes the Gray Son’s shoulder, and Richard looks at Damian, speaking briefly in Arabic. 

“Remember what I said, okay?”

Damian mumbles something, and Richard sighs. 

“Louder, please, Master Damian,” Alfred says. “I don’t think the ants quite heard that.”

Damian raises his head, his facial expression a frown. 

“I saw you fall,” Damian says. “You miscalculated the flip. Grayson would never have made such a stupid mistake.”

“That’s not an apology,” Richard says, still speaking in heavily-accented Arabic.

Damian is silent for three full seconds.

“You are not permitted to die,” Damian says. His gaze flickers to the side, to Richard, then back to the Gray Son. “You will not improve if you die. You are very lucky that we are so skilled and so patient and so k—“

“Master Damian,” Alfred says. 

Damian is silent again, glancing briefly in Alfred and Red Robin’s direction.

“You cannot help being stupid or useless,” Damian says. “It is the way the Court and the doctors made you. I apologise for insulting you. It is not your fault.”

Richard sighs. 

“I will help you become useful,” Damian says. “Perhaps, given enough time and the proper training, you will become half as intelligent and competent as myself or Grayson. I do not trust you, but Grayson and Father seem to. If you do anything to break their trust, you will not live to regret it. Do you understand me?”

The Gray Son knew this already. 

“Since when is threatening people part of an apology?” Red Robin asks. 

“It needs to—“ Damian cuts himself off, then starts again, jabbing a finger in the Gray Son’s direction. “He needs to know that betrayal is unacceptable!”

“All of the tests today, and every telepath we’ve brought in, have showed us that he literally cannot conceive of betraying us, so that’s total overkill,” Red Robin replies. “And—“

“And you two aren’t going to fight, because we all want the same thing,” Batman’s deep voice interrupts. He has somehow materialised beside Alfred. The other members of the Justice League are nowhere to be seen. “Is that understood?”

Batman is met with a chorus of agreements and nods. He looks at the Gray Son. 

“Come with me. We'll debrief.”

The Gray Son rises and follows, stuffed animal clutched in his hand and heat-pack held to his stomach.

---

It turns out that there is no debrief.

Instead of Batman telling the Gray Son what he did badly and what his punishment will be, he takes the Gray Son back to the room with the computer. The others are present already, though Red Robin’s friends are gone. The two Batgirls are standing with Signal and the blonde one quickly walks toward Batman when she sees him. 

No, that’s not right, the Gray Son realises, because the blonde Batgirl approaches him instead. 

“Are you all right?” she asks. “We were so worried about you. Tim texted and said you were okay, but—“

“Names,” Batman says. Batgirl scowls.

“He’s wearing civvies,” she says. “Everybody in this cave knows who everybody else is. Dick isn’t even wearing his m—”

“My cave, my rules,” Batman says, and he continues walking, one hand on the Gray Son’s back as he guides him nearer to the computer screens. 

Once everybody is gathered in the correct area of the room, the lights dim and the screens light up, showing various tables and graphs. 

Batman speaks.

“As suspected, testing revealed that Nightwing’s clone is approximately halfway through the Talonisation process. We’ve identified several possible avenues for rectifying the current situation. I am in the process of putting together a trustworthy and effective team to deal with the mental conditioning, and tutors to continue education. All tests so far suggest that he is a valuable asset. He poses little threat to anybody present today and will need high levels of support to integrate into his new surroundings.”

“We’ll go through the Talonisation stuff in a minute, Mr Terrific and I had a lot of data to sift through, and honestly it’s all pretty fascinating,” the Flash says, his voice somewhat faint, like he’s far away. “But first…” 

There’s a gust of air and suddenly Flash is right beside the Gray Son. 

“How do you think the testing went? Go on, be honest.”

The Gray Son does not know what to say.

“I… I performed badly in some tests,” he says. “But I performed well in others. Superman and Wonder Woman said I did a good job in their tests. And Batman said I did well.”

“You did,” Wonder Woman’s voice sounds warm. She is standing somewhere behind him. “You were very impressive.”

“You say you performed badly. Is there anything you think could have improved your performance?” Red Robin asks, from somewhere to his left.

The Gray Son is not sure. 

“Like, something you weren't provided? Different weapons? More training? Extra equipment? Other clothes? Different environments?”

The Gray Son latches onto the last word. Environments.

An environment refers to one’s surroundings. There is only one thing the Gray Son can think of that would improve his surroundings. In the laboratory, the doctors would sometimes listen to music, which was good. Batman and his family do not seem to listen to music, which is not.

“Music,” he says. 

“That’s an interesting answer,” Richard says. He is almost as close as the Flash is, breath warm on the Gray Son's ear.

The Gray Son tries to think of a justification. 

“The… the gymnastics,” he says. “In the recordings, the gymnasts often performed with music.”

“And you think that playing music might have helped you do better at gymnastics?” Richard asks. 

The Gray Son nods. Maybe Richard will teach him again and let him listen to music while they practice. That would be good.

“It might,” he agrees. "Maybe I would not fail next time."

Richard makes a sound. It is not a good sound. It is the same kind of ‘hrm’ that Doctor Griffiths said when he did not like something the Gray Son had said or done. 

“You think you failed in our gymnastics session, right? What do you think was the cause of that failure?” Richard asks. 

This is an easy question. 

“I miscalculated the force needed to complete the rotations,” the Gray Son says. 

“But I asked you to do something physically impossible,” Richard says. “You don’t think that was a factor? Even though I apologised to you for it?”

The Gray Son doesn’t know what to say.

“You did not need to apologise to me,” the Gray Son says. “You are being kind.”

Richard’s voice is flat.

“Kind.”

“Yes,” the Gray Son hastens to explain. “You are very kind. Even kinder than the doctors were.”

“The doctors were kind?” Red Robin asks. A gloved hand settles on the Gray Son’s back. “Why don’t you tell me more about that? We can go upstairs and let the others finish the debrief.”

Debrief? This is the debrief?

The Gray Son does not understand how this can count as a debrief. He has not been punished for anything.

But he agrees anyway and lets Red Robin lead him to the vestibule with the elevator, because it seems to be what Red Robin wants.

Notes:

The song Talon/Gray is thinking about is Earth Wind and Fire's September.
You can listen to it here on Youtube.

Chapter 15: Kindness - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

A shorter chapter this time - it was originally planned to be some three or four scenes long, but this first scene became so long I thought I ought to cut it in two for ease of reading. So a surprise early update for you, dear readers, and some vague hints of plot setup. ^^

Red Robin takes Talon upstairs, to a room that turns out to be the manor’s kitchen. They take the stairs, rather than the elevator. It takes twelve minutes to ascend, and if the Gray Son were asked to, he could probably estimate how far underground downstairs is. But Red Robin does not ask him to do that. 

Instead, as they climb, Red Robin holds a small device in his hand and asks the Gray Son questions. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m recording this. It’s just so I can make notes later.” Red Robin pauses. “So, the doctors were kind to you, you said?”

“Yes.”

Red Robin speaks again five seconds later. 

“How were they kind?”

“They would often do kind things to me.”

There is another pause, broken only by the sound of Red Robin's breath.

“What kind of kind things did they do?”

“Sometimes they would play music in the laboratory or style my hair or permit me to touch soft items.”

“What kind of soft items?”

“Blankets.”

One specific blanket - Doctor Lee’s bright pink, fleecy blanket, the one that sat on her desk chair. It had been briefly thrown around his shoulders as she laughed about how cold the lab was. It had smelled like flowers, his training told him. Roses, say the implanted information. Rosa x damascena, or perhaps Rosa x centifolia. He has never actually smelled a rose before.

“They sometimes permitted you to use blankets? Not all the time?”

“I do not sleep,” the Gray Son says. “And I have no core temperature. A blanket is not necessary.”

“I see. Are soft items good?”

The Gray Son nods. The soft stuffed animal in his hand is good. So are the stuffed rabbit and bear and the blankets and pillows and towels in his bedroom. So are his borrowed pyjamas and the clothes he wears and the towels he is permitted to use.

“Yes,” he says. They are very, very good. “There are more soft items here than in the laboratory.”

“I bet,” Red Robin chuckles. 

When they reach the top of the stairs, Red Robin vanishes into a small curtained nook. After about thirty-five seconds, Tim emerges. He is wearing dark pants and a red sweatshirt and fluffy slippers, and he stuffs the Red Robin costume into a hidden laundry chute near the door that leads out into Bruce’s office. It is still daylight outside, and the clock near the desk says that it is about four in the afternoon.

Tim takes the Gray Son to a room between the dining room and the stairs, filled with wooden cabinets and polished marble countertops. The kitchen.

Tim places the recording device on a table near the window, overlooking a garden the Gray Son has not seen before. Tim instructs the Gray Son to sit and gives him another glass of water and straw, and sits opposite him.

“Let’s make a list of more good items,” Tim says. “Blankets are good, we've established that. What else is good, Gray?”

This question is easy. 

“Music,” he says, and he sips some water. “Stuffed animals. Storage containers.”

Tim's eyebrows rise a little.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“Um… pyjamas,” the Gray Son says. “Heat-packs. Hot water bottles. Towels.”

This time, Tim tilts his head slightly. The Gray Son cannot read his expression.

“Towels?” 

“The towels here,” the Gray Son clarifies. “They are soft.”

“And soft things are good,” Tim nods. “I remember. Okay, how about bad stuff? Tell me what’s bad.”

This is also easy. 

“Not following instructions,” he starts. “Performing poorly in training exercises or tests. Speaking without permission. Moving without permission. Attempting to avoid punishment. Pretending to be a person outside of specific exercises and assignments.”

“Pretending to be a person?” Tim asks. He is staring, his eyebrows drawing low.

“Pretending to feel emotions,” Tim is still staring, so the Gray Son hastens to explain. “Crying, using facial expressions, using tone of voice, using body language. Anything that a human might do to express themselves.”

“Huh,” Tim swallows, even though his mouth is empty. When he speaks again, his voice sounds unsteady for a brief moment. “So, uh, that’s a great list, but I was thinking more along the lines of objects. Bad items, since we made the first list out of good items. Got it?”

The Gray Son nods and then sips some water. His stomach feels heavy, probably because of all the water he is being instructed to drink. He failed this test, too. Maybe Tim needs to know about bad items so that Bruce will understand how to punish him. 

“Freezers,” he says. They are extremely bad. 

“Freezers?” Tim blinks. “Why are freezers bad?”

“They are cold.”

“And… you listed warm items as good, so I guess cold is bad.” Tim nods. “Okay. And Tetris is also bad?”

This line of questioning is bad, the Gray Son thinks, and he nods. 

“Yes. Because it took a long time to play, you said. But you weren’t the person playing it, were you?”

The Gray Son shakes his head. 

“No. Who played Tetris?”

Short, blond hair peppered with silver. Horn-rimmed spectacles and deep dimples. A loud laugh. The sweet-spicy smell of hair pomade.

“Doctor Stevens.”

“Tell me about Doctor Stevens."

The Gray Son takes a deep breath and regurgitates all of the information he knows about Doctor Stevens. 

“Doctor Mallory Stevens is a researcher at CADMUS. He is forty-three years old and from Arkansas. He has level five security clearance and is the fourth most senior researcher attached to the Gray Son Project. He is in charge of my biological augmentations.”

Tim nods. 

“Is he kind?” 

Another easy answer. 

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He speaks to me in a friendly manner and always gives clear instructions. And sometimes he shares grooming products with me, like hair pomade or hand moisturiser.”

“That sounds nice,” Tim comments. “Okay. Next question. Doctor Stevens is kind. But when he plays Tetris, it’s bad. Is it bad if a different doctor plays Tetris?”

The Gray Son is not sure. Some augmentation and testing procedures are less painful than others, and some have shorter completion times, and some require more focus from the doctors. Some doctors might not even have time to open the game before the procedure is finished, and some might not be able to finish the procedure while also playing games. 

“Um…” the Gray Son hesitates. Not completing required augmentation and testing procedures is bad. “Yes?”

“Is it bad if I play Tetris?”

This is even more difficult. Tim does not oversee any painful or long-lasting procedures, though he has overseen some which require intense focus. But Bruce and Alfred do not seem angry when the Gray Son fails tests, nor when Tim admitted to not following orders correctly, so maybe failing to complete procedures is less bad here. 

There are too many variables. The Gray Son does not think it would be good if Tim played the game, and he is sure that it would be very good if Tim did not play the fame. But there are too many variables he does not know. He cannot give a satisfactory answer.
 
“I don’t know.”

Tim hums, long and low. His gaze drops to the recording device on the table. He does not speak for almost ten full seconds, though he does not seem displeased at the Gray Son’s unsatisfactory answer.

“All right,” he says. “Back to Doctor Stevens. You said he’s the fourth most senior researcher. Who’s above him?”

A return to easy questions. This is good. 

It is strange that Tim does not know about the researchers already, but maybe they only spoke with Bruce or Alfred. Or maybe his new masters only spoke to an emissary of the Court. 

“Doctor Griffith is the project lead,” the Gray Son answers. “Doctor Williams is second-in-command and oversees all training exercises. Doctor Burke is the third most senior researcher and is in charge of informational downloads.”

“How many researchers in total are attached to your project? Do you know?”

The Gray Son knows this answer. There were twelve people who worked in the lab, twelve names he remembers seeing on the computer screens and papers, twelve faces peering at him. There were some non-researchers in the lab sometimes, such as the man who assesses the Gray Son’s weapon-related skills and the intern who once volunteered to test the Gray Son’s make-up application skills for her college formal dance. But Tim is asking about the researchers.

“Twelve.” 

“Who are the other eight?”

Another easy question. One that Tim follows up with equally easy clarifications: what did each researcher specialise in? How did they interact with the Gray Son? Is each person kind or unkind? Why does the Gray Son think they are kind? 

Alfred enters the kitchen halfway through the Gray Son’s detailed explanation of how, sometimes, Doctor Patel played music and danced briefly at the start of the day. Sometimes she had danced alone and sometimes other researchers had joined in.

“You weren’t allowed to join in?” Tim asks.

“No.”

“So they didn’t give you any training in dance or music?”

“I am capable of reading music notation,” the Gray Son says. He has never tried playing music before, but surely it cannot be difficult. Maybe Tim will suggest to Bruce that they should test the Gray Son on music and dancing, too. 

Maybe Richard will be his instructor in the test. That would be good, because Richard is patient and kind and gymnastics testing was so very good. Or — the Gray Son thinks to the mental profiles he holds on Bruce’s family — or maybe Cassandra could test him. Not only is she a formidable martial artist, but she is one of the stars of Gotham’s amateur ballet scene. Ballet is probably just as good as gymnastics, and Cassandra probably knows many things about classical music as a result of her training.

“How are you boys feeling?” Alfred’s voice rings out. His shoes clack on the kitchen’s hard tiling. The Gray Son almost wonders why Alfred is wearing shoes indoors when that is against the rules, except that he does not have permission to wonder anything, and so he does not. 

“We’re doing well,” Tim answers. Alfred glances at Tim, then smiles. 

“That's good to hear. Are you thirsty? I'm about to make some tea for myself. The others will be up shortly. Would you like some?"

Tim shrugs.

"Sure. Thanks, Alfred."

Alfred turns to the Gray Son.

"And it appears that you, young man, are just about finished with your water. Would you like some tea, too?”

“I cannot like anything,” the Gray Son reminds him, and both Alfred and Tim wince. 

“I remember,” Alfred says. “I do apologise. In that case… I shall make enough for us all. You are most welcome to try some.”

Another order without an order. 

“I’m sure it’ll make you feel warm,” Alfred adds. “Wouldn’t that be good?”

Yes, the Gray Son thinks, and he nods. Yes, it would be very good to feel warm.

Alfred speaks with Tim as he makes the tea, heating water in a kettle on the stove before pouring it into in a blue-patterned teapot. They discuss the Justice League: the remainder of the debrief is almost over, though it took more time than expected. Then they speak about people called Alfred The Cat and Titus and Ace and Bat-Cow, and discuss what food ought to be served at dinner. 

“It’s a pity your friends didn’t stay, because I had planned to make them pizza,” Alfred says. He pours a thin stream of fresh tea into a delicate china cup that matches the teapot, then gives it to Tim. “Although I do understand why they left. Master Bruce can be somewhat… intense at times.”

“That’s an understatement,” Tim murmurs. He glances at the Gray Son. “You do feel okay, though, right?”

“Yes,” the Gray Son agrees, and he feels even more okay when his hands curl around the blue mug Alfred sets in front of him. It is warm, and the liquid within steams. It is a warm brown colour, half-filling the mug, and there is a reusable straw already stuck in it. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of adding milk and sugar,” Alfred says. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

The Gray Son obediently sucks a small amount of liquid slowly into his mouth. 

It is very hot. Some of the heat dissipates through the journey through the straw, but he would estimate that the tea in the mug is approximately a hundred and sixty degrees Fahrenheit. It is slightly too hot for humans to drink comfortably, but the Gray Son is not a human and so he has no trouble.

It is very sweet. The Gray Son knows sweet and savoury and spicy and salty. The basic flavours had been part of his initialisation testing, many months ago. The tea is sweet, but the taste is more complex than the sugar-water he had tasted all those months ago or the toothpaste he cleans his mouth with. The tastes are milk and dried camellia sinensis, his training suggests, picking apart the taste of the tannins and the fats and the lactose on his tongue.

The hotness of the tea seems to radiate through the Gray Son’s body as he swallows. It does not radiate far, but it is enough to make him drink faster, to get more of it in his stomach before it cools to the same temperature as his body. Maybe if he drinks enough, he can simulate a core temperature.

“I knew you would li— that you would find it good,” Alfred smiles at him. “I’ll give you more when you finish this.”

Alfred is, as always, true to his word. After agreeing that Tim may order in pizza instead of Alfred attempting to cook for all of the people gathered downstairs — “c’mon, Alfred, you know that Superman and the Flash are going to eat enough for ten people between them. Besides, Dick and Steph love eating trash when they’re having hard days - and today was pretty hard for everybody, right?” — Alfred checks the Gray Son’s cup and prepares him another measure of sweet, milky tea.

It is not as hot as the first measure, but it is still warming. The Gray Son relishes the warmth in his hands and his mouth and his stomach, and the sweetness lingering on his tongue. 

This is good. 

Notes:

For fellow non-Americans, one hundred and sixty Fahrenheit is a little over seventy Celcius.

Chapter 16: Designation - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

I hope everybody had a good festive period and that this coming year is good to you all ^^

 

Again, like last time, this is another 'split in bits' chapter. But it's a plot-important bit, so... here you go. Please enjoy.

Tim orders the pizza using his cellphone. It’s similar in appearance to the one given to the Gray Son yesterday: both are roughly the same size and both have the same shiny WayneTech logo on the back. Tim’s cellphone is red, while the Gray Son’s is black. 

“And… done. It’ll be here in about an hour,” Tim grins at the Gray Son. “You’re going to love pizza. We’re not starting you on solid food for a while, but when we do… you’re going to love it.”

That is unlikely. Even if the Gray Son were capable of loving anything, solid food seems inconvenient and inefficient at best.

Although… the tea the Gray Son is drinking warms his body from the inside out. If hot drinks can make the Gray Son feel warm on the inside, maybe hot food can do the same. Would solid matter stay warmer for longer inside his body, compared to liquid?

The Gray Son blinks these thoughts away. He is not permitted to think. 

Tim and Alfred speak with one another. Someone named Bernard is doing well. Someone named Julia has caught a cold. Someone named Kate will join Bruce’s family for dinner tomorrow. Someone named Luke is investigating a list of names Tim got. 

The Gray Son drinks and waits for further instruction. Other than Alfred and Tim’s conversation, the manor is quiet around him.
 
The manor is not quiet for very long. The faint sounds of laughter and far-away voices echo through the halls approximately six minutes after Tim puts his phone on the kitchen table. Heavy footsteps approach the kitchen, softened by plush carpet. 

“Tim. My office, now. Gray. Stay with your siblings until I return,” Bruce says, appearing in the doorway. He wears a black button-down and pants, turning on his heel as quickly as he arrived. Tim follows, almost running into Richard and Cass as he leaves the kitchen. 

“How’s it going up here, Alfred?” Richard asks. 

“Very well. Master Timothy suggested that we order dinner tonight. I thought it was an excellent idea, given the circumstances.”

“Yeah, I think so too. I can’t believe how much you were able to put together for us earlier - you should take the night off, rest up a little.”

Alfred inclines his head, a smile stretching across his lips. 

“Only if you do the same. And you’ll be pleased to hear that this young man here seems to appreciate a good cup of tea just as much as I do.” 

“Oh, really?” Richard exclaims, as he takes a package of canned sodas from the refrigerator. He takes a second package, and gives it to Cass. “My mom would’ve loved that, Gray. She always used to drink some after our show.”

That is a strange thing to say. Bruce’s family say many strange things. 

“We are in the lounge,” Cass informs the Gray Son. “Come.” 

And so the Gray Son does. The lounge is not far - it is one of the old drawing-rooms near the dining room, and it has a wide set of glass doors at the end which look out across a vast lawn. Spoiler, now dressed as a civilian, lounges on one of the couches. Duke and Damian sit at the coffee table nearby, playing a colourful card game. The blonde Batgirl - Stephanie Brown, the Gray Son remembers from his training on Gotham’s vigilantes - smiles and throws a hand up in greeting.

“Hey,” she says. “We didn’t really get an introduction earlier. I’m Steph. It’s nice to meet you.” 

Steph does not try to shake the Gray Son’s hand, which is good. But she does look at him, like she expects an answer.

“Yes,” the Gray Son says. 

“Okay,” Steph says, still smiling, and she draws it out into two long syllables. Ohh-kaay. “So, Tim said that you don’t have a name yet. What should I call you?” 

“I don’t know,” the Gray Son says. “Tim calls me Gray.” 

“Gray?” Steph asks. “That’s cool, I like it. Is that going to be your name?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Richard sets down the soda on a side table near Stephanie. Then he returns to the door, patting the Gray Son’s arm gently. 

“I’ll go get a book of names for you. Oracle wants to finish your identity documents as soon as possible.”

“How about sitting here with me?” Steph asks, patting the cushion next to her. Cass passes her a canned soda before setting her package on the non-card game part of the coffee table. “Thanks.”

Another set of instructions-without-instructions. This is less good, but at least it is clear what Steph wants the Gray Son to do. He sits down, and Cass perches on the armrest of the other couch, which is almost perpendicular to this one.

The room is quiet, except for Damian and Duke’s game.

“Oh, how the turn-tables have turned!” Duke grins, setting down a blue card with an arrow on it. 

“That changes nothing, this is a two-person game!” Damian huffs. He places down a blue card with the number three on it. “Three blue.”

“Wanna bet?” Duke asks. He lays down a blue card. “Pick up two.”

“No,” Damian says. He lays down an identical card, except this one is green. “You pick up two.”

“Fine, you got me,” Duke replies, doing as he is instructed. “But we both know I’m gonna win this one, right? Okay, five yellow.”

Damian glances at the Gray Son, then looks back at his cards. 

“You can play in the next game, if you want,” he says. “We can team up and crush Duke once and for all.”

The Gray Son opens his mouth to remind Damian that he is incapable of wanting anything, but Duke speaks first. 

“You’re just saying that because I’m the undisputed, undefeated board game champion,” Duke gestures toward the Gray Son. “Hey, play with me, and I’ll teach you how to win.”

The Gray Son does not know what to say, so he averts his eyes to the carpet beneath his slippered feet and nods. Several seconds pass in silence.

“I like your stuffie,” Steph says, drawing the Gray Son’s attention. She’s pointing to the stuffed bear in the Gray Son’s hand. “Does it have a name?”

“No,” the Gray Son tells her. “It is an object. Objects do not have names.”

“Huh,” Steph says. “That… okay, yeah.” She pauses. One second, then two. “Do you have any other stuffies?” 

“Yes.” 

“How many?”

Alfred said earlier that he is permitted to keep the stuffed rabbit and the bear that were in the chest in his bedroom.

“Three.”

“Nice! That one is a bear, right? What are the other ones? Are they cats, mice, birds, something else?”

“Another bear and a rabbit.”

“A bear and a rabbit, huh? Do you li— do you think bears and rabbits are good?” 

Stuffed bears and rabbits are soft and safe. Real bears and rabbits can either be dangerous or cause inconveniences during missions. But they are probably even softer than stuffed animals.

“I don’t know.”

"How about animals in general?"

"I don't know."

“We have animals at this house. Pets.” Damian says. “You did not meet them yet, but you will meet them soon. We have two dogs, Ace and Titus - Ace belongs to Father, and he is rather old. And Titus belongs to me, and he is energetic and fierce and my best friend.” 

“Isn’t Jon your best friend?” Duke asks. “Red seven, by the way.” 

“I can have many best friends!” Damian snaps. “Red five.” 

“A cat, too,” Cass says. “Name is Alfred. Very cute. Fur moustache.” 

“They’re in one of the guest wings, I think,” Steph says. “Tim mentioned needing to test how they’ll react to you - he thinks your heart rate and stuff might make them nervous. But I’m sure it’ll be fine. Tim’s already made a bunch of contingency plans, just in case.” 

“Titus will be nice to you, even if the other pets are not,” Damian says. “He is highly trained. He always does what I say.” 

The Gray Son nods. That is very good news. Pets can often cause problems for Talons, becoming distressed by their presence and thus raising target suspicion. But if Titus is trained well enough to not become distressed, then maybe the Gray Son will gain permission to touch Titus’s fur. It is probably even more soft and good than the stuffed animal furs, and it is probably warm, too.

“As Cass said, we also have a cat, named Alfred. He likes everybody, so he will probably like you," Damian adds.

“Like who?” Richard asks, slipping through the door with a book in hand. It is a hard-cover book which appears to be between four and five hundred pages long. It has a brightly-coloured cover, with the words ‘Baby Name Dictionary’ emblazoned in blue. It looks somewhat old and worn.

“Alfred the Cat,” Damian says. “He will like…” Damian trails off, gesturing at the Gray Son. 

“Oh, yeah,” Richard chuckles. “I’m sure he will. Hey, take a look through this book for me, will you?”

Richard holds the book of names out to the Gray Son. 

“You don’t have to make a decision right away, but it would be awesome if we can choose something by tomorrow morning. Oracle has been working really hard to make you a fake paper trail and identity documents and stuff, and the sooner we can give her a name for you, the better.”

The Gray Son nods. He opens the book to the first page, and points at the first name on the page. 

“This is fine,” he says. 

Richard blinks, then squints at the page, leaning over the Gray Son’s shoulder. 

“Aaron?” he asks. “Okay. You sure you like that name? It’s going to be the name you’re called for the rest of your life, so you should pick one that you feel an affinity for.”

The Gray Son is not capable of liking anything or feeling affinities. Judging by Richard’s words, the name he picked is wrong, so he points to the next name on the page. 

“This one?”

“Abel?” Richard frowns. “Uh…” 

This one is wrong, too? The Gray Son points to the next name.

“Abigail?” Richard rubs his eyes. “That’s not a— okay, stop. Read the book, front to back. Try to remember any names that stand out to you. Then we’ll talk about the names you remembered when you’re finished.”

The Gray Son stares at Richard. None of the names stand out to him. They are all names. How can any of them stand out?

“Got it?” Richard asks.

The Gray Son shakes his head. 

“Okay, uh… so you have to read the book. The whole book. And choose some names that you li— some names that are good. Okay?”

The Gray Son glances down at the book. Names cannot be good or bad. They are just names. Designations. Descriptors. He opens his mouth and attempts to explain this to Richard, whose facial expression and body language becomes more and more displeased. 

“Yeah, I get that, but it’s your name,” Richard says. “You have to li— you have to have a name that’s appropriate for you. You can’t just choose a random name.” 

“Why?” The Gray Son asks. Any name is as appropriate as any other, surely.

Richard blinks, then sighs. His shoulders slump. 

“I have no idea how to explain this to you,” he mutters, his voice sounding strange and rough. 

The Gray Son’s stomach sinks. There is a hidden and incomprehensible component to this new task. The Gray Son’s jaw is tight, and so are his shoulders.

It is bad to suggest the wrong names, but there is not enough data available to choose the correct name.

There is silence for almost ten full seconds. Duke and Damian appear to have forgotten their card game, their faces turned toward the couch. 

“Maybe he doesn’t choose,” Cass says, breaking the silence. “Do you choose your name, Dick?” 

“Uh… kinda?” Richard replies. “I mean, it is a nickname. I could introduce myself as something else if I got sick of it.”

“Yes, ‘Dick’ you sort-of choose,” Cass nods. “But you don’t choose ‘Richard’.  I don’t choose ‘Cassandra’. ‘Stephanie’, ‘Damian’, ‘Duke’, ‘Tim’, ‘Jason’, ‘Bruce’… Mom and Dad choose. Not us.” 

“Yeah, I get it, but this is an important part of validating his identity,” Richard says, his attention focused on Cass now. 

“Okay, but does he have an identity?” Steph asks. “I mean, if he doesn’t have a strong sense of identity, then trying to force him to choose a name is just going to be a headache for him and he’s not going to be able to appreciate why we’re doing this and it’s not going to help in the long run.” 

“Baby has no identity,” Cass adds. “Talon is ten months old. He is sort-of baby. Blank slate. Only identity is taught. Identity is thing, identity is killing, identity is weapon. We name. We teach. Identity change. Identity… um… it is… it is not-thing…”

Cass trails off. 

“And his identity grows into, uh, personhood or humanity, right?” Duke asks, and Cassandra thinks for a moment before nodding. 

“Yeah, grow into person,” she says. 

“I get what you’re trying to tell me, and I agree. It’s just that he needs to have a say in this,” Richard says. “He’s been ground down for his whole existence and treated like an object and told that he doesn’t deserve to so much as breathe or blink without permission. We can’t just sit here and say ‘hey, you’re this now’. We’ve got to offer him choices and the opportunity to make his own decisions.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Steph says. “He should totally get a say. But like…it’s unfair of us to just force him to create an identity when he has no clue what that even means.“ 

Richard groans, covering his face with his hands briefly. As he does, Duke lays down his cards and rises, crouching near the couch where the Gray Son sits.

“Hey, man,” Duke says. “Did you say to Steph earlier that Tim calls you ‘Gray’?” 

The Gray Son nods.

“Yeah, I think I heard Dick and Bruce call you it, too. It’s short for ‘the Gray Son’, right?” Duke asks. 

The Gray Son nods. 

“‘The Gray Son’ is kind of a mouthful,” Duke says. “But I think ‘Gray’ is a pretty good nickname. Is it good if we continue to call you that?” 

The Gray Son nods. If he is named ‘Gray’ then he won’t need to choose a new name and he won’t make any more wrong choices.

“Nobody is going to believe my parents named their kid ‘Gray Grayson’,” Richard says. “My dad loved alliteration, but there’s no way anybody is buying that.” 

“So how about names that can be shortened?” Steph asks, reaching for the book in the Gray Son’s hands. She does not take the book from him, but flips the pages until she reaches a page with ‘Gray’ written halfway down on the right. “Okay, Gray… Grady… Graham… Grant… Graig… Granger… Granville… Green… Greg… I don’t know about these.”

“You said ‘Graham’ wrong,” Damian says. “It’s gray-um.”

“No, I said it right,” Steph says. “Graham." Graaaam.

“Alfred says it differently and Alfred is always correct,” Damian replies, his voice sharp and his face angry. 

“Gray-um is good,” the Gray Son says. Alfred is always correct and this name can be easily shortened to ‘Gray’. And then the Gray Son will not have to choose a new name. No more wrong choices. 

“It’s unusual, but… well, they did nickname me ‘Dick’,” Richard says. “Mom didn't really spend time in the U.K., but she was part-British. Plus, there were a lot of European people in Haley's. It makes sense, swinging the pronunciation that way. Could probably make up a fake namesake for good measure - a distant uncle or friend of the family or something. And, like I said, Dad liked alliteration. ‘Graham Grayson’ is much more believable than ‘Gray’.”

“See? I knew we could do it. Team work makes the dream work,” Steph grins. She turns back to the Gray Son. “Okay, buddy, how about a middle name? Anything sound good to you?”

The Gray Son’s stomach sinks. He needs to choose another name? 

He glances back at the book. He points to the next name down from ‘Graham’. 

“This is fine,” he says. 

“Grant?” Steph asks. “Graham Grant Grayson? That’s what you wan— that’s what’s good?” 

“It is fine,” the Gray Son says. 

Richard lets out another sigh, this one longer than the last. He plucks the book out of the Gray Son’s hands. 

“You know what? Let’s just go with it,” he says. “I’m pretty sure my parents knew a whole bunch of guys called Grant. We can make it work. I’ll call Oracle.”

Richard leaves the room before anybody can speak, and Damian breaks the silence that he leaves in his wake. 

“You upset him,” Damian says. “You know this is difficult for him, and you keep arguing silly points.”

“Okay, numero uno, Dick was already upset before we had this discussion, and you know it. We’ve disagreed before, we’ll talk it out when he’s feeling better, and we’re going to be fine. Second, I wasn’t arguing anything silly. The way he was trying to do things wasn’t working and he was too tired and emotionally all over the place to troubleshoot. Now our newest bat-boy has a name and it only took us…” Stephanie glances at a wristwatch on her left arm. “Twenty minutes to get it done. Which is probably the fastest anybody has ever named anything ever.”

Cass reaches out silently, and Steph slaps her hand without looking. A high-five. A gesture of celebration or greeting often performed with a friend. Damian’s lip curls.

“You want to keep moping all night, be my guest,” Steph says. “Or you can shimmy around that coffee table so we can come sit with you, and the four of us can teach Gray here how to have some fun. Doesn’t that sound good, Gray?”

The Gray S— Gray is not sure. The last card game he played was not fun. But Tim is not here and Steph’s orders-without-orders are clear, and Duke offered earlier to teach Gray how to perform well in games, and it is important to perform well in all tasks. 

“Yes,” Gray nods. 

“Awesome!” Steph grins. “You’re going to love Uno, I promise. It’s super fun.”

Notes:

Our boy finally has a name! (Although he is, for all intents and purposes, still 'Gray' until... well, forever.)

EDIT: During a check of DC Database (for an unrelated plotline) I discovered that in the current comics continuity, Dick's mother lived in Europe before meeting John Grayson, and had a surname that sounds very British to my ear. I edited this chapter slightly to account for this new information - in my mind, she had heritage from several different countries, including the U.K. and parts of Eastern Europe.

Chapter 17: Scrutiny - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Uno is a better game than Tim’s lying game or Tetris. 

This is not a difficult achievement. The rules are simple: each player has seven cards, and the remainder of the deck sits in the middle of the table. Each player must discard a card with the appropriate colour or number, and if they cannot, they must pick up a new card. There are a number of ‘special’ cards which can do things like change the order of play or force a player to pick up more cards. The aim of the game is to discard all of one’s cards, and once a player has only one card remaining in their hand, they must warn the other players by saying ‘uno’.

Duke is a good teacher. He holds the cards and succinctly explains what each card does and why he is playing it as the game progresses. He wins that round. In the second, Duke offers the Gray Son the opportunity to pick cards to play from their shared hand. 

“Nice pick,” Duke says, when Gray taps hesitantly at the blue reverse card clasped in his fingers. “Sorry, Steph.”

“I thought we were friends, Gray,” Steph says, and she shakes her head. But she does not seem angry - she is smiling, even as Duke drops the card onto the discard pile.

“He is a clone of Grayson. Of course he has better taste than that,” Damian scoffs. He tosses down a new card. “Blue seven.”

Cass hums before placing down her card. A blue five. 

“So mean,” she says. “Steph is my friend.”

“Yeah, Damian, you’re so mean,” Steph adds, and then she places a skip-a-turn card onto the discard pile, winking at Gray and Duke. “But not as mean as me. Sorry, boys - revenge is sweet.”

The game continues in this fashion for some time. When Gray’s heat-pack no longer feels heated, he puts it on the table before him. The humans surrounding him smile and talk and laugh and tell Gray that he is doing well. It is good.

This card game requires concentration, so much that Gray almost forgets his mental timekeeping. But approximately eighteen minutes after the first game begins, there is a loud knock at the door, and then Richard’s voice echoes through the halls.

“Pizza’s here!”

“Should we get a couple boxes and eat them in here?” Steph asks, halfway through placing down a new card. Blue three. “That way we can keep on playing.”

“I don’t know… Gray isn’t eating yet,” Duke says. His nose wrinkles as he tilts his head. “It’d be cruel to make him watch us.”

“Fine at lunch,” Cass says, shrugging. “Manhunter said so.”

“Grayson would ask him and then decide,” Damian says, a steady green gaze fixed on Gray. “So? What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything,” Gray answers, automatically, and Damian scowls. 

“You are infuriating,” he mutters, in Arabic. 

It is unclear what Gray is supposed to do: Duke does not prompt him to pick a new card, and nobody else seems to offer alternative instructions. But Gray does not need to think about this for very long, as Alfred soon appears in the doorway.

Alfred has another serving-cart with him, this time laden with flat cardboard boxes. Some are larger, some are smaller. Some are square, and some are rectangular. There are plates and napkins and small foil-lidded tubs emblazoned with words like RANCH, HONEY MUSTARD and BBQ. 

“Dinner is served,” Alfred says. “Master Damian, these two are for you.”

The other humans thank Alfred as he wheels the cart to a position on the other side of the coffee table.

“And as for you, young man,” Alfred says, fixing Gray with a kind smile, “let’s go to the dining room, so that you can finish your debrief.”

Gray nods, obediently rising and following Alfred. 

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” Alfred asks. 

“Yes,” Gray says. This is an odd question. Alfred keeps giving him water. Of course he will need to expel that water at some point. At present, he does not feel as though he has much waste to expel, if any. But it is a bodily need he now possesses, and he would not have this need if not for Alfred insisting that he drink water.

“Then let me show you where the bathroom is first,” Alfred says. “Then we’ll go to the dining room.”

The bathroom on the ground floor is not far from the dining room, down a small, tiled side-hall. Alfred leads him into the room, shows him the locking mechanism, and leaves Gray to expel waste alone. This room is much smaller than the one attached to his bathroom. Despite being called a bathroom, it has no bath. Or a shower, for that matter. 

The flushing mechanism is loud and the handwash smells like bergamot. And the water that comes from the faucet is warm. But Gray knows better than to keep his masters waiting, so he rinses the suds away and dries his hands on a soft, soft towel and tries to remember the warmth even as it fades in the cool air of the hallway. 

“You are always permitted to stop what you are doing in order to use a bathroom,” Alfred explains, as they return to the dining room. “If you are with other people, you must inform them that you are going there. If you are not sure where the closest bathroom is located, you must ask. Nobody is permitted to deny this to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Gray says. 

“Excellent. Now, we’ll say goodbye to the League after dinner,” Alfred says, guiding Gray with a hand on his shoulder. “Master Dick is downstairs with them at the moment - Master Bruce doesn’t like it when people wear their costumes upstairs, and neither do I.”

As promised, Tim and Bruce are already sitting at the dining room table in their usual places when Gray and Alfred arrive. On the table are several open boxes, containing large discs of food, some slices missing. A steaming teacup and a half-filled glass sit in front of Gray’s place. A reusable straw sits next to them. 

“Drink both of those, please,” Bruce says.

Gray sticks his straw into the teacup, cradles it his hands, and begins to sip. It is just as sweet as earlier, and nearly as hot. It is good. 

“We’ll try you with lidded cups soon,” Tim adds.

Tim is eating a slice of the food. The pizza. The smell in the air is savoury and different to yesterday's dinner or this morning's breakfast.

Nobody speaks for a few moments. Gray sucks up the last of the tea within a minute of beginning to drink.

“Is tea good?” Bruce asks. He is not eating, although there are small smears of grease and red sauce on the plate before him and in the corners of his mouth. 

“Yes.”

“Why is it good?”

“It is warm,” Gray says. “And it is sweet.”

“I see,” Bruce says. A pause. Two and a half seconds. “Let’s discuss more good things. I know that you think music is good and that stuffed animals are good. You made a list with Tim.”

“Yes.”

“Why is storage on your list of good items?” Bruce asks. “I told you that storage isn’t for people.”

“Storage is on the list of good items because storage is good,” Gray says. Bruce does not seem to like this answer, because he scowls. 

“Why is storage good?” Bruce presses. 

That is a difficult question. Gray does not know how to answer.

“Storage is good because objects are supposed to be—“

“No,” Bruce interrupts, his brows drawn low. “Wrong answer.”

Gray closes his mouth. He does not know the correct answer.

Five seconds pass, then ten.

“Is there another reason that you li— that storage is good?” Tim asks. “Is it dark in there? Is that why it’s good?”

Gray considers this. The container is dark, yes, but that’s not why it is good.

“It is warm,” he says. Not always, but often. Warmth speeds up the healing process. Bruce Wayne’s home is warmer, though, and so far appears to be heated more consistently than the storage container ever was. 

“It’s warm?” Tim repeats. He swallows. “Any other reason?”

Gray thinks about the storage container currently in the cave downstairs and about how the chest upstairs hid the stuffed animals so well.

“It is safe.”

“What makes it safe?” Bruce asks. His gaze is steady, unmoving.

This is hard to answer. If he is truthful, then Bruce and Tim may think that Gray is disobedient or lazy or any of the other things that would warrant being thrown away and disposed of. But he cannot be not-truthful. It is not permitted.

“They can’t touch me or issue orders if I’m in storage,” he mumbles.

“They? The doctors or the Court?”

“Yes.” 

Bruce leans forward, his forearms resting on the table. He is frowning, head tilted to one side. Angry, Gray thinks, although when he speaks his voice does not sound so. It is quiet and steady and calm.

“When you say ‘they can’t touch me’, what do you mean?” 

“They can’t perform medical procedures or carry out tests when I am in storage,” Gray answers. 

“The procedures and tests… are they bad?” Tim asks.

This is a difficult question. They cannot be bad because the doctors and the Court are always good. But the procedures and tests do not feel good. They are often painful. And Gray is always told that he did something bad or that he failed in some way, and he never ever seems to manage to earn the praise he receives.

“They are necessary,” Gray says. 

“I see,” Bruce says, and his voice gets even calmer. “Do these procedures and tests ever include your reproductive organs?”

This is an easy question. 

“No,” Gray answers. Those body parts are not necessary for assassination or covert operations.

“Well, at least that’s something,” Tim murmurs, almost too quiet for Gray’s ears. Then he clears his throat. “So, time in storage is good because it’s warm and it’s safe because you don’t have to go through medical stuff or tests or follow orders. Any other reasons?”

Gray thinks hard. There’s one other reason he can think of - he knows that he is not being watched. If he says that, then Bruce and Tim may think that he is bad because cameras are necessary to ensure that he remains good. That is what Doctor Griffith said, and he is good and correct. 

But Tim is asking a direct question, and he cannot refuse to answer.

“There are no cameras,” Gray says. 

“No cameras?” Tim blinks, eyebrows rising. His expression… it is not anger or fear or happiness, but something else. Confusion? Gray isn’t sure. “I saw cameras at the lab, and we have some in the cave. Are there cameras in other places, too?”

“Yes.”

“Where?” Bruce asks. His expression is the same as always - angry-neutral. Gray cannot tell if he is displeased yet.

“Everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Tim cuts in again. “As in, here in the manor?” 

“Yes.”

“Where?” Tim presses. 

“Everywhere.”

“Show me the cameras,” Bruce says. “Point to where they are.”

Gray tries very hard to be still and good and quiet, because he knows that Bruce will not like his next answer.

“I can’t,” he says. “I don’t know the position. I only know that they are here.”

“How do you know that?” Bruce presses. 

“The doctors and the Court told me,” Gray explains. “Observation is important to ensure correct behaviour and full obedience. Therefore I am always observed.”

“Always?” Bruce asks. His voice is sharp. He is angry.

Gray has made him angry.

“Yes,” Gray answers. “Always. During simulations, during sparring, during testing, during medical procedures and surgeries, during cleaning and maintenance, during waiting periods… always.”

“Except when you’re in storage,” Tim says. “But you said that the Court and doctors told you that you’re always observed. Since you can’t tell us where the cameras here are located, you must know that sometimes hidden cameras are used. So how do you know that the storage container has no hidden cameras?”

Gray closes his eyes. He has spoken himself into a corner. He will definitely be punished. He can almost feel it already - the blistering pain of freezer-burnt skin and the unpleasant ache of the marrow in his bones expanding.

“Sometimes I misbehave,” he whispers. “And nobody punishes me for it. Therefore I am not being observed while I am misbehaving.”

“What do you mean ‘misbehave’?” Bruce asks. 

“There can’t be much mischief you can get up to when you’re in a box,” Tim says.

“Sometimes I act without permission,” Gray confesses, and when he breathes in to make the words, it sounds like a short, sharp gasp. “Sometimes I move my fingers or make facial expressions or hum or whistle.”

Nobody speaks for one second, then two. Three. Five. Ten. 

Finally, Tim breaks the silence. 

“That’s it?” Tim asks. “That’s how you misbehave?”

Gray nods. 

Bruce does not say anything for several long seconds. 

“The rules Alfred gave you earlier still stand.” Bruce’s voice is deep and slow, each word enunciated with precision. “You are permitted to move and speak of your own volition, so long as you do not disturb or harm others. You will never be punished for this, unless you ignore a request to stop. Whether you behaved well at the laboratory is not my concern. Whether you behave well here is all that matters. You will not be punished for any misbehaviour that occurred before you came here.”

Gray blinks. This seems irrational. But Bruce is being very clear: all Gray has to do is behave well from now on.

“As for the cameras…” Bruce continues. “It is obvious that they have served their purpose. You understand that you must behave well and remain honest. I will have Alfred remove the cameras from your rooms. By the time you go to your room tonight, they will no longer be present. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Gray answers, even though he does not understand everything. The reasoning behind Bruce’s actions seems flawed. But he understands what will happen.

“Good,” Bruce says. 

The rest of the dinner passes uneventfully. Gray sips his water until his stomach is full. Tim and Bruce eat for approximately fifteen minutes.

When Bruce rises, he instructs Gray to come downstairs with him. 

“The Justice League will want to say goodbye to you,” he says. “You’ll meet them all again, but it is customary for humans to say goodbye to each other. As you are a human, it is important that you take part in this custom. Do you understand?”

Gray nods. He is not sure how he can correct Bruce’s misunderstanding. He is not a person, and never really has been. 

---

There are empty, grease-stained cardboard boxes pizza boxes stacked neatly beside the elevator in the vestibule. The Justice League are assembled in the room with the computers, the screens showing CCTV footage from across Gotham. Richard stands with Flash and Cyborg, and all three smile at Bruce as he approaches.

“Hey,” Richard raises a hand in greeting. “Good to see you, Gray.”

“He needs a better nickname than that,” Bruce says. 

“A better nickname than… the one he chose for himself?” Richard raises one eyebrow. “Hey, Gray, how about telling Bruce your legal name?”

“Graham Grant Grayson,” Gray says.

“Don’t look like that,” Richard scowls at Bruce, although Gray cannot detect a change in Bruce’s facial expression. “It works. Dad liked alliteration. Oracle already has his legal stuff forged digitally - she’s just waiting on the physical stuff.”

“We may as well dunk him in neon paint,” Bruce growls.

“They already know, or at least suspect,” Flash says. “Three CCTV sightings in the city so far. You sure you don’t want one of us to stick around for security?”

“I’m sure,” Bruce replies, through gritted teeth. 

“Suit yourself,” Flash mutters, and then he smiles at Gray. “It was really nice to meet you, Gray. I’m heading home soon, but I’ll be back to hang out with you and Dick some more. Maybe a few other friends, too.”

“Maybe not,” Bruce mutters. 

The other members of the Justice League join in this goodbye ritual. Superman and the Green Lanterns give Gray a handshake, while Wonder Woman briefly embraces him. Martian Manhunter inclines his head respectfully, the good cool feeling briefly enveloping Gray’s body. 

“I’ll see you again soon,” Cyborg promises. “Maybe once everything is sorted here, you can come visit Titan’s Tower. Rachel would probably love to see you again, and I bet Gar would get on great with you.”

“They can come here,” Richard says. "Considering Kori's past..."

“Kori is going to want to show Gray every single joy that exists on this planet,” Cyborg says, before addressing Gray directly. “She knows exactly what it’s like to be in your shoes. You’ve got a lot of friends already. It was really good to meet you today.”

“Yes,” Gray nods. It was really good to meet Cyborg, too. And it will be really good to meet more friends. 

Bruce makes Gray wave to the assembled League before bringing him back upstairs. 

“Today has been a long day,” Bruce says, as the elevator slides to a stop. The door opens to reveal his office, now bathed in a soft orange light with the curtains drawn. “Why don’t you go to your room and choose a new book to read tonight?”

Orders without orders. 

Gray nods. He will obey.

Chapter 18: Respite - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

“Alfred will come collect you in the morning, just like he did today,” Tim says, when they reach the door to Gray’s bedroom. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Gray echoes, and opens the door.

The bedroom is almost exactly as it was when Gray left it this morning. The stuffed rabbit still sits on the bed, propped against a pillow. The Kid’s Guide to the Universe still sits on the desk, the chair at the precise angle Gray left it at. The books Bruce picked out are still neatly stacked on the desk.

The window is not open any more. Alfred must have closed it when he removed the cameras. However, Alfred has left the curtains are open, casting orange and pink light across everything in the room. 

The sky outside is more than good. Gray has to think for a few seconds, rifling through his linguistic information. It is visually impressive. Beautiful? 

Gray knows what sunsets are. They happen daily, when the earth rotation reaches such a point that the sun appears to sink below the horizon. There is no reason for Gray to look out of the window after he closes the door behind him, no reason for him to stand there and stare at the city below as lights slowly begin to appear. 

Gotham County is the fourth-largest county by population in New Jersey, with a population of approximately eight hundred thousand. Gotham City is the third-largest city in the state, with a population of approximately two hundred and fifty hundred thousand. Gray cannot count all of the lights, not from this distance. His ocular implants will help, once he has undergone the surgery. But there are many, many lights and many, many people. Maybe some of them are looking at the sunset, too.

Gray carefully gathers his stuffed animals and arranges them on the windowsill. If he leans them against the glass, they can look out over the lawn and the gardens and the forests beyond, toward the spider-web of suburbs and the clusters of densely populated islands sprawling below. 

The pink-streaked sky turns orange, then red. Gray cannot see the sun itself set, as Wayne Manor faces east. When the sky darkens to black, the horizon no longer illuminated with a faint stripe of light, the city is almost too bright to look at. But Gray does look, at least for a few minutes. This is beautiful, too. 

Nobody gave Gray instructions on exactly when he ought to put on new pyjamas and brush his teeth. However, he did these things with Richard and Alfred yesterday at approximately nine o’clock, so that is when Gray leaves the stuffed animals where they are and prepares himself for tonight’s resting period. 

When Gray sits at the desk, mouth tasting like mint, he is dressed in slippery-soft pyjamas and a fuzzy-soft bathrobe and the stack of books Bruce gave him yesterday sit next to the lamp. Last night’s book sits on the other side of the desk. Gray carefully readjusts the placement of the wing-ding Superman gave him, next to the lamp, and picks the top book from the stack. He begins to read.

The World Around Us.

Gray reads. The book contains information about the physical nature of Earth. This information includes but is not limited to wavelengths that form light and sound, the characteristics of the water cycle, plant biology, bacteria, and the geological makeup of the planet. How everything ties together and affects numerous other aspects of the world, creating things like weather and natural disasters and diseases and seasons.

Much of the information is familiar to Gray, but the book elaborates on the information, in great detail. For example, although Gray was already aware that a sunset is what happens when the earth rotates such that the sun disappears from view, he was not aware that the curvature of the earth is what causes light particles to appear different colours during sunset. The pink and orange and red was not real, per se, just an illusion. But it was a good illusion all the same. He glances toward the window: the light is long gone, but bright sparkles hang in the almost-black sky. 

Yesterday’s book taught him that these are bright balls of burning gas hundreds of millions of miles away in space. Stars. And he can see them, even though there are millions and billions of them and there are millions and billions of light-years between the stars and him and many of the stars might not even burn any more because the light takes time to travel.

The timing of Gray’s existence is good. And so is the timing of Gray’s relocation to Bruce Wayne’s home. This timing means that, out of all the millions and billions of nights that have happened in the whole universe up until now, the star lights are visible outside the window tonight.

It would be good if the lights are visible tomorrow night, too. And the night after that. For as long as Gray is permitted to look out of this window. 

Although… if Gray thinks about it, he has not been given explicit permission to look out of his window. But he isn’t forbidden from it, either. Alfred wanted Gray to open the curtains earlier, and he did, and Alfred did not say anything even though Gray looked (briefly) out of the window in front of him while he was opening it. If Gray were not permitted to look outside, Alfred would have said something because Alfred always gives good instructions. And Bruce would have said earlier that Gray could not, but Bruce did not say that. 

What Bruce said is that Gray is allowed to move and look and make sound of his own accord and that he is permitted to do anything that does not disturb others, and Gray cannot think of any reason why looking at the stars would disturb others. 

His eyes drift down to the windowsill, where the stuffed animals stay propped against the glass. Looking at Gotham and the stars. If they stay where they are, they will see the sunrise, too. 

Gray finishes reading the book. Then he reads it again, more slowly this time. He carefully reads each word aloud: this way, he will not stumble over any words when Bruce questions him, and the stuffed animals can learn, too. And when he finishes that, the inside of his throat feels sticky and uncomfortable. Maybe there is dust stuck inside his throat.

A small amount of water, drunk from cupped fingers beneath the bathroom faucet, washes away the bad feeling and Gray returns to the bedroom and reads the book again. And again. And again after that, until the sky outside changes and Gray and the stuffed animals watch the sun rise over Gotham Bay.

It is good.

---

Gray retains the same preparation routine as yesterday, with the addition of two extra minutes for waste expulsion and  another one minute for opening the window by an inch. As he never closed the curtains, he does not need to open them again. And just like yesterday, Gray skims the book one final time as he waits for Alfred to knock at the door. 

At precisely twenty-five minutes past seven, Alfred knocks at the door and greets him with a smile. 

“Good morning, Master Gray.” Alfred says.

“Yes,” Gray replies. It is a very good morning.

“Are you ready for breakfast?” Alfred asks. 

“Yes,” Gray says. 

“You chose a nice shirt today,” Alfred says, which makes little sense because all of the clothes Richard lent Gray are nice. They are all well-made and are all made of fabrics that feel good and all fit well. “And I see your teddy bears are on the window-sill. Wouldn’t it be better to put them on the bed? Since we’re near the sea, there might be a strong wind and they might fall on the floor.”

Gray considers this. The logic is sound, because the stuffed animals are light and can be difficult to balance. Although the window is only open slightly, that might be enough to allow wind to knock them over. And although Alfred worded this as a question, it sounds as though he wants Gray to move the animals. More orders without orders.

Gray obeys, and carefully leans the rabbit and the bears against the pillows. 

“Did they teach you how to make a bed at the facility?” Alfred asks. “You did a very good job. It looks very neat.” 

“No,” Gray replies. Making a bed would not help him discreetly assassinate someone. If he ever killed someone and made a mess, he would simply add false evidence to the bedroom to throw suspicion on a third party. 

“No? Then I’m even more impressed. Well done.”

“I did not make the bed,” Gray clarifies, because if he allows Alfred to think that he did something he did not, then the consequences will be bad when his lie is discovered. “I did not use the bed.”

“You didn’t use the bed? Not even to read?” Alfred asks. “Why? Was it uncomfortable?” 

“I don’t know,” Gray says. 

“Haven’t you tried sitting or lying in it at all?”

“No.”

“I see,” Alfred says. He hums briefly. “When humans rest, they do so in a bed. That is why you have a bed. So that you can rest comfortably.”

“I do not require rest,” Gray tells him. 

“Of course,” Alfred says. “But sometimes you do rest, don’t you? Wasn’t that what you did while in your storage container?”

Gray considers this. 

“I wasn’t resting in the container,” he clarifies. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Perhaps you could try not doing anything in your bed,” Alfred says. “It’s lovely and warm. It has an electronically-heated mattress pad and blanket, so you’ll be cosy. And the sheet and pillows are very, very soft. Doesn’t that sound good?”

Gray considers this, then nods. It does sound good. The stuffed animals will be warm, too. 

“Yes,” he says.

“Then I highly suggest that you try doing nothing tonight, even if only for a few minutes,” Alfred says, patting Gray’s shoulder. “Now, let’s greet your family.” 

“Yes.”

They go downstairs, and the dining room is exactly as it was yesterday. Only Bruce looks a little different. His hair is noticeably greasy and messy and he has dark circles under his eyes and there is a bruise forming on his wrist and on his stubbled jaw. Both look to be fewer than six hours old.

The headline on Bruce’s newspaper reads SIGNAL SPOTTED IN RARE NIGHT APPEARANCE, but Gray cannot make out the rest of the article at this distance. The night-vision implants he is scheduled for are supposed to include a magnifying function that should work even in daylight. That’s what Doctor Griffith said. 

Maybe Bruce will allow Gray to have the implants when he realises that Gray is a tool and not a person. That would be good. 

“Good morning,” Bruce says, glancing up as Gray sits down in his usual place. A glass of water, cup of tea, and straw are already there, waiting for him.

“Yes.”

Bruce quickly resumes the same routine as yesterday, setting his newspaper aside as he questions Gray. 

“Which book did you choose?”

“The World Around Us.”

“What is the first piece of information you learnt from the book?” Bruce says, and Gray thinks about the sunset. 

“The changing position of the sun in the sky is a result of the rotation of the earth,” he says. “The changing colours of the sky at sunrise and sunset are caused by the curvature of the earth.”

“Good,” Bruce says. “What else did you learn from the book?”

“The seasons of the year are a result of the position of the rotational axis of the earth as it orbits the sun.”

The questions end when Bruce finishes his meal and Gray’s glass and cup are both empty. Then Bruce takes Gray downstairs, where he is instructed to sit in a particular chair in the infirmary, and lean back. 

“Your dental implant needs to be replaced,” Bruce says. “It’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

Gray had not known that his implant was damaged at all. But Bruce is his master and Bruce knows best, so he remains quiet and still and obedient as Bruce pokes the inside of his mouth with metal implements and takes x-rays of his jaw. 

When Bruce stops examining Gray’s mouth, he shows Gray an x-ray of someone’s head using a portable viewing screen.

“This is yours, from yesterday’s testing,” he says, and then he shows Gray another, similar x-ray. The new x-ray has no white shapes inside the cranial cavity, and there is no cloudiness marring the image. “This is Dick’s. Do you see any differences?” 

Gray points out the white shapes and the cloudiness.

“That’s right,” Bruce says. “The cloudiness is probably caused by the electrum particles. The shapes look like some kind of implant. Judging from the shape and position of them, you must have had brain surgery at one point. Do you know what it would have been for?”

“I don’t know,” Gray says. “I have had many augmentation surgeries.”

Bruce makes an unhappy noise. He continues to look at the x-rays, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“You don’t have any visible scarring on your scalp,” he says, and he replaces Richard’s x-ray with one that looks similar to the first, but taken from the right-hand side. “We’ll do more imaging later, but it looks like most of the implants are within the temporal lobes. It might explain how you were taught at the laboratory.”

This makes sense. Doctor Stevens had once mentioned during a phone call that ordinary people could not learn the way Gray could, with the machines and the downloading. He’d said something about patents and neurosurgery and how Doctor Burke could be ‘making bank if she weren’t such a fucking coward’. Doctor Stevens always sounded angry when he made phone calls during dionesium infusion sessions.

“When they taught you, did they use electrodes?” Bruce asks. 

“Yes,” Gray answers. They had. Always in the same place. Doctor Patel often joked that they should tattoo Gray’s skin to make placement easier, because the inflammation always faded by the time the equipment had been cleaned and put away. And then Doctor Lee would always remind her that they tried it already, and it had been pointless because the ink wouldn’t stay in his skin and the scars just healed over.

“The room we— the room that your storage container was placed in,” Bruce begins, rubbing at his jaw. “Was that the same room that you were taught in?”

“No,” Gray replies. “I was taught in rooms B-487, 488 and 489. And I was also taught during my maturation and gestation phases, in the B-3 meat suite.”

Bruce frowns.

“Meat suite?”

“That is what the doctors called it,” Gray says. 

Bruce makes a short, low sound, but does not say anything else for two minutes and thirty-two seconds.

“Take him upstairs, Damian,” he says, with a deep sigh.

“How did you know I was there?” Damian asks, emerging from a shadowy corner near the doorway. Gray had not been aware of his presence.

“A father always knows,” Bruce says.

---

The day is strange but good. 

Damian brings Gray to one of the manor’s recreation rooms. Damian switches on the TV and begins playing several episodes of an anime series he likes. 

“She is the main character,” he says, jabbing his fingers at the screen when a red-haired girl appears. “And the one with blue hair is her enemy - pay attention to her. She seems nice, but she is evil.”

Gray watches the cartoon and obediently pays attention to the evil girl. Damian often pauses the cartoon to explain plot points, many of which seem strange to Gray - they involve romance and magic and high school. Gray is not familiar with any of those. 

They are interrupted by Tim after about half an hour. 

“I can’t believe you’re seriously making him watch that,” Tim says. “You should show him a movie. Something good. Star Wars, maybe.”

“I am not showing him Star Wars,” Damian replies, sharply. “It is overrated, and we need to start him with something that is not easily confused with reality. Anime - and any other animation or cartoon - is perfect in that regard.”

“You think Star Wars is easily confused with reality?” Tim asks, raising one eyebrow. 

“Half of the Justice League were in our basement yesterday,” Damian replies. “Aliens and gods exist. Talking robots and light-swords in a galaxy far, far away is hardly odd in comparison.” 

“I’ll admit you have a point,” Tim agrees, and he ends up joining them for a second stint in front of the television. This time, they watch a cartoon about people with superpowers: the X-Men. After three episodes, Tim and Damian eat lunch while Gray drinks tea. The tea Damian makes is stronger than Alfred’s, but it is no less sweet. 

Lunch is followed by video games. Duke appears, and although he disparages video games - “card games are where it’s at”, he says, with a smile - he plays well and beats Tim twice at Mario-Kart. 

Mario-Kart has a similar level of fun to Uno: it is simple, but requires concentration. Gray has difficulty with the buttons at first, but quickly adapts. 

“You’d make a killing at e-sport,” Tim groans, after coming second for the fifth time in a row, and then he winces. “Er… not a literal killing. I meant, uh, just that you’d be really good at it. That’s all.”

Duke puts on a movie about pirates and a girl and a blacksmith. It is good - or at least, the girl looks good and the Caribbean looks warm. Gray thinks about how good is would be to lie down on the sandy beaches in the bright sunlight. 

Midway through, Damian disappears, then reappears eight minutes and fifteen seconds later with a dog. A Great Dane. 

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Tim says. 

“Then it is a good thing he is my dog and not yours,” Damian replies, sharply. When he speaks to the dog, his voice is much softer. “Go on, Titus. Say ‘hello’ to Gray.”

Titus does not approach Gray. Instead, he looks at Gray, then away, and then shakes himself before stretching near Damian’s feet. 

“Titus, all is well,” he says. “Say ‘hello’.”

Although Damian tries to coax Titus into the room, Titus stays firmly near the door, barely looking into the room. After a few minutes, Damian gives up, patting the dog. 

“It’s all right,” Damian says as they leave, and Gray is not sure who he is addressing.

Notes:

This chapter was supposed to cover introductions to Batwoman, Batwing, and Red Hood, but it's gotten long enough that I'm cutting it in two. OTL

Chapter 19: Newness - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

After Damian and Titus leave, Tim looks at Gray. 

“We should’ve expected he’d be afraid,” he says. “Sorry about that.”

This, like most things Tim says, makes little sense. Titus was likely afraid because of Gray’s lack of heartbeat, core temperature, and necessary breathing. These things are not within Tim’s control, nor the rest of the family. 

It is better if Gray does not have any of those things at all: a heartbeat would mean that he would have to excrete liquid waste more often, and the sound of blood pumping would probably be loud and disturbing in his ears, and he might be detected by certain security systems and metahumans. If he had to breathe, rather than inhaling only when he needs to speak, then he would not be able to operate in unbreathable environments and could be killed by suffocation or asphyxiation. And if he had a core temperature, then…

Gray cannot think of any reason why having a core temperature would be negative. He is not sure if it matters at all: he is not supposed to be deployed in freezing conditions without sufficient warming gear in the first place, because freezing temperatures can destroy his tissue.

In any case, Tim and Bruce’s family cannot give Gray a heartbeat or a core temperature or necessary breathing. Titus will always be afraid of Gray. The other pets are likely to have a similar reaction.

Tim continues to look at Gray. 

Gray does not say anything. He tries to pay attention to the movie and ignores the heavy, twisting feeling deep in his stomach. 

Damian does not return before the movie ends, the leading man and woman kissing. Instead, he appears in the doorway after Duke beats Tim and Gray twice at Uno.

“Alfred said that it’s time to get ready for dinner,” he says. “We have guests.”

“Guests?” Duke asks. 

“Kate and Luke,” Tim says. “Maybe Jason, too. If he’s back in Gotham.”

“Haven’t seen Luke in a while,” Duke says. “Is Lucius coming too?”

“No, but Bruce has been keeping him informed,” Tim says. “He’s cooking up a few things with Mr Terrific.”

Damian grabs Gray’s arm, tugging him to his feet. 

“Come,” Damian says. “You must wear something better than that.”

Gray is not sure what Damian means. Richard’s clothes are comfortable and well-maintained. But Damian has given clear instructions, and so Gray returns to his bedroom with Damian, who opens the wardrobe and starts pulling clothes out. 

“You can wear whatever you like when it is a household dinner, but you have to dress formally when there are guests,” Damian says, and he shows Gray a red dress shirt. “Buttoned shirts like this are formal.”

Damian gives Gray another pair of pants. These are made of a pressed wool, rather than the fleecy fabric of the pants Gray has been wearing today. Then he adds a jacket made out of an identical dark wool and leaves the room while Gray dresses.

When Gray is dressed in the new clothes, Damian makes him wash his face, re-comb his hair, and then they go back down to the dining room. 

The dining room is mostly the same as it had been a few days ago, except that there are now three extra places set. Two of the extra places are occupied by a woman with short crimson hair and a man with a neatly-trimmed beard. The quiet sounds of conversation grow even quieter as Damian gently pushes Gray to his usual chair. 

Gray sits down. His place has already been set with a familiar glass, cup and straw. But this time, there is a small plate and a spoon as well. 

Tim said yesterday that he would not eat solid food for ‘a while’. He did not say when Gray would begin having to eat. 

“Hey,” Richard greets Gray, as Damian goes to his own chair. Richard looks pale, and there are signs of exhaustion across his face: dark smudges beneath slightly puffy eyes, uncombed hair and an unshaven jaw. “You doing good?”

Gray thinks. He has done everything well today. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“You were right. That is disconcerting,” the red-haired woman murmurs, almost too quietly for Gray to hear. 

Bruce speaks, and his voice has a slightly weak, raspy quality to it that Gray has not heard before. He does not look much better than he did this morning: his hair is clean and neat, but he still looks tired. 

“Gray, there are some people I’d like you to meet. My cousin, Kate,” Bruce gestures at the woman. “And Luke, the son of my close friend Lucius,” Bruce gestures to the man, who smiles. “They work with me downstairs.”

Gray understands. He recalls his training. 

Kate is Batwoman and also Katharine Kane, daughter of Jacob and the deceased Gabrielle Kane. She has a fiancée, Margaret Sawyer, who is a highly-ranking officer in the GCPD. Kate is best-known in her civilian life as a socialite and board member of several companies, including  Kane Industries, Wayne Enterprises, and Hamilton Rifles .

Luke is Batwing and also Lucas Fox, the son of Lucius and Tanya Fox. Luke is best known in his civilian life as a professional boxer who runs a highly specialised technological research and development company. According to a Court mole, Luke had at one point been headhunted by Wayne Enterprises for his excellent academic record - completing two degrees simultaneously at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology - but had turned down the position.

“Pleased to meet you,” Kate says, her hair bobbing as she nods. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Graham Grant Grayson,” Gray says, obediently. He picks up the straw and begins drinking the tea. It is not as warm as he had thought, but it is not cold either, and it tastes the same as Alfred made it previously.

“We’ll practice greetings later,” Richard says. When Gray glances at him, he looks stiff but not angry. 

“Nice to meet you, Graham,” Luke replies, drawing Gray’s attention. He has a small smile on his mouth and what Gray can see of his posture appears relaxed. Beside him, Cass watches silently. Her lower lip is split. Luke continues speaking, using the same friendly and nice tone of voice: “How are you settling in here? It must be a big change, right?”

“I am settling in as Bruce and Alfred have instructed,” Gray answers the first question, and then moves onto the second. “It is a big change. Everything is different.”

“Everything? That’s a lot,” Luke says. “How about one or two examples?”

This is not a direct request, but Gray is familiar with these now. It is difficult to choose so few examples, because everything is so very different at Bruce Wayne’s residence. He allows himself seven seconds to weigh up possible responses.

“It is warm here,” Gray says. “And the windows look outside.”

“It’s warm and the windows look outside,” Luke mutters, glancing away from Gray for a moment. He frowns briefly, but he does not seem angry. “I see what you mean, Bruce.” 

Then Luke looks back at Gray, speaking at his normal volume, his face friendly again. 

“My dad helps Bruce downstairs,” he says. “He gives Bruce gifts that help him. Dad gave me a gift for you, too. You can have it after dinner. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like a reasonable prediction,” Gray says. If Luke has a gift for Gray, then it would make sense that he gives it after the current social activity ends.

What is the gift? Luke has not said. But it must be something good, or it would not be a gift. 

The gift must be something warm or soft, then. Like another stuffed animal. It would be good if there were enough stuffed animals to fill the windowsill or the pillows on his bed. 

Maybe it will be a new kind of stuffed animal - the book earlier said that there are more than two million species of animals on Earth. Although the bedroom is a large space, Gray probably could not fit two million stuffed animals in it. But he would try very hard if given the opportunity.

“Prediction is an interesting choice of words,” Luke says. 

“It happens sometimes,” Tim says. “I’m not sure yet if the cause is the downloaded lexicon itself, a lack of familiarity with social customs and common language use, or a sign of a neurological condition.”

“It’s not a bad choice,” Richard adds, addressing Gray directly. “It’s just a little unusual. You didn’t do anything wrong, don’t worry.”

Gray had not been worried about his choice of words. But maybe he should be worried in the future. Maybe if he reads more intently and listens more carefully, he will not make any more unusual choices. Maybe Luke and his father would not want to give Gray a gift any more if he continued to make unusual choices.

Gray nods. He should make good choices. He will make good choices.

“What did you do today?” Bruce asks, though he does not seem to address any specific person.

“I introduced Gray to Japanese animation and the concept of relaxing,” Damian replies. “And I tried to introduce Titus too, but…”

“I saw the text message,” Bruce says. “You and I need to have a conversation. That little experiment could have gone very badly.” 

“It wasn’t an experiment!” Damian protests, his eyebrows drawing down into a frown. “I thought Titus could be a friend to that— to Gray.” 

“Even so,” Bruce says, his facial expression impossible to read, “we need to talk. After dinner.” 

Damian crosses his arms and makes a short tutting noise. Tim begins telling Bruce about the video games and movies from earlier, to which Duke occasionally adds contextual information and his own comments. As Bruce listens, appearing to focus intently, Alfred enters the room with a serving-cart and begins distributing food. 

“Pot roast, huh?” Richard asks, as Alfred sets a steaming platter of meat and vegetables down. “You really think he’ll show up?”

“I suspect he’ll break into the cave downstairs first,” Alfred replies. “I’ve put a serving down there. And a note informing him that if he wants any of the cookies I plan to bake this evening, he’d better make an appearance upstairs.”

“Good thinking,” Richard says, and then he nudges Gray. “Cookies are great. You’re going to like them.”

After the centre of the table is filled with dishes, Alfred puts a bowl on top of the plate in front of Gray. It is partially filled with an opaque, amber-coloured liquid. There are droplets of a darker liquid floating on top. There seem to be approximately two hundred millilitres of liquid in total.

“This is beef broth, from today’s dinner.” Alfred says. “It contains many nutrients. Please try to consume at least half of this serving. If you would — if you think it would be good to consume more, then I will provide you with a second serving. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Very good,” Alfred says, and when he leaves the room the others begin to serve themselves portions of food. 

Gray picks up the spoon. It feels strange in his hand. It is difficult to bring it into the broth and then up to his mouth, in part because much of the broth spills out of the spoon when he tries.

“Not like that,” Cassandra says. She picks up a serving-spoon and holds it a different way. It is not as Gray is, with fingers wrapped around the handle and thumb near the bowl of the spoon. Rather, Cassandra seems to pinch the spoon half-way up the handle, her hand facing sideways so that the remaining length rests on the meaty part between her thumb and the back of her hand. “Do this.”

Gray obeys, but ultimately copies insufficiently because Richard reaches over and gently repositions the spoon in Gray’s hand. 

“Yes,” Cass says. “Good.”

This time, Gray gets a mouthful of broth. 

It is warm, but not very. 

It is flavourful. Intensely so. It is even more flavourful than the tea. 

 Gray knows savoury and salty from initialisation training, when the doctors tested his senses and overall health after his growth and maturation phases were completed. But the broth is more than ‘savoury’ and ‘salty’. Those words are insufficient. The broth is more.

It is rich. It is complex. There is so much contained in the broth, washing across Gray’s tongue and down his throat.

Gray tries to pick apart the flavours, using what he remembers from his downloaded training on culinary arts (all humans need to eat, and poison can be easily ingested and hard to track). It is not as easy as the tea, where there were only three flavours to track: steeped leaves and milk and sugar.  

Gray looks at the food Richard and Cass are eating beside him. Slices of meat - Bos taurus - and chunks of vegetables swimming in a thicker, darker version of the broth he has: Allium cepa and Daucus carota, he guesses. There are more flavours, too. There is a depth to the broth, a kind of umami. Many things mingled together. 

Gray should find out what the flavours are later. Alfred will know, because Alfred seems to know everything.

“Is it good?” Cass asks. 

Gray swallows the mouthful, and the flavours linger. They stimulate his salivary glands. 

He nods.

Gray consumes more broth, until Alfred comes back and gives him more. And then he consumes that, too.

---

“Bruce told me that you were made at CADMUS,” Kate says, as they go downstairs in the hidden elevator. To her left, Luke holds a black briefcase and Gray can feel Richard’s warm breath on the back of his neck. “They were commissioned by the Court of Owls, right?”

“Yes,” Gray replies. 

This much he knows. The Court has no access to cloning technology of their own. That is why CADMUS got involved. 

“I don’t know much about the Owls. I’m not one,” Kate says. “What can you tell me about them?”

Gray thinks. Kate looks good and talks in a kind and friendly way, but that doesn’t change the fact that she, as Batwoman, is an enemy of the Court. And he’s not permitted to speak about the Court to non-members and non-CADMUS doctors.

“They are very secret,” he says. “I’m not permitted to speak about them. Especially not to an enemy of the Court.”

“She’s not an enemy of the Court,” Bruce says. He isn’t looking at Gray or Kate. Instead, he has his arms crossed over his chest, looking at the shiny reflective material of the doors. “I’m giving you permission. You can tell Kate about all of the Court’s secrets.”

It is a strange instruction, but Gray is not permitted to consider how strange it is, and so he does not. 

“I don’t know many of the secrets,” Gray admits, as the elevator shudders to a stop and they step out into the vestibule. “I only know about Court locations and general hierarchy.” 

“Useful stuff,” Kate says. “I’ll get a map up.”

“Good idea,” Luke agrees, and then he holds up his briefcase. “But first, how about that gift?”

Luke leads Gray to a table near the computer in the main room. There is a plate streaked with broth and some dirty cutlery already on the table, along with an empty glass, a pair of leather gloves and a red helmet.  The computer screen is already brightly-lit, showing some of the x-rays Bruce showed Gray earlier. 

“At least he showed up,” Richard says. “I bet he’s either getting coffee, or he’s in the bathroom.” 

“Coffee,” Bruce says, looking at his watch. “Above the lab.”

“You have cameras everywhere, don’t you?” Richard sighs. Then Gray hears the sound of footsteps leading away, his eyes fixed on Luke’s hands opening the case. 

Inside the case is not a new stuffed animal, or even an old one. Instead, it is a neatly-folded piece of cloth. It is white and appears to sparkle slightly, tiny metallic threads catching the dim light in the cave.

“My dad made a special shirt for you,” Luke says, lifting the cloth out of the briefcase. “It’s designed to gently warm you to normal body temperature. It’s just a prototype, so it might not work perfectly, but if you like it then I’m sure he’ll make another for you. If the design works as planned, he’ll make more gear for you.”

The shirt in Luke’s hands seems to be a regular tank top. Judging from the way the muscles in Luke’s hands and forearms move under his skin and the way the cloth itself reacts to gravity and the movements in the air, the shirt must be made of an extremely light fabric. There is a small pop fastener near the collar, embossed with the WayneTech logo, but there is no discernible flap that the fastener is securing. Otherwise, the shirt looks plain and unremarkable. 

“Alfred should be able to launder this the same as any other shirt,” Luke says. “I already gave him the low-down on it, but basically the only thing you need to know is that you can’t iron it because high levels of sustained heat could melt some of the components. This popper here contains a small, rechargeable battery, and if it comes off you’ll need to call my dad to repair it.”

Luke holds out the shirt. 

“You want to—?“ he starts, and then he stops. “Uh, I mean, you should try it on. That way we can check that it fits and that it’s comfortable.”

Gray nods, and he takes the shirt from Luke’s hands. Although he knew it would be light, it almost feels like nothing in his hands, a slippery material that is surprisingly almost as soft as his pyjamas despite the metallic fibres. As Gray begins to shuck off his jacket, Tim quickly grabs his shoulder and steers him toward the changing room. 

“People normally only undress in private places, where there aren’t other people around. There are exceptions, but…” Tim trails off, gently pushing Gray through the door. “Can you come and show us when you’ve got the shirt on?”

“Yes,” Gray says. He is capable of showing the others. It is something he is able to do.

“Wait,” Tim says. “Just to clarify, I mean that you should come back out of the changing room and show us when you’ve put the new shirt on. Do you understand?”

Ah. So it was an order.

“Yes.”

“What will you do?”

“I will put Luke and Lucius’ gift on and I will show everybody.”

“Good,” Tim says. “Make sure you bring the button shirt and jacket with you - we only need to check the fit of the shirt, so you’ll be able to put them back on again.”

Gray nods, and Tim leaves. 

The shirt fabric is just stretchy enough to allow Gray to put it on without much difficulty, and it clings closely to his skin. The lower hem rests just above his hipbone and the collar rests just over his collarbones. The fabric is just as soft and slippery now as it felt in his hands just a few moments ago. 

It does not feel warm.

Luke said the shirt would warm gently, so maybe it needs more time. Or maybe the design is not as good as Lucius thought. Or maybe someone ironed the shirt, even though they are not allowed to do that, and now the components are not working.

Gray’s stomach feels tight. He folds his jacket and buttoned shirt and slings them over one arm as he leaves the changing room. 

Bruce, Gray’s siblings, Kate and Luke are still crowded near the computer and monitors in the main room. Richard is there, too. He is talking with Bruce, Damian and a new person: a man, younger than Richard, with white-streaked hair. He has a gently-steaming cup in his hands. The monitors now show maps: Gotham, New Jersey, and the United States. Luke glances at Gray as he approaches, breaking briefly from his conversation with Tim, Cass and Kate to greet Gray.

“Hey, looks like a good fit,” Luke says, with another smile. “It should warm up in a few - it’ll take about ten minutes to get you up to ninety-six point six. I’ll run a temperature scan just to be sure. Is it scratchy or uncomfortable anywhere?”

“No,” Gray answers. It feels fine. 

“Good,” Luke says. “I’ll let Dad know.”

Gray nods. This seems like a good idea. Lucius Fox will need data if he wants to improve this shirt or make more warming clothes for Gray. Maybe Bruce will ask him to make a warming stuffed animal, too, if Gray is very good and works hard to deserve it. 

A warm hand clasps Gray’s bare shoulder, turning him around. It is Bruce. 

“There’s someone you need to meet,” he says, and he gestures behind him to where Richard and Damian and the new man are standing. “This is Jason.”

Jason. Gray thinks hard, rifling through his downloaded data. There is only one Jason listed as being linked to Bruce Wayne. 

Jason Todd, supposedly the second Robin, who was murdered and then resurrected via an unknown means. Jason Todd, definitely the current Red Hood, a crime lord and mercenary with links to various vigilantes and heroes.

Gray waits for Bruce to provide more contextual information, but Jason speaks first. 

“I go out of town for one weekend and Boy Wonder here gets an evil clone?” 

“Okay, first of all, you’ve been off-planet for at least two weeks,” Richard says. “Second, calling him ‘evil’ is a pretty big stretch.”

“Third, CADMUS made him months ago, maybe even years,” Tim calls, from out of Gray’s immediate line of sight, and Jason sticks his middle finger up at someone standing behind Gray. 

“God, the two of you are insufferable,” Jason says. “And Alfred wonders why I don’t come to dinner.”

“How dare you, of all people, accuse Grayson of being insufferable?” Damian snarls, pointing a finger at Jason.

“Enough,” Bruce says, pinching the skin between his eyes. “Gray, introduce yourself.”

“My name is Graham Grant Grayson,” Gray recites, and then he stops.

“What kind of name is that?” Jason asks, breaking the silence.

“Roll with it,” Richard replies. “He chose it himself. He hasn’t gotten to choose a lot of things in life.”

“What are you, Gray?” Bruce asks. 

“I am a Talon,” Gray answers. “I was created by CADMUS for the Court of Owls.”

“The Court of Owls?” Jason’s eyes widen, one hand snaking down to the holstered pistol on his thigh. “What the fuck is it doing here?”

“Bruce is my master now,” Gray informs him, and Jason laughs. It is short and does not sound kind or friendly.

“Your master?” Jason repeats, and then he shakes his head. “Holy shit. You love this, B, don’t you? Your favourite kid, only pliant and obedient. Perfect for you to control.”

“That’s not true,” Bruce says. “You don’t know—“

“I know that you’re taking advantage!” Jason suddenly begins shouting. He is angry. “You always do - that’s why he’s here with you and not halfway back to Metropolis by now, isn’t it?”

Gray averts his gaze and tries to remain very still. Jason is addressing Bruce in anger, but Bruce is a master and is above being the object of fury. Therefore it is Gray that must have made Jason angry. 

Maybe Jason will express this with his fists, rather than his gun. Bullets are unpleasant to heal from and the blood splatters make a mess. Doctor Stevens always complained about having to clean up Gray's sticky, tarry blood.

"Whoa," Luke says. "Let's all step back, all right?"

"Step back?" Jason demands. "This dumb fuck is going to get everybody here killed! And you're all just going along with it!"

“Stop, Jason,” Bruce says, and this time his voice sounds sharper.

Gray's stomach hurts. He tries not to breathe.

“Or what? You afraid of what’s going to happen when he finds out the truth?” Jason asks.

“Yes," comes Bruce's answer and there is silence.

A warm hand wraps around Gray’s wrist, squeezing gently. Gray recognises the shoes and sleeve in the corner of his vision. Cass. 

“You saw the files,” Tim adds. “You’re really going to tell me you’re not afraid?”

Cass' warm fingers begin to tap out a message on the back of Gray's hand in gentle Morse.

b-r-e-a-t-h-e

Gray does, unintentionally making a quiet wheezing noise. Cass rubs her thumb across Gray's skin in slow circles. His stomach hurts a little less.

“Hey, hey,” Richard cuts in, and Gray can see Richard’s dress shoes move as he plants himself between Jason and Bruce, even though Jason is really angry at Gray. “I get it, okay? But Luke's right. We need to step back and calm down. We can talk about it later.”

There is silence for one second, then two.

Three.

Five. Someone's clothes are rustling, like they're using ASL.

Ten.

“Fine,” Jason says. “We can talk about it later.”

Chapter 20: Reasoning - The Cave, Bristol County

Cass’s hand is warm and grounding and Jason does not shout again. In fact, nobody shouts. 

Instead, Richard moves out of Gray’s line of sight. Then Gray can hear multiple sets of footsteps leading away, becoming echoes and then echoes of echoes before fading entirely. Three people leave, he thinks. 

Cass squeezes his hand gently and then lets go. 

“It is okay,” she says, haltingly. “You can look.”

Gray raises his head, dragging his gaze from the floor. 

Cass is right. It is okay. Jason is gone, along with Richard and Damian. This is good. If Jason is not present, Gray cannot make him angry any more. And Richard is kind and friendly, and Damian is kind and commanding, so between them they are sure to make Jason no longer angry.

“Gray,” Bruce’s voice rings out, deep and familiar. When Gray looks at him, he looks away. “You can put the rest of your clothes back on. Tim, Kate and Luke will look after you for a few minutes.”

“Yes,” Gray agrees.

“This way, kid,” Luke says, steering Gray away, a warm hand on his shoulder. Bruce leaves, taking Duke and Cass with him.

As Bruce requested, Gray puts his buttoned shirt and woollen jacket back on. Then Kate shows him several maps and has him point out several important Court locations.

“This is where the Talons are stored between uses,” Gray explains, pointing at a defunct chapel in Otisburg. The crypt still exists, under the chapel foundations, and its age makes it a protected building, meaning it is unlikely anybody will look further than the art gallery that now occupies the main floor. “There is a rudimentary tunnel system that leads to the new Pit and the new Maze.” 

“That gallery belongs to the Monroe family,” Kate remarks. She tilts her head. “Are any members of the Monroe family also members of the Court?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you have to follow orders from the Court. So you must know who they are.” 

“I have to follow orders, but I am not given any private information, such as names,” Gray says. “The members of the Court wear masks. That is how I know to follow their orders.” 

“You follow them just because they wear a mask?” Luke asks.

“Yes,” Gray says. “The Court is a secret. The masks are kept safe and hidden and the members of the Court come to specific secret locations to issue orders. Anybody who knows to come to the secret locations and knows to wear the mask must be an Owl.”

Tim nods, but he is also frowning. 

“That’s some circular logic,” he mutters, and then he turns his head to meet Gray's eyes.“I have a question for you. A hypothetical question, like before: not real at all. If an Owl came here and issued orders, would you follow those orders?” 

“No,” Gray answers, immediately. It is an easy answer.

“Why not?”

Gray had not expected a follow-up question. He blinks

“Because…” Gray starts, thinking hard. “Because I was given to Bruce. That was the will of the Court. Because I belong to Bruce, I should follow his orders. The Court of Owls is a society made of members who enjoy equal standing with one another. So it isn’t possible for a member of the Court to outrank Bruce. Without a clear hierarchy in place, I should follow the orders of the person who directly owns me.”

“‘Owns’,” Kate murmurs. She tilts her head, tapping her red nails against her crossed biceps. She does not seem happy.“‘Belongs’.”

“What if it was someone like Lincoln March?” Tim asks. “The leader of the Court?”

Gray does not know who Lincoln March was. But he knows about the leader of the Court: they are first among equals, specially chosen by the Owls to guide the Court forward. The Judge.

“If the Judge of the Court ordered me to do something…” Gray trails off. His stomach feels tight and painful again. Maybe the broth he consumed earlier was bad. Human food can often taste good but be bad. It happens a lot by accident: this is why disguising poisons as salmonella or norovirus can be such an effective technique for Talons.

“What would you do, Gray?” Tim presses. 

“If it’s an order that is compatible with Bruce’s orders, I will carry it out,” Gray says. He hopes this is an acceptable answer.

“And if it’s not?”

Gray thinks again. 

“I… will ask Bruce for further instructions.”

“What if Bruce is not available?”

“I will ask Alfred.”

“And if he’s not around?” 

“I will ask you,” Gray says. “Or another family member close in proximity.” 

“Okay. And what if whoever you ask says not to do what the Court Judge says?”

“Then... I will not do it.”

Kate leans over and whispers something to Luke, who nods. Her voice is too quiet for Gray to make out.

“Why?” Tim asks. “That’s the correct answer, by the way, but I want to know how you came to that conclusion. The Court Judge outranks Bruce, don’t they? Explain your reasoning to me.”

Gray doesn’t know. But Tim clearly expects him to speak again.

Gray looks at the floor and tries to think. He has given the correct answer, and only needs to provide sufficient reasoning. The answer he just gave Tim was about contradictory instructions, so Gray thinks back to when Bruce gave Gray instructions about contradictory orders during their sparring match. Back then, Bruce had said that his orders always supersede those given to Gray at the laboratory. 

There had both Owls and doctors at the laboratory, and the Court Judge had come to the laboratory sometimes and issued instructions then. That means Bruce’s orders must supersede the Court Judge too.

That must be it. Gray cannot feel relief, but he thinks it might feel like this: an almost dizzying feeling as the tension dissipates from his body.

“The Court Judge was present at the laboratory, but Bruce’s orders supersede all orders given there, therefore Bruce’s orders supersede those of the Court Judge,“ Gray explains. “When I ask members of the family about contradictory orders, I am not asking for permission to carry out those orders, I am checking whether the contradictory orders constitute a… a loophole or an exception.”

Tim’s expression changes to a wide grin that stretches across his face.

“That’s a very good answer, Gray,” Tim says, and his voice sounds pleased. “It was so good that I’m going to ask Bruce for another stuffed animal.”

“Stuffed animal?” Kate asks. 

“Positive reinforcement,” Tim explains, and then he looks at Gray and gestures. “How about telling Kate about the stuffed animals you have so far?”

“I have one rabbit and two bears,” Gray says, obediently. Kate and Luke are looking at him and they continue to look at him, so Gray continues to speak. “That is two kinds of animal. There are more than two million kinds of animal on this planet.”

“Two million?” Kate asks, and she raises one eyebrow. “Are you telling me that you want two million stuffed animals?”

“No,” Gray says quickly. “I do not want anything. And there is not enough space in the bedroom for two million stuffed animals. But maybe there is room for…” Gray trails off and performs a quick calculation, then continues: “…um… a thousand or so stuffed animals. Depending on size.” 

“A thousand or so stuffed animals,” Kate echoes. Beside her, Luke smiles a small, tight smile and speaks again.

“We’ll see what we can do,” he says, and then he reaches for the computer keyboard. “So, how about checking your temperature? I think the shirt should be working now.”

Now that Luke mentions it, Gray does feel a little different. Is he imagining the feeling of less-coldness across his torso and his back? 

No, tools do not have imaginations. His torso is warmer, he is sure of it. Not much, but certainly a little. 

Do his arms feel a little less cold, too? Gray can’t tell.

He tries not to touch his black wristband, or the cuffs covering it, as Luke changes the screen to a picture with lines and numbers that Gray cannot make sense of. He saw similar graphics during the mathematics papers Tim had given him on the second day here.

“Wristband vitals are showing an improvement of… less than one degree,” Luke mutters, scratching his beard as he frowns.

Luke produces a digital thermometer and reads the temperature of Gray’s head and then his torso. His facial expression changes.

“Gray, you don’t have a heartbeat, right? I think the problem is that the heated blood isn’t moving throughout your body, which means that anything not covered by the undershirt is being heated only by the residual heat of the air trapped between layers of your clothing...” 

“Would it help if we gave him more layers?” Tim asks. “Or does the heating mechanism shut off when it recognises he’s up to temperature? Uh, that part of him is, anyway?"

“Layers wouldn’t hurt,” Luke says, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb. “The mechanism does shut off, but that's a safety feature I'm not willing to override. I’ll ask Dad to make a sleeved version of the shirt along with the leggings, and that should help. We shouldn’t need them for long, right?”

“Right,” Tim says. “You want to see the detox projections?”

Luke glances between Gray and Tim. 

“Not right now,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Tim says, and then he switches to rapid ASL: G-R-A-Y can’t read graphs. 

Luke shakes his head. 

“Later,” he says, louder this time. Then he turns to Gray. “So, Dick said you li— that you’re good at gymnastics. Are there any other sports you’re good at?”

“I am proficient in climbing, swimming, sprinting, and several kinds of martial arts,” Gray says.

“Bruce mentioned that,” Luke says, with a nod. “You’re a pretty accomplished guy, considering you’re… uh… how old are you?”

“Biologically or chronologically?” Gray asks. 

“Hit us with both,” Kate says. Gray reflexively raises his hand, and when it is halfway to his shoulder level he remembers his linguistics training: this is a slang. Kate is ordering him to speak, not to literally hit her.

“Biologically, I am approximately the same age as Richard Grayson,” he says, hastily putting his hand down. Kate looks at his hand, but she does not look angry that he misunderstood her instructions.

“I think you look a little younger than him,” Kate says, instead of shouting at Gray. She frowns again, tilting her head. “Have you ever been out in the sun?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“I saw the sun,” he says. “And I saw the sunrise and the sunset, too.”

“Because the windows here look outside?” Luke asks, his voice quiet and… something Gray cannot place. 

“Yes,” Gray answers.

Luke’s facial expression is difficult to read: his mouth is twisted and he nods, face turned toward the floor. Then Luke breathes in deeply and smiles at Gray. 

“Okay, you’re biologically thirty-ish,” he says. “What are you chronologically?”

“I have existed for…” Gray trails off, calculating as quickly as he can. 

Nine months for gestation from a bundle of stem cells into infancy. Nine further months to reach puberty. Nine months more to reach adulthood. Three weeks more to get from the cusp of adulthood to its prime. At least five months of wakefulness - Cass had said ten months earlier. And four days here at Bruce’s home.

“I have existed for approximately thirty-nine months,” Gray finishes. He hopes that this answer is sufficient.

“Thirty-nine months,” Luke says, his face difficult to read again. “My baby sister is older than you.”

Gray consults his downloaded information: Lucius Fox has four children. Luke is the oldest, followed by his half-brother Tim, who is often known as Jace. Luke has two younger sisters: Tamara and Tiffany. Tamara is currently studying at Metropolis University, while Tiffany is enrolled in Gotham Academy’s pre-kindergarten programme. 

“I’m coming back here in a couple days to drop off the next batch of warming gear,” Luke says, speaking quickly. “The weather report says it’s going to be a little cool out, but it should be sunny until the end of the week. Let’s play soccer or something.”

Gray does not have time to respond before Luke abruptly leaves, striding toward the vestibule that leads back upstairs.

Gray watches him leave.

“Uh… you don’t have to worry,” Tim says. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Luke isn’t upset at you.”

“I understand,” Gray says.

Luke rounds the corner of the entrance and vanishes from view.

“Hey,” Kate says, and Gray looks at her. She’s frowning, but her voice does not sound angry. “You li— you seem to know a lot about animals. While we’re waiting on Bruce to get back, how about you tell me everything you know?”

Gray nods.

He obeys.

Notes:

This chapter is a bit shorter than I planned, but... frankly the next scene is going to be monstrously long (Gray!! Cosy!!!! In a BED!!!!!!) so I figured I'd better cut this chapter short and upload it sooner rather than make you guys wait lol

Chapter 21: Rest - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Gray runs out of things to say about animals after two minutes and twenty-seven seconds, because does not know very much about animals. 

“And that is why Talons scout target locations carefully before performing an assassination,” he finishes. “Because a scared pet might rouse suspicion.”

“Like Titus,” Tim says. 

“Yes. Like Titus,” Gray agrees.

 “We’ll figure something out,” Tim says. “It’ll take a while, but I’m sure we can get to a point where the pets aren’t afraid of you any more.”

There is silence for a moment, and then Kate clears her throat. 

“Earlier, you seemed to li— you seemed to think the broth was good. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Gray replies. The broth was good. It would be good if Alfred gave Gray more tea and broth tomorrow.

“What was good about it?” Kate asks.

Gray has to think carefully about his response. There was so much, but it all seems impossible to put into words.

“The taste was different,” he settles on, and that seems to satisfy Kate on this particular topic, because she nods. 

The time passes slowly. Kate asks a question and Gray answers, and Kate asks another and Gray answers that, until more than half an hour has passed and Tim frowns at his cellphone. 

“Bruce won’t be back for a long time,” Tim says. “He has to go into Gotham. He’s sent a text message saying that you should go to your room for the night. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Gray says. 

“Alfred is coming down to collect you,” Tim says. “Don’t worry, Bruce will talk to you at breakfast. Same as usual.”

As Tim promised, Alfred arrives and takes Gray to his room. The manor is quieter than usual. The other family members are not in any of the rooms Gray and Alfred walk past. Maybe they, like Tim, are downstairs.

When they reach the bedroom, the stars are visible through the slightly-opened window and Alfred asks a question.

“Now, Master Graham, what did I suggest to you earlier?”

“You ordered me to lie in the bed tonight,” Gray says. But it must be the wrong thing to say, because Alfred frowns and shakes his head.

“I ordered no such thing,” Alfred says. “I asked you to lie in the bed tonight. I am not your master, Graham. I will not order you outside of an emergency.”

Alfred pauses and looks at Gray, as though he wants a response. Gray does not know what response to give, so he looks back.

Three seconds pass, then five. Alfred sighs.

“I’ll show you how to turn on the heated elements,” he says. “And I’ll help you set up the timer function on your phone, assuming you haven’t done so yourself already. Then I shall say goodnight and leave you in peace until the morning.”

Alfred closes the window and curtains and then does exactly that. He shows Gray the little controller embedded into the cable that powers the blanket, and then the mattress pad, and then Alfred and sets both to ninety-eight Fahrenheit. 

“It will take about half an hour for the bedding to reach the ideal temperature, and the heating elements will automatically shut off after eight hours,” Alfred says. “We can adjust that time as needed at a later date.”

Gray looks at the clock on the wall, then at the books on his desk. The time is after nine o’clock, so he will get ready for bed after Alfred leaves. Alfred always returns at twenty-five minutes past seven. Factoring in the time it takes to prepare for both night-time and the beginning of a new day, Gray has approximately eight hours in total to spend in this room.

“Do I have to use the bed for eight hours?” he asks. “If I do that, I won’t have time to memorise the book.”

“You are allowed to read in your bed,” Alfred says. “Many people like to read while sitting or lying in bed. It helps them rest. Perhaps if you spend some time reading in your bed, you’ll find resting easier. If you use the lamp to illuminate the room, you can turn it off when you try to rest.”

“How long should I rest for?”

“I don’t know how long you need to rest for,” Alfred says. “Most people like to rest for between six and twelve hours. I suspect that your need for rest is much lower than that. Perhaps you could try resting for fifteen minutes or so, then increase the time as you see fit.”

“I will try resting for fifteen minutes, then increase the time as I see fit,” Gray echoes.

“Would it be a good idea for me to show you how to set the timer on your phone?” Alfred asks. 

Gray nods, and so Alfred does. 

“When the alarm goes off at the end, tapping anywhere on the screen will make it stop,” Alfred finishes. “Do you have any other questions for me?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“Very well,” Alfred says. “Remember that tomorrow is Monday, so when I collect you for breakfast I expect you to have your laundry hamper ready to bring with you. The inner bag will detach from the outer box, so you can easily carry it.”

Gray nods even though Alfred has no cause to worry. Gray has far more stamina and endurance than an ordinary human, thanks to his extensive training and the electrum.

“Goodnight, Master Graham,” Alfred says.

“Goodnight, Alfred,” Gray echoes, and Alfred leaves. 

Gray glances again at the clock. There is approximately twenty-five minutes left until the heated bedding reaches the ideal temperature. That is more than enough time to clean his face and teeth, dress in pyjamas, and choose a new book.

He gets to work. 

---

Alfred was correct. The bed is cosy. 

The duvet underneath the heated blanket is both light and heavy, and wraps around him in a way that makes it easy to relax. The mattress and pillows all have a pleasantly squishy texture and the pillows are covered in silk. There is a slight floral scent, which according to Gray’s training is Lavandula angustifolia.

The light from the lamp on the bedside table is dim, illuminating only his immediate surroundings clearly. It is not unpleasant, though, and the softness of the light somehow seems to add to the softness of the bed. The chest at the end of the bed seems to fade into the darkness. The only thing that would make the room more good right now would be if the curtains were open and Gray could see the stars. The angle isn’t quite right lying down, but if he sat up he could probably see a nice sliver of starry sky. But Alfred closed the curtains and it was probably for a reason, so Gray does not try to reopen them.

Despite the semi-darkness, the bed is exposed to anybody who enters and is therefore not as safe as the storage container, but it is more soft and more warm and more comfortable than the storage container has ever been. It is a good place to read tonight’s book, My Family. 

Gray shifts and twists and snuggles into the bedding and eventually finds a comfortable position on his side, where his stuffed animals can rest nicely against his chest and he can dig his free hand into their soft furs.

And then he reads. 

There are many kinds of family in the world. There are many different people who can make up a family: mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and more. There are many different combinations of these people. Some families have two parents, and some families have one, and some families have none. Some families have many siblings, and some have no siblings at all. Some families have grandparents co-existing in the same home, and other family homes include more relatives like uncles and cousins and aunts. 

Gray considers Bruce’s family - his family, according to the cover story Tim told him about. 

Bruce lost his parents at a young age. He is an orphan and now a father. Bruce is authoritative and strict but he is kind as well. He does not punish Gray and there have been no painful tests here. The tests have been difficult, but Gray has passed each one well enough to be rewarded with stuffed animals and cosy beds and heated shirts. 

Gray is not sure if Alfred counts as a grandfather to Bruce’s children, but it would be good if he did. The book says that grandparents are often caring and nice and coddle their grandchildren, and Alfred is caring and nice and seems to coddle Gray. Gray does not need to drink or rest or touch soft items, but Alfred seems to insist he does these things anyway, for no reason other than they are good. And he calls Gray with the same titles of respect as the rest of the family, even though Gray is not deserving of that.

Gray shifts under his blankets. The stuffed animals in Gray’s arms do not have grandparents or siblings. Neither does Gray. They all have creators instead. The stuffed animals were made in a factory, and Gray was made in a laboratory from a variety of cells harvested from Richard. Gray and Richard are physically and genetically identical, and completely different in every other respect.

The book talks about genetically identical siblings, too. Twins. Some twins are not genetically identical, but some are, and it is this latter category that is an important part of the cover story. 

Richard and Graham Grayson, the sons of John and Mary Grayson, even though Gray has never met the people who are in effect his biological parents. He knows what they looked like and how they died, thanks to his training, but little else. 

John and Mary Grayson must have been nice and kind, though. The book says that parents pass traits down to their children and that the way parents behave affect the behaviour of the children. Richard must have gotten his kindness and niceness from his biological parents because Bruce is kind but not nice, and Alfred’s kindness and niceness is very different to Richard’s: cool reservedness as opposed to warm enthusiasm. 

Did Gray receive some of John and Mary’s kindness and niceness, too? Superman said that he was kind, and everybody says that it is nice to meet Gray. 

Would Mary and John have said those things, too? Would they have been as warm and helpful to Gray as Richard is?

Gray holds the stuffed animals a little closer to his body. They are warm and nice because the heated bedding is warm and nice. But even though Gray’s surroundings are soft and warm and pleasant, there is a cold, hard, unpleasant feeling inside him.

It wasn’t there before he started reading. 

Gray hesitates, then closes the book. He already knows information about family structure. This book does not tell him anything new. He has plenty of information to share with Bruce in the morning. And there are no cameras, so Bruce will not know that Gray has stopped reading, so he will not be punished.

Gray switches off the lamp, and the room is engulfed in a protective darkness broken only by dim moonlight streaming in through a small gap in the curtains. Gray does not think that anybody will enter this room and issue orders, but just in case, he shuffles further into his cocoon of bedding, clutching his stuffed animals close to his body. 

Gray does not set the timer that Alfred showed him. Instead, he waits for the warmth to diffuse through his body, for the hard, cold, uncomfortable feeling to dissipate. 

He waits for a long time, counting the seconds and minutes and hours in his head.

---

In the morning, it is difficult to leave the bed. 

There are no restraints or trapping mechanisms to keep him there. Rather, the warmth and the softness and the comfort seem better than whatever new unknowns the day will bring. 

In the end, it is the brightening light streaming through the glass of the window that drags Gray from his cocoon of comfort and into the comparatively cool morning air. As much as Gray tries, he cannot position himself and the stuffed animals in such a way that they can watch the dawn while remaining wrapped in cosy sheets. They stand at the window instead.

The sunrise is beautiful, just like yesterday. The heat from the bed dissipates from Gray’s limbs quickly, but remains in his core for longer. 

When he washes himself, Gray secretly turns the shower faucet to the ‘hot’ side and relishes the way it makes the heat of the bed and of the water stay inside his skin. 

There are no cameras. Nobody can get angry at him for wasting hot water. The windows and the mirror steam up, but Gray is aware that the extractor fan that comes on when he pulls the light switch should take care of the condensation if he leaves it on a little longer. Nevertheless, his stomach feels heavy and twisted, in case he is wrong.

He dresses, putting Luke’s gift on between an undershirt and an oversized sweatshirt, and then Gray tries to lay the bedding the same way it looked when he crawled into it the night before. Then Gray places his stuffed animals so that they are leaning against the pillow, partially covered by the bedding. They can enjoy whatever residual heat remains. 

Gray’s bed-making efforts look terrible: the pillows remain stubbornly crooked and the sheets are wrinkled. But Alfred smiles and praises Gray when he arrives at seven twenty-five, and he does not say anything about the book or the hot shower at all. 

“Well done, Master Graham,” Alfred says. “You look very well today - the heated bedding must have agreed with you. And you have the laundry bag ready. Excellent, please follow me.”

Instead of going directly to the dining room, Alfred leads Gray through the kitchen instead. They walk past the kitchen table, which currently holds several cereal boxes, and into a utility room.  

“If you could put the laundry bag on that table, I’d be much obliged,” Alfred says, though he does not say what he will be obliged to do. “Thank you.”

When they go to the dining room, Alfred pauses for a moment in the kitchen to pick up a tray from the counter. When Gray sits down in his usual space, Alfred places a small bowl and spoon in front of his tea, straw, and water glass. The bowl contains food: a small amount of a thick white paste, with a blob of something transparent and golden atop it. This is, unfortunately, food.

“This is yogurt and honey,” Alfred says. “It’s nutritious and should be easy to digest. As with the broth yesterday, please consume at least half of this. I will return periodically and give you more servings if you think it would be good to do so.”

Gray picks up his spoon and mimics the same motions as yesterday to bring it to his mouth. 

The yogurt is creamy and sour, and the honey is sweet, and both are different from the other creamy and sweet tastes he has tasted before, even though they are similar. The creaminess of milk is gentle and the creaminess of yogurt is intense. The sweetness of sugar is simpler than the complex sweetness of honey.

Bruce watches Gray for a few moments. He looks worse than yesterday, paler and more tired. And he is frowning more, too. Does he already know about the book?

“Is the food good?” Bruce asks. 

Gray nods. It is good, although it would be more good if he did not have to eat at all. Expelling liquid waste is inefficient enough, and solid waste is worse. 

“Tell me about the book you read,” Bruce says. 

“The book was called ‘My Family’,” Gray says. “It contained information about the different kinds of family members there are and the different kinds of family units that can exist.”

“Tell me about one kind of family unit.”

“Mother, father, and child,” Gray says. “Like your mother and father and you.”

Bruce nods, chewing on a slice of toasted bread. 

“Can you elaborate?”

Elaborate on what? On the example Gray gave?

“Your mother and father died,” Gray says. “You are an orphan.”

Bruce is quiet and still for a moment, but he does not look at Gray. Instead, he looks at the coffee in his hand. It does not seem like he is expecting more information.

“That’s true,” Bruce says, once several seconds have passed. “Do you know of any other orphans?”

“Richard Grayson, Jason Todd and Timothy Drake,” Gray answers. Duke Thomas’s parents are alive, though incapacitated. Only Stephanie Brown’s father is dead. Cassandra Wayne and Damian Wayne’s missing parents are alive, though their whereabouts unknown. 

“Yes. Can you think of any others? Explain your reasoning, too.”

Does Gray know any other orphans? He rifles carefully through his mental catalogue of the people he has met so far. He does not know the family statuses of the doctors or Court members he has met, but he knows a little information about the Justice League.

“Martian Manhunter. Mars was destroyed.”

“J’onn was an adult when Mars was destroyed, so I would say ‘no’,” Bruce says. “Although that is a good rationale. Who else?”

“Superman. Krypton was destroyed.”

“Technically, you’re correct,” Bruce says. “Although I suspect he’d disagree with you. His situation is a little more complex than most cases. Can you think of anybody else in this house?”

“Alfred?” Gray guesses, and Bruce shakes his head. But he does not seem angry or disappointed

“Again, he was an adult when they passed,” Bruce says. “Think about the book you read earlier and the definitions you learnt, and apply them to yourself. Are you an orphan?”

“I don’t know,” Gray says. “I don’t have parents. I was created in a laboratory.”

“I know,” Bruce replies, his brow furrowing. “Think about the answer. Dick had parents, and biologically they’re your parents too. But as you said, you were created in a lab.”

“I don’t know,” Gray says. His stomach feels bad and twisting again. The yogurt and honey tasted good but maybe it was actually bad. 

“This isn’t the kind of question with an objectively correct or incorrect answer,” Bruce says. “I want to know how you can apply things you’ve learnt to your life. Tell me, with a yes or no answer. Are you an orphan?”

Gray has no idea. 

“No?” he guesses.

“Okay. Why?”

This is a bad line of questioning. It would be good if Bruce stopped. Bruce should stop the questions and give Gray the stuffed animal Tim talked about. Two, because this morning’s questions are much harder than any other days.

“I was made,” Gray starts. “And… and orphans are children when their parents pass. But I was an adult when they finished making me.” 

“Any other reasons?” Bruce asks. 

There’s one other reason Gray can think of, but it is not likely that Bruce will like it.

“Orphans are always people and I am not a person,” Gray adds, and as expected, Bruce’s face twists into a scowl. 

“No,” Bruce says, his voice low and hard. “That was a bad answer. That last answer specifically was a bad answer.”

If Bruce did not like the answer, then why did he bother asking the question? 

Gray drops his gaze down to his bowl. He has eaten about half of it. Alfred will be satisfied, at least. The tea is cold now, and the sweetness is not as satisfying as it should be.

“You are at least partially a person,” Bruce says. “We agreed that earlier, remember?” 

Gray nods, and Bruce’s voice seems almost to fade into the background noise of the house. Footsteps in the hall, a heavy door opening and closing, the faint sounds of voices he can’t make out at this distance.  

Bruce talks and talks and talks and Gray nods occasionally and agrees with his master and politely declines when Alfred reappears with a new bowl of food. 

When Bruce finishes speaking and motions for Gray to follow him downstairs, Gray does so with feet that feel like lead. 

Notes:

Next chapter will include more plot (and new stuffed animals).

Chapter 22: Procedure - The Cave, Bristol County

 

Bruce leads Gray through the vestibule. Tim stands at the massive computer in the main room, dressed in a red hoodie and jeans. Bruce stops walking abruptly, face turned toward Tim. 

“Don’t you have class?”

Tim glances over his shoulder, and Gray cannot read his expression.

“Not for the last six months, remember?” 

Bruce sighs, raising one hand to rub at his face. 

“It’s been a long day,” Bruce says. “We’ll talk later.”

Bruce lowers his hand, starts walking again. Gray follows Bruce and, unexpectedly, Tim follows Bruce too.

“You’re doing the implant now, right?” Tim asks. “I’ll help.”

“I’ll be fine alone,” Bruce says. 

“I know,” Tim replies. “Remember what we talked about last night?”

 Bruce is silent as he steps through the threshold between the computer room and the laboratory-infirmary room. Then he makes a low grunting noise. 

“Get him prepped,” Bruce says, and he starts walking very quickly toward the stairs leading to the mezzanine above the laboratory area. When Gray tries to follow, Tim tugs at his shirt-sleeve and gestures to the infirmary area. 

“Let’s get you comfortable, Gray. How about sitting over here?”

Tim leads Gray to a specific chair in the infirmary, one that is bolted in place and has various attachments, including a small shelf, a screen, and a bright lamp. It looks very similar to the chair that was used for downloading information, except that there is no electrode headset in sight. The tight, bad feeling from earlier has not dissipated from Gray’s stomach.

Gray sits on the chair and waits as Tim gathers equipment from nearby cupboards and shelving units. As Tim works, he talks. 

“Have you ever had anaesthetic before? Either general or local?”

“I don’t know,” Gray says, but that’s not quite correct. He amends his answer: “I don’t remember.”

“How far back do you remember?” 

“I don’t know.”

Gray vaguely recalls waking up for the first time, something sticky and slimy coating his entire body. The tiles he lay on had been cold, and so had the water he had been washed with and the scrubs he had been dressed in. 

Had there been anything before that? 

If Gray thinks very hard, he has the vague impression of distorted light shining through glass. That doesn’t seem to answer Tim’s question, though.

“I guess that wasn’t the best question to ask,” Tim says, after approximately seven seconds. He sets a silver tray filled with tools and syringes on the shelf attached to the chair, then taps at the screen. “What did Bruce tell you about what’s happening this morning?”

“My dental implant will be replaced.”

“Why is it going to be replaced?” Tim asks. 

“I don’t know.”

Tim is silent and still for approximately three seconds, his eyes fixed on Gray. Then he nods. 

“Okay,” he says. “Your dental implant is going to be replaced because it’s a bad implant. It doesn’t work the way we want it to. Do you understand?”

Gray nods. He doesn’t understand what the implant is supposed to do, but Tim’s words make sense.

Tim speaks again, eyes still fixed on Gray.  “It’s releasing too much electrum.”

Gray needs electrum to survive. It is what sustains his body and allows him to heal. 

“We need to lower the amount of electrum in your body,” Tim continues. His blue eyes seem cold. Not cold like silk pajamas or Martian Manhunter’s telepathy, but cold like a freezer, like the sound of Tetris and the taste of blood. “Do you understand?”

Gray hesitates, then shakes his head. His stomach hurts again.

“Why?” Tim asks.

“Electrum sustains my body,” Gray whispers. “I will die without it.”

Tim smiles. It is not any different from his previous smiles, but it does not feel like a nice smile.

“It’s true that electrum sustains you, but you won’t die without it. There are actually several compounds that sustain your body - Dionysium is one of them,” Tim says. “The other compounds are fine. But the excess amount of electrum is why you feel so cold all the time. That’s part of why we have to change it.”

Electrum is necessary for Gray’s continued existence, but is not the only compound in his blood. Gray tries to make sense of this contradictory information. 

The doctors said that Gray needed a lot of electrum, but Tim says otherwise. The doctors sometimes lied to Gray, because the augmentation procedures hurt even through they said they would not. Gray cannot think of a time Tim has lied, outside of the bad game. Bruce has not given Gray a new stuffed animal as Tim promised, but that doesn’t seem to fit the definition of a lie. 

“Bruce did not give me a stuffed animal,” Gray says. “Was my answer yesterday insufficient?” 

Tim stares at Gray for a handful of seconds - one, two, three. Then he shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim says. “I promise, I did talk to Bruce, and he agreed with me. But we’ve all been really busy lately, so I think he just forgot. I’ll talk to him again.”

That seems like a reasonable explanation. Bruce does not think badly of him, Bruce is just busy. Gray’s stomach hurts much less, but his head feels too full. The doctors said that Gray needed a lot of electrum, but Tim says otherwise. Either he will die without electrum or he will be warmer.

Tim is not lying, because Tim does not lie to Gray. But the doctors cannot be wrong either. Tim must not be correct. There are a lot of things Tim didn’t know until Gray told him, like the information about the doctors and the fact that Tetris is bad. Maybe Tim does not know how important the electrum is.

“Electrum withdrawal is an effective method of euthanising a Talon,” Gray tries again. 

Tim frowns, tilting his head as he looks at Gray.

“Like I said, your dionysium levels are fine. You won’t die, you’ll just feel less cold.”

Tim continues to stare at Gray, so Gray stares back. Eventually, Tim clears his throat. 

“Speaking of being cold, I think we have some heat-packs around here somewhere. Did you know you can get stuffed animals with heat-packs inside them? I’ll try to get you one of those soon.” Tim rummages through a drawer as he speaks. He finds one, activates it, and gives it to Gray. “Okay?”

“Okay.” 

Gray pulls his sleeves over the heat-pack and leans back in the chair, letting the heat radiate through his hands and into his wrists.

Bruce arrives a few seconds later. He has a negative facial expression and a small box in his hands. 

“Are you ready?” Bruce asks, setting the box next to the tray of equipment. 

“Mostly,” Tim replies, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves. “I gave a basic debrief on what’s happening this morning.”

“Did you now.” Bruce’s tone is flat, and he looks angry. Tim just shrugs, as though he’s unconcerned.

“I’ll fill you in later,” he says. “I prepared some local anaesthesia.”

“I see.” Bruce says. “Let’s get started.” 

Tim injects Gray’s upper left jaw with something that burns and then numbs, spreading through a small section of his jaw. Bruce drags a small trolley close to the chair and places a handheld device and a pair of wireless headphones on top of it.

“This device is a music player,” Bruce says. “It contains music that the members of our family enjoy. You can recharge it using the phone charger in your room. If you find listening to music good and you continue to behave well, in the future I’ll enable a streaming app so you’ll be able to access a much wider range of music. The music player is your reward for undergoing this dental procedure.”

“Speaking of rewards,” Tim says, “you forgot to give him one for last night. You know, for the reasoning task I told you about?”

Bruce’s expression goes tight and he nods. 

“Right,” he says. “Gray, you’ll get it later today.”

Bruce does not start the procedure until he can poke the gum the implant is sitting in without Gray feeling the sensation. Then special blocks are placed in Gray’s mouth to keep his jaw open and Gray is tilted backwards. 

“It’s better if you close your eyes and try to relax,” Bruce says, reaching up to the adjustable light above him. 

Gray obeys. Then the procedure begins.

---

The procedure is different than those Gray has undergone in the past. The time passes quietly and painlessly. Gray is quiet and still, too. 

Someone - probably Tim - suctions saliva and blood from his mouth as Bruce works. Gray hopes that neither have noticed that Gray’s salivary glands are malfunctioning: they are not supposed to produce this much saliva. They should only produce enough to allow him to speak when necessary. 

But neither Tim nor Bruce speak, and so Gray waits and thinks about how warm he is with Luke and Lucius’ gift and the hand warmer, and how warm he might be if Tim is correct. He tries not to think about the more likely situation that Tim is wrong.

The quiet is broken only by the sound of tools until approximately eighteen minutes have passed.

“That’s weird.”

Tim’s voice fills the air, and it has a tonal quality Gray cannot place.

It is not negative, at least not necessarily. Doctor Stevens often had a similar tone when Gray’s body had been somehow interesting. 

“We’ll test it later,” Bruce says. “Continue.”

Nothing happens for a further seven minutes.

Tim suctions and Bruce does something with cold instruments inside Gray’s mouth.

There is an unpleasant taste, and small chunks of something fall onto Gray's tongue, suctioned away before they can fall down his throat. Bruce makes a low, angry sound. 

“Gray, your body appears to be rejecting the implant. As your mouth heals, it seems to be pushing out the implant. I can’t get it to stay in.”

Gray isn’t sure what he is expected to do. He has no control over his healing ability.

After a moment, he raises one hand so that is near his head. Then he fingerspells using the ASL alphabet. 

U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-N-D

There’s a sharp intake of breath, though Gray is not sure whether it is Tim or Bruce. The suctioning stops.

“Oh,” Tim says. “I didn’t test for that.”

There’s silence for three seconds. Bruce speaks next.

“Gray, did you learn fingerspelling at the laboratory, or did you learn it here?”

L-A-B-O-R-A-T-O-R-Y

“Do you know ASL too?” Bruce asks.

Y-E-S

“You must have seen some of us sign,” Tim says. “Why didn’t you tell us you understand?

D-I-D-N-O-T-A-S-K

“Sorry, B,” Tim makes a short noise. “I really dropped the ball on this.”

Bruce doesn’t reply. Instead, the sound of tools begin again and Tim resumes his suctioning. 

Two minutes later, Gray is tilted back to a normal seating position and allowed to open his eyes. Bruce looks angry, but he gives Gray a small vial filled with a clear liquid and a small plastic cup.

“Rinse your mouth with this,” he says. “Spit the waste into the cup.”

 It is much easier to pour a vial into his mouth than a cup of water. The liquid in the vial tastes like water mixed with a small amount of chlorhexidine, and it is strange to feel cool liquid in most of his mouth, but not in the numbed part.

The waste Gray spits out contains strings of grey-black blood and small chunks of an opaque whitish material. There is a space where his tooth implant used to be, the gum underneath smooth and completely numb. It feels strange when he probes it with his tongue and doesn't feel it.

Bruce takes the waste cup and puts it on the tray with the tools. There are two similar dental implants sitting on a separate tray, smooth on one end and jagged at the other. One has the symbol of the Court on the flat part, the other has a bat. However, most of the Court implant is also covered in a semi-organic material, while most of the bat implant has smears of a non-organic, opaque whitish paste on it.

“You did well,” Bruce says. “You may take the music player. It was designed to be intuitive, but if you have any trouble using it then you may ask any member of the family for assistance.”

“How are you feeling?” Tim asks. “Is your mouth still numb?”


“Yes,” Gray says. 

“We need to find out how long anaesthesia affects you, so I’ll keep checking in. Let’s do a red-amber-green system, okay? When I ask or text you, you should reply with the word ‘red’ if your mouth is still mostly numb, ‘amber’ if the numbness seems to be wearing off, and ‘green’ when your mouth feels normal. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Gray says. 

“Great,” Tim says. “Do you have any questions?”

Gray thinks. He thinks about the thing he does not want to think about: a body slowly breaking down and stuffed animals no longer seeing the sun.

“What will happen if you are wrong about my electrum levels?” he asks. “If my body begins breaking down, will you reinstall the implant?”

 “No,” Bruce says. “That isn’t going to happen. You don’t need electrum.”

“I will die without it.”

“You will not die,” Bruce says. He does not sound angry. He sounds calm. He sounds so calm and so firm that it feels like the world itself will obey his words. “I will not allow it.”

Gray hesitates. But just in case Bruce does not understand, like Tim did not understand, he speaks again:

“Talons can only die from electrum withdrawal and being frozen at extreme temperatures.”

Bruce’s eyebrows rise slightly. 

“You are not fully a Talon,” he says. “There are many compounds you need to survive, and electrum is not one of them. If the levels reduce too quickly we can discuss options like injections or oral medication, but that is an extremely unlikely scenario. You will feel warmer when the electrum levels in your body start to diminish. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Gray says. Bruce’s words do not make sense, but they should. The world would be better if they made sense and if they were correct.

When Bruce speaks next, it is with a very low, soft voice and a warm hand on Gray’s shoulder. 

“Gray, you are a valued member of this family. I know that there’s a lot of change happening for you right now, and I know that it must be unpleasant. But I will not allow harm to come to you. You will be okay.”

“I will be okay,” Gray echoes. 

He should be okay. Bruce should be correct. Everything would be better if Bruce were correct.

“Good,” Bruce says. “Tim, take him upstairs while I run some tests down here.”

“Sure,” Tim says. “But you know if you don’t go to sleep by noon, Alfred’s going to have something to say about it.”

“I know,” Bruce says. He addresses Gray again. “I’ll give you the reward for the reasoning task this afternoon.”

Gray nods, and Tim leads him back to the bright, gentle warmth of upstairs.

Notes:

next up: gray experiences the joy of music and hopefully gets some brotherly bonding time with dick

Chapter 23: Music - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Tim takes Gray to the kitchen first, where Tim requests tea and Alfred raises one eyebrow. 

“You seem to be up rather late today, Master Tim,” he says. 

“I’m actually up early, I promise,” Tim says. “I was helping Bruce with something.”

“I see,” Alfred says. “Would this be the ‘something’ related to the rather persistent unwanted guests I’ve heard so much about?”

“Yes,” Tim says. 

Alfred’s facial expression changes, and his body language changes, too. It is difficult to ascertain exactly what the change means, but Gray suspects it may be negative. 

“Master Graham, are you in any pain?” Alfred asks.

Gray shakes his head. 

“I am not in any pain,” Gray says. “The electrum—“ 

“—keeps your body in perfect condition, yes,” Alfred says. “I suspect the anaesthesia won’t have finished wearing off just yet, either. Well, if you do experience any pain related to your tooth extraction, please let me know. It’s an excellent excuse for ices.”

Ices. This is a slang that can mean many different things, including some kinds of jewellery and illicit drugs. However, judging from Alfred’s approximate age and point of origin, he is likely referring to ice-based desserts. The punishment for experiencing pain is consuming frozen items. 

Gray’s stomach feels bad again, but he nods. Maybe he can accidentally forget to inform Alfred if he experiences pain related to the procedure downstairs. Lying to masters is bad. But forgetting things is easy and not lying and sometimes Gray even manages to forget things without intending to accidentally do it.

Alfred soon smiles and sends Tim and Gray to the same recreation room as yesterday with a tray laden with drinking utensils, brewed tea, sugar and milk. Tim insists on carrying it, even though Gray has steadier hands and considerably more stamina than any human. 

“Most of the family are out right now,” Tim says. “Damian and Duke are at school - Damian just started high school this year, and Duke’s just finishing up. Cass has college in the morning, she’ll be back after lunch. I’d normally be at Wayne Enterprises, but I figured Bruce could use me here.”

The window of the recreation room shows a bright, sunny sky and a green lawn. It must be warm outside. Is the grass soft, like the stuffed animals? Or is it scratchy instead?

“I think Dick went out to talk to Barbara, but he’ll be back soon, too,” Tim continues, preparing a cup of tea.

“Will Luke come back soon?” Gray asks. 

Tim glances up at Gray. He slides the cup toward Gray, plucking a straw from the tray. 

“You wan— you think it would be good to talk to Luke?”

“No,” Gray says. “Luke said that he would play soccer outside with me. But it needs to be before my ocular implants are embedded. I will not be able to see until the implants have healed, and if I cannot see then I will not perform well and Luke will not have fun when we are playing, and having fun is an important component of playing games like soccer.” 

“You don’t need ocular implants,” Tim says. His facial expression has changed again.

“But I cannot see well in darkness,” Gray says. “I can only see as much as a normal human, which is not good enough.” 

“You’re good enough as you are,” Tim says. “We have night-vision goggles if you ever need them. You don’t need ocular implants.”

“Do I still need aural implants?” Gray asks. That was the next surgery.

“No.”

“What about the chemical treatments? I am not strong or durable enough yet.”

“You’re plenty strong and durable as you are. You don’t need those either.”

“But I will be at a disadvantage when I am deployed,” Gray says. 

“You’re not going to be deployed any time soon,” Tim says.

“When will I be deployed?” Gray asks. 

“I don’t know,” Tim says. “We have to talk to Bruce about it later. For now, how about giving the music player a try? You worked really hard to earn it, and music is good, right?”

Gray nods. His stomach feels bad again. He must be sick. The yogurt must have been bad. Or maybe Richard is lactose intolerant, which would mean Gray is, too. The doctors could have fixed lactose intolerance, but they did not because Gray was never supposed to eat anything. 

Maybe Gray should accidentally forget to inform Alfred that the yogurt is making him feel bad. Alfred might decide that he needs to be punished for that, too.

“Shall I show you how to use it?” Tim asks. Gray passes it over wordlessly, and Tim immediately begins to explain how to use the music player. 

It has a touchscreen and a small set of speakers embedded in end. There are also volume buttons on the side. Swiping the touchscreen gives access to various menus, including pre-made playlists, songs by specific music artists, and full albums. There is also a games menu, which Tim shows briefly. Gray recognises Uno and Tetris, but the other games are unknown: Solitaire, Scrabble, Bejeweled, Chess, and Sudoku. 

The wireless headphones can be charged using the same charging cable as the phone and the music player, and there is a special button on the touchscreen that allows the user to change between playing music using the built-in speaker and a nearby Bluetooth speaker, such as the headphones.

“Got it?” Tim asks, and Gray nods. “Awesome. I’ll start you off in random mode, so there’ll be a mix of genres and artists. You can turn it off by tapping here, then here. If the song is good, you can tap here. It’ll save the song to a special playlist and it’ll be more likely to come up on random mode. And if it’s bad, you can either remove it from the player by tapping here, or you can make sure it doesn’t come up on random mode by tapping here.”

Tim places the headphones in Gray’s hands. 

“I’m going to do a jigsaw puzzle and write some emails,” Tim says. “You’re welcome to help me with the puzzle, or you can just sit back and enjoy the music. And your tea is right there. If you think we should have anything else, just let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” Gray says. He puts on the headphones and taps the ‘play’ icon, and then music - clearer than the radio in the laboratory or the memories in Gray’s head - fills his ears.

The song is good and nice. It has a woman with a strong voice and pretty music. The music player display says it is by an artist named Florence plus The Machine. It is a song that the stuffed animals should hear, so Gray presses the ‘good’ button and a little heart appears on the screen. Then Gray watches as Tim fetches a box and sets up a puzzle on the coffee table, and afterward fetches a laptop from a nearby shelf and starts tapping on it. 

Tim links a few edge pieces together, but otherwise leaves the puzzle alone. Gray’s fingers feel energetic, so he continues where Tim left off and starts linking puzzle pieces to one another. He tries to force them together, but Tim waves to get his attention. 

NOT LIKE THAT, Tim signs. IF THE PIECES GO TOGETHER, THEY FIT EASILY. 

Gray nods, then returns to his task. The jigsaw puzzle pieces have the same colours as the picture on the box, and some of the pieces that fit easily together make pictures that are part of the box picture. 

Many songs enter Gray’s ears. The music is good. All of it is different - some songs are slow and some are fast and some are loud and some are quiet. There are songs that are somehow like his warm and soft bed, and there are some that would be good to listen to during gymnastics or sparring. Some feel like when Bruce was irrational earlier, and some feel like when he watches Gotham City in the distance, and some feel like when Wonder Woman gave him a non-combatative hold. All of the songs seem to give Gray some kind of energy, a good feeling that flows throughout his entire body. 

The jigsaw gives his hands something to do, but it is difficult to keep his feet still and more than once he has to stop himself from tapping the puzzle pieces along to the rhythm of the songs. The tea is warm and sweet and better than it was at breakfast earlier. His cup runs empty after a while, and Tim refills it.

Tim checks in twice while Gray is listening to music and putting the puzzle together. Both times the interaction is identical. 

HOW DOES YOUR MOUTH FEEL?

Gray probes the still-numb gap and answers: RED.

OKAY, Tim signs, then returns to his keyboard.

The light in the room changes subtly as the time passes and the music plays in Gray’s ears. Endless artist names pop up on the display screen: Rammstein, Blondie, Kylie Minogue, Frank Sinatra, Aya Nakamura, and far more besides. The room is warm and the tea is sweet and there is something satisfying about making the puzzle pieces fit together, and Gray hears more songs than he had ever known existed. 

It is a good morning.

---

Richard is in the dining room when Tim and Gray enter at lunchtime. There is already food at their customary places, including more of yesterday’s broth for Gray.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Richard asks, looking up from his plate as they approach.

“Pretty well, I think,” Tim says. “What do you think, Gray?”

“I am not permitted to think,” Gray says, taking a mouthful of broth. It is just as flavourful and good as yesterday.

“I should have expected that,” Tim says, his mouth wide and tense. “Sorry. We got Gray set up with that prototype WaynePlaya.”

“Bruce has got to think of a better name for that thing,” Richard mutters, his mouth twisting into an odd shape. Then he directs his attention to Gray. “So, music, huh? Did you hear good songs?”

“Yes.”

There is silence for three seconds, during which Gray consumes water, and then Richard presses further. 

“Any particular songs that were especially good?”

“All of them,” Gray says. They were very different, but there was something pleasant about each one. The pretty melody of the singer’s voice in the pop song, the rhythm and clever wordplay in the rap song, the way the orchestra instruments layered together in the classical song.

“Well, uh… that’s good to hear,” Richard says. “Did you listen to my playlist yet? I put a lot of fun stuff on there.”

“I put it on the randomiser mode,” Tim explains. “Thought it might lessen any potential pressure.”

“Oh, good thinking,” Richard says. He directs most of his attention to Tim after that, which lets Gray concentrate on the flavours of the broth and the tea, and lets him think about the music he listened to and mentally replay some parts which seem to have gotten somehow stuck in his head. 

Alfred enters the room after twelve minutes and offers Gray more broth, which he accepts. 

“I’ll be back in just a moment, then,” Alfred says, with another kind smile. “And how is your mouth feeling?” 

“It is numb,” Gray says. And then, just in case this is insufficient: “There is no cause for concern.”

Alfred’s facial expression changes slightly. It is hard to read. It is not exactly negative, but neither is it positive. Confusion? Surprise?

“Er… if you say so, Master Graham.” 

The rest of lunch continues in a similar manner. Tim yawns when Gray has almost finished his second bowl of broth, and Richard frowns at him. 

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Yes,” Tim says, very quickly.

“How long?”

“Uh…” Tim laughs a short and quiet laugh. “About half an hour.”

“You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself,” Richard says. “You go take a nap, I’ll look after Gray here. What were you doing before lunch?”

“Jigsaw puzzles and music.”

“Jigsaw puzzles? Tim, were you trying to kill poor Gray here with boredom?”

“It was a test!” Tim says, and then he looks at Gray. “You passed, by the way. You did a really great job with the puzzle.”

“Uh-huh,” Richard folds his arms across his chest. “Well, we’re not doing a puzzle this afternoon. Is there anything you think we should do, Gray?”

Gray thinks, and his thoughts keep drifting back to the window in the recreation room. 

“Go outside,” he says. 

“Great idea, we—” Richard says, and whatever he is about to say is cut off by Tim. 

“Actually, going outside isn’t a great idea right now,” Tim says. “Because of the dental implant. We should wait until it heals.”

“Dental implant?” Richard asks. “I thought you set up—“

“I did, and we can talk about it later,” Tim says, loudly. “In the meantime, maybe you can fill Gray in on the cover story or something?”

“It’s not finished yet,” Richard says. “O and I are still trying to figure the details out.”

“Bruce is getting impatient,” Tim says. “We can’t start integration without an airtight background and paper trail.”

Richard’s face twists.

“Sorry, but Bruce is just going to have to wait until I can make two plus two equal five.”

“It’s going that bad?” 

“You have no idea,” Richard mutters. 

“Maybe talking it over with Gray will help,” Tim says. “You know, rubber-duck it out.”

“I guess it can’t hurt,” Richard says. “Come with me.”

---

Richard’s old bedroom is not far from Gray’s bedroom. It is of a similar size and shape, but the window faces away from the city. The bed is of a similar size, and is made with a Superman comforter - a slightly different design to the one that Alfred tried to give Gray in the Batcave cells. 

Actually, there is a lot of Superman merchandise in this room, from a collection of Metropolis postcards on the wall to an action figure on a shelf to a mug holding pens and pencils on the desk. Also on the desk is a small framed photo of two people, as well as a larger one of several people: Richard, standing with Cyborg, Miss Raven, and Flash, alongside a green man, an orange woman, and a woman with black hair. They are all smiling.

Richard allows Gray to sit on the bed, while he drags the desk-chair from its place and sits on it, facing Gray.

“It’s very difficult to create a cover story which fully explains your behaviour and which is also fully consistent with my background,” Richard says. “Specifically, where you’ve been for the last thirty years. We’ve got a lot of options, and all of the would be pretty good. Maybe you spent a lot of time in hospitals growing up, maybe you lived in a youth residential care centre or disability assisted living facility for a while, maybe you attended a special needs boarding school… like I said, we got a lot of options to pick from.”

Richard turns and picks up the small framed photograph. Then he holds it out to Gray. 

The photo is of Mary and John Grayson, smiling together.

“My parents were very protective of me, and they would have been just as protective of you. They may not have been able to physically care for you, but they would have looked out for you the best they could. And that would have meant remaining in a location close by, to keep an eye on how you were being treated and constantly advocating for you whenever they spotted something they didn't like. It would have meant no more circus.” 

“John and Mary Grayson did travel with Haley’s Circus for many years,” Gray says. “That is inconsistent with the potential cover stories.”

“It is,” Richard says. “There is an easy solution, too. We could lie. We could say that my parents continued to travel with the circus and trusted that you would never be abused or treated with prejudice. That would solve all the cover story problems. But that wouldn’t be authentic to who they were.”

Richard puts the photo frame on the table. He sighs, heavily.

“My parents have been gone for a long time. They’re nothing but memories. They can’t advocate for themselves anymore. Sometimes I feel guilty for surviving the — for living when they didn’t. I tell myself that it’s my duty to keep their memory alive in a way that is true and consistent with the people that they were. They loved me, and they would have loved you. I can’t create a story that betrays that love.” 

Gray does not know what it is to be loved by parents. Maybe it is similar to the brightness in the world when Alfred collects Gray for breakfast in the morning and gives him praise and tea. Maybe it is similar to the blueness of the sky outside. Maybe it is similar to the warmth of heated blankets and the softness of silk and stuffed animals. 

Whatever being loved feels like, it must be good. And that means it must feel bad when it is gone. More than twenty years have passed, so Richard might not feel bad any more. But it seems that he does not feel good either. 

Gray places his hand on Richard’s shoulder, the same way Bruce and Alfred and the other members of the family often do to Gray. 

”If I am your brother, then it is my duty to keep their memory alive, too,” Gray says. 

Richard’s facial expression is difficult to read, but he smiles after a moment. 

“They were amazing. Not perfect, nobody is, but…” Richard shakes his head. “Sit tight, I’ll tell you all about them.”

Gray obeys, hugging his knees tightly to his chest, and Richard does.

---

The afternoon passes quickly. 

Richard’s stories about his childhood are interesting to hear, but as he speaks there is a strange feeling in Gray’s stomach and chest. Not cold, per se, but it is heavy. It is mildly unpleasant, a slight distraction from Richard’s words. His thoughts keep drifting toward the fact that he cannot ever meet John and Mary Grayson.

After approximately forty minutes have passed, Richard receives a text message. He smiles when he reads it.

“Cass is home,” he says. “Let’s go meet her.”

Richard takes Gray to the lounge, the same one where he received his name and played Uno. Cass is already curled up on the couch, a steaming cup in hand. She smiles when she sees them, and Richard quickly strikes up a conversation about Cass’ day and her studies. 

Gray has only a passing understanding of the topics they speak about: psychology and music and math, exams and assignments, internship applications and choosing a major. Nevertheless, it is interesting to listen to.

“Exams are hard,” Cassandra says. “But the learning support helps in class and I get extra time for tests. Language therapist is going well, too. She says good progress.”

“That’s awesome,” Richard replies. “You’re gonna totally nail this. Just make sure you invite me to graduation, okay?”

At quarter to five, Damian and Duke arrive home from school. They play Uno with Gray and Cass and Richard and talk about their days. It sounds like high school is very stressful. It is good that Gray does not have to go to school and worry about homework and girls and doing just well enough to pass gym class, but not well enough to gain attention or get drafted into afterschool clubs.

By the time Alfred fetches them for dinner, Duke has won three games, Cass has won one, and neither Damian, Gray or Richard have won any. When he takes his place at the table, Gray is presented with more broth. It is different from the broth yesterday. It is a light amber colour, and is a slightly larger serving than yesterday and at lunch. The new broth also has a different taste to the beef broth. This one is lighter somehow, but no less flavourful. 

The second serving has specks of green floating in it, and a couple circles that Gray can identify as thinly-sliced scallion. He does not consume those.

“Was the chicken broth good, Master Graham?” Alfred asks, once the plates have been cleared. 

“Yes,” Gray answers. 

After dinner, Bruce takes Gray to his office and presents him with two stuffed animals. One is in the shape of a cat, the other a sheep. Both are a similar size, though they are different in colouration, style and material.

“Tim told me about your very good reasoning yesterday,” Bruce says. “You may choose one of these as your reward.”

“They are both equally good,” Gray says. 

“Yes,” Bruce says. “The one you don’t choose now can be chosen as a reward later. Which one are you going to take right now?”

It is not possible to choose. Gray tries to explain this, but Bruce shakes his head. 

“If you do not choose, you will not get a reward,” he says. “And that would be a shame, because your hard work is appreciated and you deserve to have nice things.”

Gray picks the stuffed animal on the left. This happens to be the sheep. It has long, curly wool for fur.

“The sheep? You have good taste,” Bruce says. 

Gray does not know what Bruce means by this. ‘Taste’ normally refers to what people like and Gray does not like anything. Was this another test, to see if he would pick the right toy?

“How about heading upstairs to your room now?” Bruce says. “You’re going to meet some new people tomorrow. You should be well-rested for it.”

Bruce phrased this order like a question, but it was not a question. Gray obeys.

As usual, Gray watches the sun set over Gotham Harbour with his stuffed animals. This time, they listen to The Cure and Taylor Swift and Chanmina and Westlife as they do so, and the sheep’s fur is long and silky and pleasant to dig his fingers into. 

Once the sky has darkened, Gray sets his headphones to charge. Then he tries playing some of the games on his music player. He does not touch Tetris, but briefly thinks about deleting it before deciding against it as perhaps this course of action will make him seem ungrateful or make his masters mad, and then they may take the music player away again. 

Gray tries Solitaire first, then Chess and Sudoku. The games pause the songs, and he cannot work out a way to make the music player play the songs and also play the games. Maybe he can ask Tim about it later. 

Solitaire is a sorting game that relies on chance. It is not not-fun, but it is not fun either. 

Sudoku is more interesting, being a simple logic puzzle that requires thoughtfulness and attention to detail. But the more difficult settings do not give enough data to begin the game successfully, and he finds that he cannot complete the puzzles adequately when there are only a few starting numbers in the grid.

Chess, though… chess is fun. Chess may be more fun than Uno. The tutorial explains how the different pieces can move, and the AI opponents in the game range from challenging to nigh-impossible to beat. But unlike with the Sudoku game, it seems as though if Gray strategises adequately, he may stand a chance of beating even the most difficult of computers.

Gray is interrupted halfway through his fourth chess match by a loud knocking sound at his bedroom door. It is not Alfred’s familiar, gentle knock.

The bedroom door opens slowly, and someone leans into the room. Dark hair with a white streak, with familiar blue eyes. 

Jason. 

“So this is where you’ve been hidden,” Jason says, his facial expression widening into a smile. “Come with me. We’re going on a mission.”

Chapter 24: Mission - The Bowery, Gotham City

“Yes,” Gray says, and he obediently stands. 

Jason slips fully into the room, closing the door behind him near-silently. He is wearing a brown leather jacket and a heavy-looking black backpack and he is wearing a black earplug in his left ear. He does not appear angry this time. It would be good if he remained not-angry.

“Just like that?” Jason frowns for a brief moment, and then he shakes his head: “whatever.” Jason points to the wardrobe near the door. “Are your clothes in here?”

Jason’s tone of voice is not dissimilar to Alfred’s. He should talk like that more: nicely and softly and not angrily.

“Yes,” Gray says.

“Find a jacket and shoes. Waterproof, if Bruce gave you any.”

Jason steps away from the wardrobe and Gray complies. There is a black leather jacket in the wardrobe, as well as a pair of hiking boots. 

“Very good,” Jason says, and he glances Gray up and down. His eyes land on Gray’s forearm. “Wait, that wristband, take it off. We don’t need it.”

“Tim said that I must not take it off,” Gray replies, and suddenly Jason’s lip curls.

“Tim is a fucking idiot,” Jason says, and he is no longer speaking nicely and softly. “When did he say that?”

“When I was first brought here. The wristband is for measuring my vital signs.”

Jason rolls his eyes. 

“You don’t have any vital signs to measure,” he says. Then Jason takes a deep breath, smiles, and speaks nicely again. “I’m saying you have to take it off. I’m the family member in closest proximity, right? Which means I’m the one you have to take orders from. Bruce didn’t say anything about the wristband, so it can’t be that important.”

Gray considers this. Jason’s words make sense. Bruce has not mentioned anything about the wristband. And Jason is being nice right now and he might continue to be nice if Gray is good and obedient. 

Gray takes the wristband off. Jason snatches it quickly and rudely from Gray’s hand and tosses it in the trash can that sits next to the desk. Gray’s wrist feels cold and strange without the wristband. It would be better if he were still wearing it.

“Do you have a phone on you? Or any other kind of electronic device?” Jason asks. 

“There is a cellphone in my back pocket and I am wearing Lucius Fox’s warming gift.”

“Warming… was that the weird-ass muscle shirt the other day?” Jason asks. His facial expression changes, but it does not seem like an angry expression. “Okay, leave the phone on the bedside table and take the warming thing off. Has anybody given you jewellery?”

“Nobody has given me jewellery,” Gray answers, as he obeys Jason’s instructions. He gently places the warming shirt on the bed and then puts his outer layers back on again. At least the undershirt will help keep some of the warmth from the gift inside his body, even if the gift is no longer there.

“Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best wording,” Jason mutters. He switches to speaking nicely again, smiling once more. The smile isn’t quite like that of the rest of the family: it does not reach his eyes. “Are you wearing any jewellery? And do you, to your knowledge, currently have any electronic devices, or devices that may be capable of tracking you, on your person?”

Gray shakes his head. He does not.

“Good,” Jason says. “Now, you and I are gonna head outside for a while. I’ve got a super secret mission for us, and it’s going to be fun, I promise. If you do a good job helping me, I’m going to give you rewards. Multiple rewards. Sounds pretty good, right?”

Gray nods. Multiple rewards do sound good. Maybe if Gray is even more good than usual when Jason gives him multiple rewards, Bruce might also start giving Gray multiple rewards and he won’t have to choose between stuffed animals again.

“First thing’s first. We have to be very quiet when we leave,” Jason says. “And we have to leave very quickly. We’re going to go out of the side door near the ballroom and head out of the delivery entrance. Then we’ll get on my motorbike and head into Gotham. Are you ready?”

Gray considers this. He is not quite ready yet. 

“Almost,” he says. 

“Almost?” Jason frowns. “The hell do you mean, ‘almost’?”

“The stuffed animals,” Gray says. “They should listen to music when we are gone.”

“Music?” Jason’s frown intensifies. “You lost me. Why do they have to listen to music?”

“Because it’s good,” Gray says. Jason’s frown and body language seem to intensify even more, so Gray hastens to explain: “the stuffed animals are good, so they should experience good things.”

“The stuffed animals, which are inanimate objects, deserve to enjoy nice things?”

Gray considers this. Yes, they are inanimate. They cannot move under their own power. He nods. 

“You’re fascinating,” Jason says. Then he stops frowning and smiles speaks nicely again. “Okay, set the music up for the stuffed animals. Then we’ll go.”

Gray carefully does so, and one of the songs from earlier fills the air.

“This is Skee-Lo, right?” Jason asks. “You like rap?”

“Yes, this is Skee-Lo. No, I do not like anything. But this is a good song.”

“Why’s it good?” Jason asks. 

Gray thinks. It is because of the lyrics and the rhythm and the background music. Each element of the song is interesting and good and even more good when all layered together. The song is relaxing but energetic and it is fun and it is very hard to remain still while it is playing. 

“The cadence and language features,” Gray manages. It is very hard to put the experience of music into words. 

Jason seems pleased by this answer though, because he smiles more intensely, showing his teeth. 

“And Dickface says you don’t talk,” Jason says. He laughs briefly and quietly. “Oh, Graham. We’re gonna have so much fun. You ready now?”

“Yes. I am ready now,” Gray answers.

“Everybody except Alfred is downstairs in the Cave,” Jason says. “And I know for a fact Alfie’s in the laundry room swearing at the dryer right now because I rewired it when I broke in last night. Also ‘cause he hasn’t found the bug I planted in there yet. I didn’t know he knew so many bad words.”

Jason pauses for a moment, then shrugs and opens the bedroom door. 

“I’ll buy him the new Eoin Colfer book to make up for it,” he says. “C’mon, Graham. We got places to be.”

---

Jason leads Gray, and Gray follows. He does not make any attempt to avoid detection, such as climbing the wall and using the ceiling instead. He simply walks quietly along the vast hallways of Bruce Wayne’s home, glancing over his shoulder to Gray occasionally.

Jason takes Gray to a part of the manor he has never seen before, down a hall that ends in a pair of double doors, then a new hallway that looks different to the manor itself. 

This hallway is difficult to see, because Jason does not switch on the lights, but it seems to be chiefly decorated by large statues and there are many plaques on the walls. The floor is different to the floor in the rest of the manor - some kind of stone tile - and the dimensions of this area are slightly different, too. There is a heavy smell of industrial cleaning products, and the doors Jason and Gray walk past have signs on. 

STAFF ONLY, GENTLEMAN’S RESTROOM, KANE LOUNGE, GRAND BALLROOM, LADIES RESTROOM, TO THE GARDENS, STAFF ONLY.

Jason takes Gray through one of the STAFF ONLY doors, which is a small loading bay with adjoining storerooms. 

“Smile and wave at the security camera,” Jason says, pointing at a small camera in one corner of the room. 

Gray obeys, and then Jason takes something from his jacket pocket and gives it to Gray. It is slightly warm. 

“You have to wear this balaclava when we’re outside.”

Gray pulls it over his face. It only takes a moment to line his eyes up with the holes properly. Jason grins.

“This is going to be so much fun,” he says. And then, as he leads Gray through an unmarked door next to a much larger roller door: “careful, there’s a step going down.”

And then Gray is outside, the door clicking shut behind him.

He is outside. 

This is not a projection or a view from a window. It is real. 

Outside is wide and open, illuminated by a floodlight, with trees and no ceiling and the stars are right there, hundreds of miles above them. The air is cool and fresh and there is a light breeze and a soft rustling noise— and— and there is no floor when Gray puts his foot down and—

Gray stumbles, falling straight into Jason’s back. His feet hit the floor, just a couple inches below where he had expected and he quickly regains his footing. This floor is not stone or wood or carpet, but concrete. The smell of cleaning products is gone and everything smells… it is a different smell he has not experienced before. It is not unpleasant, but he cannot say how it is different, except that it is.

“Seriously? I fucking told you there was a step there,” Jason hisses, turning around.

Jason takes a step toward him, and Gray recalls that apologies can sometimes stave off punishment. 

“I am sorry,” he says. “I will be better. It will not happen again.”

Jason stops immediately. He is silent for several seconds and does not command Gray to move, so Gray does not move. Instead he tries to pay attention to Jason while also burning every single sensation of ‘outside’ into his memory so that he can remember it later when he is indoors or if he is ever allowed back into storage.

This clearing is actually a driveway, Gray’s architectural training explains. The driveway extends into thick woods and the sky above is mostly clear, with a few wisps of cloud obscuring the stars. There is a slight movement in the air - a breeze, a cool breeze that tickles his exposed hands and eyelids. It is hard to see the stars with the bright floodlight above them, casting black shadows across the floor, but he can see the moon, which orbits the Earth three hundred and eighty-four thousand, four hundred kilometres away. It hangs in the sky, brightly contrasting the darkness. It is here. He is here. 

Gray briefly wonders whether Martian Manhunter or Superman can fly to the moon and whether it it just as nice to look at up close. His thoughts are interrupted by Jason.

“Outside gets a hell of a lot better than this,” Jason says, and he reaches over to pat Gray’s arm. “I promise. Come on, my bike is over here.”

Jason leads Gray a few metres onward, to a sleek black motorcycle sitting near the roller door.

The motorcycle has a small storage compartment attached the back. Jason opens it and draws out two helmets. One is a black motorcycle helmet. It is face-concealing with an opaque visor. The other is Jason’s Red Hood helmet. Jason gives the motorcycle helmet to Gray and puts the other one on.

“Wear this. Sit behind me.”

Red Hood climbs onto the motorcycle and Gray copies him after putting on the helmet. The helmet dulls his senses: the darkness is marginally darker, and the sound of rustling is gone. Red Hood reaches into his jacket pocket and deposits something into Gray’s hand.

“Put these gloves on,” Red Hood says, his voice muffled, and Gray does. They are leather and black and fit well and his hands no longer feel the cold breeze.

Red Hood then issues another order. 

“Hold onto me,” he says. “You should hang on around my waist, not my shoulders. Then draw your legs up and squeeze the bike with your legs. When you’re done, you cannot touch the wheels or the ground. Hold onto me and keep your legs in that position until I park the bike. Understand?”

“Yes,” Gray replies. Red Hood gives very detailed instructions that are easy to follow. 

Once Gray has obeyed, Red Hood switches the engine on. The vibrations reverberate through Gray’s entire body and the noise is loud even through the helmet. Red Hood twists, looking over his shoulder.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” Gray answers, and they move. 

---

Riding on the motorcycle is fast and interesting. It is faster than any other mode of transport Gray has experienced and the air rushes past the exposed slivers of skin on Gray’s throat and wrists. Gray is careful not to lean in any direction, so as to not impede Red Hood’s driving, but he tilts his head slightly to look over Red Hood’s shoulder.

Even through the tinted visor, there is much to see. Dark forests speed past, along with wrought-iron gates and tall streetlights. After a few minutes, there’s a junction, another long, tree-lined road, and then a bridge stretching across water that sparkles under the starlight. 

The city that follows the bridge is even more complex than it looked from the bedroom window. There are buildings and pedestrians and gardens and neon signs and buses and parks and warehouses and streetlights and trucks and alleyways and storefronts and train stations and trees and junctions and more bridges and cars and skyscrapers and so many other things, Gray cannot file them all away in his head before the motorcycle passes them all by. 

Red Hood eventually comes to a stop in a dark alleyway near another bridge. Through the helmet, Gray can hear a faint rushing sound. Traffic? 

“Get off the bike,” Red Hood says, and Gray does. Then Red Hood also gets off the bike and puts Gray’s helmet in the lockbox and begins to walk down the alley toward another, gesturing Gray to follow him.  

There is so much in this alley. Fire escapes and graffitied brick walls and drainpipes and dumpsters and boarded windows and scattered pieces of trash. A rat scurries from under one dumpster to a gap between buildings too small for a human frame to fit through. Red Hood walks quickly, and Gray keeps up with him easily. 

Red Hood stops at the corner, peering around it. Gray stops too, just a few steps behind. 

“Perfect,” Red Hood mutters. He looks at Gray. “Take a look at these losers.”

Gray peers around the corner, too. This new alley is wider. There is a streetlight illuminating it with dim orange light and there are dumpsters and fire escapes lining the edges. There are two men standing near a backdoor. They are not facing Red Hood and Gray. They seem to be vaping and talking with each other. There is an unmarked black van nearby, the back doors open. Another man stands further away, between the van and the street. He is facing the street. 

“Just like I thought. Penguin and Two-Face have been making deals,” Jason says. “C’mon, let’s gank ‘em.”

Gank. This is a slang term meaning a kind of killing.

“I am not allowed to kill,” Gray says. 

“Sure you are,” Red Hood replies, with a shrug “I’m here and I’m allowing you.”

“You don’t outrank Bruce,” Gray says. “He says that I am not allowed to kill.”

Red Hood does not speak for six whole seconds.

“Okay,” he says. “Then how about we beat the shit out of them and steal their stuff? Are you allowed to do that?”

Stealing stuff is not disallowed under Bruce’s rules. Superman said that it was not very nice to snatch, which could mean to take something quickly or to steal, so stealing is not very nice. But Bruce’s rules say nothing about being very nice. Gray is therefore allowed to be merely nice, and not nice, and not very nice. And that means he is allowed to steal stuff with Red Hood.

“Yes,” Gray says. “But we cannot maim them, because that is against the rules.”

“We don’t have to maim them,” Red Hood says. “Just rough them up a little. Hurt them and scare them and walk away with their stuff.”

“Okay,” Gray says. He is well-trained in the art of killing, and everybody said he performed well against the family and the Justice League. Two thugs will be easy opponents. 

“Here,” Red Hood says, pushing something hard into Gray’s hand. “It’s not loaded, don’t worry. But it’ll scare the hell out of them.”

The object is a gun. Guns are noisy and rouse suspicion. It is good that it is not loaded: Gray cannot accidentally discharge the weapon. He did that once during training. The punishment had been severe. 

“I’ll do the talking, don’t worry,” Red Hood promises. “You just get those two on the ground, conscious, and make sure they don’t get up.”

Gray obeys.

It is easy to approach the men, because they are looking at a cellphone and Gray is silent and by the time they realise he is there it is too late. He slams their heads together and hits the left-hand man - the brawnier one, more likely to be able to fight back - in the stomach, such that he starts retching. The other stumbles, and less than three seconds later Gray has the skinnier man flat on his back, dazed, heel threatening to crush his throat, and the larger man held at gunpoint. The third man has collapsed, Red Hood quickly dragging the body out of view of the street, behind the van.

“Give me the weapons and I don’t have to make things ugly,” Red Hood says, letting the third man flop to the ground. He slowly and deliberately points one of his pistols at the man Gray has pinned on the floor. “And by ‘ugly’, I mean ‘you wish I killed you’.”

“N-no way, man! Penguin’s gonna ice me!” the brawny man stammers, blood oozing from his shattered nose, and then he retches again. There are tears in his eyes. “Please, I have a family! You know what he does!”

“Get a load of this guy,” Red Hood says, inclining his helmeted head at Gray. “He’s got a family. What an asshole, rubbing that in our faces. Ugh. Might just kill him for that alone.”

Gray is not allowed to kill, and people killing people is against the law in the United States, but it seems that nevertheless, Red Hood is allowed to. It does not seem fair that Red Hood should be allowed to do that if Gray cannot and if the law says people cannot, but there are many rules Gray has to follow that humans do not. Maybe putting people’s decapitated heads in duffel bags is an important part of Red Hood’s work. Tim first spoke to Gray about the duffel bag, maybe he knows more about it. 

Red Hood’s helmet remains facing Gray for a few moments, then he turns his his head back to the men. 

“You know what?” he asks. “I think I’m just gonna beat you senseless and rob you.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” the man on the ground croaks. “What if I just surrender and tell you where the real good stuff is? This is nothing, Two-Face has a whole warehouse full— ow!”

“Nobody likes a snitch,” Red Hood says, and stomps the man in the ankle, shooting him before he can scream. He does not shoot with a bullet, though. He shoots with a projectile. A tranquiliser dart, sticking out of the man’s face. 

The larger man panics, lunging at Red Hood, but Gray is effective and stops him. He is able to hold the man such that Red Hood can tranquilise him easily. 

“Nice work,” Red Hood says. “Let’s hide the evidence we were here.” 

Gray waits for further orders, but Red Hood does not give them. After a moment, he clears his throat. 

“Where should we hide these goons?” Red Hood asks. 

“Those two dumpsters are situated slightly away from the wall. We can put them in the gap and they cannot be spotted from the street.” 

“Good thinking,” Red Hood says. “If we put them inside the dumpsters, they might get stuck in there and crushed to death when the trash guys come to collect.” 

Gray had not considered that. Hiding the men behind the dumpsters had simply seemed the easiest way to fulfil the objective. 

“That would be very bad,” Gray agrees.

Red Hood begins to pick through the men’s pockets, drawing out items and putting them in his own pockets. This includes a packet of chewing gum, car keys, and a wallet - Jason takes the notes and then puts it back into the man’s pocket. 

“If that had happened, if the guys had got crushed to death by the trash collection trucks, would that count as killing them?” Red Hood asks. “Would you be breaking Bruce’s rules?”

“Yes,” Gray answers. “Because they would be killed because of my actions, therefore I caused it to happen and that is killing and that is against the rules.” 

“What if we put them somewhere safe, but then they died anyway?” Red Hood asks, tucking the last wallet back into the man’s jeans. He picks up the man and slings him over his shoulder. “Is that breaking the rules?” 

“I don’t know,” Gray says. And then, in case this makes Jason angry: “I need more contextual information.” 

Gray picks up the other two and follows Red Hood. They hide the men behind the dumpster.

“Like… say we hid them here and then, I don’t know, it started raining and a puddle formed and the men drowned. Or maybe someone else crashed a car into the alleyway and hit the dumpster and killed them.”

“Yes,” Gray says. “They would not die if we had not hidden them.” 

“Okay,” Red Hood says. “How about if we came across those guys getting wailed on by someone else and didn’t intervene, and then they died?”

“No,” Gray says, but even as he says it, it does not feel correct. “Yes. I don’t know.” 

“Explain.”

“I have not broken the rules because I did not do anything to cause them to die, and the exact wording of Bruce’s rules imply that they only apply to actions I actively take which cause death,” Gray says. “But my lack of action caused them to die, too. And withholding assistance can also be an effective method of assassination in the correct circumstances.”

“What if we saved those guys and then they killed someone? Is that our fault, too?” 

“I don’t know,” Gray says. They would not have the opportunity to kill if not for saving them, but it is as Wonder Woman said earlier: people give themselves permission to act. They make their own choices. It doesn’t seem right that Gray could be responsible for someone’s choices.

“I can work with that,” Red Hood says. He gestures toward the van. “You ever driven a vehicle before?”

“No,” Gray replies.

Red Hood waits for five seconds before speaking again. 

“Do you have the ability to drive a vehicle?” 

“Yes.” 

“What kinds of vehicles?” 

“I can drive all manual or automatic cars, vans and trucks commercially available in the United States,” Gray starts. “I am proficient in all forms of bicycles, motorcycles and mopeds. I can also operate most heavy machinery, trains and trams, and most forms of aircraft or watercraft.” 

“Most?”

“Doctor Burke said she would begin the hovercraft download the night I came to Bruce, but she forgot to start it before she left the lab.” 

“Hovercraft? Why the hell would you ever have to use one of those?”

That is the same thing Doctor Griffiths had said.

“Doctor Burke said it may be necessary.” 

“Weird,” Red Hood mutters, and then he tosses the man’s keys to Gray, who catches them. “Let’s get this shipment to my warehouse, then you and I are gonna go on a little joyride around town. See the sights. I might even show you my favourite gargoyle.”

Gargoyles are a kind of decorative waterspout commonly seen in Gothic and Gothic-styled architecture. Gray has not seen any in Gotham so far, but he has seen plenty of grotesques, which look similar but serve no practical function. It seems like a strange thing for Red Hood to favour, but since he is being nice and friendly and not angry, Gray should try to keep him that way. 

“Okay,” Gray agrees. He hesitates before heading to the van, looking back at the men that they had hidden.

Red Hood notices his hesitation.

"What?"

"We should move the men," Gray says. "If there is rain and a puddle forms, they might drown and I killed them and that is against the rules."

"The forecast is clear tonight, so the puddle thing can't happen," Red Hood says. "And you're gonna ask about the car thing, right? Look at the angle of the buildings. No car going fast enough to jolt the dumpster enough to hurt them is going to be able to make that sharp and small of a corner. They'd crash into the wall instead. Those goons are gonna be fine, got it?"

Gray nods and follows Red Hood back to the van. He cannot help but think about the larger man's family. Maybe he has a father and brothers and sister and grandfather who will worry about him when he does not come home or if Penguin kills him.

Gray thinks back to Red Hood's questions: if Penguin really does kill the man, is that Gray's fault, too?

Red Hood reaches the van first and issues a simple order:

"Hurry up!"

Gray, as always, obeys.

---

The van is easy to drive. It is a simple automatic handling system, which although old is in good repair. The van has a radio which switches on with the engine and Red Hood only turns the volume down enough to be able to speak clearly above the sound of music. Gray is attentive to his surroundings and closely follows the applicable traffic laws of New Jersey while listening nicely to Red Hood.

Red Hood alternates between giving Gray directions and using his cellphone and they drive to a warehouse at the industrial harbour. There are many harbours in Gotham, as it is an island city, but it is the southernmost island, which stretches further east, which contains most of the city’s industry and import business. 

Red Hood directs Gray to park next to a large roller door and produces a small box from his backpack. It is bright purple and labelled with the words ‘100% organic grape juice’. There is a straw encased in plastic and stuck to the nutritional label at the back. 

“Well done,” Red Hood says. “You’ve just earnt your first reward. Drink it and stay in this cab here while my men deal with the goods.” 

Red Hood winds down the window and makes a gesture. In the rear view mirror, Gray can see men and women approaching the back of the van, unloading the boxes that had been stacked in the interior. He cannot make out their faces or any identifying features due to the poor quality of the orange lighting outside of the warehouse.

The box has pictorial instructions on how to drink it. Gray carefully follows them, unwrapping the straw and stabbing through the plastic seal at the top. When he sips the liquid inside, it is sweeter than anything he has ever drunk before, even Alfred’s tea. It is a different kind of sweetness, with a rich and almost floral flavour. Vitis vinifera, likely a black or red variety. 

It is good. Gray tries very hard to savour the juice and not drink it too quickly - he may not be rewarded again for some time.

“It was a good idea to stay under the radar, behaving like a civvie,” Red Hood remarks. “Even with the balaclava, I don’t think anybody looked twice at us. I lose too many goons to stupidity - in a city plagued by super-crime, the cops are super hot on small-time stuff like traffic infractions.”

Gray had not considered any of this. He had simply followed his training.

“How did you learn how to drive like that?” Red Hood asks. “Oracle might be cooking up a fake license for you, but there’s no way you learnt normally.” 

“Training,” Gray answers. 

“So you did learn normally?” Red Hood asks. He does not sound nice any more. “The file says you’re either four years old or less than one, which is it? Or is it something else?” 

“I trained using simulations and informational downloads,” Gray explains. “I am chronologically almost four years old and have been awake for less than one.” 

“Jesus.” 

Red Hood is silent for three seconds, then five. Then ten. When he speaks again, it is even more nicely than before. 

“Okay, buddy, you and me are gonna cruise on back to the city,” Red Hood says. “We’ll find ourselves something fun to steal, go on a little joyride, see the sights. We’ll get on the highway, too — you can go super fast there. It’s your first time outside, right? Let’s make it fun. Then we’ll head back the manor and you can listen to music or watch Sesame Street or whatever it is you do, and I’m gonna introduce Bruce’s face to my fist because this is so much worse than I thought.”

Gray nods. Going home and listening to music is fun, and the rest of Red Hood’s words didn’t make very much sense. 

“Here, have another juice,” Red Hood continues, producing another juice box. This one is apple.

“Okay,” Gray answers. The apple juice is just as sweet as the grape, with a subtly different taste and a slight sourness which makes the sweetness more intense. By the time the juice is finished, Red Hood’s men have finished transferring the boxes and closed the van.

“Just toss the empty juice boxes in the back,” Red Hood says, so Gray does. The sound they make bouncing off the floor is fun. “You have to pee or anything before we go?”

“No.”

“Then start her up.”

As there are no females in the vicinity, Red Hood must be referring to the car. Sometimes vehicles, especially nautical vehicles, are referred to with female pronouns, even though they are machines and not organic and do not have a gender.  Gray obeys and, as before, drives carefully and according to Red Hood’s instructions. 

Gray drives past two factories and a ferry terminal and a train station and a shopping centre and a hospital and over a bridge and as they turn onto the wide boulevard that houses Gotham Cathedral, Gray spots something in the corner of his eye. A figure climbing on the roof of the art gallery above the Maze. 

Dark, skintight clothes and an unmistakable headpiece. 

A Talon. 

Gray concentrates on the road and following the directions. Red Hood has said nothing about the other Talon. Hopefully Gray will not have to spar this Talon - Red Hood promised fun and sparring is not fun unless it is with Bruce’s family or Wonder Woman. 

Red Hood directs Gray toward the financial district a little ways west of the Cauldron. As they approach Wayne Plaza, Red Hood shouts suddenly.

“Whoa! Pull over here!”

Gray obeys, and Red Hood immediately leaps out of the van. Gray follows his lead. Red Hood points to the Bank of Gotham across the street. There are no people on this street at this time of night, but there is some traffic.

“Do you see that?” he asks. 

A mover’s truck has partially crashed inside the bank, and movement can be seen through the shattered glass. 

“They’re robbing the Bank, and I’m ninety percent sure the Batmobile is sitting outside the employee entrance,” Red Hood says. “C’mon — I was gonna go after a cop car, but this is a thousand times better.”

Gray obeys, and is about to dart across the road when Red Hood grabs his arm, pulling him back. A bus crosses Gray’s would-be path a split second later.

“The f—“ Red Hood begins, sounding angry, and then he stops. Then he sounds nice again. “They didn’t teach you how to cross a road? Here, I’ll teach you. First, you look right, and then you look left. If the coast is clear, you can cross. If not, you gotta wait.”

With Red Hood’s guidance, Gray crosses the road. Then they enter the small side street that Red Hood pointed out. 

This is much cleaner and nicer than the alley they had been in previously. There is an entrance to an underground employee car park, as well as a few benches, a small trash receptacle, and some saplings planted into gaps in the paving. Sure enough, the Batmobile is sitting near the employee entrance. But there is no Batman to be seen.

Red Hood laughs. The sound that emits from his helmet is low and not nice. 

“God, this is too good to pass up,” he says, and then he addresses Gray. “Okay, test time. I want you to drive us back to the Cave using the Batmobile. You ready?”

Gray nods. He surveys the vehicle. It is sleek and black and although he can see where the doors are, there are no obvious ways to open them. They appear to be the kind that open upward rather than outward, but little other information can be gleaned, except that there is a small indent that could be a hidden cup-style handle.

Gray tries the possible handle. The door does not move. He looks at Red Hood.

“I guess you want a hint, huh? Okay, I can be nice,” Red Hood says. “Normally people can enter the Batmobile if they have a special chip in your suit. But Batman has a lot of backup plans and contingencies. There are lots of ways to enter the Batmobile, and lots of ways to turn it on. These same contingencies can stop other people, unauthorised people, from using B’s stuff.”

Gray considers this information. There are many people who have authorisation to use Batman’s tools. Batman himself, plus all of Gray’s siblings. The family vigilante outfits typically obscure some facial features and fingerprints. It may be that one of the contingencies includes facial or fingerprint recognition. But this would likely be a risk to their secret identities. There is another kind of recognition that would not have this problem, though.

Voice recognition. Nightwing has permission to use Batman’s belongings. Gray is a near-perfect physical copy of Nightwing - the only differences others have been able to point out are the slight greyish tint to Gray’s skin and their differing hairstyles. They have the same voices, although Richard speaks with cadence which Gray is not allowed to use because he is not a person.

But since tone and rhythm is likely to be needed for voice recognition and Red Hood has ordered him to enter and operate the Batmobile, maybe it will be okay just this once. And maybe it is extra okay because Bruce and Alfred keep saying that Gray is a person.

Gray thinks very hard. What might Nightwing say to activate the voice recognition? It might be an emergency, if he is not using the chip in his suit. Maybe he would be hurt.

“Open!” Gray says, utilising his acting skills to sound pained and hoarse and desperate. 

Nothing happens. 

Gray looks back to Red Hood for further hints, and then he hears it - the slight, near-silent hiss of the door mechanism releasing. The door silently lifts up above the body of the vehicle, revealing a spacious interior.

Red Hood laughs again, then opens the door on his side of the Batmobile and climbs in. Gray does the same. 

The seat automatically adjusts when Gray sits down, the chair simultaneously scooting forward and rising a few inches. Presumably this is to make up for the difference between Nightwing and Batman’s heights. The console flickers to life, buttons and levers illuminating as the door closes again. A holographic screen stretches across the windscreen, and this too brightens into operation. 

Gray grips the steering wheel and finds the accelerator. An automatic car would normally require use of the brake to start the engine, but Gray can feel the Batmobile softy rumbling underneath him. He changes the shifter to ‘drive’ and presses the accelerator gently. 

The Batmobile jolts, and…. then nothing. The lights on the console fade and the holographic screen turns bright green, a familiar female voice filling the Batmobile interior. 

“What are you two doing?”

Oracle.

Gray smiles underneath his balaclava. Oracle is Nightwing's friend and she is very nice and kind. It is good that she is here, too.

Beside Gray, Red Hood curses under his breath. 

Notes:

The next chapter is likely to be out some time in August.

The song Gray and Jason discussed briefly was 'I Wish' by Skee-Lo.

Chapter 25: Interruption - Tricorner Island, Gotham City

Notes:

I know I said that the next update would be next month, but this scene ended up being long enough that I thought it best to upload it as a separate mini-chapter, because... well, the next scene is going to be *very* long.

"Stupid fucking goody-two-shoes," Red Hood mutters. This is not an adequate answer to Oracle's query, so Gray clarifies with an explanation of his own.

“We are having fun."

“Fun?” Oracle replies. “I don’t understand. Explain that to me, please.”

Red Hood leans over, hand on Gray's shoulder.

“Be quiet, don’t tell her anything,” Red Hood hisses.

Gray glances between Oracle’s hologram and Red Hood. 

“I cannot be quiet and don’t tell her anything and explain it at the same time,” Gray says. 

“Yeah, duh, so keep your mouth shut,” Red Hood hisses. He lets go of Gray's shoulder and leans back in the passenger seat. "We just have to wait them out."

“Gray, this is very important,” Oracle says, and her voice is firm but not unkind. “I need to know what you and Red Hood have been doing tonight. Please tell me right now.”

“I swear to God, Graham, if you snitch I’ll…” Red Hood drops his voice low. “I’ll never give you another juice box again.” 

The juice was good, and it would be bad if Gray never received another one. But obedience is not about reward or punishment. His orders are still contradictory and the hierarchy here is unclear. 

Gray glances helplessly between the two. He cannot obey both of them at once. The only solution is to clarify the hierarchy.

“Oracle, are you my sister?” Gray asks. 

“Future sister-in-law, maybe,” Red Hood mutters, but future maybes don’t mean anything in the here and now so Gray ignores him.

Oracle pauses, and then she speaks with her normal nice tone of voice.

“No, I’m not your sister. I assist Batman.”

"So we are not part of the same family unit?"

"No, we aren't."

The hierarchy is now clear. Oracle's order is of secondary importance in this situation, because Gray must obey the members of the Wayne family unit in the absence of Bruce Wayne or Batman.

“Then I have to obey Red Hood instead,” Gray says, and he glances over the console in front of him. There are no obvious ways to start the engine, but maybe he will be able to hot-wire the Batmobile and bypass Oracle’s lockdown. There must be an openable panel he can reach, otherwise how would Batman carry out any repairs or maintenance?

“Ah.” Oracle makes a noise that sounds like displeasure. “I’m not so sure about that, Gray.”

The holographic screen changes. Now there are two video feeds displayed on the holographic screen. One shows a very pretty woman with glasses and red hair tied back, and she is in a darkened room. The other shows Nightwing, at an unstable angle - likely from a handheld or wrist-bound camera.

“For fuck’s sake…” Red Hood groans. He pulls at the handle inside the car door. It does not move. 

“There we go,” the pretty red-headed woman says in Oracle’s voice. “You see, Gray, Nightwing is also your brother and he would also like to know what you and Red Hood have been doing. I’m one of Batman’s closest allies, and Batman gave me an order to make sure that nobody used Batman’s vehicle while he’s dealing with the situation in the bank. Since you and Red Hood are trying to use the Batmobile, I have to stop you. Do you understand?”

Gray nods, thinking hard.

Nightwing might outrank Red Hood. Gray is not sure. He will need to ask Alfred later, because Alfred knows everything and he will probably give Gray more hot sweet tea when he answers. But even if Nightwing does not outrank Red Hood, Oracle is also obeying Batman’s order and therefore helping Oracle is the biggest priority in lieu of direct orders from Batman.

“Hey, G,” Nightwing says. The quality of his camera and voice are lesser than Oracle’s, but he is clearly smiling nicely and kindly. “How about answering the question, huh? What were you and Red Hood doing just now?”

“Oh, come on!” Red Hood exclaims. He sounds very angry and his body looks tense. But an order is an order and so Gray turns to Oracle and Nightwing’s projected forms and speaks quickly. 

“Red Hood took me outside and we have been having fun,” Gray says. “We rode on Red Hood's motorbike and we went to the alley and beat up the losers and stole their stuff and then we took their stuff to the warehouse and then Red Hood rewarded me and we drove through the city and Red Hood wanted to steal a cop car but then he saw the Batmobile and instructed me to drive it home and then Oracle stopped us.”

“Whoa,” Nightwing says, his facial expression and tone of voice having changed significantly. “I have so many questions. First of all, what the hell? Second of all, seriously, what the hell?“ 

“B can’t keep him locked up forever,” Red Hood says. “I was trying to prove a point.” 

“What point? That we’ve got the ultimate henchman on our hands?” Nightwing retorts. “The grass is green, the sky is blue! You want to prove those, too?”

“No, I—“ Red Hood stops. “No. I thought that B was screwing everything up - and he is, but in a completely different way than I thought. A worse way.”

“Define ‘worse’,” Oracle says. 

Red Hood shakes his head, jabbing a thumb in Gray’s direction.

“Graham here doesn’t know shit. About anything. At all.” 

This is false. Gray knows many things. He opens his mouth to correct Red Hood.

“I thought Batman was going to get everybody murdered, but it’s—“ Red Hood stops. “I mean, it’s B, so he still might. But not— not because of who I thought.”

“Oh?” Nightwing’s background has changed, and the sound quality has, too. He is indoors now. His facial expression is still unreadable, but in a different way. “You mean from a flock of birds, right?”

“Right,” Red Hood agrees. “But what I’m really pissed off about, and what you should be pissed off about too, is how he’s failing… you know who. He should have been in therapy as soon as the situation was clear."

“Do you have any idea how many mental health professionals there are who are both alive and take on superheroes as clients?” Oracle asks. “The list is pretty small. I'm vetting the shortlist as we speak, and as soon as the cover story is complete, I'm personally bringing someone in."

Nightwing’s camera cuts off, and he appears on Oracle’s video feed. He briefly embraces Oracle before sitting just within view of the camera, behind her. 

“As fascinating as this is, I think we’d better talk about it later,” Nightwing says. He clears his throat and then smiles and waves at the camera. “Hey, Gray, how about you tell me all about your night in excruciating, painstaking detail? What was the best thing about heading out to town with Red Hood?”

Gray thinks about this. 

“Being outside,” he says. 

“Outside is great, isn’t it?” Nightwing says, after a moment of silence. “I personally love outside. Tell me all about the good things that you experienced outside.”

“Juice boxes,” Gray answers. “Red Hood gave me grape and apple because I did a good job helping.”

“Grape and app—“ Nightwing begins to repeat, but then stops. “Uh… okay. Did Red Hood teach you about litter or anything? What did you do with the boxes when you were done?”

“I threw them in the back of the van,” Gray answers. A strange breath bubbles out of his chest and mouth. “They made fun noises.”

“Really?!“ Nightwing groans, then turns to Oracle. “O, can you…?”

“Already on it. The van is parked outside the Sephora opposite Gotham Bank,” Oracle replies, and then she recites a vehicle registration number. By the time she has finished speaking, Nightwing is already gone, sprinting out of view behind her. In the passenger seat, Red Hood laughs, his voice muffled and warped by his helmet. He is typing on his cellphone, but Gray cannot make out what he is writing while also paying attention to Oracle.

“Littering is bad, Gray,” Oracle says, and although her facial expression seems serious, she does not sound angry. This is good. “Red Hood shouldn’t have told you to do that. You have to be very careful, because you share your DNA with Nightwing. If you leave it lying around carelessly, people might suspect Nightwing of doing things that you have done, and he might get in a lot of trouble. Nightwing is really nice, isn’t he? You don’t want to get him in trouble, do you?”

“Yes, he is very nice,” Gray says. “No, I don’t want to do anything.”

Oracle’s facial expression is difficult to read for a moment, and then she nods.

“Of course. And you agree that it would be bad to get Nightwing in trouble, right?”

“Yes, it would be bad. Very bad.”

Nightwing is a normal human. He wouldn’t be able to survive being frozen. It is much better if Gray does not get him in trouble, and then he can stay warm and happy.

“That’s right, Gray,” Oracle says, still speaking nicely. “So in the future, please be really careful not to get him in trouble, okay? I know you didn’t mean to do anything bad.”

Something twists in Gray’s stomach. He did something wrong? But he followed Red Hood’s instructions perfectly. Oracle continues speaking.

“I’ll talk with Batman and let him know that you were just doing your best, so don’t worry about being punished. We can all talk together with Batman and work out a way to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Does that sound good?”

It does not sound good, but it is better than the alternative of either Gray or Nightwing being frozen. Gray opens his mouth to agree because that seems to be what Oracle wants. 

Before he can speak, something collides hard with the Batmobile. Despite the large amounts of shock absorption, the entire vehicle and its occupants slam sideways, and Oracle’s hologram vanishes.

Red Hood yelps in shock, his cellphone flying from his hand, smacking into the windshield. It is a good thing he is wearing his helmet because it makes a loud noise when it smacks against the window.

“The hell was that?”

Chapter 26: Demonstration - Tricorner Island, Gotham City

Red Hood quickly bends down and retrieves his phone from the vehicle floor, pushing it into Gray’s hands. 

This is not a WayneTech phone, like Gray and Tim’s phones are. This has an H-shaped logo on the back instead. Holt Holdings, Gray’s training informs him. The owner of Holt Holdings is Michael Holt, publicly known as Mr Terrific.

“Don’t move,” Red Hood orders. “I’m gonna open the door manually. You’re gonna stay quiet and safe in here. If anything bad happens to me, you’re gonna keep a really tight hold of that phone and run away. Lose any pursuers and then find somewhere quiet and safe to hide until help arrives. Got it?”

Gray nods. He understands.

“Good,” Red Hood says. He twists in his seat and begins to do something to the lower half of the passenger door. Gray cannot see what he is doing, and he does not get a chance to ask because the driver’s door opens suddenly beside him with an almost inaudible hiss.

Cool air tickles the exposed skin surrounding Gray’s eyes, and a shadow looms overhead.

Batman.

Gray’s fingers relax around the cellphone. He knows that nothing bad will happen now that Batman is here, because Bruce promised that he will not allow harm to come to Gray and that Gray will be okay. Nevertheless, something inside his stomach tightens. 

Batman clears his throat. Red Hood startles at the noise, drawing a pistol and twisting to aim, before lowering his gun and visibly relaxing. 

“That’s my line,” Red Hood says. “What was that just now?”

“None of your concern,” Batman replies. He taps Gray on the shoulder twice. “You, get out. Red Hood, stay.”

“Fuck off, I’m not your dog!” Red Hood shouts. He is leaning toward Batman now, his hands curled into fists. He is angry.

It is good that Gray is not being ordered to stay in here with an angry Red Hood.

Batman ignores Red Hood and takes a single step backward, allowing Gray enough space to fulfil his instruction.

Now that Gray is outside, in clearer lighting, he can see that Batman is lightly coated in dust and soot, his suit visibly scraped (although not torn) in places. The side street is mostly the same as it was earlier, except that there is now a big hole in the bank wall and rubble scattered across the ground. The bank interior is difficult to see, between the lights being off and the dust hanging in the air. If he had his ocular implants installed, he might be able to discern more detail. 

“Why are you here?” Batman asks. 

“Red Hood instructed me to drive the Batmobile home,” Gray answers. 

Batman’s lip curls. 

“Hm,” he says. 

Batman taps at a small holographic keyboard on his wrist. There is a soft, almost inaudible hiss, and the back of the Batmobile opens to reveal two seats.

“It’s not safe out here,” Batman says, and as Gray turns his head to look at Batman there’s movement in the corner of his eye.

A figure, crawling silently over the edge of the roof above the employee car park. Then three things happen at the same time. 

One, the passenger seat door opens and Red Hood angrily emerges from the Batmobile. 

Two, the dark figure drops to the paved floor of the side street and rises, revealing an unmistakable mask. It is a Talon.

Three, Batman issues an instruction: “get in the back.”

As the Talon silently approaches Batman and Gray, Red Hood clears the Batmobile door and his posture stiffens as his head turns to the angle necessary to see the Talon. The arm in which Red Hood is holding his gun begins to rise, and although Gray is not permitted to make inferences or deductions, the situation is immediately clear. 

Red Hood was not expecting to see the Talon and regards it as an enemy. However, Batman is Gray’s rightful owner and a member of the Court, which means it must be here on Batman’s orders. There is only one reason Gray is ever exposed to other Talons: sparring.

Gray has already sparred under Batman’s watchful eye. But the sparring matches against Gray’s family members were not a sufficient test of his skills because he was not allowed to kill or maim. 

Talons cannot be killed by normal means: only through electrum withdrawal or freezing. Therefore Batman must wish to see the full extent of Gray’s lethality. But he has given clear instructions, too. Instructions that do not involve sparring. So this must be an extension of the reasoning task Tim gave Gray the other day: Batman must need to see Gray’s ability to prioritise conflicting tasks and instructions. 

Underneath the balaclava, Gray’s mouth tightens of its own accord. 

This is good. This is very, very good. 

This is a test he cannot fail.

The Talon poses no threat to Gray - he is vastly superior. Every single cell and augmentation in his body has been carefully crafted to ensure he is beyond the peak of human condition, that he is the perfect tool for the Court of Owls. His extensive training has been delicately planned to ensure that he has all of the skills that are necessary to carry out his tasks to completion. 

A singular regular Talon is not enough to overwhelm the Gray Son. Only a significant number of Talons or a special Talon like William Cobb could do that. However, a singular regular Talon could certainly harm Batman and Red Hood.

Gray will incapacitate the Talon and then obey Batman’s instruction to get in the back of the vehicle, and this will be the correct answer.

There are no easy methods of freezing the Talon, and destroying its head will be difficult as he has no tools with which to do so. But that is killing, even though Talons are not quite alive, and Gray is not allowed to kill. Decapitation is the easiest method of incapacitation at his disposal: he can use the Talon’s own tools to do so. Best of all, incapacitating it in this way will not break any of Bruce’s rules. The Talon will remain sort-of-alive until either its head is placed back onto its body, or until it loses too much thick, sticky, electrum-filled blood. In other words, it can easily be resuscitated and healed after Gray defeats it. He will not kill or maim it, and he will show Batman how very good he is.

So he does.

Before Red Hood can fire at the Talon, Gray side-steps Batman and launches himself at his target. Batman moves, raising one arm almost as though to stop him, but he is too slow and Gray knows precisely what he needs to do.

The fastest time in which Gray has previously defeated a single Talon is approximately twenty-four seconds. This time, Gray manages it in just over sixteen. 

The Talon appears to be focused on Batman and has slower reflexes than Gray. It is easy to grapple the Talon and subsequently suplex it into the ground head-first. This is not quite enough to cause brain damage, as it is far more durable than Gray, but he is faster and manages to break its neck with a series of powerful kicks.

During the five seconds it would require for healing such an injury, Gray finds its dagger and the place where the mask meets the rest of the Talon’s suit.

It is difficult to saw through its flesh, but he manages to separate the head from its body nevertheless. Then Gray quickly replaces the dagger inside the Talon’s sheath, and stands, turning to face Batman.

His master is still standing exactly where he had been sixteen seconds ago, though he has turned to face Gray and there is now a small rectangular device in his hand. Gray cannot ascertain its function, not from this distance. Red Hood stands beside Batman, gun pointed at the floor.

It is impossible to tell whether they are pleased with his performance, because neither of them say anything for a full ten seconds.

“Ho-ly shit,” Red Hood says, and he does not sound nice like he did earlier. He must be displeased. Gray's stomach feels bad again.

Pleasing Jason earlier by apologising for stumbling into him prevented punishment, so Gray offers Red Hood the decapitated head. Humans like gifts, and pleasing him in this way might boost his perception of Gray’s sparring. 

Red Hood does not take the Talon’s head. Instead, he looks in Gray’s direction, unmoving, the gun still clenched in one hand.

“Red Robin said that you put decapitated heads into duffel bags,” Gray explains. “Maybe you can put this in your backpack for a short time.”

“Red Robin and I are gonna have some words,” Red Hood mutters. He puts his weapon back inside his jacket and takes the decapitated head from Gray. “Uh. Thanks.”

Gray walks past Batman and Red Hood and obediently climbs into one of the passenger seats in the back. It is slightly difficult to buckle his seatbelt because his gloves are coated in sticky blood, but he manages to do this quickly.

Gray hears the murmur of familiar voices for a brief moment: Batman and Red Hood speaking to one another for a few seconds. Then the back seat closes, leaving Gray in a comfortingly dark, enclosed space.

It is warmer in here than outside, though not by much. Then the Batmobile vibrates slightly, the engine engaged once again. 

Are they moving yet? Gray cannot tell.

Gray closes his eyes and counts the seconds. 

Nine minutes and six seconds pass. Sometimes the Batmobile engine vibrates slightly more, and sometimes it vibrates slightly less. He can feel no other clues as to how the vehicle is moving.

When the passenger compartment opens again, the Batmobile is once again in the Batcave, in the vehicle storage area Gray has seen a few times from a distance. Batman is standing next to the opening of the Batmobile with his arms crossed and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Get out," Batman says.

Gray does, leaving the nice warmth of the Batmobile behind. Now it is cold, and he would be less cold if Jason had permitted him to wear Lucius' gift during their outing.

“We’ll debrief in the morning," Batman says. "In the meantime, I have several new additions to the rules. Firstly, you are not permitted to leave the manor without first obtaining permission from myself or Alfred. Do you understand?”

Gray considers this. He mostly understands.

“Is the Cave part of the manor?” Gray asks. 

“Yes. You do not need permission to move between the Cave and the manor. You need permission to leave either location by any other means. This includes accessing the gardens, the garages, and the public ballroom.”

“I understand.” 

“Additionally, you are not permitted to leave the manor without your cellphone,” Batman continues. He then holds out one gloved hand, revealing the black wristband Jason instructed Gray to take off earlier. “You must also wear this wristband at all times. You may only remove it if either I or Red Robin permit it.”

“I understand.” 

Batman takes Gray’s hands, removing the bloodied gloves and placing the wristband on Gray in such a way that his skin remains clean.

“Finally, Red Hood is not permitted to issue orders to you. With the exception of life-threatening or emergency situations, you must always check with another member of the family before following his orders.”

“You’re such an asshole, B,” Red Hood’s voice echoes, from a far-off place in the Cave. Batman ignores him, continuing to look at Gray.

“I understand,” Gray says. 

“Then it’s time for your resting period,” Batman says. “Alfred brought your nightwear downstairs - they’re in the changing room. When you remove these clothes, you must put everything into the green biohazard bag next to your clean clothes. This includes your balaclava, shoes and jacket. Do not get any Talon blood on your clean clothes. If there is any blood on your skin, you must wash it off before changing your clothes.”

Gray nods and obeys Batman’s instructions.

The pyjamas Alfred brought downstairs are soft and slippery and a deep navy colour, and the robe and slippers are soft and slightly fuzzy. When he emerges from the changing room, Alfred is waiting in the main room. Batman is there, too, hunched over the computer.

“I’m glad to see you arrived home safely, Master Graham,” Alfred says, kindly steering him toward the elevator. “We were all terribly worried to find your room empty.”

Alfred pauses, apparently expecting a reply.

“Yes,” Gray says, and that seems to appease Alfred. 

“It’s good to spend time with your brothers,” Alfred says. “But perhaps next time you could spend time with Master Jason inside the manor?” 

“Yes,” Gray says, and Alfred smiles.

“Capital,” he says. "Then I shall leave you be. Goodnight, Master Graham."

"Goodnight, Alfred," Gray says, and he opens the door.

His bedroom is almost exactly as it was when he left it with Jason earlier, although there are a few signs that it has been searched: the trash can next to the desk has been moved, and the bedsheets are neater than they had been, and the bathroom door has been left slightly ajar. The music player is still gently playing music for the stuffed animals, who are still looking out over Gotham's skyline. He walks to the window and switches off the music player, plugging it into the charger. He checks his cellphone briefly: he has several missed calls, including several messages from Tim.

Timothy (08:40 PM)

How does your mouth feel?

(Missed call 08:45 PM, 08:48 PM)

Timothy (08:51 PM)

Sorry, I just realized I never showed you how to use a phone. I'm coming to check in on you.

Gray considers this, and sends a reply that he hopes is sufficient for both messages.

Graham (11:39 PM)

Red. My training covered usage of most electronic communication devices. There is no need to check in on me.

Gray switches on his electric blanket and heated mattress. Then he washes his face and brushes his teeth.

This time, when Gray climbs into bed with the stuffed animals, he pauses. Then he puts the pillows onto the wrong end of the bed, the end which his feet are supposed to sit at. When he climbs into bed, he can see the night sky.

Gray arranges the pillows differently, stacking them so that they lift his shoulders and torso in a semi-sitting position when he reclines.

This time, when he climbs into bed, he can see the Gotham skyline, too.

It is good.

Notes:

This chapter was also split into two - I had intended to have the debrief in here too, but this first part was getting long enough as-is.

I plan to update again this month, hopefully within the next week or two.

Chapter 27: Company - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Gray knows that, at some point, he should stop watching the city and fetch a book from the desk. But it is difficult to move. The warmth of the bedding and the softness of the toys are so pleasant. Watching the lights that make up the city is interesting.

Some buildings darken - it’s hard to see, but Gray thinks that maybe the lights of the windows are turning off.  Little dots pass back and forth on the bridges and skim along the surface of Gotham’s dark waters. The moon and stars overhead are sometimes hidden by clouds that Gray can barely see, moving on air currents he cannot feel within his nest of blankets. 

Gray almost does not hear the door open, but he definitely sees the beam of light from the hallway cutting through the darkness of his bedroom.

For a split second, a void in Gray’s stomach opens: he might get in trouble for moving his bedding without permission. But the void closes just as quickly: Alfred and Bruce said that he may do whatever he wishes within this room provided he does not disturb anybody and does not store himself, and he is not disturbing anybody by looking out of the window like this. 

“Hey, Graham,” Jason’s voice fills the room, and he sounds quiet and soft and nice. A few seconds later he pads into view, illuminated by the faint moonlight through the window. He is no longer wearing his helmet, and he is holding the strap of his backpack with one hand. “I’m just here to get my phone. Where’d you put it?”

“The bathrobe pocket,” Gray answers, his voice muffled slightly by the blanket. 

“Cool, thanks,” Jason replies, and he shuffles out of view again, his footsteps just as soft as his voice. 

Gray can hear the gentle whisper of terrycloth moving, and then the footsteps return. 

“Mind if I join you?” Jason asks, and he sits on the edge of the other side of the bed before Gray can remind him that he cannot mind anything, speaking again. “If it’s bad for me to sit here, you can shove me off.”

Jason grunts, leaning forward. There are two quiet thudding sounds, then Jason twists, leaning against the footboard with his legs stretched out on the mattress. 

“Much better,” Jason mutters, and then he turns his head toward Gray, nudging him through the blankets with one arm. “So. Outside. It was pretty good, huh?”

“Yes,” Gray answers, quietly. “It was pretty good.”

Jason doesn’t say anything for a while, and Gray continues to watch the lights of Gotham. After about eight minutes, Jason speaks again. 

“Sorry,” he says. “You probably think you’re in a lot of trouble, right? You’re not - I told Bruce it was all my idea to go outside. You’re not in any trouble. Bruce is gonna tell you that tomorrow.”

It seems like Jason is waiting for a response, so Gray gives him one. 

“Okay.”

Jason lets out a long breath. 

“I’m sorry about Bruce, too,” Jason says. “He won’t mean to, but he’ll fail you. He always does.”

“I don’t understand,” Gray says.

“I know,” Jason says. “That’s why I’m sorry.” 

That doesn’t make any sense, and Gray opens his mouth to tell Jason so. But before he can speak, someone knocks at the bedroom door. 

“Gray? Are you in there?” 

Tim.

That is Tim. He has come to check on Gray, just as he indicated through text message, even though Gray let him know that it was not necessary.

Jason shushes Gray, but Jason is not permitted to give orders any more and Gray is not permitted to ignore a direct question.

“Yes, Tim.”

The door opens, light cutting through the room again. It reflects off the window and spoils the view. Gray watches Tim’s silhouette on the glass.

“Mind if I come…” Tim trails off. “Wait, what are you doing here?”

“I am resting,” Gray answers, at the same time Jason says “That’s my line.” 

“Does Bruce know you’re in here?” Tim asks, his voice sounding hard.

“I don’t know,” Gray answers, and again Jason speaks at the same time: “Does it matter? I can’t give him orders any more, so we’re just hanging out.” 

“Is that right, Gray?” Tim asks. “Are you hanging out with Jason?” 

Graham thinks. Hanging out is a slang that means spending time together in a friendly way. Jason seems to be in a good, friendly mood.

“Yes,” Gray says. 

“I was just about to introduce Graham here to America’s favourite neighbourhood, Sesame Street,” Jason says, nicely and kindly. From the corner of Gray’s eye, he can kind of see Jason’s facial expression in the dim light. He is smiling at Tim. “Wanna join, little guy?”

“I’m nineteen,” Tim says, sounding angry.

“That’s not a no,” Jason replies. “B wanted you to keep an eye, right?”

Tim makes a low, negative noise. He does not move from the doorway, still spoiling the view out of the window.

“Gray, you moved your bedding,” he says, and he does not sound angry any more. “Did you do that by yourself?”

Gray’s stomach feels heavy. Is he breaking the rules by accident? Oracle said something similar earlier.

“Yes,” he says. “Bruce and Alfred said that I am permitted to do anything in this room except store myself and disturb other people.”

“Right, yeah, they did,” Tim says, and he speaks more quickly. “I was just thinking that you look really cosy there. I think I know a way we can make you even cosier - ever heard of a pillow fort?”

Gray has not.

“No.”

“Should we make one?” Tim asks. 

Gray does not know. A ‘fort’ usually consists of strong, hard walls, but blankets are soft. 

“Is it going to block the window?” Gray asks. 

“The window?” Tim asks. “Uh… no, we can keep the window clear. Why do you ask?”

“Because he wants to look outside,” Jason says. “Chill out, Tim - use that big old brain of yours. Graham here isn’t gonna jump out the window unless you order him to.” 

“I am not allowed to access the gardens without Bruce or Alfred’s permission,” Gray clarifies, in case Tim thinks he can order Gray to do that.

“See, Timmy? He’s not allowed to access the gardens,” Jason says. 

“Don’t call me that,” Tim says. “Gray, I’m gonna turn on the light so we can make the pillow fort, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“If you close your eyes, you won’t get dazzled,” Jason tells Gray, so he does. When Gray reopens his eyes, the bedroom is illuminated by the bright overhead light and Tim is standing in front of the closed bedroom door, wearing sweats and a red bathrobe.

“Let’s get started,” Tim says, with a smile.

---

It turns out that building a pillow fort mainly involves helping Jason move furniture and carefully draping sheets and blankets around the room. The wardrobe shifts to the adjacent wall and the bed moves from the wall with the window to the opposite wall, not far from the door. A wide sheet stretches between the wardrobe and the bookshelf on the opposite side of the bed, creating a canopy that shields the bed from above, and also kind of from one side, at least a little.

Between the bookshelf and the bed, in the space under the canopy, Tim spreads blankets and cushions from the not-storage chest on the floor. When he is finished, the floor looks almost like a nest.

Halfway through the process of fort-building, Tim vanishes for a few minutes, returning with oddly-shaped blocks that Tim stacks under the heated mattress element of Gray’s bed. The blocks prop up part of the mattress, so that Gray can see Gotham Harbour while lying with his head at the headboard of his bed. Coupled with the canopies Jason has created above the bed and throughout the room, and the gentle light from the bedside lamp Tim moved to a nearby shelf, the bed feels even safer and softer than it did before. 

“We usually use these blocks to keep injuries elevated,” Tim explains. “But in your case, it’ll make sure you can see outside easily without causing any problems with your back.” 

“What, does Dickhead have back problems?” Jason asks.

“Dick is a gymnast, he’s had problems with just about every joint at some point.”  Tim pauses halfway through fluffing a pillow. “Don’t tell him I told you that.” 

“My lips are sealed for the small, small price of you switching out his ketchup for hot sauce in the morning,” Jason says. 

“I’m not crossing Alfred,” Tim says. “Also, Dick has been my idol since I was, like, three. Try harder.”

“My lips are sealed for the small, small price of you giving Bruce decaf for breakfast,” Jason says. 

Tim sighs, then reaches out to shake Jason’s hand.

“I guess he does need the sleep,” he mutters. “And speaking of, Gray, remind me what it is you usually do instead of sleeping?”

“I read books and then I tell Bruce what I learned in the morning,” Gray says. 

“Okay, then,” Tim says. “I guess we’re doing that, then.” 

“Do you read fiction or non-fiction?” Jason asks. 

“Non-fiction.”

Jason smiles. 

“Then do I have a gift for you,” he says, and he produces a book from an inner pocket of his jacket. It is a well-worn paperback. The cover reads PRIDE AND PREJUDICE. “Here. This is a fictional book - it’s a story. It’s one of my favourites. There’s a lot of information you can learn through stories. In this case, you can learn about life and manners in eighteenth-century England.” 

“For the love of—“ Tim mutters. “He’s not gonna enjoy some old timey romance schlock.”

“Shut your whor— your horrible little mouth, Timbo,” Jason replies. “Graham here deserves a cultural education, too.” Jason lowers his voice. “Alfred is from England and I’m sure he’d be really happy if you learned about his country.” 

Graham takes the book quickly and rudely from Jason’s hands and nestles himself warmly in the blanket fort - Tim directs him to snuggle into the safe, covered part that is on the bed rather than the nest on the floor, so that is where he reclines. Jason passes him his stuffed animals, and Gray carefully leans them against his body so that they can read the book, too. 

Pleasing Alfred is important, and learning about England might be useful. And Jason will be pleased if Gray reads this book, even though it is not an order because he is not permitted to give Gray orders. 

This is good. This is very good.

“Gray, if you get bored, we can just watch Sesame Street,” Tim whispers loudly. “Or maybe Arthur the Aardvark - they’re both educational, I guess.” 

“Shut it,” Jason hisses. “Nobody with taste is getting bored of a thesis on Regency-era class politics and economics cunningly disguised as the greatest love story of all time.”

“He’s Dick’s clone. Aren’t you always slamming the Disco-wing suit?” 

There is silence for a moment, and then Jason speaks again. 

“Fuck.”

---

The hours until dawn pass slowly. The book Gray reads is neither interesting nor boring but demands all of Gray’s attention. For the most part, it is confusing, even though the plot itself is fairly clear. The plot concerns the young women of the Bennet family and how they marry for economic gain.

It is a story filled with archaic linguistic quirks and every character behaves in a way that is difficult to understand, even the main character, Elizabeth Bennet. The book requires so much thought and analysis that Gray is only able to read it twice before his phone alarm goes off to signal the start of his morning.

Before the alarm goes off, Gray’s brothers are very quiet.  Tim lounges in the nest area with a laptop, quietly tapping away at the keyboard. Jason reads through the books on the shelf closest to the nest area. The room gradually brightens, pink and orange light filtering into the room as the sun rises just out of view of the bedroom window.

After the alarm goes off, Gray turns the bedside lamp off and starts to prepare for the day.

“I guess I’d better go apologise to Alfie,” Jason yawns, before Gray enters the bathroom. “We’ll catch up later about the book, Graham.”

When Gray re-enters the bedroom fifteen minutes and eight seconds later, Tim is gone. The nest on the floor is no longer there, the extra blankets and pillows arranged neatly on the bed instead. However, the makeshift canopies are still in place.

There is a new message on Gray’s cellphone: 

Timothy (7:03 AM)
Don't worry about putting the pillow fort away, Alfred said it was okay to leave up. How does your mouth feel?

Gray considers this. The gap still feels numb. He responds appropriately.

When Alfred collects Gray at twenty-five minutes past seven, he smiles more than he usually does. 

“Well done for staying in the manor, Master Graham,” Alfred says. “Master Tim told me that you partook in some fun activities yesterday evening. You helped to build something, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you build?” Alfred asks, even though Tim spoke with him and he cannot possibly fail to see the pillow fort from the bedroom door. 

“A pillow fort.”

“A pillow fort. Goodness. That must be quite comfortable.”

Alfred seems to expect a reply. 

“Yes,” Gray obliges.

“Oh, and I see that you created a covering for the bed,” Alfred says, looking at the canopy. “Is it good to have the bed covered in that manner?” 

Gray thinks. 

“Yes.”

“Is it better than before, when the bed was not covered?”

This is a much easier question, so he answers faster. 

“Yes.”

“Is your bed safer now than it was earlier?”

Another easy question. 

“Yes.”

“I see,” Alfred says. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

Alfred takes Gray downstairs to the dining room, as usual, where Bruce is already reading the newspaper and eating his own breakfast. 

This time, in addition to tea, yogurt and honey, Alfred gives Gray a small plate. On the plate are three slices of something circular and beige-white, as well as three tiny blue fruits. 

“I would like you to eat one piece each of the banana and the blueberries,” Alfred says. “If they are good, eat all of the pieces. If you think it would be good to consume more of any of the food items I have provided you, then please tell me and I shall oblige.”

Solid food. It is an inefficient and unsanitary method of gaining nutrients.

But Alfred instructed him to eat, and so Gray does. He does his best to copy Bruce, eating with his mouth closed after inserting each food item with his spoon. He chews each piece of food carefully until it is mostly liquid before swallowing. The banana has a soft and slightly slimy texture and also has a fragrant sweetness. The blueberry has a bursting, juicy texture and a more tart kind of sweetness. Both are good, so he consumes all of the pieces as Alfred instructed.

“You don’t need to chew so thoroughly,” Bruce says, looking at his newspaper instead of at Gray. “Your aim is to make the food lose its texture so it can be easily swallowed, not turn it into a liquid. The average number of chews per mouthful is thirty-two.”

If it were so important to eat like that, Gray thinks, scooping some yogurt into his mouth, then maybe Bruce should have said something before Gray tried eating. At least Bruce doesn't have anything to say about the way Gray consumes his yogurt, and Alfred gives Gray another cup of tea when he asks.

“And the food, sir?”

“No.”

“Ah,” Alfred says, looking at Gray’s empty plate and bowl. “Nevertheless, well done for eating all of your breakfast.”

When Gray’s teacup is empty, Bruce puts his half-empty coffee cup down. Unlike on previous days, Bruce has not asked him about his nightly reading.

“Are you finished?” Bruce asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Then we’ll debrief here,” Bruce says. “I already spoke with Jason yesterday.”

Debriefs are supposed to be unpleasant, but last time Bruce and then Tim asked questions and Alfred gave Gray tea. Maybe this debrief will be like that one instead of the norm.

Gray’s stomach feels strange and twisting again. It might be the solid food. Maybe if he tells Alfred that the food is making him feel bad, he won’t have to eat any more. 

Bruce puts a small device on the table.

“I’m going to record this conversation and add it to my case notes later. I saw you twice last night. The first time was when we had dinner together. The second time was when I found you in the Batmobile. Tell me what happened between those times. Tell me using as much detail as you can.” 

Gray thinks carefully, and then he begins to explain. He had gone to his bedroom, like Bruce had ordered, because he is going to meet new people today. He explains how he watched the sun set with the stuffed animals and the different kinds of music they listened to, and then about how Gray had tried to play some of the games that Tim had showed him on the music player. 

“Am I permitted to delete some games from the music player?” Gray asks.

“Which games?” Bruce asks. 

“Tetris.”

“You’re not going to play it?” 

“I’m not going to play it.” 

“Why?”

“It’s a bad game.”

“Interesting,” Bruce says. “For now, keep it on the music player. We can discuss this more tomorrow. What happened after you played the games?”

“Jason came to my room.” 

Gray continues to speak, detailing how Jason had made him take off his warming layers and the wristband and how they had gone through the public ballroom suite to the delivery bay and outside. There was so much outside. So many details. Gray tries to explain this to Bruce, who simply keeps steady eye contact and nods. He does not tell Gray to stop talking, so Gray continues explaining how good everything was and how fast the motorcycle went and how Jason’s instructions were so clear. 

“Jason isn’t allowed to give you instructions any more,” Bruce says. “What happened next?” 

They had gone to the alleyway, and Jason had wanted to kill the losers but Gray had followed the rules and informed him of the contradiction. 

Gray pauses, but Bruce does not offer a reward for following the rules. So he continues to explain how they had beat up the losers and stole their stuff—

“Wait. Explain your thought process there, please.”

Gray dutifully recites the conversation and explains how he had known what to do because of his test with Superman. Bruce does not offer a reward for reasoning well. 

“I see,” is all Bruce says. “Continue.”

It takes a long time, but Gray manages to regurgitate everything that happened before Batman opened the Batmobile door, with Bruce stopping him occasionally to ask for more clarification or detail. 

“Now, tell me about the rules I gave you,” Bruce says. “What was the first rule for living in this house?”

Gray thinks back. He remembers Bruce’s words well.

“I must treat myself and everybody else in this house with respect and care,” he says. “I may not deliberately harm anybody or break anything. If I accidentally harm someone or break something, I must inform you or Alfred. Killing or maiming is absolutely prohibited.”

“Good,” Bruce nods. “Yesterday, you did something that surprised me. When I instructed you to get into the passenger compartment of the Batmobile, you did something else first. What did you do, Gray?”

“I incapacitated the Talon,” Gray says. There is a bright feeling inside his chest. “I did it eight seconds faster than my previous record.”

“You decapitated it,” Bruce says. 

“Yes,” Gray says. “I incapacitated it by decapitating it.”

“Define ‘incapacitate’,” Bruce instructs. 

“To make someone or something unfit for regular function,” Gray answers. And then, because Bruce is still frowning, he adds more clarification: “incapacitation normally refers to a temporary loss of function.”

“That’s correct.” Bruce says. Although his face is angry, his voice is soft and gentle and he is leaning forward toward Gray. “But decapitation causes a permanent loss of function. Decapitation counts as killing.”

Gray stares at Bruce. Bruce is — he is not wrong, because it is true that animals and humans are killed when they are decapitated. But Talons are not. 

“But it was a Talon,” Gray says. His stomach feels worse. His shoulders feel tight.

“Yes,” Bruce says. “It was a Talon. Now, you are going to go upstairs. You are going to select one of your stuffed animals. You will bring that stuffed animal back here, and you will give that stuffed animal to me. Do you understand?”

No. Gray does not understand.

He shakes his head.

“It is a punishment,” Bruce says. “You broke the rules and did something bad, so I am going to temporarily deprive you of something good. I will take the stuffed animal away from you for the next three days. I am going to keep it somewhere with no windows, and no heated blankets, and no music.”

This is not fair. Gray did not break the rules. His stomach hurts. 

“But I didn’t kill the Talon,” Gray says. “Decapitation isn’t enough to kill Talons - I didn’t have the correct means at my disposal. It can be revived with no long-lasting or permanent ill effect, so I did not maim it either.”

Bruce is frowning now. He is looking at Gray and he is frowning. His body is tense.  He is angry. 

He is angry at Gray.

“What?” Bruce asks.

“I would never break the rules,” Gray tries to explain. "Talons can survive for an extended period of time while dismembered."

Bruce does not speak for three full seconds.

"Have you survived for an extended period of time while dismembered?" Bruce asks.

"Yes."

Bruce closes his eyes briefly, still looking angry. Then he opens his eyes. 

“I see,” he says. “I rescind my previous order to fetch a stuffed animal. If you did not break any rules, then there is no need to punish you.” 

Gray’s entire body relaxes. His stomach feels better.

“I have one final question before the debrief is over,” Bruce says. “I ordered you to get in the passenger compartment and you chose to incapacitate the Talon first. What was your thought process?”

Gray does not know what to say.

“I… I wanted to pass the test.” 

“Test?” Bruce asks. 

“I am only exposed to other Talons when I am supposed to spar with them,” Gray explains. “Since you are a member of the court, you must have summoned it. Therefore, this was a test. I was supposed to spar the Talon and show you my reasoning abilities to prioritise different tasks.” 

 Bruce does not say anything. He lifts his coffee cup and consumes the remainder.

“That was very good reasoning,” Bruce says. “I’ll give you a reward later. Come with me.” 

Gray obeys, following Bruce down the corridors. They enter Bruce’s office, then the hidden entrance to downstairs.

Here, Bruce changes his clothes and becomes Batman. He gives Gray a black surgical mask to put on, and then they enter the elevator.

“I told you yesterday that you’d meet new people today,” Batman says, as the elevator descends. “It is imperative that you understand something. These people were once Talons. They are not Talons any longer. They do not pose any threat to me, to you, or to any other member of our family. You are not, under any circumstances, permitted to fight, spar, or otherwise harm them. You may only engage in peaceful, nonviolent interactions with these people. Do you understand?” 

Gray thinks.

“No.”

“No?” Batman asks. “What don’t you understand?”

“That they used to be Talons and now they are people,” Gray answers. 

“But you understand how you are allowed to interact with them?” 

“Yes,” Gray answers. 

“Good. That’s all you need to understand.”

If that was all Gray needed to understand, then why did Batman talk about the nonsensical stuff, too? Gray’s jaw feels tight.

When the elevator stops and opens, Batman leads Gray out to the main room. There are three people there already: Red Robin, Nightwing, and a man who has shaggy brown hair and a strange Talon mask. Behind them, the computer screen displays two pictures: Oracle’s green mask icon and a low-quality video feed of a woman with curly hair and a blue surgical mask.

“Good morning,” Oracle greets Batman. “Gray, I have some friends here I’d like you to meet. Their names are Calvin and Strix.”

Chapter 28: Interaction - The Cave, Bristol County

Notes:

Timeline notes: this story takes place approximately 2-3 years after Calvin Rose and Strix’s appearances in Talon and Birds of Prey. It also takes place 1-2 years after Secret Six (New 52). Calvin is currently working for Lucius Fox/whatever the Infinite Frontier version of Batman Inc. is, and living with Casey and Sarah. Strix is happily living with the Six - BoP readers may wonder why her spelling and grammar has improved; it is because in the Secret Six panels I’ve seen, she was using a tablet with what seemed like autocorrect feature.

Full disclosure: I'm not super familiar with either character, so I do apologise if the characterisation is a bit wonky.

The woman on the video feed can be seen moving her hands slowly, as though she is typing on a keyboard just out of camera view.  There’s a ‘ping’ noise, and then a word pops up at the bottom of the screen, where her hands are. 

HELLO, GRAY, the woman types, and she waves her hands in a greeting gesture. Gray copies her gesture and waves his hands back at the screen.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Batman asks, striding toward the new man. He sounds angry. 

“You called me here about the Court of Owls,” the new man replies, with a shrug. “Thought I’d break out the uniform for old times’ sake. Besides, you’re not the only one who likes to hide his face. The ID Fox set me up with is pretty sweet, and I don’t want to ruin it yet.”

“Don’t forget what I told you, Calvin,” Batman says. 

“I know, I know,” Calvin replies, holding his hands up, palms out. “Fox is keeping me plenty busy. I don’t have time for trouble these days.”

“Do you remember the code I gave you?” Batman asks. 

“This is going to be a mess,” Calvin mutters. “But yeah, I remember.”

“Strix?” Oracle asks.

The woman types again.

YES, I REMEMBER. 

“This young man is the Court of Owl’s newest project,” Batman says, gesturing to Gray. “Introduce yourself. Only give your first name.”

“My name is Graham,” Gray says. The name feels good in his mouth, the syllables filling it nicely. Gray-uhm, like Alfred always says it. “I am partially a Talon. I belong to Batman.”

Gray looks at Batman, who does not seem to have recognised that Gray remembered to use the terminology he always insists on. Partially, not fully. Almost, not quite. 

“Okay,” Calvin says. He is standing with his arms crossed. Because his face is covered, his facial expression is even harder to read than normal facial expressions. He clears his throat. “I’m Calvin. I’m an escape artist and former Talon. I’m here because my new boss asked me to help out.”

Strix also introduces herself: I AM MARY AND STRIX. I WAS A TALON FOR A LONG TIME AND NOW I LIVE WITH MY FRIENDS AND HELP ORACLE AND NOW I AM HELPING BAT MAN.

“Gray, explain your creation, please,” Batman instructs. “Who created you and why? How did you come to be here?”

Gray thinks for a moment, ordering the information in his head. 

“The Court created me because the Gray Son candidate they originally wanted - which was Nightwing - was not available. They grew me and trained me and began to augment me and they gave me to you and now I am here.” 

“I have so many questions,” Calvin mutters. “What do you mean ‘began to augment’?” 

“CADMUS put non-organic additions into my body to make me better.” 

“Additions, plural?” Calvin asks. “More than injecting you with an electrum serum?” 

“So much more,” Red Robin says. “His x-rays are all lit up like a Christmas tree.” 

“Are you saying it’s a big change of M.O.?” Nightwing asks. “What’d they do to you when they first picked you?” 

“They taught me,” Calvin says. “Lots of fighting lessons, lots of practice, lots of education about how great the Court was and how important my job was. When they were done with all that, they locked me in their labyrinth with the previous Talon and had us fight to the death.” 

“Strix?” Oracle asks. “What about you? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to think about it.” 

IT’S OK, Strix types. SAME 4 ME. I LEARNED EXPLOSIVES 2. 

“I remember you used balloons too. The cutting-edge technology of the time, right?” Oracle asks, and Strix nods. 

THEY FROZE ME UNTIL THEY NEEDED ME. THEN I DIED. THEY PUT THE ELECTRUM IN ME AND MADE ME ALIVE AGAIN.

“Interesting,” Calvin says. “It was a little different for me. No freezing, and they only tried the electrum thing on me after I retired. But by that time, I guess there weren’t a whole lot of alternatives left. Which might explain why they went all out on Gray.” 

The final sentence is addressed to Gray, and although he understands all the words Calvin says individually, his sentences do not make any sense.

Gray opens his mouth under his mask to give a response - ‘yes’ is usually an acceptable answer at Bruce Wayne’s home and cave - but Nightwing speaks first. 

“And speaking of, uh, retirement… mind telling me what made you decide to do that? Both of you?” 

BAT GIRL AND ORACLE ARE MY FRIENDS is Strix’s answer, and she makes a heart symbol with her fingers. 

“I’m really happy we became friends, Strix,” Oracle says. “We should hang out again soon.”

Strix bursts into a flurry of motion, typing energetically.

YES VERY SOON, COME 2 VISIT PLS!!

Calvin shrugs, his eyes fixed on Strix’s screen. He scratches his unshaven chin for a moment before giving his answer. 

“First time I retired? I was given orders I couldn’t complete. Second time? I know Fox shared my personnel file with you.” 

“He did,” Red Robin confirms.

“Elaborate on the orders you couldn’t complete,” Batman says. “You were the best Talon the Court had, according to the fragments I found.”

“I was ordered to bring an end to a bloodline. There was a toddler. I couldn’t bring myself to kill a toddler,” Calvin replies. “It’s just… it’s not right. Even back then, I knew that.”

That doesn’t make sense to Gray. A tool cannot have any moral ideology outside of the fact that following orders is good.

YES, IT’S NOT RIGHT Strix types. DO NOT HURT CHILDREN.

“What about you?” Nightwing asks, looking directly at Gray. “What do you think?”

“I think I do not understand,” Gray says. 

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why couldn’t he bring himself to kill a toddler? He was instructed to do it.”

The air somehow seems different after Gray asks his question. Colder and quieter, even though it was already cold and quiet.

When Calvin speaks next, his tone of voice is flat and his eyes seem narrower behind the mask.

“Because she was too young,” Calvin answers. “She hadn’t done anything to deserve the Court’s wrath.” 

“What do you make of that, Gray?” Red Robin asks. “Does that make sense?”

Gray shakes his head. It does not make sense.

“Explain that, please,” Red Robin requests. 

“A tool is not permitted to make judgements on which orders to follow,” Gray says. “And a tool cannot have moral beliefs.” 

“They really did a number on him, huh?” Calvin murmurs to Red Robin, who answers back equally quietly.

“Seriously, you have no idea.” 

“Is that so?” Batman asks Gray. “What if I ordered you to go upstairs and kill the elderly man there?” 

“The elderly man?” Gray echoes. There is only one elderly man in Bruce Wayne’s home, but Batman cannot possibly want him dead. 

Batman finger-spells a name. 

A-L-F-R-E-D 

Gray’s stomach twists. 

“But you can’t do that,” he says. 

“Can’t?” Batman asks. 

“You don’t kill,” Gray says. 

“I changed my mind.” 

Batman’s exposed mouth is unreadable and his voice is devoid of any emotional inflection.

“But that man is important,” Gray tries again. 

Alfred is a vital and necessary and integral part of Bruce Wayne’s home. He is kind and nice and always knows the best course of action and always smiles when he greets Gray and nobody ever did that before he came here. 

“Everybody is important,” Batman says. “Try again.”

Gray does not know what to say. Everybody seems to be looking at him.

Gray cannot think about the possibility of Alfred being killed, much less by his hand. Alfred failing to be alive would be like the sun failing to rise in the morning or the stuffed animals failing to be pleasant and soft. 

It is not possible. It should not be possible.

“But… but it is Alfred,” is all he can think to say, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears, and that is when Nightwing speaks up and grabs Batman by the shoulder.

“That’s enough, B,” Nightwing says, his tone of voice noticeably negative. Then he speaks nicely, facing Gray. “Batman here is trying and unfortunately failing to make a point. What he’s trying to say is that the way you think about hurting someone like Alfred is the same way Calvin thinks about hurting the toddler. You can’t even imagine harming him, right? That’s exactly how Calvin felt. Isn’t it, Calvin?”

“I saw her in her mother’s arms and I knew I couldn’t finish the job,” Calvin says, with a shrug. “So I retired.”

Gray was not aware that Talons could retire. 

“You understand now, right?” Nightwing asks.

Gray considers this. He does not understand how a Talon came to feel or retire. But Gray understands that Calvin was ordered to do something and failed to do it, and now he is not a Talon any more. This is probably a sufficient level of understanding for him to answer affirmatively.

“Yes,” Gray answers, although there is one more question he has. 

It is not a question he should ask, even if clarification would be good.

If Gray fails to do something he is ordered to do, then will that make him also not a Talon any more either? 

“Good,” Nightwing says, and then a moment later he chuckles, steering Gray toward the screens. “Phew, that was some pretty heavy stuff, right? Let’s talk about something a little lighter. Strix, Oracle told me that you’re working on building a lawn gnome army. How’s that going?”

Strix claps her hands and begins typing again. 

IT’S GREAT, I HAVE TONS!!! ORACLE SENT GNOMES 4 BIRTHDAY, WANT 2 SEE??

“Of course!” Nightwing exclaims, and Strix claps again before vanishing from the screen briefly.

“They were pretty cool lawn gnomes, if I do say so myself,” Oracle says.

Nightwing and Oracle speak nicely to each other, and Gray glances back at Batman and the others. They are talking to each other, and if Gray focuses, he can read their lips.

Follow me, Batman says to Calvin and Red Robin, and then he walks toward the infirmary section of the Batcave. 

— — always like that, Calvin mutters. 

more — less, Red Robin replies. — mind going — — there’s — — — discuss.

Calvin says a final sentence before following Batman, his mouth curling up into a smile. This time, Gray manages to catch all his words.

Lucky I’m so nice.

Calvin is right. He is nice and it is lucky that he is nice. Strix is nice, too.

Gray had not known that other Talons could be nice. It would be better if yesterday’s Talon had been nice, too.

---

Strix’s gnome collection is large and full of unique lawn gnomes. 

Some are large, and some are small, and all of them are brightly-coloured and have interesting implements clutched in their ceramic hands. Some are seasonally-themed, Strix explains. One carries a fabric rainbow-striped flag, and Strix says that this one lives on the porch in June. 

All of the gnomes have unique names and places to live in Strix’s treehouse and around the house she lives in. 

U SHOULD VISIT WE CAN HANG OUT IN THE TREE HOUSE, Strix types.

“You guys moved out of Gotham, right? That might not be a bad idea…” Nightwing mutters.

“B won’t agree,” Oracle says. “He’s personally arrested half of Strix’s roommates at some point or another.”

BAT MAN IS MEAN, Strix types. 

“You’ll hear no argument from me,” Nightwing says, “Hey, maybe you can come to Gotham and hang out with Gray sometime. You guys have so much in common - hey, Gray, how about telling Strix about your collection? You know, the stuffed animals?”

“I have four stuffed animals,” Gray says. Nightwing is still looking at him, so he thinks of more information. “I have one rabbit and two bears and one sheep. And Batman said I will get another one later.”

“For some reason, I thought you had way more than that,” Nightwing mutters. “Okay, by the time Strix comes to visit, I’m sure you’ll have tons and you can show her all of them. That’ll be good, right?”

“Yes,” Gray says, obediently. 

STUFFED ANIMALS R CUTE, Strix agrees. 

“I’ll arrange something for you guys,” Oracle promises. “I think Strix has to leave soon, right?”

YES, WE R HAVING A BBQ, I AM MAKING COOKIES, Strix types. DO U LIKE COOKIES?

“Gray hasn’t tried them yet,” Nightwing explains. “But I love them and I’m sure he’s going to love them, too. Hey, that’s another thing you can do when you visit Gotham - baking. Or you can visit some bakeries here.”

COOKIES R VERY GOOD, I WILL BRING U SOME WHEN I VISIT

“Sounds great,” Nightwing beams at the screen, and nudges Gray gently. “We’d better say goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Gray says, and Nightwing does the same, waving at the screen. Strix waves rapidly and types a final message:

BYE SEE U SOON

“Before you go, Strix, I’ve got to talk to you about something,” Oracle says. “See you later, guys.”

With that, the screen turns black.

The room is silent, except from an unintelligible echo that is so quiet Gray struggles to hear it. It sounds vaguely like male voices.

“That was nice, wasn’t it? You made a friend,” Nightwing says. “Two, technically - though I’m not sure whether Calvin is into hanging out. I mean, outside of his Houdini routine and general brooding.” Nightwing pauses. “Hey, I guess that means B made a friend, too. They have so much in common.”

Gray does not know what he is supposed to do, so he does not do anything.

Up close, the computer console is even more complex than it looked from further away, with several sets of keyboards and touchpads embedded into it. Presumably each one corresponds to a different screen in the bank mounted on the wall.

“Hey, since we’re here, we’d better update the security for you,” Nightwing says, tapping at one of the keyboards. A smaller screen switches on, displaying a general desktop background. “Since we have the same DNA and virtually identical bodies, you don’t have your own login into our systems. It’s a pretty complex setup B has down here, so you won’t have access to much at first. But who knows what’ll happen in the future?”

“I don’t know,” Gray says, and Nightwing halts. 

“About what?” Nightwing asks. “Whether it’s good to get your own login?”

“About who knows what will happen in the future,” Gray says. 

“Oh, I see… that was a rhetorical question,” Nightwing explains. “So you don’t have to answer it.”

That doesn't seem very useful. What is the point of a question that does not require an answer?

Gray does not have a chance to seek clarification before Nightwing instructs Gray to open his mouth. He makes a full scan of Gray's mouth using a small handheld device, then subsequently asks Gray to scan his hands and forearms, the left side of his head, and his navel.

“These are just for in case the dental scan doesn’t work for whatever reason,” Nightwing explains. “You don't have fingerprints, so we need another authentication method. Otherwise anybody with a pair of gloves could log in with your credentials. Scars are just about the only other way for the computers to tell us apart right now. Your lack of scarring - except your belly button - is what the authentication algorithm is going to look for in order to identify you. If you start healing in a way that leads to scar development, you need to let one of us know so we can update the system to account for your new scars. Got it?”

“Got it,” Gray answers. 

“I’ll take you over to Titan’s Tower soon so we can update the security there,” Nightwing adds. “And so you can get some time out of this place. It’s stifling, isn’t it?”

Stifling refers to a hot and humid temperature, typically inside a room, to an extent that causes breathing difficulties.

“I have no difficulty breathing,” Gray answers. 

“Sorry. That was a figure of speech. Kori is going to love you,” Nightwing says. “Uh… I meant that B is trying to keep you safe by keeping you in one place. But it’s hard to develop properly and experience the world if that’s the case. You might start to feel trapped and upset. That’s why I want you to have access to Titan’s Tower. So you can have somewhere safe to go if you start to feel trapped or constrained.”

Gray does not think this is likely, but he nods because Nightwing has paused and is looking at him.

“Speaking of leaving the manor, you had an adventure yesterday,” Nightwing says, with a smile. “Bruce told me all about what happened after I went to get the juice boxes. Did you really give Jason a decapitated head?”

“Yes.”

“Because Red Robin mentioned it?”

“Yes.”

Nightwing laughs. It is not an unpleasant laugh and he does not punish Gray afterward. Instead, he pats Gray on his shoulder.

“Red Robin comes out with gold sometimes, doesn’t he?” Nightwing wipes at his eyes briefly. “He’s amazing. I wish I could think half as fast on my feet. Has anybody told you about his fake uncle? That was a stroke of genius.” 

“Nobody told me about his fake uncle,” Gray says. 

“Several years ago, his parents died. In order to maintain control over his family estate and legacy, as well as continue to operate as Robin, he hired an actor to pretend to be his uncle and made it look like this guy was his legal guardian,” Nightwing says. “It was remarkable. I honestly wouldn’t have…” 

Nightwing’s facial expression changes and he raises one hand to his lip, lowering his face slightly. His voice slows and quietens. 

“…thought of it myself.”

Nightwing doesn’t say anything else for seventeen seconds.

“I need to call Oracle,” he says.

Notes:

RE the identity authentication stuff: identical twins do not normlly have identical retinal scans or moles/birthmarks. However, as Gray is not an identical twin but a clone I’m saying he and Dick do. Also, it lends itself to extra drama and upcoming plot points.

EDIT: a reader pointed out to me that Gray really should either have very strange fingerprints or none at all, because of the variety of factors that are thought to create fingerprints likely being notably different throughout Gray's gestation in the CADMUS labs, and after a little research I realised they were right. Since having no fingerprints would still require extra security measures, I went with that option.

Chapter 29: Background - The Cave, Bristol County

Notes:

This chapter is not quite as long as I intended, but real life is hectic right now. Hopefully future chapters will be a little lengthier.

Last chapter, a reader pointed out to me that Gray really should either have very strange fingerprints or none at all, because of the variety of factors that are thought to create fingerprints likely being notably different throughout Gray's gestation in the CADMUS labs, and after a little research I realised they were right. Since having no fingerprints would still require extra security measures, I went with that option and edited the end of the last chapter to reflect that.

Oracle does not answer when Nightwing calls. 

“She’s probably just busy talking to Strix, don’t worry,” Nightwing says, even though Gray is not capable of worry. “Let me tell you a story instead.”

Nightwing begins to speak, and Gray does his best to listen

“Living in a circus is a totally unique experience,” Nightwing says. “For two thirds of the year, you’re travelling almost every day and performing nearly every night. There are schedules and plans, of course, but no two weeks are the same. And for one third of the year, you’re living in one place and everybody is preparing for the next season. We call it ‘overwintering’ because it usually happens during the winter months. Haley’s Circus always used to overwinter in Gibsonton, Florida. Lots of circus and carnival folk did the same - it’s pretty nice down there.”

Nightwing taps at the computer keyboard and produces some photos: a green bayou, residences surrounded by cypress and orange trees, a wide bridge over a wider river, blue skies and palm trees hanging over trailers.

“We used to spend that time repairing and improving the equipment,” Nightwing says. “Or at least the adults did. I spent most of the off-season in school - we did homeschooling when we were on the move, but Mom and Dad needed the time to create a new trapeze routine for the next season and they wanted me to spend time with all kinds of people, not just people like us. So they sent me off to school, and… well, I guess they did the same for you, too.”

School. 

Damian and Duke have mentioned it occasionally. Sitting in a classroom sounds like a less efficient method of training than downloads. And talking to classmates sounds difficult. 

Is a classroom very different from a bedroom or a dining room? Are classmates as nice and kind as Bruce Wayne’s family and the Justice League? Are teachers similar to the doctors and the Owls?

There are many questions Gray will never know the answers to.

“I think that the cover story should go like this,” Nightwing says. “Mom and Dad noticed that you had a lot of trouble adjusting to travelling with the circus. We travelled together as long as I can remember, but you always struggled. You cried a lot and you hid a lot and you just weren’t a happy kid. Our parents got you checked out, and you got a diagnosis, and they decided it’d be better if you stayed in Gibsonton with a relative while Mom and Dad earned money. I begged to stay with Mom and Dad and the circus, and that’s how we ended up living: separately during touring season, and together while overwintering. Got it?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“What part is giving you trouble?”

“You said that they would not have left me and trusted others to look after me,” Gray says. “But this cover story involves leaving me and trusting others to look after me.”

“Right, good thinking," Nightwing says. He pauses. “There’s a lot of background to this, and I don’t think now is a great time to delve deep into ableism, anti-Roma discrimination, classism, and all the other stuff that would've been going through Mom's mind. The shortest explanation I can give you is that family was everything to my mother. It was so incredibly precious to her that she would have entrusted you to anybody in either her own extended family, or in Dad’s. It’s a little like how Bruce trusts everybody in our family to treat you well. Understand?”

Gray nods and briefly wonders whether Stephanie Brown and Luke Fox count as members of the family, too, because Bruce trusts them to be kind to him. Alfred is a butler-grandfather, which is not a usual position to have in a family, and so maybe Stephanie and Luke do count. And if they count, then maybe the Justice League or the doctors can count, too.

“Mom’s parents died when she was in her early twenties, so her family mostly consisted of distant relatives scattered across Europe. Wonderful people, but sending you to another country wouldn’t have been a good idea if you struggled with adapting to travelling in a circus. Plus, Mom and Dad were not rich people by any means, and you being in Europe would have meant spending a lot of money they didn’t have on plane tickets. Plus, it’d be a pain in the neck for O to fake that paper trail. But Dad’s family were all here in the U.S., which makes them perfect for this cover story.”

This makes sense, so Gray nods.

“Dad’s family is mainly scattered around Florida, Georgia, and the Carolinas. They mostly work as labourers - generally in agriculture or construction,” he says. “Again, wonderful people, but nobody had the resources to take me in when I was orphaned. And it wouldn’t be right to say that any of the relatives I do really have hurt you. But we could say that there was an extra relative — let’s say an uncle, or maybe a great-uncle, Oracle and I will make up a name and backstory later — who lived fairly close to Gibsonton. Maybe he lived off-grid, which was why the GCPD couldn’t find him when they were looking for my next-of-kin, and maybe I don’t know the address off-by-heart because he’d always come to stay with us in the static trailer - never the other way around.”

Off-grid has two meanings: firstly, living in on land not connected by public utilities such as water or electricity. Secondly, living without services that allow one to be known by authorities, such as bank accounts, cellphone contracts, or health insurance. Nightwing seems to be talking about this second meaning.

“When our parents died, this great-uncle’s behaviour slowly changed. He started taking his rage and grief out on you, little by little. As the years passed, he began to treat you worse and worse - but you don’t think of it that way, because in your head he was a safe and reliable carer and you adored him even when he locked you in the ice-house or stopped letting you go outside. He died a few weeks ago - sudden heart failure in his sleep. You tried to wake him up, just like you did every morning, and when he wouldn’t you got scared and radioed the neighbour for help. They came and took one look at him and called the coroner, who called me, and you came to live here with Bruce mainly because my apartment burned down.” 

Nightwing pauses, his mouth stretched into a not smile. He shrugs.

“That last part is true - my apartment block really did burn down. My— our sister is letting me stay in an empty studio she owns until I find a new place.” Nightwing adds. “Her name is Melinda, by the way. She’s a little older than us; Dad never knew about her, and I didn’t know about her either until a couple months back. I’m sure you’ll like her. And her mom, too.” 

Nightwing sighs, heavily. His posture has changed - he seems slightly hunched over on himself. He taps again at the computer keyboard and shows Gray an article on the Bludhaven Bugler website: Sudden Mayoral Name Change Surprises Many. There is a photo of a young Asian-European woman with short black hair and a familiar-looking smile, captioned ‘Mayor Grayson-Lin, formerly Zucco, has stated that the change was made to honour her birth parents’.

Melinda looks kind. It will be good to meet her.

“I haven’t told them anything about all this,” Nightwing murmurs. “It’s all been so much in so little time. When we’ve got the cover story in place, I’ll arrange a Zoom call or something so you can say hi to each other. I don’t think you’ll be able to meet in person until Bludhaven’s a little safer, though. Sorry.”

There is no reason for Nightwing to apologise or to think Gray will be in danger in Bludhaven. According to Gray’s training, it is a city of little value - barely more than a passing-place for cargo shipping and freight trains. It is a poverty-stricken place with high levels of corruption and cheap real estate, making it of limited use for the Court. A city of low-level thugs and money-hungry public servants battling one another is no threat to any Talon, let alone the greatest of them all.

Nightwing is still quiet, looking at the screens. 

“Speaking of cover stories,” he says, after a long moment, “how about a little practice?”

---

Gray looks down at the safety net below. 

It is cold up here. The gymnasium floor is very far away.

“For a while after Mom and Dad were killed, I couldn’t stomach the thought of using one of these again,” Nightwing remarks. “And when I finally did try again, it felt just like Mom and Dad were right there with me. Even these days, it still feels that way.”

Gray stands motionless, listening carefully for any instructions. His brother is standing on a platform opposite Gray, holding a bar suspended by rope. A trapeze. 

“Have you ever done this before?” Nightwing asks. 

Gray’s training did not prepare him for trapeze artistry, so he shakes his head. 

“All right. Were you taught anything about trapeze?”

Gray thinks. It was mentioned very briefly in one training session.

“Trapeze is a form of acrobatics thought to have been invented in the nineteenth century by Jules Léotard. It takes several forms, the most common being flying trapeze - as practiced by the Flying Graysons - and static trapeze. Flying trapeze involves using force generated by swinging on the trapeze bar to ‘fly’, while static trapeze involves elements of gymnastics and dance performed without swinging the bar.”

“That’s a lot of really cool information," Nightwing says. He pauses. "They didn’t teach you any moves?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“Okay,” Nightwing says. “In that case, let’s practice a couple of moves together. We’ll do a little flying trapeze, and a little static. We’re just gonna have some fun, okay? It’s not a test, there’s no reward or punishment, the point is just to enjoy yourself and get some experience of what our family did for a living. To feel a little closer to m— to our parents.”

“But I don’t know how to do trapeze,” Gray says.

The net will catch Gray if he falls, but even if there is no punishment for failing, it would be bad to fail Nightwing because he might be upset like he was when Gray failed the gymnastics test.

“I’ll teach you,” Nightwing says. “Now, the foundation of trapeze is trust. I need you to trust me wholeheartedly and do precisely as I tell you. Think you can do that?”

Gray does not need much time to consider this. Nightwing is kind. Of course Gray can trust him. He nods. 

“Great,” Nightwing smiles. “Luckily, we can apply a lot of the skills you already have to this. You’re gonna do great.”

Gray cannot imagine what skills he has that can be applied to trapeze. 

“First, let’s do a swing. Grab the bar with both hands, jump from the platform, and swing your legs forward to gain momentum. When you get close to the platform, you should just be able to stand on it - you’ll need to adjust your balance, but you were amazing at gymnastics, so you’ll be able to do it pretty easily. Got it?”

Gray blinks, then shakes his head. 

“Where did I lose you? What part is giving you trouble?”

“Applying skills,” Gray says. “I don’t— I don’t know what skills I can apply to this.”

“Well, gymnastics is all about balance and knowing exactly where your body is and how much momentum you’ve generated,” Nightwing says. “All you have to do for this is keep all of those things in mind. How about I show you and narrate what I mean?”

Gray hesitates, and then he nods. 

“All right then,” Nightwing says. “Stand a little to the left, away from the landing platform, okay?”

Gray obeys. Nighwing smiles, gives him a thumbs-up, and then takes a preparatory stance, both hands clutching the bat.

“All right, push off—“ 

Nightwing leaps into the air. 

“—swing forward—“ 

Nightwing’s body begins to bend forward, his feet pointing upward as he rises.

 “—up and land—“

 Nightwing’s swing nears its peak, and he manages to slam his feet down onto the platform, crouching and bringing his upper body forward to prevent himself falling backward as the trapeze bar would without him holding it. 

“And don’t topple back,” Nightwing finishes. He rises to his full height, smiling again. “Is it clearer now?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“I don’t understand," he says. "I don't understand how the gymnastics can be applied.”

Nightwing is quiet for a second. Then two. He slots the trapeze bar in a gap between two struts near the handrail, and comes to stand a little closer to Gray.

“Can you explain to me how you do gymnastics, in your head? Like, if we were standing on the mats down there and I asked you to do a cartwheel, what would be the process in your head?”

“I don’t know,” Gray says. “I would just do the training.”

“When you say ‘do the training’, do you mean that you would use the knowledge you gained during training? Or do you mean that you would decide to do a cartwheel and your training would guide your movements without much input from you?”

“Um… the second one.”

Nightwing’s facial expression changes. It seems negative.

“So there’s no process of thinking about the correct posture and generating the right amount of momentum?” he asks. “Your body just kind of does it, you’re not thinking about stuff like the series of movements you have to make and how much force you need to put into those movements? You can’t break down those movements into smaller chunks?"

"That is accurate," Gray says. His stomach feels bad again.

“But you could modify the moves when I asked you to,” Nightwing says. “You were able to do a quadruple flip perfectly. That wasn’t part of your training, was it?”

“Single, double and triple flips were,” Gray says. 

“And you were able to extend that using logic and my example, right?” Nightwing asks. 

When Gray nods, Nightwing rubs his chin and does not speak for several seconds.

“You remember Cyborg and Flash, right?” Nightwing asks. “And Raven, too?”

“Yes.”

“Were they good?” Nightwing asks. “Were they nice? Would it be good to see them again?”

Gray nods three times, and Nightwing’s facial expression morphs into a smile. He rubs Gray’s shoulder roughly, in the positive way Gray has seen him touch Tim and Duke. When Nightwing speaks again, his voice is low and positive and — and there’s a certain kind of timbre to it that makes Gray believe his words even more strongly than he ever has before.

“I’ve got great news for you, buddy,” Nightwing says. “You’re going to meet them all again really soon. You can even meet our other friends, too: Donna and Gar and Kori. They’re gonna love you.”

That sounds good.

That sounds very, very good.

Gray’s mouth feels tight underneath his mask, and the tightness of his stomach begins to ebb away.

Chapter 30: Support - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

Apologies to Cassandra fans, I haven’t seen her often in mainline comics so I’m pretty much just going off what I remember from her earliest appearances in the late nineties/early noughties, mixed with Wayne Family Adventures. Please forgive the inevitable lapses in characterisation.

Note: a yottabyte is approximately ten to the power of twenty-four bytes. A kilobyte, for comparison, is ten to the power of three bytes.

The remainder of the morning passes quickly. 

Nightwing takes Gray back to the gymnasium floor and sets him a very simple but time-consuming task.

“For the next couple days, I’d like you to try something,” Nightwing says. “When you do something that was taught to you through downloads, try to slow down and think about what you’re doing consciously. Think you can do that?”

“I don’t know,” he says. That sounds like a lot of slowing down and thinking and he may not remember to always do it.

“Why don’t you know?” Nightwing asks, kindly and nicely, and then he pauses. “Wait, that’s not the best question. I mean, what part of my instruction is making you feel unsure? What part isn’t clear?”

“Should I slow down and think for everything I learned through downloads?” Gray asks. 

“Well…” Nightwing tilts his head slightly, crossing his arms to rub at his chin. “Okay. Think about all the stuff you learned before you came here, to B’s home. How much did you learn through downloads, and how much did you learn in a different way? Can you express that to me in a ratio or percentage? It doesn’t have to be perfectly calculated, a rough estimate is fine.”

Gray considers this. Before coming to Bruce Wayne’s home, he had been taught almost everything through downloads. The doctors had swiftly punished him when he had needed to be taught the appropriate ways to behave and the thresholds for success, and there had been a few times in the earliest, foggiest parts of his memory when he vaguely remembers that he had been shown how to do some basic tasks, like putting on shoes. He compares this against the yottabytes of data stored inside his brain.

“Ninety-two percent,” Gray estimates.

Nightwing blinks. 

“Huh,” he says. “Okay, I can see how thinking about all that would be hard. In that case, just pick one or two tasks each day. And if thinking about how you’re doing stuff makes it difficult to do, then it’s okay to stop thinking about it for the time being and try again a little bit later. The point of this exercise isn’t to make your life more difficult, it’s just to give you a foundation we can build trapeze on, or any other activity you might decide to try later.”

Nightwing looks at Gray with a positive facial expression. 

“You think you can do that?” Nighwing asks, after a few seconds of silence. 

Gray nods. He can carry out this task now that it has been simplified. 

“Great. Then how about we practice with a few easy moves?”

Without waiting for an answer, Nightwing models walking slowly. As he does, he narrates his movements, emphasising certain body parts and movements with his hands.

“I’m picking my foot up and swinging it forward. I’m not putting much force into this, I’m only aiming to travel a couple feet, but I am swinging from my hip joint here. My knee is tense until I need to set my foot down, then I’m relaxing the joint until my foot hits the floor. As my weight shifts to this leg, I’m stiffening this knee joint so it’ll hold me, and picking my other foot up and swinging forward again…” 

Gray is directed to attempt moving and narrating, and is not very good at it because maintaining hyperawareness of what he is doing and putting it into words at the same time is extremely difficult and Nightwing has to keep asking questions like “what is your ankle doing?” and “are you using a lot of force or just a little?”. Nevertheless, Nightwing never gets angry or shouts or laughs at Gray’s incompetence. He simply keeps questioning, using positive body language and tone of voice and says things like “that’s good, tell me more” and “I knew you could do this, well done”. 

They take turns, Nightwing modelling and narrating a different activity each time he decides Gray has demonstrated proficiency in self-narration in one. Walking turns into jogging, then they crouch, and that turns into a simple forward roll, then holding a simple bridge position. This continues on and on and on until Alfred fetches Gray for lunch. 

“See you later, Gray,” Nightwing smiles and waves as Alfred leads Gray back upstairs. 

It is a very human farewell, Gray thinks. The doctors always used to say and do similar things when they left the laboratory every day. It is strange that it should be directed to Gray, but it no longer feels bad.

Gray doesn’t quite know why he attempts to imitate Nightwing’s wave, like he did the activities, but he does. His wave is not as good as Nightwing’s, but Nightwing smiles even wider when he sees it.

---

The dining room is filled with golden sunlight and a pleasant, savoury smell. Cassandra is present, sitting at her usual place. She is eating. Beside her, at Gray’s space, there is already a teacup and a glass of water and a straw.

Gray sits down quickly and sticks the straw in the teacup. It is not as hot as it should be, but it is sweet and the taste is good.

“Hi,” Cassandra says. 

“Hi,” Gray echoes. He is getting better at remembering to give appropriate greetings.

“Morning class is finished,” Cassandra says. “No afternoon class today. We can hang out.”

“Yes,” Gray says, because Cassadra is correct, it is possible for them to hang out. It would be good if they did, because hanging out is fun and Cassandra is kind.

Alfred gives Gray a bowl and a small plate. The bowl contains broth that looks the same as the one he consumed yesterday, except there are small floating pieces of solid food in the broth. The plate contains two small flat squares of a spongy food. The food is white and is soft to the touch.

“Today’s lunch is chicken soup and bread, Master Graham,” Alfred says. “Chicken soup is known for being highly nutritious and easy to digest. As always, please try to consume at least half of this serving. If you think it would be good to have more, I will give you more.”

Gray can see four small, irregularly-shaped pieces of Gallus domesticus flesh in his bowl of mostly-clear broth. He glances at Cassandra’s food. She has very similar food, except that her bowl contains significantly more solid food, including at least five different vegetables, and she has two much larger squares of bread on her plate. Her squares of bread have a brown crust around the edge of each square. 

Gray takes off his dust mask, folding it neatly and placing it near his water glass. Then he tries the soup, taking a spoonful of broth that does not have solid chicken in it. 

The broth is just as good as yesterday, but it has a more complex flavour. It is as complex as the broth he consumed when he met Kate Kane and Luke Fox, but it is also very different. He cannot describe the differentness.

Cassandra laughs and does not punish Gray. 

“Alfred makes good soup,” she says.

“Yes,” Gray agrees. Digesting food is not good, but the tastes he has been permitted to experience are. 

“Good bread, too,” Cassandra says. “Eat.”

Gray obeys, lifting one square to his mouth. It is small enough that he can place the entire square into his mouth with no ill effect.

The square feels even softer inside his mouth. The taste is also soft; he needs to concentrate hard to taste it and it is not clear whether the bread taste is just the traces of the soup taste or if it is a taste of its own. 

Cassandra smiles, then returns her attention to her food. They eat without speaking further, except for when Alfred comes to check if more food would be good. Alfred frowns when he sees Gray’s bowl.

“It’s very good that you ate the bread, Master Graham,” he says. “However I must insist that you eat some of the chicken as well. Unless you have a moral objection to doing so?”

Gray does not have a moral compass and is not permitted to have objections (although he is allowed to have objects). He scoops up a piece of chicken and places it in his mouth. It tastes much the same as the broth surrounding it and has a strange, stringy texture. 

“Well done, Master Graham,” Alfred says. “More tea?”

Gray nods. Alfred brings more tea, and it is good.

When Gray has finished his second cup of tea, Cassandra speaks again. She looks at Gray and smiles.

“Tim said you like music. Me too.”

Before Gray can remind Cassandra that he cannot like anything, Cassandra stands up. She motions at Gray, and Gray knows this gesture well. It is the ‘follow me’ gesture that the instructor at the laboratory used.  

Gray has not done any training since he arrived here at Bruce Wayne’s home. This is the fifth day he has been here and three days is the longest time he can recall going without training and nobody has told him when training will begin again.

It will be good when he begins training again, but it will be even more good if a sibling trained him instead of the Court instructor. Richard and Jason are nice and kind and good at explaining things and the Court instructor is not. Or maybe the Justice League can come back again and Gray can spar against Wonder Woman again. That would be very very good.

Gray follows Cassandra obediently, and Cassandra brings him to one of the living rooms. 

This is not the one he has spent time with Tim in; this one is near Bruce’s study and has less furniture in it. It has a big open archway into the hallway instead of a door. There are two couches arranged to face each other, and little else. There is a lot of open space, and there is a painting of Bruce Wayne’s family hung above the fireplace. 

The painting consists of Bruce, his children except for Jason arranged around him. They are all dressed formally, in dark suits (and in Cassandra’s case, a dress). Painting-Bruce holds a framed picture of a boy with black hair. The frame has golden, shimmery paint on it but the rest of the painting is matte. The gold matches the clock on the mantlepiece and small accessories throughout the room, including curtain loops and mirror frames.

“New painting soon,” Cassandra says. “Painting with you too.”

“I don’t understand,” Gray says. There is no point in painting a picture of him. This other picture with Richard already exists and they look the same. 

“You are family,” Cassandra says, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. “You are in painting.”

“Jason is not in the painting,” Gray points out.

“Jason invited but says no,” Cassandra explains. “Dad has kidnap, fake death cover story, but Jason says no, they argue, same, same, same. Picture frame next best thing.

“I don’t understand,” Gray says. 

“Me too,” Cassandra laughs. “They are complex. But you are in next painting definitely. Dad says so.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why?” Cassandra asks. “Family. You are family.” Cassandra gestures at the painting. “Family portrait.”

“But I am not family,” Gray says. “It is just a cover story.”

Cassandra is quiet for a moment, looking at him with an expression Gray does not know how to read. Her body language has changed. It is not positive any more, but he cannot distinguish much more than that.

“Past tense, it’s hard,” Cassandra says. “But listen. I explain. Very important, Gray.”

Cassandra grabs Gray’s hand and leads him to the couch. She sits down and tugs at his arm. Gray sits down too.

“I am weapon, too,” Cassandra says. “I am born. Fight. Kill, kill, kill. No name. No language. No love.” Cassandra pauses. “Understand? Old me. Like you, object. Living weapon. Not-person.”

Gray hesitates. He does not understand some parts of this explanation. Cassandra cannot be an object. She is so clearly and obviously and vibrantly a person that it is impossible to understand how she ever could have been mistaken for an object. 

But that does not seem to be what Cassandra is really asking him to understand. All he really needs to know, for the purposes of this explanation, is that she once was mistaken for a weapon. 

In the end, Gray nods and Cassandra continues. 

“Old me, I cannot read. I cannot know, only violent, only fighting and killing. I come to Gotham. I meet Dad and Barbara. Many things happen.” Cassandra pauses. “Mm. Hard to talk about it. Barbara teaches me words. I have name. I am — there is love.” 

This does not seem to be connected to why Gray is to be in the painting, but he nods anyway. 

“I am loved. I am in family,” Cassandra says. “You too. You… you are family. You are loved. You are family because you are loved. Me too.”

Gray understands this even less. 

“I don’t understand,” he says. 

“Why?” Cassandra asks, tilting her head. Her voice sounds different, but Gray cannot express how. 

“There is nothing to love,” he says. “I am not a person. I cannot be loved.”

Cassandra does not say anything for several seconds. Her eyes look more moist and her mouth is tight. 

“Old me,” Cassandra says, eventually. “Her too.”

Cassandra wipes her eyes quickly and rummages in one of her pockets. She produces a music player not dissimilar to Gray’s own. This music player is black with yellow accents.

“Music,” Cassandra says. “This room, good acoustic.”

Cassandra plays some music. Gray does not recognise the song, but he is fairly sure that the genre is classical. The different instruments layer together nicely and there is a repeating melody and the violins sound— how do they sound? Gray rifles through his mental vocabulary - the music is melodious and… and something else. 

Cassandra stands, stepping into the space between the couches. She is no longer wearing the slippers she had been wearing earlier. She is not looking at Gray, either, her eyes flitting around the room.

“Vivaldi,” she says. “Spring. My favourite to dance with.”

Cassandra strikes a strange pose, her back straight, her knees bent apart, and her feet set on the floor with the heels together. She bounces up and down like this, straightening her knees slightly, moving her arms in a slow, deliberate manner. Then she hops, straightening her legs, landing with one outstretched behind her. She stretches her arms, too, one behind and one ahead. She holds this position for a few moments, then sets both feet on the ground, shuffling backwards suddenly in a focused and deliberate manner, her arms rising together in front of her.

Gray has not trained in dance, but he is aware of it. Dance is a kind of entertainment. Human beings partake in dance for fun and for exercise. He has never danced. 

Cassandra smiles as she continues to dance, her movements careful and co-ordinated to the music, slow when the violins are slow and fast when the violins are having fun. It is like she is playing with the music.

Gray has never danced before, but it seems good. 

When Gray stands, he is careful to stand a good distance away from Cassandra. He considers her movements carefully. 

“You can dance too,” Cassandra says, even though she is not looking at him. “Ballet is good. Good exercise, good discipline, good fun.”

That is all the encouragement Gray needs to play with the music, too. 

“No en pointe,” Cassandra adds. “Just tip-toe. We tell Dad to buy you ballet shoes - mine won’t fit you.”

En pointe. On point. This is the name of something he does not know. Something he does not know yet. But maybe in the future he will know it if training with Cassandra goes well. 

“Next time, we dance with mirror,” Cassandra says. “Maybe ballroom. Or you come to my studio for class, if it’s good.”

Gray’s mouth feels tight underneath his mask as he copies Cassandra’s movements. It is good. 

It’s very good, and he tells her so. Cassandra doesn’t reply. She just smiles and continues to dance. They dance and dance and the music feels different even though it is the same: “summer now”, Cassandra explains, and later still “fall”, and a few minutes into “winter”, Gray hears voices in the hall.

They are familiar voices, and Gray tries to focus on them while still moving to the music. 

“—just saying to think about it, Bruce,” Richard’s voice echoes. “We need to know what’s in there sooner or later, and you know they can help. Plus, I have stuff to take care of in Blüdhaven and I already promised Gray he could meet Melinda. And Blüdhaven Zoo just opened a new petting area - just think about how happy he’s gonna be if he gets to touch a real rabbit. Think about it, B.”

“You’re trying to manipulate me.” Bruce’s voice is hard and angry.

“Trying?” Richard’s voice asks. “Not succeeding?”

“No,” Bruce replies. 

Bruce comes into view, head turning to glance into the living room. His face has a negative expression and he sounded angry. Richard is with him, on the other side to Bruce than the living room, and also has a negative facial expression.

Gray, suddenly hyper-aware of his movements, stops. Maybe he was not supposed to dance, even though Cassandra gave him permission. Cassandra quickly turns her head toward Gray and stops, too. She waves at Bruce, who stops and waves back. Cassandra darts across the room and turns off the music.

“No need to stop on my account,” Bruce says, his facial expression and tone of voice changing to something more positive. “It looks like you were having fun.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Gray is quick to correct Bruce’s misconception, in case of punishment. His stomach feels bad. “I— I know I’m not allowed to have fun.” And then, in case Cassandra might get in trouble, too, he hastens to add: “Cassandra was training me.”

“Training,” Bruce says. 

“Yes,” Gray says, and then he recalls his earlier thoughts about training. Maybe Bruce will not be angry if Gray shows him how eager he is to work hard and do well. “I am ready to begin the rest of the training.”

“Oh, boy,” Richard groans, pressing his hands to his face briefly. 

“There’s n—“ Bruce stops, his facial expression negative again. “The training plans haven’t been finalised yet. I’m still working on them.”

“B, you know we need Cyborg on this,” Richard says. “Like, yesterday.”

“Training with Cyborg will be good,” Gray agrees. Cyborg is also nice and kind and good at explaining things. Flash was nice, too. He wonders if all of Richard's friends are as nice as they are.

“See? He’s already so committed to it, B,” Richard says, smiling widely. “Isn’t that great?”

Bruce does not say anything. He looks at Richard silently. 

“Hey, Cass, would you mind taking Gray upstairs?” Richard asks. “I think there’s an overnight bag in his room already.”

Gray cannot see Bruce’s facial expression from this angle, but his entire body looks stiff. As Cassandra leads him away, Gray can hear Bruce’s voice, too low to distinguish the different words. He sounds bad.

Gray follows Cassandra and tries not to think about how he angered Bruce by bringing up his training and how his stomach feels twisted and painful.

“You did good dancing,” Cassandra says, as they walk up the stairs. “When you get ballet shoes, we can dance more. Good?”

Gray nods, his mouth feeling tight again. Dancing with the violins was fun and they should do it again. The knot in his stomach seems to ease a little.

“Good.” 

Chapter 31: Preparation - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

Hello, all! We'll be at Titan's Tower next chapter. In the meantime, please enjoy this chapter.

Also, AO3 user ZeldaFea drew the most adorable, darling picture of Gray, the stuffed rabbit, Cass and Dick enjoying some disco music together, and very kindly gave me permission to share it here so all of you can enjoy the cuteness too <3 (Thank you again! It really did put the biggest smile on my face!)

The picture: https://www.tumblr.com/princessmossy/764182996749271040/abberations-chapter-1-peltonea-dcu-archive

As Gray reaches for the handle of the bedroom door, Cassandra speaks again. 

“Wait.” 

Gray obeys, glancing at Cassandra. Her facial expression is hard to read. She is looking intensely at Gray and her mouth has formed a strangely tight, thin line.

“You are allowed to have fun,” she says. Her words are more stilted than usual, each word almost a sentence of its own. “You should have fun. Understand?”

Gray shakes his head.

Cassandra groans and speaks again. 

“Dad... Dad does not need weapon,” she says. “Dad needs sun.”

Gray considers this. Bruce, as Batman, conducts most of his activities at night. Having another source of light might be useful, though Gray’s not quite sure how that would work. Would there simply be no night in Gotham? That would not be good, because the stars would be hidden in the blue reflection of the oceans in the daylight sky.

“You be that. You have fun. You be sun,” Cassandra says. 

“But I don’t know how,” Gray says. He is not sure he could immolate himself, nor whether his healing factor would allow him to regenerate enough to be a sufficient source of light or warmth. It sounds — and Gray is aware he is not supposed to think this, or think at all — it sounds painful and unpleasant. And impossible, because Gray doesn't have any levitation or flight abilities.

“You learn,” Cassandra says. “You are not person yet? Okay. But you are person soon. And then… Dad’s sun. Our brother. Happy, all of us. And you.” 

Gray blinks. 

‘Sun’ is contextually inappropriate for this sentence. Cassandra must have said ‘son’ instead. Her words still do not make sense, but being a son will surely be less painful than being a sun.

Cassandra smiles, reaching for Gray’s shoulder.

“When you go to Titans, have fun,” she says. “I order you. Have one or more fun. Okay?”

“When I go to the Titans I will do one or more activities that are fun,” Gray echoes. That sounds easy enough. And if Gray tells Richard that Cassandra ordered him to have fun then Richard does not need to tell Bruce and Gray does not need to be punished for it.

“Good, good, good,” Cassandra says, and she is smiling as she opens the bedroom door. “Now, overnight bag… where is?”

---

Finding the bag is a surprisingly difficult task. 

By the time Gray and Cassandra have managed to find the overnight bag Richard spoke of (hidden inside several larger suitcases, which are in turn hidden inside the wardrobe), Richard has entered the bedroom too. He claps Gray on the shoulder with a positive facial expression and tone of voice.

“Great work finding that, I knew it had to be around here somewhere,” Richard says. “Gray, I’ve got another task for you. You’re going to come visit the Titans with me tonight and we’re going to have a slumber party with them. So I want you to pack this case with everything you’ll need for the night. Understand?”

Gray nods. 

“I will pack this case with everything I’ll need for the night,” he says. 

“Awesome,” Richard says. “Now I’ve just gotta make a few calls, but I’ll come back soon, and then we’ll head out. Gotta get going before B changes his mind.”

It would be bad for Bruce to decide that Gray cannot meet Richard’s nice friends. But it would not necessarily prevent this from happening.

“If Bruce changes his mind then we should ask Alfred for permission,” Gray says. 

Richard laughs and does not hurt Gray. 

“I like the way you think,” Richard says. “Cass, got a sec?”

Cassandra waves at Gray as she leaves with Richard, and Gray is alone in the bedroom. 

No, not completely alone. The stuffed animals are here, too. They are still softly sitting on the bed, just as he left them this morning.

Gray considers Richard’s words. ‘Need’ is another word for ‘requirement’ or ‘necessity’. Gray has no physiological needs, other than to expel the waste that is a by-product of the tea and water he is constantly fed, and Richard knows this. So his question is almost certainly about Gray’s nightly routine, his metaphorical needs instead of his literal needs. 

Gray’s nightly routine consists of cleansing his face and teeth, expelling waste, dressing in the correct clothes, and reading in bed with his stuffed animals. Therefore, Gray will need his cleansing tools and equipment. He gathers these, putting them into a small waterproof bag found inside the closet in the bathroom, then places the small bag on his desk. Gray may or may not need to expel solid waste while at Titan’s Tower, so he fetches a roll of toilet paper, too. He will definitely need appropriate night-time clothing, so he finds a pair of pyjamas inside his chest of drawers and takes the blue bathrobe from the back of the bedroom door. He folds these carefully and places them next to the bag and roll. He picks up each stuffed animal and sets them atop the soft terrycloth.

Gray looks at his bed, and the makeshift canopies that are still in place This will be very difficult to move, even though Bludhaven is less than a thirty-minute drive away. It would be easier for Richard if Gray were to leave the bed behind and only take the electric blanket, so Gray carefully unplugs it and rolls it up. However, the blanket seems too large to fit into the overnight bag Richard specified. 

Gray pauses and considers this. He needs the blanket as much as every other item he has gathered. They are all of equal importance - the stuffed animals being of the most equal importance - and none can be left behind if he uses the bag Richard instructed him to. 

Perhaps he should use another bag. Richard had been specific in his instructions, but perhaps he did not realise how bulky Gray’s items are. He should ask for clarification. Richard is nice and will tell him more good instructions.

Gray digs a hand into his pocket and draws out his phone. He has seven missed text messages. Gray ignores these for the time being and sends a text message to Richard: 

Graham (03:27 PM) 


The overnight bag is not large enough to store all of the items I need for the night. What should I do?

Then Gray looks at the messages. The most recent is from Tim.

Timothy (01:30 PM) 


How does your mouth feel?

Timothy (01:32 PM) 


Don’t worry about answering right away, I know you’re busy today. 

Gray replies immediately.

Graham (03:29 PM)


Red.

Wait. That is not accurate. The numbness is still there, but it doesn’t feel quite the same as it did before. He sends a second message to clarify this.

Graham (03:30 PM)


Amber.

A new message from Tim appears almost immediately, containing only a pictograph of a hand making a thumbs-up gesture. An emoji, Gray’s communications training tells him. Emojis are chiefly used to communicate feelings and secret messages. Gray cannot think of any secret messages a thumbs-up could mean, and Tim does not send any further messages indicating punishment for giving the wrong answer initially, so Gray assumes that the thumbs-up represents a positive acknowledgement.

The next most recent messages are from Calvin. 

Calvin (11:48 AM)


Call me if you ever find yourself in a tight spot. 

Calvin (11:49 AM)

I’m an escape artist. 

Calvin (11:50 AM)

I’m escaping. Don’t tell your dad. Talons gotta stick together, birds of a feather or whatever.

Gray blinks, staring at the screen. His body feels taut again. 

That is a very strange thing to say. It is an impossible instruction, too: Gray is not supposed to tell Bruce but he is also not permitted to hide things from his masters. 

A new message banner flickers across the top of the screen. 

Richard (03:34 PM)


I’ll come help you in a minute.

That is good, Gray thinks. He can ask Richard about Calvin’s strange message, because that is not telling Bruce. Richard will know what to do. He is not as knowledgable as Alfred or Jason or Oracle, but he is very smart and kind and reliable.

Gray checks his remaining messages. One is from Strix. The other is from Jason. 

Strix’s message consists of a picture accompanied by a single word. The picture is of a kitchen worktop, upon which a wire tray sits. On the wire tray are small circular foods. 

Mary (10:32 AM)


COOKIES 

Gray considers an appropriate response. He does not know anything about cookies, except that they are a kind of food which can be laced with poison or allergens for quick assassinations (or a Court-mandated warning). He settles on the same positive acknowledgement Tim gave him earlier, a thumbs-up emoji.

Mary replies immediately with a cookie emoji. 

Gray’s mouth feels tight. He reads Jason’s message, sent during breakfast. It is a rather long message.

Jason (7:39 AM) 


This message does not contain an instruction or order of any kind. The following are all requests, which means that you’re allowed to follow them without checking in with B and the others. 
1) tell me about this morning’s debrief with Bruce. Did he give you any punishments, rewards, or new rules?
2) think about the book you read last night, Pride and Prejudice. Tell me one thing you learned from the book. Also, tell me one thing that was good about the book and one thing that was bad.

Gray has to think very carefully about his answer. He is not sure when the debrief ended, so explaining the entire morning is probably the best course of action.

Graham (03:38 PM) 


1) Bruce gave me new rules that you heard last night and Bruce and Alfred made me eat banana and blueberry and yogurt this morning and Bruce said that he thought I killed the Talon and told me to bring him one of my stuffed animals to be punished because I was bad but I told Bruce that I only incapacitated the Talon and he said that I did not need to be punished and he said I can have a reward soon and we talked to other Talons but they are not Talons any more so I did not have to incapacitate them and Richard tried to teach me trapeze but I am not good at it so he taught me about thinking and then it was afternoon.

Gray thinks about the book.

Graham (03:43 PM) 

2) I have learned that I do not understand fiction. The words in the book were good. The book’s disrepair was bad.

Gray does not understand fiction, but perhaps with more training he will understand it. It would be good if Jason trained him. Even though Jason said he would not give Gray any more juice boxes for speaking to Oracle, he would surely give Gray more rewards and praise and maybe they would build another pillow fort for the stuffed animals.

Graham (03:45 PM) 

When are you going to train me in fiction? You should do it soon so I can understand it quickly. That would be good. 

There is a knock at the door and Richard enters the room exactly twelve minutes after he said he would in the text message, and Gray tells him this. 

“Sorry,” Richard says. “I should have been more precise. ‘In a minute’ is a type of slang, and it means ‘very soon’. I didn’t mean it literally. You said you needed help packing, right?”

“I said that the overnight bag was an insufficient size,” Gray corrects Richard, and points to the rolled-up electric blanket sitting on his desk chair. “My items will not fit into the bag.”

“You want to bring this stuff?” Richard asks, approaching the desk. “Uh… oh, I see. Yeah, I did ask you to pack for the night, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Right…” Richard mutters. “Uh… okay, so first of all, we’ll be at Titan’s tower overnight. We’ll return the next evening, most likely. So that means you’ll need to pack what you’ll need for your morning routine, too. Not just the night.”

Richard is not as good at instructions as Jason is, Gray thinks. But he is better than Bruce, and he is nicer, too. It would be bad if Bruce were the one taking Gray to Titan’s tower.

“Also, you don’t need to take your electric blanket,” Richard says. “We have plenty of bedding you can use at the Tower, and we’ve got a state-of-the-art temperature system, so you’ll be toasty in your guest suite.”

Gray nods, and begins to gather the items Richard specified. He performs a full-body cleansing routine in the morning, so he will need shower gel, a washcloth, towel, comb, and deodorant in addition to clothes. As he does this, Richard begins to pack the prepared items into the overnight bag, praising his choices. 

When Gray begins to gather the clothes, however, Richard stops him. 

“Wait, that’s how you pick your clothes?” Richard asks. “Just… left to right across the drawer?” 

Gray nods and looks at Richard, hoping for some kind of additional context.

“Most people assemble an outfit based on colour or texture or weather condition,” Richard says. “Look outside, today is cool and overcast. So you’d need warmer clothes today than yesterday, when it was clear and sunny. And tomorrow - you can ask one of us to check the forecast - the weather is supposed to be sunny and warm, so you would need fewer layers.”

Gray doesn’t understand. He would need many layers no matter what because he has no core temperature and is always cold. 

“Look, all I’m saying is that you should pick clothes that you like, instead of at random,” Richard says. “You like soft clothes, right?” 

Gray nods, and Richard comes to join him at the dresser, rifling through the drawers quickly. He produces several items and puts them in Gray’s hands: all of them are various shades of blue, grey and black. All of them are soft in slightly different ways.

“Those feel good, right?” Richard asks. When Gray nods, he speaks again. “Tonight or tomorrow - whenever I get some time - we can sit down and get some really nice, soft, comfortable clothes ordered for you. Just like these ones. Sound good?”

Gray nods. 

“Okay,” Richard says, and then he pauses. “I forgot to ask earlier, but is there a reason you’re still wearing that mask?”

“Bruce instructed me to wear it earlier,” Gray says, and a crease appears between Richard’s brows. 

“Yeah, but wasn’t that only because of Calvin and Strix? To hide your identity, right? You don’t need to wear it at home if there’s just family around.”

Gray does not say anything, keeping his eyes on the clothes in his hands. They are nice, just like the mask hiding his face. Richard has not ordered him to remove the mask. It would be good if he did not. 

“Is it better if you’re wearing the mask?” Richard asks. His voice is very soft and warm and calm. 

Gray nods. 

“Why?” 

“Um…” Gray cannot think of a reason. He just knows that it is. 

The seconds stretch like centuries.

“It’s okay,” Richard says. “You don’t have to take off the mask right now. But you understand there are some times you don’t need to wear it, right? Like when you’re alone?”

Gray nods. This conversation is bad. It should end soon. 

“Let’s get the rest of this packed up,” Richard says. “Sooner we get that done, the sooner you can meet the Titans. You exc— you still feel good about it?”

Gray nods again, much more this time. It will be good to see Flash and Cyborg and Miss Raven again. 

“Good,” Richard says, taking the clothes from Gray’s hands. “Oh, you’re going to need your charger, too. I think I saw it plugged in near the lamp.”

Richard’s hands are warm.

It would be good if Gray’s hands were warm, too. 

Chapter 32: Welcome - Titan's Tower, Blüdhaven

Notes:

Although I've been reading the recent Titans runs, I'm not super familiar with these characters, so I sincerely apologise for any issues in characterisation - just point any glaring errors out to me and I'll do my best to edit at a later point in time.

Also, since this story takes place in a universe that is merely similar to the current DC 'verse, I have included Tempest and Arsenal in the main Titans roster (and plan to include other ex-Titans later).

Edit: I am planning to rewrite this story arc in the nearish future - I feel that the pacing is a little off and that it feels slightly flat.

Richard continues packing Gray’s chosen items, until there are only a small number left. Then Richard stops. 

“Do you need this?” Richard asks, picking up the roll of toilet paper. 

“I have not yet expelled solid waste, but Bruce and Alfred keep instructing me to consume solid food,” Gray says. He is not sure how long waste production takes. His training did not mention that, only that food can be an excellent mechanism for tricking targets into ingesting poisons or damaging items, or a way of introducing potentially deadly illnesses.

“I see,” Richard says, and he moves the roll and the towels a few inches closer to Gray. “It’s common courtesy to provide guests with basic sanitary stuff, like toilet paper, handsoap and towels, so you can put these away. We’ve got plenty to share with you at Titan’s Tower. You want me to put the toys in the bag, too?” 

“I don’t know,” Gray says, and then he remembers — too late — that he is not supposed to want things. “I… I am not capable of wanting anything.”

“But you’re capable of liking soft clothes?” Richard asks, raising one eyebrow. 

Gray’s stomach twists painfully. He had not remembered to correct Richard a few minutes ago.

Gray does not know what to say or do to prevent punishment.

“Don’t worry about it,” Richard orders, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to test you or catch you out. But you should decide what we do with the toys. They belong to you, so you should choose how we transport them.”

Gray considers this and picks up the stuffed rabbit. It is the largest of the stuffed animals and its fur has the most pleasant texture.

“I will carry this,” Gray says. His stomach does not feel fully normal, but Richard does not seem displeased. He has not mentioned punishment, either.

“Okay,” Richard replies, nodding. “And the others?”

The others would fit into the overnight bag easily, but it would not be pleasant. There are many soft items in the bag, but it is dark and might be cold. 

Gray explains this to Richard, who frowns. Although Richard’s facial expression is negative and he tilts his head, his tone of voice remains kind.

“Interesting. Would it be better to leave them here?” Richard asks. “Maybe by the window?”

Gray looks at the window. The sky is cloudy today, but the view from the window is as pleasantly complex as it always is. 

“Okay,” Gray agrees. The toys can remain here and Gray will bring the rabbit to Blüdhaven. Maybe the new reward will be another stuffed animal and it can sit at the window, too.

“New reward?” Richard asks, when Gray says this aloud.

“Bruce said that I can have a new reward for last night because I did not kill the Talon,” Gray explains, propping the stuffed animals gently against one another on the windowsill.

“Ah,” Richard says. “Well, I’ve got a really awesome idea for a reward. You think animals are really good, right?”

Gray nods. They are really, really good.

“Well, Blüdhaven has a really nice zoo not far from Titan’s Tower. A zoo is a place where animals live and people can visit them. And at that zoo, there’s a petting area where you can meet goats and rabbits and ponies and all kinds of adorable, friendly creatures. Wouldn’t it be really, really good to meet some animals? I bet they’d be really warm and soft. Even warmer and softer than your stuffies. How about it?”

Gray nods, more slowly this time, diverting his eyes to the floor.

“Okay, that’s a bad sign,” Richard mutters, and Gray briefly wonders what kind of a bad sign he is talking about - surely not a bad sign that will prevent them from going outside? Then Richard speaks again, still softly and nicely and friendly. “What’re you thinking, Gray? Can you see a problem?”

Yes, there is a problem. It is strange that Richard has not already understood this.

“Meeting the animals sounds good,” Gray says. “But the animals might be scared of me so it might not be good for them.”

“Because of Titus, right?” Richard asks. “Damian told me about that. Dogs don’t speak English all that well, and our dogs are trained to recognise potential threats and problems. Even though you’re not a threat or a problem, you have some unique physiological quirks that made Titus think you might be, like not breathing and not having a heartbeat. That’s why Titus couldn’t understand it when Damian tried to tell him everything was fine. But petting zoo animals aren’t trained like Titus is, so they probably won’t notice anything like that. Plus I have a friend, who you’ll meet, who can talk to animals in their language. If he talks to the animals, they’ll know that you’re a super nice and friendly person and I’m sure they won’t be afraid at all.”

“They won’t be afraid?” 

Does that mean that the animals will approach him nicely and eagerly? It would be good to experience that for himself, instead of through the fuzzy downloaded memories inside his training files.

“I think most of them will be fine,” Richard says. “And if they are afraid, I have another friend who might be able help soothe those feelings of fear - you met her already, Rachel. So I think you stand a really high chance of being able to meet and pet some soft, warm, kind animals. It sounds good, right?”

That… that sounds good. More than good. And it will be even more more than good to see Miss Raven again. Gray flicks through his linguistic training.

“It sounds very good,” Gray says, his face tight. “It sounds propitious.”

Richard blinks, his facial expression twisting for a half-second before returning to its usual positive-neutral expression. 

“Propi— what?” 

“Propitious,” Gray repeats. “It has the same meaning as auspicious and encouraging and hopeful.” He pauses. “It was in my linguistic training and I read it in Pride and Prejudice.”

“Jason really made you read his old books?” Richard laughs briefly. “I thought Tim was kidding about that.”

 “I don’t know how old the book was,” Gray says. “It was in poor repair. Jason should treat it more nicely.” 

“He should treat the book more nicely?” Richard asks. “So you liked the book?”

“I don’t like anything,” Gray reminds Richard. “Jason should maintain the book in better condition. It completed its task well.”

“Task?” Richard asks. He is frowning now. “The book had a task?”

“The book has the task of containing the words,” Gray replies. Richard continues to frown, so Gray continues, to complete the explanation. “And keeping the words safe so that they could be read again.”

“And maintaining the book is a kind of reward? For the book itself?”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” Richard says. He looks at the stuffed animals on the windowsill, then back at Gray. “Can’t say I ever thought of that before.”

Richard then zips up the overnight bag. 

“You ready to go?” Richard asks. 

Gray nods. He is very ready. 

“Then let’s head downstairs,” Richard says, and they do.

---

In the end, they take the Bat-Plane to Blüdhaven. 

“It takes forever to get the Bat-Sub out of the Cave,” Richard had explained earlier, before they entered the vehicle. “Plus, Tempest — that’s Garth, you’ll meet him, too — isn’t satisfied with the Tower’s underwater entrance, so it’s being re-remodelled. The Bat-Plane is pretty cool, though - did I tell you it can go invisible?”

Gray misses most of what Richard says during the flight because the view from the window is so interesting. 

Gray carefully lifts the rabbit so that it can look outside too, as Richard (he is not dressed as Nightwing so it is incorrect to call him that) swoops the plane along the water, just above the height of the ships that pass through Gotham and Blüdhaven harbours, and the rocky shores of New Jersey fly past them. Although Gray is aware that the plane is significantly faster than Jason’s motorcycle, the motorcycle felt faster. It would be good if Gray were allowed to ride the motorcycle again. Maybe he will be allowed to drive one to the zoo if he is very very good. 

He should ask Richard later.

As Blüdhaven’s coastline draws closer, a T-shaped building can be seen. Gray recognises the shape from his training: there have been several Titan’s Towers, located in New York and San Francisco. The suggested tactics for infiltration and combat engagement for inside Gray’s training files include ‘do not’ and ‘flee immediately’ and ‘avoid all interaction’, although that only applied to the old towers: there is no file for the Blüdhaven tower yet. 

This Titan’s Tower is not a pile of wreckage and rubble, like the one in New York currently is. Instead it is bright and shiny and new and there are lots of balconies that overlook the city and the water and lots of green plants and there is also a tree rising through a space in the centre of the tower.

The journey finishes quickly - too quickly - and Richard brings the Bat-Plane above the horizontal part of the ’T’. It mainly comprises of a roof garden with a patio and lots of plants, and part of the patio area sinks to allow the Bat-Plane inside a hidden hangar. Once Richard has brought the Bat-Plane to a stop and turned off the engines, he directs Gray to fetch his bag and follow Richard to the living quarters. 

Richard walks slowly and leisurely, and does not speak as he leads Gray down a hall. The hall is white-painted and ends with a heavy pair of silver doors and is not unlike the laboratory. Gray shivers under his cosy fleece jacket and his warming undershirt. 

When they reach the door, Richard rolls his sleeves up in preparation for the identity scan. But before he begins this, he turns to Gray and speaks nicely and softly and kindly, even more so than normal, and lays a warm hand on Gray’s arm briefly. 

“The rules here at Titan’s Tower are a little different than at the Manor,” Richard says. “Most of it is pretty similar: you’re free to do anything you think would be good, as long as nobody - including you - is hurt. But some things are different. My friends aren’t going to give you any orders in the Tower: you are always allowed to choose to do as you’re asked or to refuse. You’re allowed to leave the Tower as long as at least two Titans are with you and you agree to follow their instructions when you’re outside. With me so far?”

Yes, Gray is with Richard. It would be difficult to be away from him as this hallway is not particularly long. 

Gray nods, and Richard continues. 

“I really, really want to stress to you that there isn’t going to be any punishment while you’re here. If you do something wrong, we’ll discuss it with you so you know better for the next time.” Richard pauses. “I think that’s about it for rules. Do you understand? Do you have any questions?”

Gray considers this. 

“I don’t understand how I can be permitted to refuse orders from your friends,” he says, because he surely could not have understood that correctly. Tools don’t— tools can’t refuse. Richard must have meant something else or  included a hidden component of this order, like with the self-naming task.

“My friends aren’t going to give you any orders at all,” Richard says. “Now, I strongly suggest that you listen to them if they ask you to do something in order to keep you safe and well, but it’s still your choice. The only time you absolutely have to obey them is if you’re outside of the Tower with them. Or in an emergency.” 

This still doesn’t make much sense to Gray, but he nods to please Richard. 

“Anything else?” Richard asks. 

If Gray is permitted to disobey Richard’s friends, does that also extend to Richard himself? 

“Am I also—?” Gray begins, before cutting himself off. 

It is a stupid question. It is a question which will result in punishment, even though Richard promised no such thing exists here. 

“Am I also what?” Richard asks. He pauses, tilting his head, and then speaks with frequent pauses. “Were you going to ask if you’re also permitted to refuse orders from me?” 

Gray’s body feels tense and his jaw suddenly feels tightly closed. Richard’s face is not twisted in anger or negativity, and he simply gazes at Gray with a steady and neutral gaze. 

Gray diverts his eyes. He has not seen Richard become angry at him, and it would be bad to remember it. It would be better to remember only Richard’s kind facial expressions. His stomach hurts. 

“Mm…” Gray mumbles, struggling to think of an excuse or a diversion. He is not permitted to lie. In the end, after twelve painful seconds that last for hours and hours, he manages to unclench his jaw enough to mutter “it would be a stupid question to ask.” 

“There’s no such thing,” Richard responds instantly. “If you were to ask that question, I guess my answer would be that I will try not to give you any orders while we’re here. So yes, you could refuse to do things I ask you. But there might be some things I have to order you to do, either because we need to get them done or because it’s an emergency. I’ll explicitly tell you when I’m giving you an order, so you can assume that in all other situations I’m just making a request. How does that sound?”

Gray doesn’t dare look up. 

“It sounds plausible,” Gray mumbles. 

“Then let’s do that,” Richard says. “Any other questions?” 

Gray shakes his head. 

“Okay, then let’s get going. Time to test out the new security,” Richard says, and then directs Gray to scan his bare hands and retinas at a panel in the wall next to the door. Richard then scans his own features, then presses a button on the door. 

Welcome Gray. Welcome Richard. appears on a smaller panel above the door in bright letters, and then the door slides open.

The door leads to a new hallway. This hallway feels much warmer and nicer than the previous one. It has hardwood floors and the walls are a light blue-grey colour and there are lights set into the ceiling that give off light that is almost like daylight, and there are several doors on each side of the hallway. Some of the doors have labels: LAUNDRY, STORAGE, CLEANING. Some do not. At the end of the corridor, there is a wall and the hallway splits in two, one side going left and one right. Richard leads Gray to the right, and they are in a big and bright living space. 

The windows are floor-to-ceiling and there is a space outside full of green plants and it overlooks the city of Blüdhaven on one side and the bay on the other. 

It is so beautiful that Gray almost trips down the steps that lead down into the living room area, where there is a column - no, a chimney - made out of a light coloured brick and there are several big and comfortable looking couches that are a light greyish colour and there are big furry rugs that are pale in colour and there is a large television set into the chimney and behind the chimney he can see a kitchen area with a dining table and there are many green plants in large white ceramic pots and—

“Hey, nice to see you again!” the Flash says, grinning brightly, except that he is not the Flash right now, because he is dressed in casual clothes instead of his hero uniform. Wally West, Gray’s files say. His identity has been public knowledge for most of his career.

“Nice to see you too,” Richard replies, and Gray nods in agreement. It is nice to see Wally again. 

“Hey, the last time you two met, you didn’t have a name,” Richard says. “Why don’t you go ahead and introduce yourself, G?”

“My name is Graham Grant Grayson,” Gray says, obediently.

“Nice to meet you, Graham,” Wally replies, sticking one hand out in greeting. “I’m Wally, also known as the Flash, and hands-down the coolest member of the Titans.”

Gray nods and, after a moment of hesitation, reaches for Wally’s hand. It is very warm, and Wally bounces Gray’s hand with a quickness and enthusiasm that is not possible for normal human beings. He smiles widely at Gray.

“I see you brought a friend with you today,” Wally says, letting Gray’s hand go and indicating the rabbit instead. 

“Yes,” Gray says. The rabbit is a friend. 

“Does it have a name?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“It is the rabbit.”

Wally glances at Richard. 

“I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Wally says, fingerspelling almost too fast for the human eye. M-O-R-E R-A-B-B-I-T-S.

“Yeah, I am,” Richard says. “Gray knows ASL, by the way. Probably all the other sign languages, too.” 

“All of them?” Wally asks. “Impressive. Vic’s downstairs finishing the preparations, so I guess we’ll find out soon enough just what you’ve got in there.” 

Wally taps his own temple at the end of the last sentence, looking directly at Gray. Gray doesn’t know what that means, so he nods.

“I guess so,” Richard agrees, and then he rubs Gray’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get you settled in.”

The guest bedrooms at Titan’s Tower are large and comfortable in a very different way to Gray’s bedroom in Bruce Wayne’s home. The furniture here is sleek and minimal. The furniture at Bruce Wayne’s home is ornate and old-fashioned. Both are warm and have big windows and soft bedding, although the windows at the Tower are much bigger and also include a door that leads out onto a verandah or terrace that wraps around the entire building. 

“Is it better to stay in the room with the sea view or the city view?” Richard asks. 

“City,” Gray replies. The sea will not be visible at night. 

“Good choice,” Richard says. “We’ll visit the city tomorrow, I promise. You’ll be able to see it up-close, not just through the window.”

Richard helps Gray unpack his overnight bag and then shows Gray how to use the heating system and the blinds.

“Any questions?” he asks.

Gray points to the verandah.

“Is that outside?”

“Yeah,” Richard says, providing no further clarification.

“I need to have two Titans with me to go through the door?” 

“Oh, no. It’s outside, but it’s part of the Tower. You don’t need someone with you, just don’t jump off or climb to another floor unless there’s an emergency. That last part is an order, by the way. I know you’ll be fine if you fall off the Tower, but it’ll hurt.”

Gray nods.

It is unusual for human beings to care about his experiences of pain. Maybe that is why there isn’t going to be any punishment here. 

---

When Richard takes Gray back to the living area, there are two new people present in the kitchen area. A pale woman with short, pink hair that is dark at the roots, and a green-skinned and haired man of a similar age. The woman is sitting at the table, while the man is cutting vegetables at the counter.

“Hello,” the woman says, and Gray recognises her immediately. She is Miss Raven, who he met in the Batcave.

“Hey, Rach, hey, Gar,” Richard greets his friends, then waves a hand in Gray’s direction. “G, you’ve met Rachel already, but you didn’t have a name back then. How about introducing yourself?”

“My name is Graham Grant Grayson,” Gray recites. 

“So you’re the new brother Dick told us about,” Gar says. “Nice to meet you, I’m Gar. I’m one of Dick’s friends — has he told you about the Titans?”

“A little,” Richard confirms, and then he addresses Gray again. “Gar is Beast Boy, and Rachel is Raven. I’m gonna get your tea ready, so you can go ahead and sit down.” 

Gray looks at the kitchen table. There is no designated spot for him, like at Bruce Wayne’s house. 

“You may sit anywhere,” Miss Raven says, and she also gestures to a specific chair near her. “You could sit here. There is no wrong choice.”

Gray quietly slides into the seat Miss Raven had pointed out. He rifles through his mental files on Beast Boy and Raven. There is little information: the files say that Beast Boy’s real name is Garfield Logan and he once had an acting career and now uses ‘Changeling’ as his hero alias. Raven’s real name is unknown and her powers are unknown, and although she is noted to be a pacifist all of the suggested tactics for encountering her contain words like ‘leave the vicinity immediately’ and ‘do not engage’.

“It is good to meet you again,” Miss Raven says, and Gray nods. It is good to see her too. Her face is even more pretty when it is not hidden underneath a hood. 

“What’re you cooking?” Richard asks.

“Vegan chilli,” Gar says. “Ollie’s recipe, courtesy of Roy. You eating with us, Graham?”

Gray does not know. He looks to Richard for an answer. 

“Gray is more than welcome to try some chilli,” Richard says, and the microwave pings. “What do you think, Gray?”

Gray thinks that solid food is inefficient and bad. Richard grabs a steaming jug of something opaque and whitish from the microwave and does something Gray can’t see on the counter.

“Is it required?” Gray asks. 

“You have to eat something for dinner,” Richard says, not looking away from his task. “That’s an order from Alfred and Bruce, by the way, not me. But you can choose what you eat. You can try some of the chilli. You can also eat something else - we’ve got toast, fruit, veggies, yogurt…”

“Yogurt is bad,” Gray says, immediately. 

“Bad?” Richard pauses, looking over his shoulder at Gray. “It’s on the diet plan. Don’t you eat it every day?” 

“It makes my stomach hurt,” Gray explains.

“Oh,” Richard says. “Well, I think the yogurts in the fridge are soy-based, so if you’re lactose intolerant or something…” Richard trails off. “I actually don’t know if it’s possible for you to be lactose intolerant, but I guess I wouldn’t put it past CADMUS.”

“They're total jerks,” Gar says.

“Very,” Miss Raven nods. 

“Anyway, we’ll figure it out,” Richard says, and then he turns around. He is holding a travel cup. It is bright white and emblazoned with the words ‘TITANS TOGETHER’ in green. “Uh… hang on a sec, I have to remake this. Gar, you mind if I use your oat milk?” 

“Knock yourself out,” Gar says, which is a strange slang meaning ‘go ahead’.

Richard begins to remake the tea and Miss Raven speaks to Gray. 

“The last time I saw you, you were very different,” she says. “It’s good to see you like this.” 

Gray doesn’t understand what she means. He is the same as he always was. 

Before Gray can query this, two new people arrive in the kitchen area. They are both women. One looks very similar to Wonder Woman, except that she is younger and less tall. The other is taller and has orange-red hair that is exceptionally long and thick and wavy and her skin is a shimmery kind of gold-bronze and she is taller than the other woman and she is wearing fewer clothes than everybody else: a pair of shorts and a tank top which covers her breasts but not her stomach. They both look very, very good, and Gray’s eyes keep focusing on the second woman.

“You’re back!” the second woman exclaims, embracing Richard in a hug. It looks warm and comfortable. Maybe she will greet Gray in the same way. “We thought Bruce would keep you forever and ever.”

“No chance of that,” Richard returns the hug briefly. “Did I miss anything while I was away?”

“No,” the first woman says. “We’ve been investigating the stuff you asked us to, but other than that it’s been business as usual.” She nods to Gray. “Is this the guy you told us so much about?”

“That’s him,” Richard confirms, and then he smiles at Gray. “I know you introduced yourself a lot today, but how about doing it one more time?”

“My name is Graham Grant Grayson,” Gray says. 

“Alliteration! How fun!” the second woman exclaims. “My name is Koriand’r, but all of my friends call me Kori.”

“And I’m Donna,” the first woman says. “You met my sister Diana the other day.”

Diana. Diana Prince. Donna is Wonder Woman’s sister.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Gray copies the common greeting. He should make an extra good impression. 

“That’s good, well done for remembering to say that,” Richard praises Gray, then gives him the travel mug. “Here, your tea. It’s pretty hot, and it’ll stay hot in this vessel, so you need to be careful. I know you always drink with a straw, but if you go outside there might not always be a straw for you to drink with. So it’s really important that you can also drink with a lid.” 

Gray nods. This makes sense. He removes his dust mask and lifts the cup gingerly to his mouth. Fortunately, only a small amount of tea is able to escape the travel cup’s lid.

As Richard promised, the tea is extremely hot. It is not hot enough to scald Gray’s mouth, but it retains significantly more heat now that the liquid does not need to travel through a straw. 

The tea is hot and makes Gray’s mouth and esophagus hot, too. But the taste is not the same as when Alfred makes tea. It is sweet, and there are elements of milk and tea leaves, but it is not the same as Alfred’s tea is.

“I don’t really drink tea myself,” Richard says. “But I made tea for Alfred once and he said it was fine, so this should be okay.”

“You killed that teabag,” Gar mutters, shaking his head. 

“You put the water in the microwave?” Donna asks. “I bet your butler’s gonna have a lot to say about that.”

“Oh, he does,” Richard says.

Gray sets the travel mug on the table and looks at it. On one side is the writing he saw earlier. On the other side of it, there are small, cartoonish figures on the other side of the mug which resemble the people in the photo in Richard’s bedroom. The people with him now - although there are three additional figures on the mug: Flash, and two more. If Gray’s internal files are correct, they are Tempest and Arsenal.

A bad thought occurs to Gray. If his files contained the wrong hero alias for Gar, is there more wrong information stored in the files? 

“Is the tea okay?” Richard’s voice asks, jerking Gray out of his bad thoughts.

Next to Richard, Koriand’r smiles. Her eyes are green. All of her eyes, not just the iris but the sclera, too. It is pretty. Gray averts his eyes, and it is easier to think.

“It is fine,” he says. The tea is not good, but it will suffice.

“Donna and I like tea as well,” Koriand’r says. “You have very good taste.” 

There is a warm brightness in Gray’s chest, and he does not know what to do with it. His mouth feels tight. And then he remembers that this is a misunderstanding: Gray is not capable of liking things, therefore he should correct this misunderstanding or Koriand’r might think that he can like things, like Richard thought earlier.

“I do not like anything,” Gray mumbles. He digs his fingers into the fur of his stuffed rabbit. “I lack the capacity.”

Koriand’r’s facial expression changes instantly and she looks at Richard. Her hair begins to look different, too, moving gently despite there not being sufficient air movement in this room. It looks a little brighter in places, almost like glowing threads weaving through her hair.

Gray is not sure what emotion this expresses. He hopes that it is not negative. Richard said that there would be no punishment, but surely there would be punishment for upsetting Richard's friends.

“I’m working on it,” Richard says. “The Court… uh… Rae?”

Miss Raven nods, and the room falls silent for approximately thirty seconds. In this time, the Titans behave strangely by human standards. At first, they all look at Richard, whose facial expression is negative, then to Miss Raven, Koriand’r, then Donna, back to Richard, and then to Gar, then back to Koriand’r again, and then to Richard once more. At first, the Titans all have negative body language and facial expressions, however, by the time this strange behaviour ends, everybody’s body language and facial expression are more neutral. 

“I see,” Koriand’r says. Her hair is no longer bright or moving. “Promise me, Dick, when you figure it out…”

“I’ll call you, Kori,” Richard agrees. “All of you.” 

Koriand’r smiles and turns her pretty smile to Gray. 

“Graham, have you ever watched television? I am from another planet, Tamaran, which has a very different culture to Earth. I find television is a very useful tool for understanding the strange things human beings do. Shall we watch television together?”

 Gray nods, and Koriand’r grasps his cold hand in her warm one, leading him up and out of his seat. He quickly hooks his dusk mask back over his face and grabs his stuffed animal, letting Koriand’r drag him to the sofas on the other side of the chimney. Her hand is so warm, it feels like the warmth is slowly radiating into his hand. 

There is a faint but pleasant sweet smell in the air, likely to be from whatever grooming products Koriand’r uses. Gray hopes that he smells pleasant, too. 

As they round the corner into the leisure area, Gray hears Gar’s voice.

“He left the cup. I told you, man, you killed that teabag."

Notes:

This chapter was planned to cover more stuff, but was cut short for length. I am hoping to update again before the end of the month, but can't promise when.

Chapter 33: Study - Titan's Tower, Blüdhaven

Koriand’r leads Gray to the living area, directing him toward onto one of the long couches that are set into the lowered area between the chimney and a bank of elevators. The elevator bank is the wall that split the hallway Gray and Richard had walked down earlier. The couch is soft, equally as soft as the couches in Bruce Wayne’s home, and there are lots of brightly-coloured cushions that look not quite as soft as the stuffed rabbit. On the verandah outside, facing the sea, Gray can see Wally holding something to his ear and speaking. 

“Make yourself comfortable, Graham,” Koriand’r says, holding out a folded piece of cloth - a blanket, Gray recognises - as she uses a small rectangular device. Both the television and the chimney spring into life, light flickering on the screen and in the fireplace.

Gray takes the blanket. It is red and fuzzy and made of a particularly soft kind of wool. Gray wraps it around his shoulders, and then, remembering that humans lose most of their body heat through their head, draws part of the blanket up like a hood.

Watching television with Koriand’r is an odd experience. 

It is not like watching movies with Duke and Tim was, where they sat mostly in silence. It is more similar to watching animations with Damian, although instead of explaining things occasionally, Koriand’r speaks often, remarking on how strange humans are. 

It is not a bad experience: although the problems Koriand’r describes are different to the problems Gray has in interpreting human social behaviour, it is reassuring to know that he is not the only one who finds humans strange. Plus, Koriand’r’s voice is just as pretty as her face and she is so very warm, heat seeping through the place where Gray’s thigh inadvertently rests against Koriand’r’s knee. It is difficult to focus on the television, which displays a brightly-coloured cartoon picture.

“The Tween Titans,” Koriand’r leans toward Gray, pointing to the screen with a smile. Gray thinks he can feel the warmth of her skin by proximity. “Dick and Donna had a marvellous idea - children often view us as role models, so we allowed a studio to make a children’s show about us. The show contains messages about being a good member of society. Victor says it has been an outstanding success.”

Koriand’r is a valuable source of information. She tells Gray that although the characters in the show are all real heroes, their personalities and actions are fairly different to their real counterparts, each one representing a different problem American children might face. 

“For example, the Starfire in the show is written like a child who has just moved to America from another country. She struggles to understand American culture and does not speak English well.” Starfire pauses. “I learned English instantly. We Tamaraneans are mildly psychic, so we can absorb information such as language through physical contact. Dick taught me English. And French, Spanish, German, Russian, Mandarin and Romani, for that matter. He knows so many languages. He is a very intelligent man.”

Richard is very intelligent. That is true. There is an odd feeling in Gray’s chest. It is not painful, but it is strange. He cannot seem to stop thinking about Koriand’r and Richard hugging earlier. 

“I know more languages, than he does,” Gray says, without really knowing why he says it. No, he does know: he says it because it is true and perhaps showing his intelligence will mean that Koriand’r will hug him, too.

“Oh?” Koriand’r smiles again. “Then I should have absorbed them a few minutes ago - tell me something in a language Dick does not speak.”

Gray considers this. The Court files on Richard’s abilities are thorough, though they don’t mention the languages he is likely to know. Gray considers the information he has about linguistic demographics, then the information he has available about Richard’s travels. He rifles through his mental Welsh lexicon for the sentence ‘What should I say?’

“Beth ddylwn i ei ddweud?” he asks, in a perfect Gwynedd accent. 

Koriand’r’s pretty face takes on a negative facial expression.

“Hmm…” she says, reaching for his hand. “Perhaps if we try again...”

Gray clears his throat. He tries again, paying extra attention to his enunciation and fluency. Perhaps his accent had not been as perfect as he thought. 

“Beth ddylwn i ei ddweud?” 

Koriand’r shakes her head. 

“I don’t have it,” she says. “Perhaps another language?”

Gray tries Xhosa, Thai, Croatian, Gujarati and Tlingit. Koriand’r does not seem to have any of them, even though her hands are so warm. Her eyebrows furrow and furrow as Gray fails to impart any languages to her.

“How strange,” Koriand’r murmurs. Even when she has an angry facial expression, she is still pretty. “The only other person I’ve had such trouble absorbing information from was Victor. I wonder…”

Koriand’r does not elaborate on what she wonders, remaining silent for a moment. Then she looks at Gray and smiles again. 

“This episode is one of my favourites,” she says, gesturing gracefully toward the television. “Perhaps it will be one of your favourites, too.”

Gray turns his attention to the screen as quickly as he can: witnessing and understanding something Koriand’r likes will surely be good. 

It is not until several minutes have passed and Donna enters the living area that Gray remembers that he probably should have reminded Koriand’r that he is not capable of liking things and thus having favourites. But Koriand’r does not seem to be displeased. Rather, she has relaxed body language, her long and pretty hair flipped over one shoulder. 

Donna holds the thermal lidded cup from earlier to Gray. She is smiling. 

“Here,” she says. “I promise this is better than whatever concoction Dick cooked up for you. It’s not the black milk tea you’re used to drinking. This is berry tea. Dick said you always drink sweetened tea, so I put a little honey in it.”

Gray extricates his hands from his blanket and takes the cup. He remembers that humans are supposed to express gratitude when they are given something. 

“Thank you,” Gray says, and he pulls his mask from his face and raises the cup to his mouth. 

The tea is hot and at first that is all Gray can sense. But there is so much contained in the heat, so much flavour, that it is not until he swallows and there is a weaker aftertaste left on his tongue that Gray can pick out the different parts of the whole. 

This tea is sweet, but it is a different kind of sweet than the regular tea he drinks. It has some similarly to the fruit juices Jason gave him, but this is more complex and slightly tart and not quite as intense. The compounds he can taste are likely to be derived from a mixture of Rubus idaeus, Fragaria × ananassa, V. corymbosum and V. macrocarpon, Gray’s training supplies.

It is good. 

Donna and Koriand’r provide an adequate amount of information while they watch the television show. They explain that many things in the show did not really happen, or are only loosely based on reality.

“I mean, none of us ever really became cult members,” Donna says, about an episode in which Miss Raven joins a church that separates her from her friends, and then Donna pauses. “Except for when Dick got brainwashed by Brother Blood all those years ago, but I don’t think that counts.”

“It doesn’t count if there is brainwashing,” Koriand’r agrees. “And he recovered quickly.”

“And when Garth got infected by an alien parasite a few months back,” Donna adds. “I mean, does it count if there’s a parasite?”

“What do you think, Gray?” Koriand’r asks. 

“Um…” Gray considers this. He does not know, and it would be bad to look foolish in front of Donna and Koriand’r, and it would be worse to disagree with them because they are so nice and good and nice. He chooses a safe response. “I am not supposed to think.”

Koriand’r’s pretty smile does not look soft and happy any more. It looks tense. Her hair is behaving strangely again, and Gray’s shoulder is warm where her glowing hair brushes it.

“Well, we’re not gonna tell Bruce if you do,” Donna says, in a low voice. “Any thinking you do is safe with us. Isn’t it, Kori?”

“Yes,” Koriand’r agrees, after a slight pause, and her voice sounds strange. She clears her throat and her hair begins to go back to normal. “I— Someone once told me something very similar, Graham. That I was not allowed to think, only to be and to do as I was told.” Koriand’r’s facial expression is angry again as she looks directly into Gray’s eyes, but her speech is kind and strong. “They were wrong. I think that they were wrong about you, too.”

Gray does not know what to say or do. Koriand’r is clearly angry, but he has not been punished yet. Richard promised that there would be no punishment, but Richard probably did not expect Gray to perform so poorly. Maybe Gray can stave off any potential punishment the same way he did with Jason. 

“I… I am sorry,” he manages. And then, because he is not sure what he did wrong: “I did not intend to make you angry.”

Koriand’r stares at Gray for a moment, and then lunges at him. He instinctively flinches, which is futile because his hands are still clutching the mostly-full lidded cup. Koriand’r does not strike Gray, however. Koriand’r simply holds him. 

It is not a combative hold. It is a hold that is not unlike the embrace Wonder Woman gave him all those days ago, but this time he is not wearing armour and the warmth from Koriand’r’s skin and hair seeps into him and the sweet smell from earlier fills his nose.

“I am not angry,” Koriand’r says. Her breathing is strange, and something wet drips down part of his jaw and his neck. She shifts, and there is a brief soft pressure on his temple, accompanied by a strange noise when the pressure is removed. “Not at you, Graham. I am not angry at you.”

“You’re doing just fine, Graham,” Donna agrees, and a warm hand rubs his back in slow circles. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

This is clearly false, because Koriand’r’s negative response can only mean that Gray has caused some kind of problem or behaved somehow inappropriately. Gray does not say this aloud, though, for fear of making the situation even more negative.

Koriand’r holds Gray for several moments more, and then she withdraws, rubbing at her eyes. The sudden absence leaves Gray cold, except for where Donna’s hand rests on one shoulder blade.

“I… I need some air,” Koriand’r says. “Donna, could you…?”

“Of course.”

Gray watches Koriand’r leave, his eyes drawn to her pretty, warm, glowing hair as she walks with a quick pace out to the verandah — Gray dimly notices that Wally is no longer there, and is likely to have not been there for some time — and abruptly leaps into the air and out of sight. 

She does not come back down. 

---

Richard enters the living area not long after Koriand’r leaves. 

“Hey,” he greets Donna with a nod, and then he looks at the screen. “Tween Titans, huh? How is it, Gray?”

“It’s good. Donna and Koriand’r have given me contextual data to better understand it.”

“I see,” Richard says, and he glances around the room. “Where’s Kori?”

“Just went out for a minute,” Donna says. “She’ll be back for dinner.”

“Right,” Richard nods. He looks at Gray. “You ready to see Cyborg again? I think we can get most of our check-up done before we eat. Then we can play some games or watch a movie or something before bed. Sound good?”

Gray nods. It sounds good and he is ready to see Cyborg again.

Richard smiles and gestures at Gray. 

“Okay, then let’s head downstairs. You can bring the blanket with you.” 

Richard leads Gray to the elevators.

“See you later, Donna,” Richard says, as the doors open. 

“See you,” Donna replies, as the doors close behind them.

Richard seems different at the Tower, Gray thinks. At Bruce Wayne’s home, he was more exuberant and energetic. Here, he seems more subdued and his posture has changed as he also seems to physically relax more. Are most people different when they go to different places? 

Is Gray himself different? Miss Raven said so. 

Maybe Gray has changed. Nobody at Bruce Wayne’s home has had to leave the Manor because Gray said the wrong thing and upset them. He wonders if Koriand’r is okay and if the sunshine is as warm as it looked from the windows.

“You’re looking down again,” Richard says. “Is there a problem?”

Gray should not admit to upsetting Koriand’r. But Richard promised that there would be no punishment here, and it would be very good if that were true. And Richard is very intelligent and Koriand’r thinks well of him and he always seems to have good ideas about solving problems. So maybe Gray should admit to upsetting Koriand’r.

He takes a deep breath.

“It is Koriand’r,” Gray says, and he hopes that is enough.

“Oh?” Richard clears his throat. In the corner of Gray’s vision, he can see Richard’s posture change. It seems more tense and less relaxed, but he can tell little else. “Uh… anything about her in particular?”

“I did something wrong and she became angry and flew away,” Gray says. “But I don’t know what I did wrong and when I apologised she said she was not angry at me. But she still flew away anyway.”

“Ah,” Richard says. His posture changes again, relaxing once more. “Let me take a wild guess here. A little before Kori became upset and left, she or Donna said something. That something contained a misunderstanding about you. You corrected that misunderstanding. A little after that, she became upset. Am I correct?”

“You are correct,” Gray says. He had thought that correcting her was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to do at the laboratory. He had thought that the right thing to do was always the right thing to do, but it appears that sometimes it is not.

“Kori is a very honest person. If she says you didn’t make her angry, then you didn’t make her angry,” Richard says. “Once she’s flown around a little and gotten it all out of her system, she’ll be right back and back to her normal self. Got it?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“What don’t you get?”

“Koriand’r was not angry before I spoke,” Gray says. “So it must have been my fault she became angry.”

Richard rubs his eyes. 

“Okay, there’s a lot of context you’re missing,” Richard says. “A lot of that context is for Kori to tell you, if she chooses to. What I can tell you is this: you spent a significant amount of time in a laboratory, where you were augmented by scientists. Kori also spent a significant amount of time in a laboratory, where she was also augmented by scientists. It was a very unpleasant experience for her. That’s probably why she became upset. She isn’t upset at you personally, but she is upset at the fact that you experienced something unpleasant.”

“But the doctors were kind to me,” Gray says. 

“I see,” Richard says. He pauses. “But they could have been more kind, couldn’t they?”

Gray has no time to consider this, because the elevator stops and the door opens to reveal a large room. The room contains Cyborg who is standing at a large bank of computers and screens that cover several walls, and there is a big examination table in the middle of the room. The table is not unlike the table in the laboratory operating theatre.

Cyborg turns his head and smiles at Richard. He is wearing civilian clothes over his technological armour: a grey-and-black hoodie and sweatpants. 

“Good to see you two,” he says. “Sorry I couldn’t come and meet you earlier - Mr Terrific sent over a prototype for the headset and I ended up having to recode everything I was gonna use from scratch.”

“Hey, Vic,” Richard greets him, and then, to Gray: “How about one final introduction for the day?”

“My name is Graham Grant Grayson,” Gray says. 

“Alliteration, huh?” Cyborg says. “My dad’s name is alliterative, too. That’s cool. You remember my hero name?”

“Cyborg,” Gray answers. 

“Great, that’s right,” Cyborg says. He is smiling again. “My real name is Victor Stone. A lot of people call me Vic. You’re welcome to call me Vic too.”

“Yes, Vic,” Gray says. 

“Vic is a nickname,” Richard says. “Is it better if Vic calls you by your nickname, too?”

“You have a nickname?” Vic asks. 

Gray does not know his nickname. He looks at Richard. 

“Some people call you ‘Gray’,” Richard clarifies. “I’m asking whether it’s okay for Vic to call you Gray, too, since you’re friends?”

Vic is a person and therefore may call Gray by any name Vic chooses. Richard frowns when Gray attempts to explain this. 

“Well, some people don’t think I’m a person,” Vic says. He gestures to his cybernetics. “Some people think I’m just a machine. But I know that I’m really a person, no matter what other people think. It’s okay if you’re not sure about the nicknames yet. I can call you Graham for now and you can decide what I should call you later.”

Gray nods, and Vic directs him to sit on the table. This room does not seem to be set up for surgery. Richard did not say anything about surgery.

Gray’s stomach begins to hurt. 

“Sorry I’m late!” Wally suddenly materialises. “Linda called - I had to go home quickly to help the kids with their homework. You know how it is, right?” Wally smiles at Gray and appears at his side, also sitting on the examination table. “Hey! Good to see you again! Dick and Vic get around to telling you what the plan is yet?”

Gray shakes his head.

“I figured you might do a better job than I could,” Richard says, with a shrug and a smile.

“You want the x-rays up?” Vic asks. 

“Sure,” Wally says, and then he turns to Gray again. 

Wally talks for what feels like a long time, but he is very thorough and explains everything to a high standard. He points to the same x-rays that Bruce showed Gray the other day and says that Superman saw that there were unknown devices inside Gray’s skull, and that is part of why Bruce insisted on x-raying him so much. However, the amount of information that can be gained from x-rays is minimal in this case. The purpose of visiting the Tower is to allow Vic to interface with the devices and discover what they do, because Vic has special power over machines and computers. They might even be able to create some new training programmes for Gray if things go well today. 

“So while we’re working, you can sit back and relax and consider what you think we should put in your downloads. Dick mentioned that you were dancing with your sister earlier - maybe we can do something with that. And - even more importantly - you can think about all the animals you’re going to see tomorrow at the zoo. Make a game plan, where should we go first? What are the most important animals to see? Here, I stopped at the zoo earlier and got some pamphlets.”

Wally hands Gray some brightly-coloured papers. Blüdhaven Zoo Welcomes You! one reads, above a cartoon drawing of animals.

“You ready?” Wally asks. 

Gray nods. 

“There are a couple ground rules,” Richard says. “Earlier, you said that yogurt makes your stomach hurt. Did you tell anybody about that before you said it to me today?” 

Gray shakes his head. 

“Okay, so first of all, you have to tell us if you’re in any kind of pain or you feel uncomfortable. Second, we’re going to talk to you throughout the procedure, and you’re going to talk back. You don’t have to say a lot, but you do have to say something. Try to answer as honestly and as accurately as you can. Understand?”

Gray nods. 

“You have to follow those rules. That’s an order.”

Gray nods again, and the procedure begins. 

---

The electrodes feel hot, but they do not hurt in the same way that the ones in the lab did. 

“I’m in,” Vic says. “The connection is much stronger than I expected.”

“Mr Terrific really knows his stuff,” Wally says. He is standing at Gray’s shoulder. “You still feeling okay, Graham?” 

“Yeah,” Gray answers. 

It is an easy answer. 

This is much more pleasant than any download he had endured at the lab. The blanket around his shoulders and the rabbit in his hands, combined with the heat-packs Richard had tucked into his blanket and the warming shirt Luke had given him many days ago, mean that he is warm and surrounded by softness. There is gentle instrumental jazz music playing in this room: Vic and Wally had outvoted Dick, who had wanted to play circus music. Additionally, Gray has been permitted to remain sitting instead of lying on the table. His cup of hot tea sits just within arm’s reach. It almost feels as though he is performing well at a social activity.

“They managed to fit a lot in here,” Vic says. “Copying files now.”

The hotness intensifies. It is uncomfortable, but not quite to the point of pain. 

“Rule one,” Gray says. “It feels hotter. It is uncomfortable.”

“Is it painful?” Richard asks. 

“No.”

“Then we’ll continue, but slower,” Richard says. “Thank you for remembering to tell us. Make sure you say something if it feels worse.”

“Dick, the first files are ready,” Vic says. “Approximately four minutes remaining for the rest.”

“Four?” Richard asks. “With your processing power? Just how much did they squeeze in there?”

“A couple hundred yottabytes, I think,” Vic replies. “I’m trying to maintain a balance between copying what I need quickly and avoiding causing pain. Also, I’ve found something strange.”

“Define ‘strange’,” Richard says.

“There are nine devices on the x-rays, but there are only eight storage devices. The ninth… there is a computing chip, but as far as I can tell, there’s only one program on it.”

“What’s the program?”

“All I can see is a basic frequency trigger. I think it’s a specific string of digits on a particular radio wave frequency - is it detected, yes or no. I'm copying it all.”

“Okay,” Richard says. “I guess we’ll deal with that next.”

The four minutes tick by very slowly, but Wally and Richard speak frequently to Gray and praise him and the blanket continues to be soft and the jazz music continues to be upbeat and cheerful and the heat-packs continue to be warm. 

Eventually, Vic gives the all-clear. 

“All files copied. I’ll start the analysis a little later so we can go through them with Oracle and Mr Terrific. And your dad, I guess.”

“Thanks, Vic,” Richard says. “Now, about that other program…”

“All I can see is a trigger. I don’t know what it’s triggering. I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Vic says.

There is silence for three seconds. 

“I think we’re all thinking the same thing,” Wally says. “My money’s on an ultra-violent backup personality, personally. You know, in case Graham goes rogue.”

A stupid thought. Gray is loyal to his masters.

Richard sighs heavily and turns to Gray. 

“We came here to look at the hardware in your brain and find out what everything in there does. The best way to find out what that device does is to trigger it. Do we have your permission to do that?”

Gray hesitates. It sounds necessary, but…

“It might be a bad idea,” he says.

“Why do you think that?” Vic asks. 

“Because if it makes me ultra-violent I might hurt you,” Gray says. “And it would be bad to hurt you.”

“You’re so underestimating the Speed Force,” Wally says. “I can promise you right now, you won’t be able to land a single scratch on me.”

“Richard is an unaugmented human being and can die easily,” Gray adds. 

“You won’t hurt me,” Richard says, so confidently that Gray almost believes him. "But if it makes you feel any better, we can get more Titans down here to put your mind at ease. I mean, you won’t be able to beat Donna or Wally, let alone both at the same time. Raven will be able to heal any damage you manage to inflict. Should I ask them to join us?”

Gray nods. 

It takes a few minutes for the other Titans to arrive, during which time Richard and Vic and Wally draw up a short list of potential alternative uses the device might have. 

“Could activate some kind of tracking beacon,” Vic says. “Or maybe begins streaming from a camera or audio device — your files mentioned planned optical and aural surgeries.”

“Might be an explosive,” Wally says. “In which case, boy, I’m glad we’ve got Rae coming down here.”

“No, I don’t think it’s an explosive,” Richard says. “First of all, the shape and size is all wrong. Second, I can’t see the Court doing that. It’d leave loose ends, and they’re not about that. They’re all about secrecy.”

Approximately two and a half minutes after their discussion begins, the elevator doors open and both Donna and Miss Raven step out.

All eyes snap to Miss Raven briefly before Richard speaks. 

“Okay, Gray, our backup is here. When we’re done, we’ll clean up and then go eat dinner upstairs with Gar and Kori. You ready?”

Gray nods, although he not really ready at all. But this is important, and he knows that Richard’s friends are kind and nice people who in all likelihood hopelessly outclass him in combat. He hopes that they will not allow them to harm Richard.

“Three… two… one…” Vic counts down. “Trigger engaged.”

Gray waits for something to happen, but it does not. His body does absolutely nothing of its own accord and simply continues to sit on the examination table in the middle of the room. All eyes are on him and it is uncomfortable. He squeezes the stuffed rabbit.

Three seconds, then five, then ten. Donna shifts her weight on her feet. Wally blurs slightly. 

The electrodes remain hot, though not painful, and Gray could almost swear he smells his skin burning. 

“Burning?” Richard asks, although Gray had not realised he said that aloud. 

Gray nods, and the room feels as though it is tilting, as though it is falling and he is rising. He blinks hard, and the room— the room remains the same but it is strange and somehow unfamiliar. He does not feel quite right and Gray cannot ascertain what is wrong. 

“Rae?”

“I think you’re right, Richard,” Miss Raven says. “Vic—“

Gray tries to grip the edge of the table to steady himself, but his fingers are clumsy and numb and he watches the stuffed rabbit tumble to the tiled floor.

“Already turned it off,” Vic’s voice says. “I’m researching first aid as we speak.”

Wally appears next to Gray, on the other side than Richard, stretching his arm out to prevent Gray toppling forwards.

“Gray, buddy, we’re gonna lie down on the floor for a little bit, just in case. Hold onto me, okay? Dick’s gonna help us down.”

Gray does not get a chance to obey before the world goes black.

Notes:

i swear to god, the next chapter is planned to be soft, sweet and gentle fluff through and through

Chapter 34: Aftermath - Titan's Tower, Blüdhaven

Notes:

Hi all! Apologies for the later-than-usual update, unfortunately real life got pretty hectic for a while - but I’m back now and hoping you’re all safe and well. I hope to update again this month, during the festive season.

Also, to the Tumblr user who submitted this story to the haveyoureadthisdcfic recommendation blog, thank you! I’m delighted that this fic has resonated with anybody deeply enough to feel this story is worth sharing. <3

There is warmth and there is silence. 

The storage container is stuffed with pillows and blankets, so many there is scarcely room for Gray himself. He’s barely able to move, but this is not like the restraints Doctor Griffiths used to use when Gray was bad, this is soft and comfortable and good, and the silence is the pleasant and familial kind instead of the cold and empty kind.

No, not silence, Gray realises. There are some faint noises coming from outside the storage container. He opens his eyes. He can see a small line of light where the storage container lid is attached to the main box. There are no shadows to indicate a doctor nearby.

It is good to be in storage again. It is warm and safe and hidden. Although it would be better if the storage container had more space, because there is not enough room for Gray and the stuffed animals at present. And it would be better if the storage container had a more comfortable lining, like the soft and pleasant mattress that conforms to the shape of his body. And it would be even more even better if Gray’s music player were here, too.

A voice speaks. It is a pleasant female voice. Gray cannot make out her words: they are muffled by the storage container and the fabric engulfing him. But he knows that voice. 
Miss Raven, he thinks, and his face feels tight. Miss Raven, the powerful and kind and nice and pretty friend of Richard. 

Miss Raven speaks again, in a positive tone, and this time he can make out her words. 

“—here,  Gray?” 

Gray remembers how Jason taught him to stop the brightness hurting his eyes, so squeezes them shut as he pushes against the lid. His fingers touch wood instead of metal and, with some resistance from gravity, it gives way. 

When Gray opens his eyes, it is clear that he is not inside the storage container at all. This is the heavy chest at the bottom of his bed. The window looking outside is just a few metres away, the blue and endless sky clearly visible through the glass. 

“I am here,” Gray says, quickly scanning the room. The room is exactly as it had been this morning, the stuffed animals carefully propped against the window. The cushions Tim and Jason had been using are still scattered on the floor, Tim’s bathrobe slung over Gray’s desk-chair and Jason’s boots still sitting near the bookshelf. He finds Miss Raven quickly: she is standing in front of the wardrobe, one hand closed around a handle. She smiles when she sees Gray. It is a very small smile, but he is sure it is a smile.

“This place is very different to the last time I was here,” Miss Raven says, which is a strange thing to say because they are in Gray’s bedroom, and Miss Raven has never been here.

Gray attempts to explain this to her as he climbs out of the chest with clumsy, sluggish arms and stands on legs that do not feel like they should support his weight. Miss Raven’s facial expression is difficult to read. 

“I am glad that you have a sanctuary like this inside your mind,” she says. “It is important to feel safe.”

Gray blinks, and then he realises that he has been very stupid. Of course this is inside his head: Richard took him to Titan’s Tower.

“No, you are not stupid,” Miss Raven says. “You are simply exhausted. It has been a very long day for you.”

Yes, it has been a long day. A very long day made up of a large amount of days that continue and continue and continue and somehow even though he has spent only a few calendar days at Bruce Wayne’s house, they feel the longest of all. Perhaps the day at Titan’s Tower will feel long, too, when he spends more time with Richard’s friends after the testing is comp—

The testing. The strange device. 

Richard.

Something feels as though it is rising inside Gray’s throat. His shoulders and stomach feel tight and bad.

“Did I hurt them?” he asks. 

“No,” Miss Raven says, quickly. “You did not hurt anybody. And I can see that you were not hurt either.”

Gray considers this. The last thing he recalls is… they were discussing the trigger mechanism, what it might do. And they were waiting to test it.

“I understand,” he says. “What am I supposed to do now?"

Miss Raven places one warm hand on Gray’s chest. Her hand is placed over his left pectoral, close to the sternum. 

“I think it's time to wake up,” she says.

Gray blinks, and he is no longer standing in his room but lying on the floor. His body aches, surface-level injuries on his skin and skull. Gray is sure that he is not hurt badly, most of the pain feels like it’s from healing. Someone is kneeling next to him and he can see feet and ankles further away. His surroundings are familiar, though strange at this angle: this is the testing room in Titan’s Tower. There is a very quiet, regular whistling noise.

Gray is lying in a strange position. He is lying on his right side, with his right arm outstretched in front of him. His left leg has been curled up, so much of his weight is resting on his knee, and his right leg is straight. His left hand has been jammed between his face and shoulder, and the back of his hand is covered in something wet. 

Saliva, Gray realises dimly. Dripping from his open mouth. 

Doctor Hoffman always complained about Gray’s bodily fluids making a mess of the lab equipment or floor. Maybe the Titans will also complain. It would be bad if they did, although Gray cannot imagine any of the Titans making the same, squeaky “ew” sound, nor a sing-song “so gross”. 

Gray closes his mouth, tries to wipe off the saliva coating his jaw by shifting his head. He cannot feel the strange pressure of the electrodes. They are no longer attached to his skin. The whistling noise changes minutely, too. Gray realises, with a jolt, that he had been breathing. The strange angle of his face, coupled with the bodily fluids, had made his breath sound strange and whistle-y. He quickly stops breathing, too.

“There is no reason to worry, Graham,” Miss Raven says, from just out of sight. “Breathing will help you, I promise.”

Gray quietly begins breathing through his nose, keeping his mouth shut. As he does, the person beside Gray shifts, and Gray glances up to see Richard’s face peering down at him. He does not look angry or negative. 

“Do you think you can sit up?” Richard asks. He sounds nice and kind, which is a good sign. 

Gray’s limbs are heavy and clumsy, but Richard provides support and quiet, nearly inaudible praise. When Gray has managed to prop himself up, leaning against the table he had sat on earlier, Richard sits beside him. Richard does not say anything. He just takes Gray’s cold, wet hand in his warm, dry one and begins wiping Gray’s hand clean with a disposable cloth. It is an action not dissimilar to Bruce taking Gray’s bloody gloves off last night. When Richard glances at Gray, catching him staring, he smiles briefly.

The doctors were always upset when they needed to help Gray clean himself. But Richard is not upset and Gray does not need assistance. 

Gray’s vision begins to blur, so he blinks rapidly and looks away. Miss Raven is just behind Richard, picking up a red blanket from the floor. Not far from her, Gray can see the stuffed rabbit. It is lying in a puddle of pink-transparent fluid, next to the lidded cup which is lying on its side. 

“Hey, Graham,” Vic greets Gray with a soft and kind voice. He is kneeling on Gray’s other side and holds up one finger. He begins moving his hand in front of Gray’s face, just as Richard begins wiping Gray’s jaw. “Follow my finger, okay?”

Gray obeys this request.

Vic then requests Gray to keep his eyes open while Vic checks his pupil reflexes, then asks Gray to perform various simple gestures with his hands. By the time Vic finishes his testing, the aching has subsided and the saliva is gone and Gray is certain he is capable of normal operation once again. 

“That’s good,” Vic says, when Gray tells him this. “One last question, then. Rae says you remember what happened before you woke up. I’d like it if you explained that to me.”

“We tested the implants in my brain,” Gray says. “Most of them held data, but one held an unknown mechanism. We were discussing triggering the unknown mechanism.”

“I see,” Vic says. “Well, we did trigger it. Do you remember anything about that?”

Gray shakes his head. He vaguely recalls Donna and Raven smiling at him when they left the elevator. He wonders briefly where Donna and Wally are.

“I’m sorry,” Richard says. “We think that the mechanism caused electrical currents to flow through specific, targeted areas of your brain. This caused something called a tonic-clonic seizure, which is why you woke up on the floor. You might feel a little strange for a few hours, but you’re okay. You’re going to be just fine. Wally and Donna are upstairs right now, making sure that everything is extra warm and cosy up there.”

Gray rifles through his mental files. Seizures can be caused by a number of factors, including excess electrical activity in the brain, tumours, organic brain diseases, and psychological trauma. There are many possible presentations of seizures take: a tonic-clonic seizure is characterised by a sudden loss of consciousness, then an uncontrollable stiffening and jerking of muscles. This must have caused bruises and minor contusions, which is why he was healing when he woke up.

“Do you understand?” Richard asks, jerking Gray from his thoughts. 

Gray nods. 

“The mechanism was a type of remote incapacitation device,” Gray says. He cannot imagine why the Owls might have deemed it necessary to ever incapacitate him, because he always tries very hard to be good and obedient.

“Mm,” Vic hums briefly. “Not quite. Your seizure just now was very short-lived. It lasted for less than two minutes, and you were unconscious for a few minutes after that. The reason it was short-lived was because we realised what was happening when you started experiencing pre-seizure symptoms, and I was able to stop the trigger mechanism pretty much right away. The program didn’t have a time-based shut-off. Do you know what might have happened if I hadn’t done that?”

Gray accesses the same files as before. An epileptic seizure lasting for longer than five minutes is a medical emergency, and one lasting for longer than ten risks brain injury. If a person experiences too many seizures in a row, or experiences a seizure that lasts for too long a time, this could lead to death. Seizures are quite difficult to utilise as a method of assassination, although not impossible. 

A trigger mechanism that could not be shut off would incapacitate Gray indefinitely, and would be highly likely to lead to brain damage significant enough to cause temporary or permanent death.

“I might have died?” Gray guesses. His stomach feels bad again. 

“That’s right,” Vic says, and he is quiet for a moment, glancing briefly at Miss Raven and then Richard. “I’ve made a copy of that program, just in case, and rendered it inert on your hardware. You don’t have to worry about it any more. No more incapacitation, no more seizures.”

That sounds good to Gray. He nods, and Richard helps him to his feet. 

“C’mon,” Richard says. “Let’s head back upstairs.”

As he is now healed, Gray no longer needs assistance to stand, nor to walk to the elevator. But Richard helps him anyway. Gray pauses briefly to pick up the lidded cup and the stuffed rabbit. 
The rabbit’s fur is stained slightly pink. It is damp and no longer soft and nice to touch. 

Gray’s breath — he is not sure when he started breathing — catches in his throat and his eyesight begins to blur dangerously. 

“Are you okay?” Vic asks.

“Does it hurt?” Richard asks. “Where does it hurt?” 

Gray gasps, and wipes fruitlessly at his eyes. 

“I’m not hurt,” he says, which comes out as a barely-intelligible mumble. His next attempt at a sentence does not fare much better: “it’s not soft anymore.”

“Not soft? The rabbit’s not soft?” Richard asks, and Gray nods, choking on his own breath again. 

“Well, that’s an easy fix,” Vic says. “We’ll just go upstairs and put it in the washing machine.” 

If the rabbit is in the washing machine, then there will be no soft fur to touch. The thought of this is utterly unbearable, even though Gray is perfectly aware that his own clothes are soft and nice. Wetness keeps rolling down Gray’s cheeks and his breath keeps coming in that strange, loud, almost-painful way. Richard envelopes him in a hug, Gray’s face pressed against the blue wool of Richard’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Miss Raven murmurs. “Graham, it has been a very, very long day for you, hasn’t it? A very long day in a series of days that never end. Of course everything is overwhelming.”

“It’s normal to be a little emotional after a seizure,” Vic says. There’s a gust of air and someone takes the rabbit out of Gray’s grasp, pushing a different soft thing into his hand. It is a very different kind of soft, being a thick, long faux fur. It’s not the stuffed rabbit, but it’s nearly the right kind of softness; as Gray grips it tightly, everything around him feels a little more certain and his breath comes a little easier.

“Sorry, this is the closest I could find,” Wally says. “What setting do you think we’re gonna need for the washing machine?”

“I’d go for the bedding one,” Richard says. “Uh… eight, I think?”

“It’s actually five,” Miss Raven says. 

“See you later, Graham,” Wally says, and there are fingers briefly rubbing at his hair and then another gust of wind. 

Richard’s shoulder is steady and warm, and the new stuffed animal — it has triangular-shaped protuberances on the head and a tail, so it is likely to be a cat — is soft and nice, even if it’s not quite as nice as the rabbit. There are comforting whispers and reassurances. 

At some point, Gray’s body stops crying. He cannot bring himself to move, and nobody orders him to do so. Even though Gray has done a very bad thing by crying, by pretending to be a person, and everybody is surely going to be angry at him for doing something so bad. Nausea curls up his throat and his stomach feels bad again and when he opens his mouth, Miss Raven cuts him off. 

“No,” she says. “Graham, you have done nothing wrong. You are exhausted, and it is normal to lose control when you are exhausted.”

“Maybe you should take a nap,” Richard says, gently and kindly removing his embrace from Gray. “Dinner first, or sleep?”

“I don’t require sleep,” Gray says. 

“Maybe dinner and then a nice, relaxing movie?” Vic suggests.

In the end, that is exactly what they do. 

 

---

Wally is not present when they go upstairs — Vic explains that Wally has likely gone home to help his family during their evening routine. But Gar and Donna and Kori are, and they all greet Gray with smiles. 

“Before we eat,” Richard says, stopping Gray before they join everybody in the kitchen area. “I’d like to create a new rule. You did really great at communicating during the testing earlier, but you didn’t communicate much when you were experiencing stomach pain. I want you to tell me when you experience stomach pain or discomfort, so we can make sure we give you food that’s good for you. Understand?”

“I understand,” Gray agrees, and this seems to satisfy Richard.

Dinner is very different than at Bruce Wayne’s home. Rather than all of the food being on the dinner table, Gar has set all of the food available for dinner on the kitchen sides. Everybody comes and helps themselves. Richard shows Gray all of the options available - which includes soups and broths that are in the cupboards - and explains them in adequate detail. The food Gar prepared is chili and rice with beans or baked potato, and a salad containing many kinds of leaves and brightly-coloured vegetables. 

“What are you going to eat?” Richard asks. “You still interested in the chilli?” 

Gray nods. The chili looks like red soup, and it smells warm and interesting. 

“Okay, and are you going to have rice or potato with that?”

Gray doesn’t know. He tells this to Richard.

“Let’s go with rice. I love Alfred, but his rice is mushy and you deserve better than that for your first experience.” 

Richard places a half-cup of rice in the bowl and the same amount of chilli atop it, then gives the bowl to Gray. Richard permits him to sit at the table with the stuffed cat — which has black fur and pink paw-pads — provided he lays a dish towel over it to protect it from fallen food. 

“It belongs to Donna, and we need to make sure it’s in good condition when we give it back,” Richard says. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Donna says. She smiles at Gray, placing a new lidded cup near his bowl before sitting next to him. “I think you could use her more than me.”

“Thank you, Donna, that’s really nice of you,” Richard says. “Gray, when someone gives you something, you should say…”

Gray consults his mental lexicon. 

“Thank you?” he guesses. 

“You’re welcome,” Donna smiles. Gray copies her smile, and her expression changes in a way that is difficult to quantify. Gray realises, his stomach sinking, that he is not wearing his mask — that he has not been wearing it for some time now. Why is he not wearing his mask? Did the others take it from him during the seizure?

Richard looks pleased, even though Gray has just pretended to be a person. 

“Well done,” he says to Gray. “Social interaction can be really hard, but you’re doing great. How’s the chilli?”

Gray turns his attention to the bowl in front of him, grateful for the distraction. Perhaps Richard will forget Gray’s mistake if Gray does as requested.

He lifts his spoon the way Cass and Richard showed him a few days ago and successfully manages to scoop a spoonful of chilli. He places this in his mouth, using his lips and teeth to keep the food in his mouth as he removes the spoon.

The flavour is… 

There is so much flavour. 

Gray cannot think; acidity and sweetness dance across his tongue, deep and complex and bright flavours playing together in his mouth. The textures are so many, so different, dry-soft beans and chunks of vegetables with a little more bite and the liquid which is thicker than broth washing across his tongue, the small and soft grains of rice squishing into paste between his teeth.

“Good, huh?” Richard smiles. “Just remember to keep your mouth closed when you chew, okay?”

Gray nods and continues to chew. The overwhelming textural differences begin to become less overwhelming as the food is slowly processed into a fairly homogenous consistency, which Gray carefully swallows.

This is… it is good. It is very good.

Gray’s mouth feels hot. It is not quite the same hot as the electrodes or the tea but it feels very similar - although it lingers and tingles pleasantly.

“Good, huh?” Gar asks. He leans back in his chair, a wide smile stretching across his face. “I guess Ollie wasn’t kidding when he said this recipe won state championships.”

“You don’t have to eat the whole serving if it’s too much,” Richard says.

In the end, Gray eats two servings and half of a third. His stomach feels different. It is not a bad kind of different, at least not at first. It is simply that the normal feeling of his stomach vanishes. But as Gray works through his final serving of food, a new and uncomfortable feeling begins to emerge. 

“Richard, my stomach feels uncomfortable,” Gray says. 

“Oh?” Richard looks up from his dish. “That probably means you ate enough food. I don’t know how long it’ll take for your stomach to empty, so try to stay aware of how you’re feeling. Just stick to your tea for now, and the discomfort should subside after a while.”

Gray nods and obeys. The tea Donna gave him is just as good as it was earlier and the liquid intensifies the lingering warmth inside his mouth. 

“Yeah, water usually does that to capsaicin,” Donna says, when Gray says this to her. “If you want to cool your mouth down, you should drink some kind of milk. I think we have oat in the fridge…“ 

“No, I want to stay warm,” Gray says.

The warmth in Gray’s mouth stays and stays and stays for many more minutes, until after Donna and Vic begin to gather the empty dishes for washing, and Richard directs Gray to the living room couches, where Kori directs Gray to sit with her again. 

“Normally the guest picks the movie,” Gar says, switching the television on. “There’s one about an ice princess who—“ 

“No,” Gray says. No ice. Ice is bad. 

“Okay,” Gar scrolls through a series of images on the screen. “Uh… I guess the one with the supervillain minions is a bad idea… uh… how about a malfunctioning robot? That one’s pretty fun.”

Gray thinks about this. He has been malfunctioning a lot in recent days. Maybe the film will serve an educational purpose as well as an entertainment one. 

“Yes,” Gray says. 

Richard sits on Gray’s other side, with Miss Raven next to him. Gar yawns and rapidly shrinks, until he is the approximate size and shape of a dog. An American Pit Bull Terrier. Then Gar hops up onto the couch and curls up beside Miss Raven. 

“I have a dog, too,” Richard whispers as the film begins. “Her name is Haley. You can meet her next time.”

That sounds good, Gray thinks, and he nods. 

The film is more difficult to understand than the Tween Titans television show earlier. It revolves around a lonely, poor boy, who finds a friend in a robot which suffers from glitches that cause problem’s in the boy’s life. But while the boy is frustrated at the robot, he does not freeze it or destroy it. Instead, he yells and shouts and creates workarounds and solutions to accommodate the glitches.

It is not so different from Alfred giving him a straw or Donna allowing him to hold her stuffed animal until his is clean and nice again, Gray thinks as Donna and Vic join everybody on the couches. 

The boy is mad at the robot, but they are friends. 

The couch is comfortable and nice. Kori radiates heat, and Richard’s presence is steady and supportive. Gray’s limbs feel heavy, and his eyelids feel heavy, too. 

Everything begins to fall away.

Softness.

Warmth.

Chapter 35: Secure - Titan's Tower, Blüdhaven

Notes:

I did not have quite as much time as I anticipated to write, so I'm afraid this chapter is much shorter than I wanted (spoilers: we do not get to the zoo, but we do get Plot crumbs (which became much bigger than I expected) and Gray having Feelings about his friends and the nature of kindness.

There are warm hands pushing cool plastic behind Gray’s ears and over his eyes. The are blurry colourful lights behind the plastic. A voice speaks, its gentle words floating into Gray’s ears and mixing with the faint movie sounds and passing right out of his head again, leaving no trace of comprehension behind.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m just tracking your sleep cycle.”

Gray squeezes his eyes shut and rolls into the soft, pleasant warmth beside him. The warmth laughs - a nice laugh, not a doctor laugh - and Gray remembers that objects are not supposed to act of his own accord and he stops.

It’s okay, says a different voice, this one inside his head, the meanings of the words  gently impressed into the crevices of his brain. You can relax. You’re safe.

The voice is right, Gray thinks. It is the only thing he thinks for some time. 

---

When Gray blinks awake later - really, truly awake - he is lying on a soft, horizontal surface. There is a soft, bright light somewhere behind him, and there is a thick black line running horizontally across his vision. 

This is not the Titan’s living room, Gray thinks. He can see a bedside table with a clock that reads 02:43 AM and tall windows and… and a verandah and dim lights beyond that… 

The guest bedroom, Gray realises. He lost consciousness during the movie and somebody put him in his bed. They even placed the stuffed cat into his arms. 

He was not hit or scolded or frozen or awoken, despite all of his failures. Instead, somebody carried him and put him in a warm and pleasant location. And they just… allowed his loss of consciousness. For — Gray thinks back, what time was it when the movie started? — some three or four hours.

The idea of this makes him feel strange. He digs his fingers into the stuffed cat’s fur. 

“You awake?” Vic’s voice is gentle, and is behind Gray, so he rolls over and sits up. The bar across his vision does the same, and there is a weird pressure near his ears as he does so, as though he is wearing spectacles. 

“You can take those off,” Vic says. “Dick needed to track your sleep cycle, and if you’re staying awake they’ve done their job. Or if you’re going back to sleep, you can leave them on. Your choice.” 

Gray opens his mouth to tell Vic that he is not permitted to sleep and can function adequately without it. The words do not leave his mouth, however. 

Richard said that Gray was welcome to do anything that did not cause harm. And when he corrected Koriand'r and Donna earlier, Koriand'r became upset. Even though her anger was short lived and she was nice at dinner and sat next to him during the movie, it would be bad if Gray made Vic become upset too. 

Gray closes his mouth. Maybe he will sleep again. The room is warm and nice, so much so that Gray can see Vic is wearing a sleeveless shirt now in the light from the tablet Vic is holding in his hands. The bed is soft and comfortable. The stuffed cat is texturally pleasant and comforting and… and it makes him think about how the Titans helped him earlier even though they should have punished him. 

Gray glances down at the stuffed cat in his hands, bisected by the black line of the sleep tracking device. 

The stuffed cat is very nice. It was very nice of Donna to give the cat to Gray. She did not need to do it. It was not required in any way. He would have returned to adequate functionality without the cat. But she allowed Wally to give it to Gray and has even allowed Gray to keep it indefinitely. 

“Gray?” 

The Titans are nice. They are so very, very nice, so much nicer than anybody else Gray has ever met - except for Alfred, and maybe also Jason when he is in a good mood. Everybody Gray has met since coming to Bruce Wayne’s house is nice. And before that, at the lab. The doctors — well, most of the doctors — were nice, too. They would not have carried Gray to bed or hugged him, but they spoke nicely to him sometimes and played music occasionally and there was praise when appropriate and… and that was nice. They were nice.

But, says a little voice in the back of Gray’s mind, they could have been nicer, couldn’t they? 

The voice sounds very much like Richard. 

“Gray? You okay, man?” Vic asks, and he is now very close to Gray. Gray had not noticed him moving. That is not good because Gray is supposed to notice all of the little details. He should pay more attention.

“Yes,” Gray answers, and then he realises that is not quite the correct answer. He feels as though something is wrong. He is not sure what is wrong, though, and glances down at the cat again for answers. 

The cat doesn’t give any clues, simply staring blankly with its big button eyes, but looking down does allow Gray to see what is wrong.

Whoever placed him in the bed did not change his clothes. He is still wearing the shirt and fleece and sweatpants he was wearing earlier. Gray is not wearing his sleeping clothes and— and he should be wearing his sleeping clothes and maybe he will feel better if he wears his sleeping clothes and performs the correct routine for going to bed. 

Gray places the cat on the pillow and takes the sleep tracking device from his head, placing it next to the cat. Then he shuffles around Vic to his feet. 

“You’re getting up?” Vic asks. “Cool. I wanted to talk with you about some stuff anyway.”

The overnight bag is sitting on a nearby dresser. Gray grabs it and recalls Tim’s advice: undressing should be done in a private space and not in front of others. 

“Where is the bathroom?” Gray asks.

“The doors behind you - the one near the window is a shower room. The other one is a closet.” 

Gray nods and goes into the shower room. The tiles are cool against his feet and it is much more compact than his bathroom at Bruce Wayne’s home. Gray performs his usual nightly routine. When he returns to the bedroom, mouth tasting of mint, the room is illuminated by soft white light and Vic is standing near the big wall-window and looking outside.

Gray stands next to Vic and looks outside too. It is hard to see with the light on, but Blüdhaven is brighter and almost as lively as Gotham is. In the glass, Gray can see the silhouette of Vic - the city lights clearly visible where his body casts a shadow on the glass - turn its head and Vic addresses Gray. 

“You hungry or thirsty or anything?” Vic asks. 

“No,” Gray says. It would be nice to have more berry tea, but he does not require it. 

There is silence for a moment. 

“You want to go outside?” Vic asks. 

Gray opens his mouth to remind Vic that he does not want anything, but — but then he remembers. Before he slept, after his seizure, when his thoughts had slipped and his behaviour had slipped and his speech had slipped, he had admitted to wanting something to Donna. 

He had admitted to wanting his mouth to remain warm and nobody had gotten angry. 

Donna, she— she had not said or done anything other than shrugging and advising Gray to continue drinking tea. And the Titans had not— there was no punishment. There was the movie and sitting next to Koriand’r and… and not being punished for losing consciousness and being placed here in this warm, pleasant, soft, warm, nice, warm room with Vic and the stuffed cat and the city lights shining beyond the verandah. 

Gray blinks. The lights look blurry. 

“Oh… uh…” Vic mumbles, then clears his throat. “Uh…  I don’t know what I said just now that upset you, but I’m sorry for it. I just thought it would be better if you got to choose where we talked because I need to ask you some stuff about the downloads and the lab and I thought it might be a kind of hard conversation. We don’t have to—“ 

Gray nods.

“I do,” he says. And then, haltingly, deliberately, he looks Vic in his warm, gentle eyes and speaks as clearly as he can. “I want to go outside.”

“Okay,” Vic says, as if — as if Gray did absolutely nothing wrong. “It’s over eighty degrees in here, but less than sixty outside. Maybe you should layer up a little first, though we can come back in here if you feel too cold, okay?”

“Okay,” Gray says, and... and that is a clear request and it would be nice to be warm and pleasing Vic would be good and so he obeys the suggestion.

Gray puts his fleece back on and wraps his duvet around himself. He leaves his warming gift lying neatly atop the overnight bag: although he does not sweat and therefore the gift can be worn hygienically by him for a longer period than a regular human could, it would be bad if he wore it too much now and potentially smelled bad later - it might be displeasing for Richard and Koriand’r might think badly of him and the zoo animals might not want to come close to him. The Court files did not say how long clothes can be worn before they are bad to wear but he knows there is a limit.

Vic puts on the same hoodie from earlier, which had been slung on the armchair Vic had sat on when Gray woke up. He is wearing shoes. Gray puts his shoes back on too, and then they go out to the verandah. Gray brings the cat, too, because it should enjoy the sight of Blüdhaven at night.

Just as Vic warned, the temperature is cold outside. It is not freezing, but it is a big change from the pleasant heat indoors. It is hard to see because Gray does not have night-vision yet, but there are some small lights that provide enough illumination for Vic to lead Gray to some furniture made of glass and metal and soft cushions without knocking over any plants. Gray can barely move once he has settled into a chair, but it is okay because he has made the duvet into a cocoon-like shape that covers the top of his head and it is still warm inside. He clutches the stuffed cat tightly, so that it sits underneath his chin and can look across the city with him. 

Blüdhaven is even brighter than Gotham is at night-time. Gray wonders briefly if Nightwing is out there, leaping from rooftop to rooftop and helping people, or if he is sleeping at the Tower or in his borrowed apartment at present.

There are a few vehicles traversing the streets - not many, but a few. It is amazing how different Blüdhaven feels, even though it has so many of the same features as Gotham: it has streets and hospitals and parks and skyscrapers and trees and bridges and cafés and streetlights and cranes and warehouses and—

“Dick said you don’t get to go outside very much,” Vic says. “Is that right?”

Gray isn’t sure, so he begins explaining the situation to Vic.

“I didn’t go outside a lot when I was at the lab,” Gray says. “The meat suite was on floor B-3, and the simulation suite was on B-5. All the windows faced inside. The windows at Bruce Wayne’s house look outside. Jason took me out on his motorcycle the yes— the other day, and you brought me out here and we are going to the zoo tomor— today and later in the week I will play soccer outside with Luke Fox. But I am not allowed to leave Bruce Wayne’s house without his permission and he said that includes the gardens but not the Cave.”

Gray takes a breath and tries to moisten his lips. 

“I don’t know if that counts as not going outside very much.”

“It’s a good thing I already know who your dad is,” Vic murmurs. “Okay. Most people would say that your experience counts as not going outside very much, and I would agree with that. I hope you get more opportunities to go outside in the future - I’ll ask Dick and your dad and see if we can’t go on more field trips.” 

Gray knows what a trip is and he knows that a ‘field’ usually relates to a mission location. The idea of assisting the Titans during a mission sounds very good. Maybe he can impress Koriand’r by performing particularly difficult manoeuvres and — well, not kills, because he is not allowed to kill, but maybe just a little bit of killing because Donna said they wouldn’t tell Bruce if he broke the rules and it would be really good if the Titans thought well of him. He nods and his face feels tight again and there is a kind of bright energy inside him and he cannot help but flex his ankles and wiggle his knees a little, kicking his feet slightly to expel the energy. Inside the duvet, he clenches and unclenches his hands and it seems to help a little bit. 

“I’m not quite done with the analysis of your files yet - it’s a lot of data to sift through,” Vic says. “But between what I can see in the files and your performance in the tests with the Justice League a few days ago, it’s clear you’ve done a lot of training. Dick said that you learned nearly everything through downloads. Can you tell me how often you had download training?”

Truthfully, it varied.

He is aware that the preparation for download training had been completed during his maturation phase. Doctors Burke, Stevens and Brown had once compared the different augmentations they gave the Gray Son, and Burke had been of the opinion that the slime in the maturation tank added extra difficulty to the neurosurgical operation. He is also aware that some basic training had been downloaded just before his awakening: spoken English, numbers, spatial awareness, and essential movements. He does not remember exactly how much training he had in the early days, but he is sure that there have been more downloads lately - or at least until Gray came to live with Bruce Wayne - with Doctor Burke sometimes queuing downloads to maximise the non-working weekends, although sometimes she forgot to start the downloads, like the night Gray came to Bruce Wayne’s house.

“She forgot to start the download?” Vic asks. 

“Yes.”

“Did they usually use a headset to download the information into your brain?”

“Yes. But it was less efficient than your headset,” Gray says. 

“I saw Dick’s report from— from when you were first present in the Cave,” Vic says. “You weren’t wearing a headset at that time.”

“Because Doctor Burke forgot,” Gray says. 

“Tim said that he didn’t see a headset anywhere in the lab. If it was there, it was locked away.”

“Because Doctor Burke forgot,” Gray says. 

“Does Doctor Burke forget a lot of stuff?” Vic asks. 

Gray considers this. 

“She forgot to start downloads approximately… twenty percent of the time,” Gray says.

“Did she ever tell you what the downloads were for?” Vic asks. 

“Sometimes she would mention it to another doctor within earshot of me,” Gray says. That is how he knows that he missed out on knowing how to operate a hovercraft. 

“Did she ever mention needing to re-do downloads?” Vic asks. 

“Doctor Griffiths and Doctor Williams sometimes shouted at her for making mistakes in my coding,” Gray says. “I would sometimes perform inadequately and she would have to rewrite parts of the code and reupload it.”

“Did that happen often?”

“Um…” Gray is not sure. “I don’t know what would be classified as ‘often’ in this situation.”

“The reason I’m asking, Gray, is that about half of the files I’ve looked at have been overwritten at least once. A third have been overwritten at least twice. Approximately five percent have been overwritten more often than that. Did Doctor Burke ever talk about that kind of thing to other doctors?”

“Um… sometimes other doctors would come and shout at her because her downloads needed to be done before their augmentations,” Gray says. “The downloads had priority over physical augmentation. And she would always say that she needed more time and it was experimental technology and don’t be such a prissy little bitch about it.”

Vic blinks. 

“Wow,” he says. “Sounds like things were tense in the lab. Uh… just to check, Doctor Burke was the one in charge of your downloads, right?”

“Yes.”

“Was she nice to you?”

Gray thinks about this. 

Doctor Burke never interacted with Gray beyond what was necessary to complete a task. She did not speak to him any longer than necessary. She never permitted him to speak or touch nice textures. She never shared pleasant things with him. She did not even listen to music on the radio. 

“No, she wasn’t,” Gray says.

“Was she ever unkind?”

This is an easy answer.

“No, she wasn’t.”

Vic rubs his chin with a thumb. 

“Hm,” he says. “In that case… one final thing. I’m going to play you a short recording. The voice has been augmented, so I’ll play it twice. Once with the augmented audio, and once with what I think is the audio as it should be. You don't need to worry about what the voice is saying, but you tell me if you recognise the voice itself, okay?”

“Okay.”

Vic draws his tablet back out again and taps briefly. A tinny voice plays. It is very clearly electronically warped, with the pitch absurdly low and the speed inconsistent.

“Um, hi. I’m calling to whistle-blow about a dangerous secret project funded by… um… Lex Luthor. The address is 133 West Olson Avenue, Siegel-Schuster Scientific Research Park, Metropolis. It’s kept on floor B-4 in room 12. I think it might be a real danger to, uh, Superman and obviously that would be bad. So you should send someone to check it out. Um… as  soon as possible. Bye."

Floor B-4. Room 12. That was where the Gray Son was usually stored at CADMUS. It is a strange coincidence, and Gray does not think about it further.

“And here’s without the audio editing, I think,” Vic says, and he taps again. “Again, let me know if you know the voice.”

The message replays, and Gray knows that voice. It is imperfect - the rhythm is slightly off - but it sounds so similar.

It is a female voice, cool and monotonous, one that he has heard almost every single day of his life.

“Do you know it, Gray?”

Gray nods. 

“It is Doctor Burke.”

Notes:

I am hoping to update twice next month too - hopefully once earlier in the month and once nearer the end. (Gray's long-promised zoo trip IS coming soon, I swear! He's gonna walk in the sun and have so much fun!! Just... uhhh... apparently I needed to write plot crumbs and Feelings first?)

Chapter 36: Reprieve - Titan's Tower, Blüdhaven

Notes:

The current Titans comic series mentions merch (and had a cute easter egg of a Teen Titans animated show in a couple panels), and also mentions some parts of the Tower being public (presumably some kind of museum area, maybe a gift shop/cafe, possibly some rentable conference rooms?). I figured social media/influencing was a logical next step in ensuring the Titans actually have enough money to maintain the Tower and pay for groceries.

Vic does not say anything. He nods and taps something on his tablet. Then he flips the tablet around to show Gray. It displays a picture of a woman.

The woman is middle-aged, with silver starting to streak through her hair, which has been braided into many tiny intricate strands. She is wearing a bright purple blouse. She has round, brown eyes that crinkle at the edges. She has no uniquely identifying features such as moles, scars or unusual piercings: while she is wearing sparkly earrings, up to 90% of women in the USA are estimated to also have pierced earlobes. It is not possible to tell her approximate height or build from this photo alone, but she appears to be of an average weight. She is African-American. She is very, very familiar.

“Is this Doctor Burke?” Vic asks, and Gray realises that the woman is. She is smiling, and he has never seen Doctor Burke wear this facial expression before. 

Gray nods. His stomach feels strange and unpleasant again. His forehead feels tight. 

“Is Doctor Burke okay?” he asks. 

“As far as I know, she’s fine,” Vic says. “Is there a reason you think she might not be?”

“Whistleblowing is a very bad crime,” Gray explains. “It is even more bad than knowing too many secrets or attempting to undermine the influence of the Court.”

“The court…?” Vic tilts his head. “You mean like a court of law or you mean like the Court of Owls?”

“The Court of Owls.”

“What makes you think Burke was whistleblowing about the Court of Owls?”

“I don’t,” Gray says. “I am not allowed to think.”

But, a very small part of Gray’s mind points out, he was not allowed to fall asleep or pretend to be a person or think about questioning Richard or fail the Titan’s tests or want anything or like anything at all either. He has done all of these things and… it was okay. He was rewarded, even. Rewarded with warmth and praise and spicy food and hot berry tea and sitting next to Koriand’r and being relocated to a safe and soft bed. 

Maybe thinking about Doctor Burke and her strange message is also okay and could also result in reward.

“Okay,” Vic says. “And, uh, hypothetically speaking, if Doctor Burke were whistleblowing something the Court of Owls did, what would happen?”

“She would be assassinated,” Gray says. “A Talon would be dispatched to either directly kill her or to take her to the Labyrinth to be tried and then forgotten in its depths.” Gray pauses. “Although the Labyrinth is no longer accessible by Court members because Batman and other enemies of the Court are aware of its location.”

Vic frowns. 

“Batman is an enemy of the Court?”

“Yes. No. It is complex. The Court gave me to him.”

“Okay,” Vic says, and then he sighs. “I think I get what Dick meant.” 

Vic is silent for a moment, rubbing his eyes, and then he speaks. 

“There’s a lot of stuff I can’t explain to you right now,” he says. “There’s a lot going on, more than what you see at your home in Gotham or here at Titan’s Tower. It’s all pretty complicated and the information I can give you right now is very, very limited. I’m sorry about that. What I can tell you is that your dad - Bruce - cares about you a lot. So does Dick. And while I don’t really like your dad, I do respect him and I think that both he and Dick are trying their best to help you. You have a lot of friends, Graham. A lot of people advocating for you, people who care about you. Don’t forget that.”

Gray does not know what to say. This does not seem related to Doctor Burke in any way.

Gray does not say anything, and Vic continues.

“You don’t need to worry about Doctor Burke,” he says. “I promise you that the most powerful people on the planet are looking out for her.”

Gray nods, and his body relaxes inside his blanket cocoon. He had not even noticed that his limbs were tense. 

‘Looking out for’ has a similar meaning to ‘watching with care’ and ‘preparing to protect’. It is good that the Court of Owls are looking out for Doctor Burke. Maybe she was whistleblowing about one of their enemies instead, and maybe that was how they came to use the laboratory.

That makes sense. Everything makes sense.

Vic is quiet for a short time - approximately a minute and a half - and Gray watches the city.

It is so alive and bright, even though there are not many people on the streets. In the area close to Titan’s Tower, Gray can mainly see industrial and port buildings, although there are also a lot of construction sites and half-built skyscrapers. The sea is difficult to see but there are lights from boats and buoys and the bridges stretching between the different islands and stretch of coastline that make up the city. 

Blüdhaven is beautiful.

“Let me know when you feel cold, and we’ll go back in,” Vic says. 

Gray’s feet and face are already cold, and have been for several minutes. But it is pleasant out here, with the gentle wind tickling his exposed skin and the saline smell of the air and the soft whooshing sounds of the sea and the little traffic there is. Even though he cannot see the plants surrounding them very well, the green he can see is nice and the leaves make quiet rustling noises.

“Are you cold?” Gray asks.

“No,” Vic replies, with a smile. “It’s cool out here, but I feel okay. Maybe in another month or so I’ll start feeling cold this time of night.” 

They sit out on the verandah for three minutes, then four, then five. When the coldness creeps too far down Gray’s throat, up through his knees, he tells Vic and Vic leads them back into the guest room.

The warmth of the guest room is briefly uncomfortable on Gray’s skin, but it is good. Vic stands near the armchair near Gray’s bed, tablet still in hand, while Gray shuffles to the bed and carefully places the stuffed cat on the pillow.

“Dick said you don’t really sleep. What do you usually do at night?” 

“Bruce instructed me to read books,” Gray answers, smoothing the duvet back over the mattress. “He wanted me to obtain information about the world that might have been missed during training. The most recent book I read was Pride and Prejudice.” 

Vic’s eyebrows rise. 

“That’s a choice,” he says. 

“Jason instructed me to read it,” Gray explains, and he thinks about Jason’s words. “Because it is about England and learning about England will make Alfred happy and it contains vital information about classism and it is disguised as a romance novel.”

“You like romance novels?” 

“N—“ Gray begins, and then he changes his answer because Vic is good and safe and nice and kind and good and it is okay not to have an acceptable answer here at Titan’s Tower. “I don’t know. I don’t understand it. The characters behave irrationally in the pursuit of marriage.” 

“Huh,” Vic says. “I guess they do. Did you bring a book to read tonight?” 

Gray’s stomach feels bad. He forgot to pack this. But Richard did not remind him when they were packing, so it could not be that important. And every other instance of forgetting or behaving badly has been okay so far, so maybe this will be okay, too.

“I forgot,” Gray admits. “Koriand’r said that she often watches TV to learn about human culture. Should I watch TV instead?” 

“You could do,” Vic answers. “But I feel like you probably had enough screen time for the day - it isn’t good to watch too much TV  or film. You need to do activities that make you think. How about playing a game?”

“What kind of game?” 

It would be bad if the game were Tetris or Tim’s lying game. But if it were Uno or a jigsaw puzzle or a similar game, it might be good.

“What games have you played so far?”

“I have played a the bad lying game and jigsaw puzzles and Uno,” Gray says. “I have also played electronic versions of solitaire, sudoku and chess.”

“Cheat is just about the only card game I know well enough to teach… I don’t think we’ve got jigsaws or Uno packs here,” Vic murmurs. “Solitaire and sudoku are usually single-player. I have a chess set in my room, though. Should we play that together?”

Gray nods. 

---

Playing chess with Vic is interesting and fun and challenging. Vic is very good at chess, much better than Gray is. But he plays strangely. He talks a lot and asks many questions. 

“I think I’m gonna move my rook over here,” Vic says, hovering the rook over a free space. “See, if I moved it here-“ Vic moves the rook over another space “-then you’d be able to take it with this pawn here, or with that bishop, and I don’t want that. No, I wanna keep my rook. I’m gonna put it here.” 

When Gray makes his move, to push a pawn forward, Vic speaks up. 

“Over there? That’s cool. What do you think I might do next if you did that?”

“You might capture this and this.”

“Yeah, I probably will,” Vic agrees. “And if you lose those pieces, will it be easier or harder to put me in check?”

Gray mentally revisits the rules of the game.

“It will be harder,” he answers. “Uh… then I will move the… I will move this piece.”

“The knight?” Vic asks. “Good choice.”

“I… I will move it here,” Gray says. 

“Why there?”

“I can move it here, or here, or here. But if I put it next to the bishop you can capture it easily and if I put it next to the queen then you can capture it easily, but if I put it here then maybe next turn I can capture your queen.”

“Good thinking,” Vic says. “And what do you think I might do after that?”

It is difficult to reason at first, but Vic is encouraging and nice and it becomes easier to think about what Vic will do and what the consequences of each move might be. After a while, Gray begins asking questions, too. 

“Why are you putting the bishop there?” 

Vic’s facial expression changes minutely, but his voice is still nice and he answers the question.

“Because I think it will help me win,” he says. “See, I could capture these pawns here. If I moved this rook instead, you could capture it here and here.”

“Okay,” Gray says, because it makes sense and it makes his next moves clearer.

Even though Vic wins all three games they play, the game is good and they should play it again very soon. 

“Sure we can,” Vic says, smiling as he drops the chess pieces into the proper places in the game box. “But you’re a tough opponent - my brain feels like jello. Wanna go to the kitchen? Rach is there and she makes the best hot chocolate. Plus, I think the sun’s about to rise, and the view from the living room is really something. The roof garden is better, but it’s still pretty cold out.”

Hot chocolate is a warm beverage made with milk and cacao derivative, which sounds good. Miss Raven is nice. Sunrises are beautiful. 

Going to the kitchen will be good. 

---

Miss Raven is already in the kitchen when they arrive, and she looks pleased when she sees them. 

“Hey, Rach,” Vic says. “How’d you sleep?”

“Very well,” Miss Raven says, inclining her head. “And you, Graham?”

Gray does not know what to say. He wasn’t supposed to fall unconscious. But the Titans were kind to him while he was unconscious.

“Do you feel good?” Miss Raven prompts. 

“Yeah, I feel good,” Gray agrees. 

“We came to hang out and watch the sunset,” Vic explains. “I might’ve told him about your amazing hot chocolate, too.” 

“Have you ever had hot chocolate before?” Miss Raven asks, and Gray shakes his head. “Then I will ensure that your first experience is a good one. Will you have some too, Vic?”

“Sure, that would be great.”

Gray sits at the kitchen table and watches Miss Raven prepare the drink. 

She pours oat milk into a saucepan, turning on the stove, then adds several spoonfuls of different ingredients. She adds a lot of cocoa powder, and he does not see the other names of the ingredients. Then she whisks the contents of the saucepan until the pan is steaming and carefully uses a ladle to dispense the hot chocolate into cups: a lidded cup for Gray and a large, unlidded mug for Vic and herself. Then she adds small colourful pieces to each mug.

“We are out of cream, but we do have marshmallows,” Miss Raven explains, as she places each mug on the kitchen table.

“It smells amazing,” Vic says. He blows on his mug, then takes a tentative sip. “Thanks, Rach.”

Gray copies Vic, blowing on the lid of his cup and then sipping. 

Hot chocolate is very, very hot. It is also very, very— it is good, but good is not enough to describe it. It is sweet and creamy and complex and— and delicious and ambrosian and tasty. Miss Raven smiles when he says this. 

“Thank you,” she says. “Give the marshmallows about a minute to melt, and it will be even more tasty.”

Miss Raven is correct. The marshmallow texture is strange and almost overwhelming in their sweetness but so good. 

Gray drinks his hot chocolate quickly until there is no more marshmallow and he realises that he may not drink hot chocolate again for some time and so he should savour the taste, and he tries very hard to sip the remaining two-thirds of his cup slowly, concentrating very hard on the taste.

Lactose and cocoa powder and sweetener, some form of C₁₂H₂₂O₁₁. There are other flavourings, too. Seed of Vanilla planifolia, bark of Cinnamomum verum. 

“I also added a little nutmeg and allspice,” Miss Raven says. “I am very happy that you are enjoying hot chocolate so much. I will make sure we have whip cream next time you visit.”

“Dick said it might be a good idea for you to stay the weekend once a month,” Vic says. “Would that be good?”

Gray nods rapidly. Yes, yes that would be very good.

“All right, we’ll figure something out with your dad,” Vic says, and he turns his head to look at the window behind him. He makes a positive noise. “Hey, would you look at that? Gets me every time.”

Outside the window, the sun is rising over the sea. It feels different than watching the sunrise at Bruce’s home, because at Bruce’s home he can see the whole city but here there is just the interior of the room and then the verandah and then the sea stretching so far it might as well be infinite, the colour of the sky changing and brightening at the horizon as a tiny sliver of sun comes into view.

The stuffed cat should see this, Gray thinks. 

“It is all right. She has seen many sunrises in her time,” Miss Raven says, so Gray continues to sit in his chair and admire the view. 

It is beautiful. 

---

After the sun rises, Miss Raven mentions eating breakfast, so Gray goes back to the guest room to complete his morning preparation routine and dress in new clothes - the soft clothes Richard helped him pack yesterday. Richard was correct, this outfit is much more pleasant and soft than previous clothes had been.

 When Gray returns to the kitchen, it is almost seven thirty and Koriand’r is there. There is a glass of water and a bowl in front of Koriand’r. She smiles prettily when she sees Gray.

“I am glad to see you are well, Graham. It is clear that the rest was good for you.”

“Yes,” Gray manages, and he examines the pattern of the wooden kitchen table as Miss Raven and Koriand’r discuss decorating the rooftop garden upstairs.

Donna and Richard enter after a few minutes. Both have damp hair, and Richard’s breathing is slightly heavier than normal. 

“Good spar?” Vic asks, as Richard switches a device - a coffee maker - on. 

“I know you saw the footage,” Richard says, raising one eyebrow.

“Yeah, Donna kicked your ass,” Vic replies. 

“And I’ll do it again!” Donna laughs. She smiles and warmly greets Gray, offering him tea. As she sets a new lidded cup before him, Gar shuffles into the kitchen, embracing Miss Raven and kissing her briefly before making his way to the fridge.

“Are we eating chilli again?” Gray asks, hopefully. 

“Oh man, you liked that, didn’t you?” Gar yawns. He looks inside the fridge. “Uh… sorry, man. No leftovers.”

Richard stands near Gar, also peering into the fridge. 

“Uh… oh, wait, I know what we can eat,” Richard reaches into the fridge, pulling out several ingredients. “Shakshuka. It’s one of Damian’s favourites. If you liked the chilli, you’ll enjoy this - I can put in a little extra spice for you, Gray. Wanna help me?”

Gray nods. Helping Richard is good. 

Richard begins to prepare fresh ingredients, and instructs Gray to look in the cupboards and find some specific ingredients. Olive oil, canned tomatoes, paprika, cumin, salt, chilli powder, caraway seeds, cayenne pepper, and black pepper. 

“The foods have a really different texture and taste when they’re fresh versus when they’re cooked,” Richard explains, taking a sip from a cup of coffee. “Here, try a little onion. It’s spicy, right?”

Gray nods. The flavour is very strong and burns the inside of his mouth pleasantly. Richard seems to be putting a lot of onion in the pan. Too much. 

“When it’s cooked, the flavour is totally different. It’s very mellow and sweet, and you can barely taste it - but you know when it’s missing.”

Richard lets Gray try raw red and yellow pepper, which are sweet, and a small piece of peperoncino, which is pleasantly warm. He instructs Gray to sprinkle in specific amounts of each spice while he stirs the pan, praising him readily. 

“Man, you’re so good at this,” Richard says. “You have a great eye for detail - that’s exactly what you need when you cook.”

Gray continues to assist Richard throughout the cooking process, and Richard continues to give good instructions and praise. Richard even shows Gray how to carefully open an egg into a cup using the rim, and how to pour the egg into the red sauce in the pan. 

When all the eggs are cracked into the pan, Richard places a lid on it. He directs Gray to place slices of bread into a device - a toaster - and to push the lever down. In the meantime, Richard looks through a different cupboard and begins fetching eating utensils.

“You guys want a smoothie?” Gar asks, through a mouthful of — Gray peers into the bowl he is holding — an unidentified cereal. “I’m making.”

“That would be awesome,” Richard says, and he gestures at the items near Gar on the counter. “Those the ingredients you’re using?”

“Sure are,” Gar says. “What about you, Graham?”

The ingredients include frozen berries of unidentified types, ice, fresh apples of various cultivations and Cavendish banana. 

“No,” Gray says.

“Oh?” Gar looks at something behind Gray. Richard, perhaps. “Any particular reason?”

“I—“ Gray begins. He hesitates. He is allowed to want and like things, but that might not extend to disliking things. “Um.”

Gray forces his hands to unclench, his shoulders to relax. Everything is fine. There is no reason for his body to feel tense. The Titans are kind, and so is Richard.

Gray glances at Richard, who is looking at his cellphone and not paying attention. But even if Richard were paying attention, everything would still be fine. He told Gray when they arrived that if Gray was bad, there would be no punishment, and there has not been. He said that they would just talk to Gray about the bad things he did, and so far everybody had told Gray that the bad things are not actually bad or against the rules. 

So maybe… 

“I don’t like ice,” Gray says, and his voice cracks a little on the final word. 

“Oh, I see,” Gar says, instead of shouting. His facial expression is not negative. “So if I didn’t put in the ice, you might be interested?”

“No. The berries are frozen,” Gray clarifies. “Frozen things are bad.”

“What a completely normal thing to say,” Gar mutters. “Uh… I guess apple and banana isn’t the most exciting smoothie ever. Next time you come over, I’ll make sure we have some different fruit, and then you can try a non-icy smoothie.”

The toast pops out of the toaster, and Gray cannot stop his body jerking in response. 

“Oh man, that got me too,” Richard says. “Hey, how about you sit down and I’ll plate up?”

Gray nods and slides into the seat he had previously occupied. 

“The shakshuka smells very good,” Donna comments. “Nice work."

Gray nods. It seems that he was correct about the liking and disliking. There really is no punishment. And maybe, if he is really lucky, maybe Richard will not tell Bruce about his bad behaviour later.

“I don’t like frozen things either,” Vic leans in, whispering with a raised eyebrow. “Too much cold messes with my body.”

After that, the Titans talk generally about small and inconsequential matters. Koriand’r and Donna discuss creating social media posts showcasing what they describe as ‘PR packages’, while Vic and Gar talk about a sports game that was on television last night. There is a loud noise as Gar creates several smoothies, giving some to the other Titans. Richard places a plate of toast on the table, then gives Gray a plate with a piece of toast and some of the shakshuka ladled on top. The egg is no longer translucent and runny but white and solid. There is green stuff on top.

“Let me know if you like it,” Richard says. 

Gray nods and takes a mouthful.

He does. He likes it so much. 

The flavour is not as hot as the chilli last night, but it is complex, and he can taste each of the spices he helped sprinkle into the sauce. The green has its own flavour and smell, too, something bright and— and verdure. The texture of the egg is very different to the sauce and the toast and the flavours all mingle and it is so much and it is so good. 

“Good?” Richard asks, with a smile. 

Gray nods. He eats his toast and then another toast with more sauce, and Richard shakes his head when Gray asks for more. 

“It’s great that you’re enjoying the food,” he says. “But I want you to take a moment to think about how your stomach feels. Do you feel hunger?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“Do you feel like your stomach could be full?”

Gray considers this. He doesn’t feel quite the same as he did last night after eating the chilli, but he does feel like it will be difficult to eat more. When he tries to explain this to Richard, he nods. 

“Okay,” Richard says. “I think that probably means you’re just over the point of satiety. When we eat, we shouldn’t still be hungry afterward, and we shouldn’t be so full that it’s uncomfortable. If you’re not uncomfortable yet and you’re not hungry either, then this is a good time to stop eating. We can eat again at lunch time or at dinner, whenever you start to feel hungry again. Understand?”

“I understand,” Gray says. 

“Good to hear,” Richard says. “Now, about the zoo trip…” 

---

At half past eight in the morning, Gray and Richard go to the parking lot underneath Titan’s Tower. Not the public one, but the private one that is connected to many different tunnels under the city. They are going to meet the others at the zoo at nine o’clock. ‘The others’ includes Koriand’r, Gar, Miss Raven, Wally, another Titan, and an unidentified number of children. Richard and Gray travelling separately is because of Richard and Gray’s cover stories which seem needlessly convoluted.

“Any questions?” Richard asks, after finishing his explanation.

Gray considers this as they step out of the elevator.

“Why do you and Koriand’r live separately if you are married?” 

“No, we—“ Richard sighs, leading Gray toward a thoroughly nondescript car - a silver sedan which is several years old. “Look, I’ll explain it all again to you later. Kori and I were engaged, we didn’t actually get married. There’s a whole story behind that. Do you have any questions about today?”

There is only one question Gray can think of. The cover story is convoluted in order to protect Richard and Gray’s cover identities. But both Nightwing and Richard Grayson are known associates of the Titans. 

“Are the Titans upstairs or downstairs?” he asks. He needs to know whether he can discuss the Titans with people he did not meet in the Cave, or if Titan’s Tower is somehow like the Cave. 

“Upstairs or—? Oh, I see,” Richard mutters. He opens the driver’s door and climbs into the car. Gray follows suit with the passenger side, stuffing the toy cat under his arm for a moment. “Okay, Bruce’s paradigm doesn’t really work in this context. Just think about the cover story: you’re a huge fan of the Titans and you’re always excited to see them in newspapers and stuff, and your brother - me - is good friends with them since he used to date Starfire so you know a few more facts than the average person. Like… I dunno… Donna Troy loves watching trashy daytime TV shows and Beast Boy leaves his socks everywhere. Understand?”

“Yes.” 

“Any other questions?”

Gray thinks about this as he buckles his seatbelt, which is required by law in the state of New Jersey, and remembers the question he forgot to ask yesterday.

“Calvin Rose sent me a text message yesterday and told me that he was escaping and not to tell Bruce but I did not see the message until a long time after he left and I was going to ask you what to do about it because lying to Bruce is bad but I forgot. What should I do?”

Richard sighs and switches the engine on.

“Bruce knows about Calvin leaving. I think his text message was a joke, and he was just being friendly. Not seeing a message or forgetting to pass on a message isn’t the same as lying, you’re totally fine. Any questions about today, specifically?” 

“No.”

“Okay,” Richard says. He presses a button and the car radio begins to play music, and Richard begins to manoeuvre the car out of the parking space. “In that case, sit back and enjoy the ride.”

Gray does.

Notes:

They are finally (basically) at the zoo! Adorable animals and a fun day out coming up next time!

EDIT: A reader asked whether Gray had a stuffie with him in the final scene - he does, I just forgot to write it in. I've edited the scene to make it a bit more clear, the nameless cat stuffie is with him and Richard, and it will enjoy the zoo too.

Chapter 37: Together - Blüdhaven Zoo, Sommerset County

Notes:

Sorry for the late update - real life has been very busy. There is at least one more chapter of the zoo trip left, possibly two more chapters. It's getting pretty long, so I decided to split it up so you could read it sooner.

Also, you may have noticed that I have renamed the chapters; this is because I couldn't find scenes I wanted to refer back to with the old numbering system. I hope it is helpful to you as well.

Also also, a reader pointed out that in the last chapter it was unclear whether Gray had his Emotional Support Stuffie, so I have gone back to make that more clear. Yes, he has the kitty

All in all, riding through Blüdhaven in the daylight with Richard is very different from riding through Gotham at night with Jason.

It takes approximately forty seconds for Richard to navigate through the parking lot to the maintenance tunnels that connect to Blüdhaven’s road system. Donna Lewis plays on the radio, whispering with a rhythmic beat. Gray carefully covers the stuffed cat’s eyes and closes his own a moment as the car exits the tunnel and enters the open air and brightening morning light. 

The sun makes everything look so unlike it did at night. None of the words in Gray’s vast lexicon seem quite right to describe the— the space of it all. The open-ness and the vastness and the everything-ness of Blüdhaven’s docks. The city is so bright and so open, the potholed roads lined with grafittied buildings and cordoned-off construction sites and rusted streetlights and boarded-up storefronts and it is all so much and so unique.

“It’s amazing, right?” Richard says. “Every day, Blüdhaven gets a little brighter. This whole area used to be broken-down factories and docks that were too run-down to use. And right where Titan’s Tower is? That used to be the site of a prison. There’s a whole story behind that.”

Gray waits, quietly scuffing his feet against the material in the passenger footrest. It feels soft through the rubber soles of his sneakers, but when he reaches down to surreptitiously touch the material, it is not soft at all. Richard does not tell him the story, although he does glance at Gray briefly when he thuds back against the comfy, covered foam of the passenger seat. It makes a fun noise, and he does it again. 

“I know, it’s not the most comfortable car in the world,” Richard says. “Sorry. We’ll be there soon. You want the windows open or anything? There’s a button near the door handle. Tip it forward to open the window and backward to close it.”

Gray has no strong feelings about the window being open or closed, but he presses the button forward anyway, and suddenly wind fills the car, ruffling Gray’s short hair and tickling his face. It’s the same feeling as when he rode on Jason’s motorbike, but a little less, and since his head is not protected by a helmet the wind loudly gets inside his ears too. 

The window goes all the way down until there is no glass left, and pressing the button so it tilts back makes the glass go the other way until the entire pane is there and Donna Lewis returns and Gray puts the window down again, then up a little more, and down again after that, trying to find the correct amount of glass where he can feel the wind but he can hear the song.

Richard laughs quietly but again there is no punishment. Out of the corner of Gray’s eye, he can see Richard’s mouth drawn into a smile, so he glances over.

“I did the same thing the first time I rode in Bruce’s car,” Richard says. “And back in those days, it was one of those wind-up levers instead of a button. I broke the lever within about fifteen minutes. Alfred was furious at me, but he was so British about it.”

Gray pauses, lifting his finger from the button. It is strange and bad that Richard broke the lever when it did not do anything wrong. Maybe Alfred taught Richard the importance of keeping good objects safe and in good working order, although Gray’s cultural notes on Britain do not contain any information that would suggest that British people do this in a way that is different from Americans. 

The car whizzes over a bridge, and the sea sparkles behind greyish supports which flash past behind Richard. The wind in the car is gentler now that only a quarter of the window is missing.

They do not talk for a few moments, during which Donna Lewis fades away and a tinny voice introduces Alanis Morissette, and the buildings surrounding the roads slowly segue from industrial to residential. 

“Have you decided where to go first?” Richard asks.

“No,” Gray says. He had not paid much attention to the pamphlets yesterday because he was so focused on being warm and talking with Wally and Vic and Richard when they were doing the tests. He modifies his answer slightly, to reduce the risk of Richard breaking him like the window lever many years ago. “I forgot what the leaflets said. Maybe because I read it before the seizure.”

“Oh,” Richard says, and then he pauses. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. We’ll decide when we’re at the zoo, then. But if you think it would be good to think about it more now, there are some pamphlets in the glovebox.”

Gray is not sure what to do. The city of Blüdhaven is so interesting and nice to look at, but he cannot look at the city and also read the pamphlets at the same time.

“Or you can keep on looking out of the window,” Richard adds, as though reading his mind. He has managed to guess many of Gray’s thoughts already - the Court files didn’t mention telepathy, but Gray makes a mental note to add it as a possibility to Richard’s file the next time it needs updating. “I mean, Roy probably has a maximally-efficient list worked out for us already. He’s another Titan, by the way. He’s going to be at the zoo, too.”

Roy likely refers to Roy Harper, who is the civilian identity of Arsenal, previously known as Red Arrow and Speedy. He is an honorary member of the Navajo nation, having grown up on the Four Corners reservation under the care of a Navajo family. He has been associated with the Titans, Green Arrow, Cheshire and Red Hood at various points. 

Known weaknesses include normal human physiology, past substance dependency, and a young daughter. Known strengths include marksmanship and engineering skills. Recommended combat strategies include staying out of sight and causing a distraction to aid escape; sabotage of equipment is likely to be impossible at close range.

Gray stares out of the passenger window: there are many people now that they are in the centre of the city. He can see many different clothes and hairstyles flowing past the windows as the car moves through the traffic. The air in the car smells like salt and exhaust fumes. Richard drives according to the traffic laws of New Jersey, which Jason did not do. 

Finally, after many minutes of waiting and looking at the city, Richard speaks.

“The zoo should be coming up after the next left.”

Richard is correct. The next left turning takes the car up a winding hill, and there is a sign reading BLÜDHAVEN ZOO WELCOMES YOU. There is only one other car in the public lot, and when they pass through the entrance, a zoo employee quickly blocks it off with cones and a sign facing the road. Then Richard parks in the lot and instructs Gray to close the window again. 

“Before we head on in, there’s something you need to wear,” Richard says. “I think that Bruce might also ask you to wear it whenever you’re outside of the Manor or Tower in your civilian identity. Now, the card lists a couple of medical conditions, but it’s just a draft at this point. We’ll talk and decide on a finalised version after you meet the doc— after you meet some friends. Bruce has a friend who is very good at medicine and helps him feel better when he gets injured. Oracle has a friend who is a really smart psychiatrist and knows what it’s like to be ab— to be treated not very nicely.”

It is strange that Richard specifies Oracle’s friend knows what it is like to be treated not very nicely, because everybody Gray has ever met has been so very nice to him. Perhaps this is a hint to be extra nice to Oracle’s friend. He files the hint away in his head, for recall when he does meet them.

Richard holds out a brightly coloured strip. It is a green lanyard and there is a small plastic wallet attached to it. There is a small white card inside the wallet.

IN CASE OF A SEIZURE, the card reads, and it directs the reader to follow simple directions to not restrain Gray or place items in his mouth, but to move furniture out of the way if possible, place something soft between his head and any hard surfaces, and to time the seizure. DO NOT CALL 911 FOR ME, the card adds. CALL MY MEDICAL CARE PROVIDER INSTEAD, followed by a phone number he does not recognise.

“You’re not in danger of having more seizures,” Richard explains. “Vic fixed your implant, but in case there’s some kind of emergency, I figured we should make sure nobody tries to send you to a regular hospital, since that’ll blow our cover. The phone number goes straight to Oracle - she’ll send someone to assist and extract you. You should call that number if you get hurt.”

The other side of the card contains a list of medical conditions. Gray recognises most of them. 

“Don’t worry about the list,” Richard says. “Like I said, it’s just a draft for the cover story. Okay?”

“Okay,” Gray agrees. In this context, ‘don’t worry about’ can also have the meaning of ‘don’t think about’, and so Gray obediently does just that.

“You won’t be left alone at any point during our visit,” Richard adds. “Someone will always be nearby to help you - either me or another Titan. We’ll make sure everybody is safe and secure at all times, so the only thing you need to do is remember the cover story and try to have fun. Okay?”

“Okay,” Gray echoes. He will try very hard to have fun. And he will remember all of the fun very carefully and relay it to Cassandra so that she knows that he is good and had one or more funs, just as she ordered.

“Great,” Richard says. “Then let’s go meet the others.”

Gray loops the lanyard over his head and opens the door. 

Outside in the day is very different to outside at night, but it is no less overwhelming. Although he could see so much from within the car, he somehow notices even more outside of it: the faint saline breeze in the air somehow makes the space even more open and real than it seemed a few seconds ago.

“You okay?” Richard asks, and Gray nods, trying to drink in the memory of everything he sees and feels at this moment. The smell of motor oil and dirt, the way the sunlight reflects off the metallic paint on the car, the pale clouds drifting across the bright blue sky, the— the sound of faint traffic and rustling tree leaves, the plants peeking over the zoo wall, and there is so much more besides. 

“You enjoy the outdoors for a sec,” Richard says. “I gotta get my bag out of the back, anyway.”

Gray nods, and turns slowly on the spot. The parking lot is large enough for around two hundred cars, and there is a small bay for coaches, a bus stop pole visible on the road between the lot entrance and exit, and a series of spaces that are designated for disabled people. There is a big sign near the lot entrance, and many smaller signs and posters near the zoo entrance. 

There are trash cans and vending machines and benches next to the walls near the entrance. There are faded lines painted onto the lot asphalt, and Gray can see small potholes dipping the surface of the lot, and he can see spikes of grass and blobs of moss poking through the hairline gaps between the asphalt and the paving stones. There is a small line of ants crawling near a cracked paving slab and gulls flying far away and out of the corner of Gray’s eye, he can see one of the arms of Titan’s Tower peeking between half-finished skyscrapers.

The sunlight makes Gray feel warmer, somehow — except, no, that’s not right. It literally makes him warmer, because the places where the sun touches his skin really do feel warmer, and when he turns to face the sun (closing his eyes to prevent dazzling), he finds that this is true. The sun even filters through the skin of his eyelids and he can see brightness and greyish veins even though normally closing his eyes means that he can’t see anything.

After what feels like hours but is actually only about two minutes, according to the clock in Richard’s dashboard, Richard places his hand on Gray’s shoulder.

“Ready to go in?” he asks, and Gray nods. He turns to face the entrance of the zoo and opens his eyes again. Richard has a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder and leads the way.

Richard talks to the woman at the single open entrance booth, whose nametag reads LAURA. She explains that the Titans are due to arrive in about ten minutes’ time, and that the other guests are heading on down to the picnic plaza, where there are a selection of cafes open - although of course Mr Grayson doesn’t need to worry about payment, not after renting the whole zoo out today.

“If we can assist you in any way at all, just let us know,” the woman finishes. 

“Thank you, Laura,” Richard says, smiling at her. It is a different kind of smile than Gray has seen from Richard so far, although he cannot place exactly how. His posture is different and his voice seems different, too, pitched lower and with a slight drawl on the vowels. “Graham has been so excited, he’s a huge fan of the Titans.”

“Aren’t we all?” Laura giggles, and it is a giggle that is not unlike the intern from the laboratory. She had never punished Gray, although he had sometimes been mildly punished after her visits to the lab because Talons are not supposed to draw attention. Laura looks at Gray and smiles. “Which Titan is your favourite? Mine’s Nightwing.”

“Um…” Gray immediately thinks of Starfire, but the other Titans are also just as kind and nice as she is. It seems strange to rank them. “I don’t know.”

“He thinks they’re all so amazing,” Richard adds, still behaving strangely. “And, you know, he’s right - we’re so lucky to have them here in Blüdhaven.” He winks at her. “But between you and me, Nightwing is my favourite, too.”

Laura giggles again, and gives them both paper maps before waving them off and wishing them well. 

Blüdhaven Zoo is not as easy to navigate as the brightly-coloured maps make it appear. There are lots of knee-high fences and strategically-placed bushes and trees and signposts, and the entire park is almost like a maze, except it is outside and there are plants instead of stone and there are no half-starved bad people descending into madness. In fact, there are no people at all, except for a few zoo employees, many of whom smile and wave when they pass. 

Gray mentions this to Richard, who frowns. 

“Remind me never to piss off the Court of Owls,” he mutters, before addressing Gray directly. “Uh, I’m glad this is a more positive kind of maze for you, but remember the cover story, okay? Graham Grayson has never been a Talon, and they probably don’t have a whole lot of underground labyrinths in Florida.”

That means that there must be at least one. Maybe Gray will find it if he ever visits Florida. Maybe it will be warm and humid, like the weather conditions of Florida. He tries to think about what a warm and humid Maze could be like, but can’t quite imagine it. 

The plant-sided path opens up suddenly to reveal a wide open clearing with lots of green grass, where there are brightly-coloured trash cans, more signs, and several wooden picnic benches, some of which are covered by pergolas. There are some small, wooden buildings lining the area, some with hatches and zoo employees present, and some with male and female stick figures drawn next to the doors. Sitting on one of the benches is a man dressed in a red shirt and jeans, and the smallest girl Gray has ever seen. She has dark hair styled in pigtails and appears to be of mixed European and Asian ancestry. The man is the same height as Richard and has red-brown hair and skin that is nearly as pale as Gray’s own and a short beard.

“Hey!” Richard calls, waving as they walk toward the new people. “Long time no see!” 

“Uncle Dick!” the small girl says, running toward Richard. She is smiling and hugs him, and he reaches down to pat her head. 

“Lian!” Richard replies. “How are you doing, kiddo?”

Lian launches into a long-winded explanation of many things Gray has little knowledge about. Summer camp and third grade and moving house and Mommy and birthday parties. Richard seems to understand these things, though, as he listens intently and interjects every so often with phrases like “whoa” and “I see” and “that’s so cool”. The way Richard speaks to Lian is different to the way he has spoken to the Titans and to Bruce Wayne’s family. It is not dissimilar to the way he often addresses Gray, although it seems more exaggeratedly positive.

Eventually, Lian runs out of things to say and looks at Gray.

“Uncle Dick, you have a twin?” Lian asks, her facial expression and tone of voice positive. “We were reading a story about twins last week in school! I don’t know how it ends, though, and I guess since we moved…” 

Lian looks at the man. 

“Daddy, can we go to the library and find the book?” she asks. “Please?”

“Sure, sweetheart. We can head on over this afternoon,” the man says, and he addresses Richard next. “Luckily, Lian’s new school wanted her to start next week. I mean, I’m still not thrilled about losing this week to the move, but…”

“But it’s good to see you too, Roy,” Richard says. He gestures to Gray, then to the man and Lian. “This is the new brother I told you about. Graham, this is Roy Harper and Lian Harper.”

“Hey,” Roy says, nodding at Gray. His arms are crossed. “Jason gave me the 411. Sesame Street, huh?”

“I don’t think he’s actually watched that,” Richard says. “He seemed to like Tween Titans, though. His favourite is Starfire.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Roy asks. Gray does not have an answer for this, so he does not speak. 

“Any questions?” Richard asks.

Gray considers this. Yes, he does.

“What is it?” Richard asks.

“Is Lian a toddler?”

“No, Lian is much older than a toddler,” Richard says, and then he turns to Lian. “You just went up a year in school, didn’t you, young lady?”

“Yeah!” Lian nods. “I used to be in grade two, but now I’m in grade three. I’m eight years old!”

“What, really?” Richard asks, bending slightly to address Lian. “What are you most excited about in grade three?” 

“We get to do more field trips,” Lian says. She smiles even more widely, bouncing up and down. “Just like the zoo!” 

Eight years old is older than a toddler. The child that caused Calvin to defect from the Court of Owls was much younger than Lian. It is hard to imagine, because she is so small and defenceless. 

“I don’t know about you guys, but I am so excited to be here today,” Richard says, although now that Gray studies Richard carefully, he appears to be exaggerating. “Lian, Gray, what animals do you want to see the most?”

“Penguins!” Lian shouts, her facial expression pleased. 

“The petting zoo animals,” Gray says, although he does not care about seeing them because it would be better to pet their furs.

“The petting zoo?” Richard asks. “Which ones? The chickens? Cows? Pigs? Ponies? Rabbits?”

Gray thinks. He thinks about the stuffed animal which has been a constant companion and source of stability since he came to Bruce Wayne’s home.

“Rabbits,” he says. 

It would be better if the stuffed rabbit had been at the lab too, he thinks, before remembering how cold the lab was and actually it is better that the rabbit had stayed in the blanket box in Bruce Wayne’s storage room.

“Interesting,” Richard says, but he does not elaborate.

---

Richard and Roy and Lian talk for a few minutes, sitting on a bench under a pergola. Gray listens to their conversation and thinks about how different the air is here in this clearing compared to in the city and out on the Titan’s verandah and in the Tower and at Bruce Wayne’s house and in Gotham City and in the lab. 

The temperature is cooler here in the shade, and when Gray steps out of the pergola to feel the warmth of the sunlight, Richard makes eye contact and smiles, nodding slightly, which might be construed as permission to continue.

Richard would say if he were doing something wrong, Gray thinks, and gently begins pressing the toes of his boots into the grass near a pergola pillar. The soil is solid, but the grass seems to give it a slight bouncy texture.

Grass is in the shape of spikes, but his shoes do not appear damaged. Is grass soft? Is that the texture he’s feeling through his soles? 

Gray glances at Richard, who is still talking with Roy and Lian, something about books that Gray has not read and movies he has not watched. Richard does not look at him. 

Gray rests one hand on the pergola pillar, which is cool and textured and solid in a way he has never experienced before even though it is wooden and many pieces of furniture in Bruce Wayne’s house are also made of wood. Then he crouches, waiting momentarily for Richard to order him to stop. 

The order does not come, though, and so Gray balances his stuffed cat on one knee and presses his fingers down to the dirt, which is cool and slightly powdery. He drags his fingertips over the green spikes of grass. A shadow passes briefly overhead. 

It is… it is strange. The grass is soft, but it is not soft in the same way that Gray’s bed or clothes or stuffed animals are. The spikes are flexible and have an almost latex-like texture on the surface, although they are solid and not stretchy at all. The spikes are thin but not sharp and the grasses together make a soft feeling under his fingers. 

In some ways, it is much like hair, Gray thinks. Not his own hair, which was shorn by the doctors not long after awakening. He can still remember the cold water and the warm hands and the unpleasant buzzing of the blades. No, it is almost like the hair of people and the stuffed animals and Titus, except bigger and flatter and coming out of the ground. 

Hair and fur can be a distraction in the field: hair follicles are connected to nerve endings, and so can cause pain when pulled. Are the grass spikes also attached to nerves of some kind?

Gray pauses. It would be bad to cause pain to the grass. 

He withdraws his hand, which is now coated in a light layer of dust. He pushes the stuffed cat under one arm, careful not to accidentally wipe dirt on it. He goes back to the bench with Richard, who rummages inside his duffel bag. Gray can see some of the items inside, including bundles of fabric, a box approximately thirteen inches diagonally which is embossed with Nightwing’s logo, several brightly-coloured juice boxes, a roll of bright yellow plastic bags, and several packets with words like APPLE FRUIT SNACK and MUSCLE PAIN RELIEF PATCH printed on them. 

“Here,” Richard says, opening a plastic packet labelled HAPPY BABY CLEANSING WIPES. He offers a wipe to Gray. “You should clean your hands, since you just touched the ground. You can put the this in the trash can over there when you’re done.”

Gray obeys. The dirt that comes off of his fingers is a strange, ashy kind of brown. The wipe has fulfilled its task, and is carefully placed in the bright yellow trash can Richard pointed out. It does not seem like a good reward to Gray, and Richard frowns when Gray attempts to explain this to him. 

“That’s not really the point of trash cans,” he says.

“What is the point?” Gray asks. 

Richard’s facial expression changes. 

“Uh… okay, there’s a lot to unpack here,” he mutters. But he does not unpack anything more from the duffel bag or explain trash cans, in part because that is when the remaining Titans arrive. 

“Auntie Kori!” Lian yells, sprinting across the grass. 

When Gray looks in that direction, he does indeed see Koriand’r approach. She is accompanied by a zoo staff member, as well as Gar and Miss Raven and Wally and a woman Gray does not immediately recognise, who is pushing a stroller with a bassinet. All of the Titans are wearing civilian clothes, as none of them have a private, hidden identity like Richard and Roy do.

“Roy’s cover story involves being an engineer who worked with Koriand’r for a time,” Richard whispers, even though Gray does not need to know this information. “So it makes sense for Lian to know the Titans.”

Gray watches Koriand’r lean down to pick Lian up, twirling in place briefly as they greet one another before Koriand’r sets Lian down and  holds her hand as they approach the picnic bench. 

“Hello Richard,” Koriand’r says. Her long and curly hair has been styled into twin braids, and she wears a green sundress which is the same green as her eyes. Her skin seems to shimmer in the sunlight, and Gray tries very hard to encode the sight of her in his long-term memory. “And this must be Graham.”

“Hey, Kori,” Richard says, as thought they did not eat breakfast at the same table this morning. “Say hi, Graham.”

“Hi, Graham,” Gray obediently echoes. Koriand’r laughs, and her laugh is so beautiful and nice and happy and not forboding, just like Koriand’r herself. 

“I have heard so many good things about you,” she says, and she pauses as though expecting a response.

“Yes,” Gray says. 

“Would you like a tour of the zoo?” the staff member asks Richard. 

“Oh, it’s very kind of you to offer, but we’d prefer to make our own way around,” Richard replies. He leans toward the staff member, speaking more quietly. “My brother can become very anxious very easily.”

“I totally get it, my cousin has special needs, too,” the zoo staff member says, and he takes a paper map from his pocket. “If you need a place for your brother to unwind, there are two dedicated quiet spaces here and here. The disabled restrooms are here, here, and here. If you need anything at all, we have staff members at all of the exhibits today and we’ve all got radios. There are also emergency phones here and here, all the places marked with this sign.” 

“Thank you so much,” Richard smiles at the zoo staff member. “I really appreciate you all arranging this at such minute for us.”

“No problem at all, sir,” the staff member says. “Thank you for your donation - this is the least we could do in return.”

"Would you like some pictures with us before you go?" Koriand'r asks the staff member. "You have been so very helpful and welcoming."

"For real?" he asks, with a positive facial expression. "Sure, let me get my phone..."

Someone taps Gray’s shoulder.

It is Wally, who is accompanied by the unknown woman. She is has dark hair and eyes and, like Lian, appears to be of mixed European and Asian ancestry. She is holding an extremely small child in her arms: it is so small that Gray cannot quantify it at first. It has short, dark hair on its head and she is supporting its head with one hand. It is looking around, moving tiny, stubby fabric-coated arms aimlessly, and Gray can read its expression even less than he can normal humans.

“Hey, nice to see you today,” Wally says. “I just wanted to introduce you to some people who are super important to me. This is my wife, Linda, and my youngest son, Wade.”

Linda Park-West. Gray has information about her in his files. She is a television journalist based in Central City, although she has not been on air during the last few months due to her maternity leave. 

“He’s about six months old,” Linda says. “Say hi, Wade.”

Wade makes a strange gurgling sound instead of speaking, and wiggles a little in Linda’s arms. This is clearly incorrect, but both Wally and Linda look pleased. 

Gray is unsure of the response expected of him. His training did not cover what to do when someone else does the wrong thing.

“How about greeting Linda and Wade?” Wally suggests. “You picked a really cool name for yourself, maybe you should tell them.”

“My name is Graham Grant Grayson,” Gray says. 

“Nice to meet you, Graham,” Linda says. “Wally told me all about you. Have you been having a good time at Titan’s Tower?”

“Yes,” Gray says. Linda seems to expect more of a response, so he asks a question. “Is Wade a toddler?”

Linda blinks, and Wally puts his hand on her shoulder and laughs. 

“Not yet, thank God,” he says. "Speedsters are a menace no matter their age."

“But he’s starting to crawl already, so it won’t be long,” Linda adds, and then she sighs. “Maybe another four or five months. ”

Gray files away this information. Wade is younger than a toddler but is close to that developmental stage. He is even more small than Lian and is unable to follow even simple instructions such as greetings. 

Was that why Calvin defected? Because the toddler did not have the capacity to learn to follow the Court of Owls?

Gray does not have time to ponder this further, because Wally speaks again. 

“I have a really special task for you, Gray,” he says. “See, little Wade here is just a bit too small to get up and close with all of the animals today, plus little babies don’t have very good eyesight. You’re really good at noticing small details, so I’d like you to really, really concentrate when you’re petting the animals and looking at them, and I want you to describe what you notice to Wade so he can enjoy the zoo, too. Linda and I are going to help you, of course. Understand?"

Gray nods. These are very clear instructions.

“I understand,” he says. “I will do a very good job.”

“I know you will,” Wally replies, with a smile.

Chapter 38: Goodness - Blüdhaven Zoo, Sommerset County

Notes:

Real life was very busy this month, so this is a slightly shorter chapter than I had planned - sorry! I anticipate one more petting zoo/Titans chapter before the plot resumes.

The petting zoo is good. 

No, that is not right. It is better than good, but Gray cannot choose the correct word: in English alone he can identify more than twenty words that might be contextually appropriate to describe how extremely good the petting zoo is. It is nice and it is marvellous and it is lovely and it is splendid and it is so much more.

The petting zoo is located in a clearing which is slightly larger than the picnic area clearing, although it is hard to gauge because of the vastly different layout. The petting zoo consists of a series of pens, which each contain a different type of animal and a sleeping shelter for the animals. The pens are all much larger than needed to store such a small number of animals, and each contains an environment created with different layouts and materials, depending on the animals who live there: the ducks live in a pen with a wide pond and a landscaped grassy hill, while the goats have flat land with patches of grass and a number of objects to walk on. 

Wally offers to help Wade look after the stuffed cat while Gray meets the animals. After giving the stuffed cat to Wally and washing his hands as directed at the entrance, Gray pauses, unsure of where he is supposed to go first. Richard gently lays a hand on his shoulder and steers him toward the nearest pen, which contains a number of Equus ferus caballus.

“Do you know what animal this is?” Richard asks, gesturing to one of the horses. It is smaller than Gray had thought horses might be from Pride and Prejudice, but perhaps the characters were all just very short too.

“A horse,” Gray answers.

“Right, well done,” Richard praises. “This is a special kind of horse - it’s a Shetland pony. Do you know anything about horses?”

“They were commonly used in transport in Regency-era England,” Gray answers. Jason had been right: even though it was not a factual book, his book had been informative. He should ask Jason for more books to learn from.

Richard blinks. 

“Uh… yeah, I guess they were,” he says. “Book club really paid off, huh? Wait until I get you started on Shakespeare…” 

Behind Richard, Lian appears. She climbs onto the bottom rail of the fence and reaches out over the top to pet one of the ponies. She laughs, even though the pony has not done anything poorly that Gray can see, and talks to the pony. 

“Wow, you’re so pretty!”

“You want to pet this one, too?” Richard asks, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder.

“No,” Gray says. 

His animal handling training covered attacks by target’s exotic pets, such as snakes and tigers, not ponies. If he behaves incorrectly then the pony might run away, and then neither Gray nor Lian will be able to touch it, and he does not know what the consequences of upsetting Lian might be. It would be nice if the consequences were the same as upsetting a Titan - that is to say non-existent - but the book about families he read several nights ago indicated that upsetting children is likely to cause their parents to react with anger, and it would be bad if Roy or the Titans became angry. 

The pony looks very soft, though. It blinks and huffs and nudges gently at Lian’s hands, and does not run away when Roy approaches, crouching as he reaches out to pet it, too. 

Behind Gray there is a loud neighing sound, and although he does not intend to move, he startles. When he glances backwards, Gar is leaning against the fence. He grins at Gray. 

“I got you,” he says, as another pony approaches the fence where Richard and Gray are. 

“Hey, another furry friend!” Richard exclaims. He reaches for the pony and starts carefully stroking the pony’s mane. “Aw, what a sweetheart. You sure you don’t want to pet her, too?”

Gray looks at the pony. It flicks its tail and moves its head a little more toward Richard’s hand as he continues to stroke. 

It does not seem afraid.

It would be bad to make it so. 

“I will scare it,” Gray says. Talons are intimidating, his training tells him. And some of the doctors thought Gray was creepy.

“No, you won’t,” Richard says. “You’re totally un-scary. Back me up here, Gar.”

“Dick’s right, you’re the least scary guy here,” Gar says, flapping one hand briefly. “Rae is way scarier than you.”

“Hey!” Miss Raven responds, although Gray is not sure if he heard her with his ears or with his mind. 

“Go on, man,” Gar continues. “I told her you were really good at petting.”

Maybe the pony will be disappointed if he does not pet it, then. And if he does not pet it, he cannot fulfil his task for Wally, either. 

Very slowly and carefully, Gray reaches toward the pony’s back, near the shoulder. It does not move. And when his hand touches its fur, it still does not move, except to shift its weight slightly. 

It is a strange sensation. The fur is soft, in a different and more intense way than the stuffed animals and the hair he has touched so far. The fur is cool to the touch, but he can also feel the heat of the animal skin underneath when he applies a minute amount of extra pressure. The pony’s tail moves again and it makes a huffing noise as it continues to lean into Richard’s petting.

It is good. It is so, so good.

“Mom used to live in a horse-drawn caravan,” Richard murmurs. He is not speaking in English anymore, but Romani. “The horses were bigger than this, but they were just as friendly.”

Although Richard speaks slowly and carefully, it is difficult for Gray to follow what he is saying. Some words are not in Gray’s lexicon, and although Richard mainly speaks in a North American dialect, Gray can identify words from English and French dialects too. But nevertheless Gray thinks he understands the approximate meaning of Richard’s explanation: 

“It was when she was a little girl and lived in Europe, many years before she joined the circus and came to this country. She said the horses liked red apples the best. She would feed them every day when her family stopped to rest.”

It seems strange to impart this information, but it is clearly important to Richard somehow. Is this some kind of suggestion?

“Will we feed these horses?” Gray asks, trying to match Richard’s speech patterns as best as he can. Richard shrugs and smiles.

“I don’t know,” he says, and then he switches back to English, addressing a nearby staff member. “Sir, are we allowed to feed these guys, or is it petting only?”

“Oh, I’ve got some feed right here,” the staff member replies positively. “There’s a grain mix you can give to all the animals in this area. Normally, we’d say guests can have one bucket each, but you can have as many buckets as you’d like today.”

“Really?” Richard asks. “That’s really kind of you.”

A few minutes later, a small blue bucket half-filled with a powdery mixture of grains is pushed into Gray’s free hand and the staff member demonstrates how to collect a small amount into his hand and feed it to the pony.

“You want to try?” the staff member asks. 

When Gray nods, the staff member begins talking Gray through the same process again, but slower and more step-by-step. He even gently straightens Gray’s fingers with his own warm ones before taking his wrist and guiding Gray’s hand beneath the pony’s mouth. The staff member jolts when he touches Gray’s skin, and his facial expression changes.

“Graham is okay,” Richard says to the staff member. “He just has some circulation problems. Isn’t that right, Gray?”

Gray does not have a heartbeat - this must be what Richard is referring to. 

“Yes,” Gray replies, and tries his very best to remain still as the pony begins to eat out of his hand. It feels strange and ticklish, the way the lips and tongue brush against his palm, but it is not bad. Out of the corner of his eye, Gray can see something green and the bucket in his hand moves slightly. 

“I gotta say, this stuff could really do with a little hot sauce,” a green pony says, in Gar’s voice. No, it is Gar. “Not bad, though. Not bad at all. Kudos to the petting zoo chef.” 

The zoo staff member blinks and then laughs. 

“I’ll pass on the message,” he says.

---

Time passes very quickly in the petting zoo. 

Richard remains with Gray for most of the time, nicely showing Gray the best way to pet the animals and extracting information from the staff members when needed. Roy and Lian are also present, talking nicely to the animals and with the zoo staff, and Lian is eager to also show Gray how to interact with animals correctly: she shows him how to feed the sheep and the ducks and the chickens, and explains lots and lots of information.

“They’re cousins of the T-rex,” Lian explains. “Miss Smith said that dinosaurs probably had feathers instead of scales like you see in the movies.”

Gray doesn’t know what a T-rex is, but the book he read about the earth mentioned that dinosaurs existed a long time ago. He wonders if dinosaurs are also somehow related to chickens and if they have any T-rex animals at the zoo. 

“Oh… we don’t have any of those here,” a zoo staff member says, when he asks. “They, uh… you know…  they all died a long time ago. Millions of years ago. All of the dinosaurs did. The T-rexes and the stegosauruses and… uhh… the pterodactyls, too. Sorry. But I heard they have a cool dino exhibit at Gotham museum?”

The chickens at the zoo must be very, very old if they are the cousins of the dinosaurs, Gray thinks. Maybe Bruce will give him permission to go to the Gotham museum, if Richard does not tell Bruce about Gray’s behaviour which is good in Blüdhaven but bad elsewhere.

Gar also remains with Gray and the others, telling the animals to be extra nice in their animal languages. Koriand’r comes to pet some of the animals, too. She is so very warm when she stands near Gray, and her hair is so pretty and her nice smell is more noticable than the strange animal-smell that permeates the air and tickles his nose. 

“On Tamaran, we have an animal like this,” she explains, crouching next to a goat. “But they can jump much higher, and they have six eyes instead of two.”

Tamaran sounds like a very interesting place. It would be good to visit.

“I hope that you can one day,” Koriand’r agrees and her smile is so pretty.

When Koriand’r is not petting the animals with Gray and Richard and Gar, she sits with Linda and Wade on a nearby bench where Richard’s duffel bag lies near her feet. It is strange to look at Wade and the toy cat, because it is almost as large as he is: Linda has strapped him into a kind of harness which allows him to face the same direction as his mother, leaving Linda’s hands free to steady the stuffed cat.  Miss Raven spends the majority of time with Linda, too. They seem pleased.

It is hard to keep track of where Wally is: he is here and there and everywhere, although he does not approach Gray until Lian says that she is thirsty and then Richard decides that everybody should wash their hands and go to the bench for a snack break.

“So, how’s the zoo so far?” Wally asks, as Richard produces a box of strawberry juice and presses it into Gray’s hands. Gray is unsure of how to answer this question until Wally clarifies: “Have you gathered enough data to share with Wade yet?”

Gray nods and obediently follows Wally back to Linda. The strawberry juice is good. It is sweet and floral, like grape juice, but it is different. 

“Hi, Graham,” Linda says nicely. “Are you having a good time?”

“Yes,” Gray responds instantly. Outside is good and animals are good and the Titans are good and the strawberry juice is good. 

“What did you see so far, buddy?” Wally asks. 

“I saw ponies and ducks and goats and chickens and a donkey,” Gray responds, and then he looks at Wade. “The ponies are nice. They are warm and soft, but not as soft as the stuffed cat. And they are…” Kind is not quite the right word, Gray realises, and rifles through his lexicon. “…they are affectionate. And nice.” 

“Oh, cool!” Wally exclaims. “Which ones are the ponies?” He vanishes, reappearing over Linda’s shoulder near the donkey pen, and signs with wide sweeping motions: these ones?

Then with a gust of wind Wally is back next to Gray. 

“No, those are the donkeys,” Gray replies. “The other ones are the ponies.”

“Other ones?” Wally asks. 

“Can you tell Wally and Wade what they look like?” Linda adds, although Wade does not seem to be paying much attention to Gray or Wally. He mostly seems to be looking around and wiggling his stubby little limbs. 

“The ponies are… they have long hair and long faces and long tails. They are smaller than an adult human but much bigger than you,” Gray says, addressing Wade. “Um… they are not useful for assassination. They are warm and soft. They eat grains and red apples.” Gray tries to recall the specifics of Richard’s story from earlier, and realises that the best way to express the specific details is by using the same language Richard did. “Richard said that his mother used to live in a horse-drawn caravan when she lived in Europe.“ 

“You remembered so many details, amazing!” Wally grins, and then he frowns. “But… sorry, dude, I only speak seventeen languages. I don’t know what you were saying just now, and I don’t think Wade did either. He only knows English and a little bit of Korean, so could you repeat what you just said so he’ll understand it?”

Wally and Linda both look expectantly at Gray, so he requests more information. 

“Which language should I use to relay the information?”

“Whichever one you want,” Wally replies, at the exact same time Linda asks “you speak Korean?”

Gray nods. It is clear that he can fulfil his task and impress Wally and Linda by using his linguistic training. 

He does. He relays Richard’s story in a central Seoul dialect — remembering this time to state it as though Mary Grayson was his mother, because in a way she is and because the cover story is that she birthed him — and is careful to use an appropriately formal kind of speech.

“Wow,” Linda says, once he has finished. She speaks in Korean, too, but a casual form of speech. “That was really good. You don’t have to be so formal, though - we’re all friends, and little Wade here is much younger than you.”

“Only by about four months,” Wally says. Linda blinks, then returns her attention to Gray. 

“I digress,” she says. “Using banmal is fine. Want to tell me about the ducks?”

Linda’s reasoning for her instructions do not make sense, but— but it would be really good if it were true. If she and the Titans really were his friends. Pleasing her might make it true. 

Gray nods, trying to think about how to describe the ducks to Wade, who is grasping the fur of the stuffed cat on Linda's. It is good that he is feeling how nice and soft the cat is.

Gray clears his throat.

“The ducks are very small but they are very loud…”

---

After Gray has consumed the juice and given Wade an appropriate amount of data, he is rewarded by praise from Wally and Linda and also by Richard. 

“How about a snack, too?” Richard asks. Without waiting for an answer, he presses a small container into Gray’s hand and gently pulls the empty carton out of Gray’s grasp. The container is filled with cantaloupe, which is a special cultivar of Cucurbitaceae.

Gray watches Richard place the empty juice carton in a yellow plastic bag, which goes back into the duffel bag. There are many things happening: Lian and Roy are interacting with a swinging ledge in a small, cordoned-off area containing strange equipment. Gar and Miss Raven are cuddling. Koriand’r has moved to Linda and Wade again and seems pleased when he grabs a tiny fistful of her hair. Gray wonders if she would be pleased if he also touched her hair. 

Gray opens the container and lifts a chunk of cantaloupe to his mouth. It is wet and squidgy and juice quickly runs down his hand and toward his sleeve. The cantaloupe is sweeter than the strawberry juice and the taste contains a kind of brightness, but the flavour is not very strong even though the fruit is very juicy.

“Good thing I came prepared,” Richard smiles when Gray explains this. He then gives Gray a small jar. The label reads TAJÍN. 

“Try it with this,” Richard says. “Just shake it once or twice over the fruit at first, you can always add more if you want.”

The seasoning is red and flaky and tastes like Capsicum annuum and Citrus × latifolia. It makes the sweetness of the melon even sweeter and makes his mouth pleasantly warm and it is bad when Gray finds that there are no more melon pieces in the pot. 

“Good, huh? I’ll make sure you have a supply of this when you go back to Gotham,” Richard promises. “You need to use the restroom?”

“No.”

“Okay. If you do, just let me know,” Richard says, so Gray nods. 

After Richard takes the melon container back and directs Gray to wash his hands again, they resume their tour of the petting zoo in much the same way as before.The petting zoo has two llamas and a small herd of alpacas. They all make funny noises but the alpacas are softer and all of them like the grain and one of the llamas spits at Gar when he turns into a green llama. 

“Some people just can’t take a joke,” Gar groans, shifting back to human form to wipe the saliva off. “C’mon, man, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery…”

The donkey at the petting zoo is very nice and munches through the remainder of Gray’s bucket and moves its head into Gray’s touch. 

“Hey, I think he likes you!” a zoo staff member exclaims. “Bill here doesn’t just like anybody, you know.”

The sign next to the pen states that donkeys are typically used as working animals but that Bill is retired. Retired is a strange word, with the meaning of having ceased work.  At the lab, it was something Doctor Griffith was looking forward to and frequently mentioned. At Bruce Wayne’s home, it referred to Calvin and Strix, although ceasing work for the Court should be impossible. And here at the zoo, it seems that being retired means spending long days outside in the sunshine and being fed and petted and praised and repaired. 

“He had a bad leg a few months back, but the vet fixed him up,” the zoo staff member explains. “Now Bill’s enjoying the great outdoors - aren’t you, Bill?”

Bill huffs in response and sticks his mouth into the Richard’s feed-bucket. The humans laugh, and Bill the donkey is not punished. Instead, Richard smiles and pets him again and praises Bill and then he tells Gray what a good job he is doing and everything is nice. 

Everything is so nice, and everything continues to be so nice. The tortoise is nice and the sheep are nice, but the nicest of all the nice animals at the petting zoo are the rabbits. 

“Saved the best for last,” Richard murmurs. “How about we go say hi?”

---

There are several rabbits inside the pen: a very large rabbit with floppy ears, small rabbits with perky ears that move so quickly Gray can barely keep track of them and several exceptionally fluffy rabbits and a few tiny rabbits with little rounded faces and they are all so nice to look at and when the staff member approaches him with a rabbit in her arms he almost doesn’t know what to do because it is all so, so good, so good it feels like he is going to burst.

“I’m going to put her legs on your right arm, okay?” the staff member smiles. “Hold your arms like this for me.”

“Like this!” Lian chirps, just to Gray’s left, and she demonstrates with her arms. “You can stroke her with this hand.”

Gray obeys, and the zoo staff member leans closer and he notices that her hair is red and pretty like Koriand’r and Oracle but she is not quite as pretty as either of them and then there is a warm furry weight nestled against his arm and chest and the zoo staff member steps away and the softness is so intense and the warmth is so so nice. 

It’s good. It’s so good.

It’s so good that the goodness wells almost painfully in his chest and spreads and spreads throughout his limbs and rises up his throat and face until the goodness spills out of his eye sockets.

“Are you okay, sir?” The staff member asks.

“Gray, we can—“ Richard begins, then his head snaps to the left, where Linda and Miss Raven are sitting at the bench. “—oh. Uh… we can stay a little bit longer, Gray. It’s good, right?” 

“Yeah,” Gray manages. 

“Okay,” Richard replies. “We’ll stay longer.“

“It’s okay, Uncle Gray,” Lian’s voice is hushed. “Sometimes I cry when I’m really happy, too.”

A small part of Gray recognises that he should correct Lian, but that small part is drowned out by the much larger part of Gray that wants very badly to squeeze the rabbit tightly, but that would be painful and bad and so he cradles it so very gently against his chest, carefully supporting its paws with his hand and arm, and it makes a gentle noise and Richard speaks again. 

“Rabbits are his favourite animal,” Richard says to the zoo staff member. “He just gets very overwhelmed sometimes.”

“Don’t we all?” the staff member replies. “Stay as long as you like, these guys love having visitors.”

That is exactly what they do. Gray sits with the rabbit in his arms until his breathing returns to normal and his eyes are no longer wet and listens as Lian explains lots of facts about rabbits to Roy and Richard and the zoo staff member who is very impressed by her excellent information storage. It is good to listen to Lian and learn about rabbits.

Gray sniffles and strokes the rabbit and watches the other rabbits shuffle around the pen and some of them hop toward him and one of them even flops against his leg and it is all so nice and so good and he doesn’t know what to say except it is so, so good and so, so much and he never wants it to end. 
 
It would be good if there were rabbits at Bruce Wayne’s house, Gray thinks. 

Eventually, the rabbit in Gray’s arms begins to move its legs, looking around, and Gray carefully lowers the rabbit so that it can hop easily away. He wipes at the dampness of his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“Can I hold another?” he asks. Lian and Roy are no longer in the pen: Gray is not quite sure where they went, except Roy mentioned having to order something before they exited the pen.

“It’s twelve-thirty already, Gray. Don’t you want to eat lunch?” Richard asks. 

Gray shakes his head. He wants to hold more rabbits. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” Richard asks. “Think about how your stomach feels. On a scale of one to ten, with one being before breakfast this morning and ten being after dinner yesterday, how does it feel?”

“Three,” Gray replies.

“Well, that means we should eat,” Richard says. “I feel a three as well.”

Gray opens his mouth to explain that petting rabbits is better than eating, but something begins pawing at his leg. 

“Gray…” Gar’s voice calls, and when Gray looks at his leg he sees that Gar is not being Gar right now but a small fluffy rabbit instead. “Dude… I need your help…” 

“My help?”

“My leg hurts,” Gar whines, shaking one little hind leg. “I can’t get all the way to the bench by myself… can you help me?”

“Yes,” Gray says, immediately, and scoops Gar up just like the zoo staff member did to the other rabbit earlier. Gar is just as soft and fluffy as that rabbit. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Richard says to the zoo staff member. And then, to Gray: “I owe you one, man.”

Gray does not think too much about this: his attention is preoccupied by carrying Gar safely and nicely like the staff member and Lian showed him earlier. When they get back to the bench, where Gar directs Gray to place him on an empty space next to Miss Raven and abruptly transforms back into a person. 

“Aah, that’s much better!” Gar stretches and smiles at Gray. “No wonder the rabbits liked you so much.”

“The rabbits liked me?” Gray whispers. They couldn’t possibly like him — but what if they did? 

“Are you kidding? They loved you,” Gar says. “You were so gentle with them, and they really like that.”

The rabbits liked him. 

Gray doesn’t know what to do with that information. His eyes begin to feel strange and wet again, and Miss Raven presses a small cloth into his hands. 

“Here,” she says. “You can press this against your eyes, it’ll help. Put it in your pocket when you’re done.”

Gray does as he is directed and it helps so much. When he re-opens his eyes, his eyes are dry and Richard is standing next to him.

“All right, Gray,” Richard says. “We’ve got a couple options for lunch. I have some sandwiches with me, or you can have some hot food.”

“Hot food,” Gray immediately replies.

“We can do that. You’re gonna have to ask someone for the food you want, though. You think you can do that?”

“I have to ask?”

“Yeah, you have to ask,” Richard says. “I mean, I can’t order for you. I can’t read your mind and know what you want to eat. You have to say it for yourself.”

“Chili,” Gray says, hopefully. The chili yesterday was so good. 

“I don’t know if they have chili here,” Richard says. “We have to look at the menu.”

Richard begins to walk toward a building on the other side of the petting zoo area, not far from the small equipment area, where Lian and Roy are sitting with Koriand’r with food of their own. It would be nice to eat with them. 

“I’m sure we can do that,” Richard says, when Gray mentions this. “Better get a wriggle on, though.”

That is a figure of speech meaning to hurry up. That is good, because moving and wriggling at the same time would be difficult. 

Gray obeys, hurrying to catch up the last few paces until he and Richard are walking side by side. He opens his mouth.

“It is a strange figure of speech,” Gray’s thoughts come out of his mouth. “Wriggling and moving would make it hard to be fast.”

Richard smiles widely. 

“I never thought about it before,” he says. “But I guess you’re right - it would be pretty hard to move like that.”

Gray smiles too. It is good to be right, and even better to be praised for it. 

Today has been so full of very good things.

Notes:

I made up the backstory tidbit about Dick’s mum living in a vardo (although it is currently canon that she was Romani and travelled with a French circus for a time). I also made up the Tamaranean animals Koriand’r describes. I have no idea whether Tamaran currently exists in the DCU… I am going to say that since this fic takes place in a 'canon but a step to the left' kind of universe, it does still exist.

'Banmal' refers to a casual form of speech in Korean, which is used between close friends and younger people.

The rabbit Gray held and Gar transformed into were both Angora rabbits.

Chapter 39: Exploration - Blüdhaven Zoo, Sommerset County

Notes:

Hi all! I plan for there to be one more Zoo/Titan's Tower wrapup chapter, and then back to the main plot we go! I hope that this has been a fun subplot - I've really enjoyed writing it <3

The menu is approximately eleven inches long and seventeen inches wide, displayed on a wooden shutter that has been fastened in an ‘open’ position, allowing Gray and Richard to interact with several staff members stationed inside the food shack.

There is a knot in Gray’s stomach. He is not— he has not in the past been allowed to request things, and Richard had mentioned orders or ordering, and that is definitely disallowed. But there are no orders and Richard does not even make Gray request anything. The conversation is… odd. 

“Okay… tenders, veggie nuggets, hot dogs, salads…” Richard murmurs, eyes fixed on the menu. “Anything look good to you?”

This is an easy question, Gray thinks. There is no chilli. Everything is equally unfamiliar and therefore an equal amount of potential ‘good’.

“Yes.”

“What looks good?” Richard asks, which is a strange question.

“Anything.”

Richard is silent for a moment. 

“Right,” he says. “Yeah. Okay. Uh… ma’am, are all the menu items available today?” 

“They are,” the staff member says. This one is older, with silver in her hair. “The wait time is going to be a little longer than usual - maybe up to twenty minutes.”

“Can we have one of all the hot food items, please? I’d also like one each of the salads, too,” Richard says. “And do you have any hot sauce, hot seasoning, anything like that?”

“We have buffalo and Franks’.”

“Can we have both?”

“Of course,” the staff member begins to tap on a small console in front of her. “Any desserts or drinks?”

“Good question,” Richard looks at the menu. “Gray, it looks like the desserts here are mostly frozen. They have chocolate and vanilla ice cream, or there’s frozen lemonade. Either of those sound good?”

“No,” Gray says. 

“Right,” Richard says. “You don’t like frozen, do you?” 

Gray does not know how to respond in front of the staff members. 

“He has autism,” Richard says to the staff member. “Very sensitive to temperature.”

“Oh, hon. I got a grandson like that, too - but he’s the other way ‘round, he can’t bear the heat. Tell you what, I can radio the guys at the coffee stand by the aviary and see if they can’t make us a fresh funnel cake and run it over here.”

“Would you? That would be so kind, thank you so much, ma’am,” Richard says. “Gray, what drink are you going to have?”

There are several options on the menu. Coffee, milk, beer, Zesti, hot chocolate and iced tea. The choice is simple. 

“Hot chocolate.”

“Hot chocolate what?” Richard asks. 

Gray considers this.

“Hot chocolate and marshmallows,” he says.

“No, I mean— okay, we’ll work on that,” Richard mutters. “Uh… one hot chocolate with marshmallows, please, ma’am. Can you double up the cup or something, so it stays hotter for longer?”

“We can do that, sure,” the staff member says. 

“Great,” Richard says. “And for me… I’d like a frozen lemonade and a Zesti, please. I’ll pay by card.”

After paying and collecting a small buzzer, Richard steers Gray away from the window slightly. He guides them close to a miniature railway, which crosses over a small stream which feeds into the duck pen. 

Richard doesn’t say anything for a while. He just watches their surroundings, checking his phone briefly. This reminds Gray to do the same: he has not checked his phone since yesterday afternoon. He has several new messages from Tim and Jason and Damian and Cassandra.

Timothy (08:05 AM) 

How does your mouth feel?

Gray probes the gap. There is more feeling than yesterday. 

Graham (12:44 PM)

Amber. 

Damian’s text message is short and accompanied by a photograph of a small brown hand petting the face of a brown-and-white Bos taurus.

Damian (11:25 AM) 

Is the zoo good? If it is, we have some animals at home that you can meet, like Bat-cow. She says hello.

Gray’s breath catches in his throat. He did not know that cows could speak English. 

Graham (12:46 PM)

The zoo is good. It will be good to meet Bat-cow. 

Maybe Bat-cow will like Gray just as much as the rabbits did, Gray thinks as he opens Jason’s message, which is actually three messages, and they are all from yesterday.

Jason (03:52 PM)
 
I don’t know what I expected.

Jason (03:54 PM) 

I’ll find more books with good words for you. I’ll come over Friday afternoon and train you in literature. In the meantime, I have an optional task which is NOT an order for you: think about how the book’s disrepair was bad and how you can describe it to me in more detail. For example, is it bad in the same way that leaving music playing for the stuffed toys was good?

Jason (03:55 PM)

Don’t come down to the cave tonight.

Gray’s face feels tight. Jason is a good teacher. He will learn a lot on Friday. Today is Wednesday, so he does not have to wait for a very long time. 

Gray opens the final new message.

Cassandra’s message is also from yesterday, sent just after Gray and Richard left Gotham City. But it is a very strange message. There are many emojis, but no words. It includes a purple circle, a woman dancing in a red dress, someone lifting weights, and red exclamation marks. 

Gray hesitates. He should compose a reply of some kind, but he has no idea what her message means. His cryptography training focused on textual code, not pictorial.

But perhaps someone else will know.

“Richard,” Gray begins, and he hesitates, unsure what to say. Richard might be disappointed in him, for not being capable of decoding the message.

“Graham,” Richard replies, using the same tone of voice as Gray had. He smiles, lifting his eyes from his phone to look at Gray. “You okay? Got a question for me?”

Gray shows him the phone. 

“Oh, Cass, never change…” Richard shakes his head, still smiling. “Steph is coming to the Manor to do some dance training with you. Cass hasn’t said when, but I guess it’s probably tomorrow: I don’t think either of them have class on Thursdays.”

That seems simple enough. The thought of doing more dancing with Cass is good. And Steph is very kind and nice, so it will be good for her to be present, too. 

“Why did she encode the message?” Gray asks. “Is it secret dance training?”

Richard does not answer for a very long three seconds. Gray reopens his mouth to ask again, and then Richard responds.

“How much do you know about language acquisition and childhood development?”

Gray skims his training briefly. He cannot find anything that seems to match either of those topics. He only knows what he has been taught with the Titans: that Lian is eight years old and Wade is six months old. Richard’s facial expression changes slightly as Gray explains.

“Okay. Uh….” Richard tilts his head, and his brows draw low for a moment. “You know that most people don’t learn like you did, with downloads. Babies need to be exposed to language in order to learn it. You have to talk to them and give them opportunities to—“ Richard brings his hands into view and flexes his index and middle fingers briefly “— talk back. If you don’t do that, they don’t learn to talk. The neural connections in the brain that make language happen don’t develop. If you don’t learn to talk as a baby, it’s nearly impossible to do it as an adult.”

Perhaps that is why Wally instructed Gray to speak with his son, to make sure that Wade would learn such an important skill. 

There is a bright sort of feeling deep inside Gray’s chest. He has been entrusted with a vital task. He will not let Wade down. He will make sure that Wade learns to talk very well.

“Cass’s parents — the ones she had before Bruce — were not nice people,” Richard says. “She was not taught to speak until she was an adult and met Oracle and Bruce. Cassandra is not stupid by any means, she’s probably smarter than I am. But because she was never taught to speak as a child, language is incredibly difficult for her. And so she prefers to communicate by non-language means, like dancing and emojis. I don’t think she meant to send a message that was hard for you to understand, Gray. It’s just that the message was easy for her to write.”

Gray considers this. 

“How should I respond?” he asks. “If emojis are easier for Cassandra, should I use those?”

Richard’s smile gets bigger. 

“I think she’d like that,” he says. 

---

The food is given to them in several paper bags. Richard hands one bag to Gray and directs him to carry it to a picnic table close to where Koriand’r and Linda and Wally are sitting with Gar and Miss Raven. Gray glances at where Koriand’r and Roy and Lian were sitting earlier: Lian is now sitting in a type of suspended seat while Roy periodically pushes her forward. Her momentum stalls and she swings back, and then Roy pushes again. There does not seem to be any point to the pushing, as the seat can only go so far and Lian always ends up in the same place.

“They’re playing,” Richard says. “Play is really important for children. It helps with their development and learning. And it’s fun.” 

“Is that why Roy is helping?”

“Yes,” Richard says, setting his bags onto the table surface. Gray does the same. “My mom and dad used to play with me, too. All the circus folk did.” Richard is silent for a moment. “We’ll play some games later this week, so you know what to say when people ask.” 

Gray opens his mouth to ask how frequently he should expect people to ask, but that is when Richard begins to take the food out of one bag and orders Gray to take the drinks and condiments out of the bag he carried. It takes time and concentration to place the cups and pots so that they will not fall through the gaps between the slats of the table surface and Gray carefully puts the frozen lemonade down first and the hot chocolate second so that the warmth of the hot chocolate can help take away the bad feeling from the frozen lemonade cup. 

“Okay, Gray, listen up,” Richard begins, after removing all the food from bags and placing it on the table. Gray lifts his cup of hot chocolate to his lips. It is warm, but it is not as delicious as Miss Raven’s hot chocolate. “You can choose to eat anything we have here. You can eat a little bit of lots of things, or you can eat a whole portion of just one thing. Personally, I’d recommend that you try lots of things, because then you’ll know more about what you— what tastes good.” 

Gray nods as Richard points to each food in turn, explaining briefly what it is. None of the dishes seem as though they are spicy, although some of them are steaming and therefore warm. 

“I think I’m gonna start with some salad,” Richard says. “I want to make sure I have all my vitamins before I eat something more filling.”

Good, Gray thinks. If Richard eats lots of salad then Gray can eat more hot food. 

There are small, warm potato pieces which have a strangely-textured cheese topping and tiny, hard, salty pieces scattered on top. There is flavourless bread with intensely flavoured sausage and red and yellow sauce. There are hot wedges of potato with a crispy and smoky coating. There are small, fried rounds that contain tiny pieces of cooked vegetables and beans. There are strips of white meat with a crispy coating. 

The food is adequate. It is pleasant but not as good as the chilli or the shakshuka. 

“Maybe you could try some of the sauces,” Richard suggests, opening some of the smaller containers and placing them in front of Gray. 

There is a thicker warmer red sauce and a thinner cooler red sauce. He tries them with a vegetable round. Both are good: the thicker sauce has a pleasant texture and is a little sweeter and clings to the inside of his mouth, while the thinner sauce is more intense and is also sour and leaves a stronger warm feeling in his mouth. 

“Good, huh?” Richard grins, sticking a disposable fork into the potato pieces and cheese. 

“Good,” Gray agrees. The sauces are very good, but they make the texture of the food feel different.

He picks up one of the sauce containers and carefully pours it into his mouth, leaning back on his seat to avoid splashing it all over his face and front. He is much more successful in drinking the sauce than he was with the cup of water a few days ago, which is probably because both of the sauces have a thicker texture than water. He does still have to grab a handful of napkins and wipe the excess sauce from his face. It feels odd on his skin and it would be bad to be unclean in front of Kori and maybe the animals they will meet after lunch are going to be sensitive to smell. 

“Oh, that’s—“ Richard’s facial expression is odd. “Uh. Okay. You know what? I’m just happy you found something good. How full does your stomach feel now? One to ten.”

Gray considers this. 

“Um… five. I feel less full than after breakfast,” he says. 

“Okay,” Richard says. “I’d like you to eat until you feel a six or maybe a seven. Then you can have your funnel cake. We normally eat slightly less at breakfast than at other meals, but we still try not to eat until we’re over-full at like last night’s dinner. Got it?”

“Got it,” Gray replies. 

“And I’d like you to try some of the salads,” Richard says. “I know carbs taste really good, but it’s important to eat a lot of vegetables and fruit as well. We’ll study nutrition later, too.”

Gray nods. Richard is a good teacher. Maybe Alfred or Jason will help train him in nutrition, too. 

The vegetables are strange. The taste is not bad, but the cooler temperature is less pleasant than the warmth of the other food. The lettuce has a slight and nondescript taste. The tomatoes are sweet and a little sour and very juicy. There are bits of cooked egg - though Gray is not sure from which bird - and shreds of chicken and— 

“Bacon,” Richard prompts. “That’s bacon. Like on the tater tots. It’s pork, like the hot dog, but it’s shaped and cooked differently.”

Pork is the flesh of Sus domesticus, Gray’s culinary training prompts. Spoiled pork-based products can be difficult to identify and thus poorly cured items could be used to target a victim: botulism can be deadly.

The cold hot sauce makes the Cobb salad better. The tajín makes it even more even better, until the cool textures also give Gray’s mouth a nice warm feeling. And, just as Richard directed, Gray tries the funnel cake. 

It is good. It is so, so good. 

It is fried sweet dough coated in an intensely sweet, powdery sugar. The dough is crispy and hard at the edges, cracking under his teeth, and softer and airier near the middle of the cake. There is a gentle vanilla flavour and the dough at the centre is hot and the whole cake is delicious even though it is hard to eat neatly and cleanly and Gray feels sure there is powdered sugar all over his face.

“I’m glad you found your appetite,” Wally says, zooming into existence on the bench next to Richard, Wade strapped to his chest. “You guys gonna finish this?”

“Aaaa,” Wade says in greeting, waggling his stubby limbs.

“We're pretty much done. Take whatever you'd like,” Richard says, bringing a spoonful of frozen lemonade to his mouth.

Gray shivers. He doesn’t know how Richard can consume the frozen lemonade. Maybe it doesn’t freeze him on the inside because of his core temperature. Still, it must be unpleasant.

“Oh, I will,” Wally grins. He moves quickly, dragging the paper dish of wedges toward him with one hand and producing a small cloth toy with the other. The little cloth toy is dangled in front of Wade’s face, and the baby begins to grab for the toy. “Nice spread you guys got here. Not quite as nice as the gimbap Linda and I had — not gonna lie, I really outdid myself with that.”

“And what did you eat, Mister Wade?” Richard asks, gently touching the back of Wade’s hand. 

Wade makes a bubbling noise because he doesn’t know how to talk yet. 

“He’s been dabbling in baby food for a couple weeks,” Wally says. “Seems to like butternut squash and sweet potato puree. Admittedly, he seems to like smearing it all over us at super-speed more than he likes eating it, but I’ll take what I can get.” 

“You know what they say, if we all liked the same stuff then the world would be a very boring place,” Richard replies. 

“Speaking of liking stuff, you want to fill Wade in on the rest of the petting zoo?” Wally asks, directing his attention to Gray. “Do you think Wade might like the rabbits?”

“Yes,” Gray says instantly, swallowing his bite of funnel cake.

“Why?"


“They are soft and warm and nice,” Gray says. “They are very small and fragile and they like to be treated gently and— and Wade is very small and nice and not very strong, so the rabbits will like him a lot. They are good. They are so good. Wade, you will like them a lot.”

“Mm,” Wade wiggles his arm and hits the cloth toy against Wally’s forearm. He does not seem to understand much of what was said. “Aaa.”

Gray considers the information he has learned since the earlier debrief with Linda. He switches to Korean again and launches into a detailed explanation. 

“There are many kinds of rabbit,” he begins. “Some are bigger and some are smaller and some are fluffier, but they are all nice. The Angora rabbits are very very soft and like to be petted. The zoo keeper said that inside the rabbit shelter here in the zoo, there is a special digging room where they can simulate digging because they live in underground holes in the wild and digging holes is fun. All of the animal homes here are designed for fun.”

Gray explains every piece of information he can possibly think of about rabbits and the pens here at the zoo and the things the different animals do and how soft the sheep were and how Bill the donkey is retired from farm work. 

“Being retired is a very good thing,” Gray explains. “It means that you do not have to drag machinery or kill people.”

“That does sound very nice,” Wally nods. “Would it be good for you to retire one day?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“No.”

“Why? Sounds to me like retirement is a total breeze.”

“Tools don’t retire,” Gray says, but that is not quite right because Calvin and Mary are retired Talons. But then again they were people before they were Talons and sort of still are people but he was not and is not and can never be a person. “Tools are disposable.”

Wally’s facial expression looks negative. But he does not shout or punish Gray so he cannot be angry, and Gray does not think he did anything to make Wally angry in the first place. 

“Okay,” Wally says, in English this time, and then he smiles. “You’re doing a really great job at teaching Wade all about the animals. Well done, Graham. Are you having a good time here at the zoo?”

“Yes,” Gray replies immediately. “The zoo is very nice. When can we come back? We should do it soon.” 

Wally laughs and beside him Richard smiles. There is no punishment. Wade gazes blankly up at his progenitor and also laughs. Gray can see that Wade has no teeth, only gums. It must be difficult to be a baby, he thinks. Consuming food without teeth, being unable to interact with many things in the world, not being able to speak… 

“We’ll figure something out, Gray,” Richard says. “You done eating?”

Gray stuffs the last piece of funnel cake into his mouth and nods. In a flash, there is a gust of air and the empty containers and paper bags are gone. Wally is standing near the table. Wade shakes his cloth toy and drops it: Wally catches the toy faster than Gray can comprehend, shaking it gently before Wade’s face. 

“You guys ready to head on over to the aviary?” Wally asks. 

“Almost,” Richard says. “Gotta make a pit stop first.”

---

Richard instructs Gray to expel waste using one of the cubicles in a nearby restroom. Then he orders Gray to wash his hands and also the powdered sugar from his face.

“Your, uh, liquid waste looks unusual,” Richard explains when Gray emerges, washing his hands at one of the sinks. “It looks like a medical emergency to people who don’t know you. So you need to remember to only use a cubicle, or the cover story might be blown. Understand?”

“I understand,” Gray says. 

“And if you find that you’re having any problems with your body, no matter how small it is, you need to let me know, okay? Me or Bruce or Alfred. We’ll help you.”

Gray has no intention of having problems, and certainly would not admit it to Bruce if he did. But it is good to know that Richard will help him. He already knew that Alfred would. He nods and lets the sound of Richard’s continued talking wash through his ears and over the crevices of his brain.

When they emerge from the restroom facility, the others have gathered near the exit to the petting zoo area. 

“The penguins here live in the aviary,” Roy explains. “Lian, you wanna explain more?”

Lian nods and smiles and launches into an excited explanation about the different types of penguins there are and how they live and where they live. Penguins are native to the southern hemisphere of the planet, and while they are commonly associated with Antarctica and cold weather, there are actually many kinds of habitats penguins can live in. Penguins can be found as far north as the Galápagos Islands and in climates as hot as Southern Australia and South Africa. That is good to know: it would have been bad to meet penguins in a freezing environment.

“The zoo website says they have Magellanic penguins,” Lian says. “They’re so cool! We did a project on them last year in school! I made a diorama and Daddy helped.”

“It was amazing,” Roy says, looking happy. “You did an incredible job, sweetie.”

The penguins live in an area created to look like a rocky coastline, with a two-tiered viewing area. The higher area looks over the rocky outcrops while the lower area features a window that looks into the underwater section of the pool. The penguins are not as good as the rabbits, in Gray’s opinion, because they cannot be petted. Nevertheless, it is good to see them and Gray dutifully murmurs thorough descriptions of the penguins to Wade.

The tropical birds in the next habitat are brightly coloured and energetic. Koriand’r talks to the zoo keepers, discussing the differences between Tamaranean wildlife and that of Earth, and Gray listens carefully to the information and files it away in his head. It is unlikely he will be deployed to Tamaran, but it sounds like a warm and interesting place.

The birds of prey area consists of a walkwaywith the habitats on each side sectioned into parts housing different birds. They see kestrels and eagles and hawks and harriers and condors and an osprey and there are also sections for owls. 

The owls in the aviary bear little resembalence to the Owls in the Court. They are small and brown and some have little feathery horns and Gray wonders why the Court named themselves after such unassuming birds. 

“I don’t know,” Richard replies when Gray voices this. Although Richard’s voice is perfectly nice, his body seems tense.

They walk forward a little more, and Lian points out a snowy barn owl, which is white. It is of a similar size as the other owls and flutters to a branch in full view of the walkway. Its face is small and fluffy, jutting out into a short, curved beak. 

And then the bird turns its head and looks directly at Gray. 

Those little black eyes are — there is something unpleasant and judging behind them. The round, white shape of its head is a blank mask and the little beak is a delicately-moulded spike and despite the warming layer and close proximity to Koriand’r, there is a sudden coldness creeping across his skin and he cannot move his feet or tear his gaze away or breathe because he has not been given permission and— 

“Graham?” 

—the bird glances away again and ruffles its feathers and warmth seeps into his bicep.

His head turns. Koriand’r’s hand touches his sleeve and she is frowning. Miss Raven is beside her. 

“Are you well?” Miss Raven asks. 

“Yes,” Gray answers. 

Miss Raven looks at the owl habitat, then back to Gray. 

“I do not like this place,” she says. “Will you accompany me outside?”

“Yes,” Gray agrees. And he does. 

Chapter 40: Brightness - Blüdhaven Zoo, Sommerset County

Notes:

Chapter 40. I literally cannot believe that this story is so long. This might be the longest thing I've ever written, and I'm probably just barely scraping the halfway mark OTL

Thank you all for your patience and sticking with me through this ridiculously wordy fic. I hope that the remainder will continue to be enjoyable.

There is a garden outside the aviary. The garden has green grass and paved paths and Gray walks with Miss Raven and Koriand’r until they reach a shaded area where there is a bench. His stomach feels bad, but it is not the normal painful bad, it is like something wants to rise through his throat and that is unfamiliar and therefore worse.

“Sit down, Graham,” Koriand’r says, and he obeys. She sits beside him on the left, and Miss Raven on the right. 

“What can you see, Graham?” Miss Raven asks. “I can see a blue sky.”

“Shoes,” Gray manages. Koriand’r is wearing strappy sandals that show a green, sparkly pedicure, while Miss Raven wears heavy-looking combat boots. Gray’s own shoes are a pair of blue-white sneakers. They were already broken in when he first put them on, moulding to his feet perfectly thanks to Richard’s previous wear.

“What else?” Miss Raven presses. 

“Flagstones,” Gray adds. “Grass.” There is a bed of Chrysanthemum × morifolium just beyond a wooden pillar. The pillar is part of the pergola shading them. There are vines of Clematis virginiana growing on the pergola, the green leaves bright and glossy over his head. “Chrysanthemums and Virgin’s Bower.”

“Good,” Miss Raven murmurs. Warm, bronze fingers twine around his own, squeezing comfortingly. “What can you feel? What can you touch?”

“Koriand’r’s hand,” Gray says. The air is cool and fresh. There is a breeze that tickles his skin. “The air. The bench. The ground.”

“What can you hear?” Miss Raven asks. Her voice is pleasant. 

“You,” Gray replies. His voice is quiet and weak - has been quiet and weak since they left the apiary. “The breeze moving the leaves.”

“Is there anything else?” Miss Raven asks. “One more thing. What can you hear?”

Gray thinks. 

“Myself,” he says. “My— I have to breathe to answer your questions. I can hear that.”

“Breathing is important whether you are answering questions or not,” Koriand’r says, and Gray takes that as permission to suck in another deep lungful of fresh, saline air. 

“What can you smell?” Miss Raven asks. 

Koriand’r’s nice shampoo smell is a variety of Jasminum, Gray’s training says.

“Jasmine,” he says. And then, because Miss Raven is waiting, he adds another answer: “Salt from the sea.”

“What can you taste?” Miss Raven asks. 

“I don’t know,” Gray says. “Just my mouth.” 

Koriand’r offers him a small, round pellet. 

“Would you like something to taste?” she asks. “It might help settle your stomach.”

Gray takes the pellet and puts it in his mouth. 

“Let it roll it throughout your mouth and dissolve,” Koriand’r instructs, so he does. The flavour is intensely sweet, and then there is an even more intense, hot-cool flavour. Mentha × piperita. It stimulates his saliva production.

“What do you taste, Gray?” Miss Raven asks. 

“Sweet,” Gray says. “No, mint. It — I don’t know. It is strange. It’s hot and it’s cold.” 

“That’s okay,” Miss Raven says. “You can spit it out if it’s bad.”

“No, it is good,” Gray replies. 

“Would it be good to hold the cat toy?” Koriand’r asks. 

Yes, it would, Gray thinks. But Wade is enjoying the toy and the birds and it would be bad to spoil that enjoyment. He shakes his head. 

Koriand’r and Miss Raven are both silent for a few seconds. Gray continues to roll the pellet around his mouth, leaning back on the bench. 

The garden is nice, he thinks. It would be good if Alfred allowed him to use the garden at Bruce Wayne’s house. It would have been good to have a garden like this at the laboratory. 

“Oh, Graham, I have a terrible problem,” Koriand’r sighs, turning her pretty, nice face to look at Gray. “My hair has been coming loose all day and it is uncomfortable. Do you think you could help me rebraid it?”

Koriand’r takes the fastening off her right braid, shaking her hair loose before Gray can get a good look to gauge how the braids are wrong. 

“Have you braided hair before?” Koriand’r asks. 

“No,” Gray admits. And then, because it would be good to impress her, he continues: “But I have received training in cosmetology and I understand the principles of braiding and hair styling.”

This was the correct thing to say because Koriand’r smiles. 

“Then this is a wonderful opportunity to put the principles into action,” Koriand’r says, and her smile is so bright and pretty that it is difficult to think. 

Gray nods, grasping her hair in his hands. It is so much softer and thicker and warmer than he could have imagined, almost but not quite like human hair. The scent of her jasmine shampoo fills his nose, and he cannot help but notice how the light reflects differently on the exposed skin of her back and shoulders than on human skin: there is an almost metallic shimmer, and Koriand’r’s skin seems to radiate heat in a way that is more intense than human skin: even a few inches away, he feels pleasantly warm.

Gray’s fingers are clumsy at first, and braiding is not quite as easy as the training made it seem, but is it okay because Koriand’r has difficulty too. She loudly sighs, then undoes the braid she is working on and begins again. 

“Braiding my own hair is so difficult,” Koriand’r says. “It is so good that you are willing to help me. Thank you, Graham.”

The bright feeling in Gray’s chest - the one that has been small and quiet, like an ember from a fire - flares. A warmth that not a physical warmth spreads through his body. An energy that he cannot quite identity twitches in his hands and feet, and it is less easy to keep his fingers steady.

Gray undoes the substandard section he had been working on and tries again. This time, his twisting and weaving is near-perfect, Koriand’r’s natural curls making the braiding unsmooth, but not unpretty - the shape of her hair makes the hairstyle even more aesthetically pleasing, Gray thinks, and he is careful to allow some curls to briefly separate from the strands to maximise this effect.

Eventually, Gray works his way to the bottom of Koriand’r’s hair and carefully seals the braid by twisting a soft, satin hair tie around it.

“How delightful!” Koriand’r exclaims. “Would you complete this side for me, too? Your skills are far greater than mine.” 

The warm, bright feeling in Gray’s chest burns even brighter and even warmer and his face tightens. 

“Yes,” Gray answers. 

Koriand’r changes her position, sitting at a ninety-degree angle away from him, and her upper body twisted toward the back of the bench so that he can easily reach the correct side of her head. 

This is good. He is good.

Everything is good. 

---

Richard comes to the garden bench, just as Gray finishes up the second braid. 

“It is lovely, Graham,” Koriand’r says, smiling at Gray. “You are a very good stylist. Thank you for helping me. Isn’t it nice, Dick?”

“Wow,” Richard replies. He is alone. “Gray, was it good to help Kori with her hair?”

“Yes, it was very good to help Koriand’r,” Gray answers.

“Oh, Graham, you know that you may call me Kori, don’t you?” Koriand’r says, reaching forward to gently ruffle his hair. “After all, we are very good friends, aren’t we?”

 The bright feeling gets even brighter, so bright and warm and good that Gray cannot bring himself to care how tight his face feels. He nods. 

Friends, he thinks. And not ‘friends’, but ‘good’ friends - ‘very good’, even! Social interaction is strange and difficult, but he must be doing well if Korian— if Kori has classed him as a very good friend. 

“I’d love to stay here a bit longer, but little Wade is getting very tired,” Richard says. “Lian and Roy have to go to the library. You and I have to head back to Gotham. It’s gonna be a busy afternoon for a lot of people. So we’re going to head to the gift shop soon. Is there anywhere you want to go before we head over there? Anywhere we haven’t visited already, I mean?”

Gray shakes his head. He would have asked to see the rabbits if Richard had not specified to answer with a new location.

“Okay,” Richard says, and then he looks around. “Nice garden they have here. You should see the garden Bruce has back home - there are tons of amazing flowers like this.”

“Bruce said that the gardens are not permitted,” Gray answers.

“Is that so?” Richard asks. 

“Yes, he said it yesterday morning,” Gray explains. “After we came back from the city. I am also not allowed to go in the ballroom or follow any orders from Jason.”

Richard doesn’t say anything at all, simply glancing at Miss Raven and Kori for a few seconds. Then he sighs heavily. 

“I’ll talk to Bruce when we get back,” he says. “C’mon. You’ll like where we’re going next.”
 
Richard leads them through the gardens to a single-storey building with big glass doors and a sign saying GIFT SHOP at the entrance. Gray can see that there are people already inside: as they draw closer, he can see Lian and Roy standing in front of a shelf near the door. 

When they enter the gift shop, it is— it is quite unlike any other space Gray has ever been in. The building is an open atrium, with shelves and tables featuring displays of items like toys and clothes and books and cups.

“You’ve done a really great job with the cover story today,” Richard lowers his voice as they enter. “I’m really proud of you for remembering all the details. You also behaved in a very kind and thoughtful way when you helped Wade, Gar and Rachel. And you were amazing back at the tower - I know that the tests we did weren’t very pleasant. This trip was a reward for you, but you’ve been so incredibly good that I think you deserve even more of a reward.”

“More of a reward?” Gray whispers. The bright feeling is an inferno, and the energy rippling through his body intensifies. He can’t help but bounce on balls of his feet slightly, twitching his fingers slightly. 

“That’s right. So what you’re gonna do is have a look around this shop and pick out something good to take home. You can pick anything in the store, but you can only pick one thing. If you have any trouble narrowing it down, I’ll help you. Okay?”

Gray nods. This will be a difficult task because there are so many good things here, but he begins his search near the area near the stuffed animals, which take up an entire wall. There are many stuffed animals here, in several different styles: some are more realistic, like the sloth with long fur and stiff cotton claws, and some are more cartoonish, like the little shark made out of terrycloth.

There are a few bad stuffed animals as he walks, too. There are some small, cartoonish white barn owls watching him and he carefully reaches out and turns them the other way. He does the same thing to the white owls on the keychain display nearby. Then he examines the rest of the birds: there is an entire shelving unit dedicated to penguins.

Gray walks and looks and looks and walks until he draws close to Linda and Wally, who are standing by a display of aquatic creatures. Wade is holding the stuffed cat which is almost as large as he is. 

“You think Irey would like one of these, too?” Linda asks, holding a stuffed turtle up. “We could get both colours - one for each twin.”

“I dunno,” Wally replies, with a sigh. “Kids are so hard to buy for these days.”

“Hm… maybe we should get one of the board games, then,” Linda suggests. “I think I saw some card games back there…”

“Maybe,” Wally says, thoughtfully. It’s at that moment Wade starts shifting in Wally’s harness, the stuffed cat falling to the floor. He begins to make a horrible, loud sound - not a shriek or a shout, but similar. It is uncomfortable and unpleasant, and then there is a gust of air and Wally and Wade are gone, leaving Linda standing with the stuffed turtle in her hand. She bends down, picking the stuffed cat up.

Gray’s stomach feels bad. He takes a step forward, so as to be within earshot of Linda. 

“Is Wade okay?” he asks. 

Linda glances up at him, then smiles. 

“Yeah, he’s fine,” she says. “He just needed a diaper change - babies don’t have much control over their bodily functions. He’ll be okay once his dad gets him cleaned up. Would you like your toy back?”

Gray takes the stuffed cat and cradles it gently. It was good for Wade to enjoy it, but it is even more good to have it back.

 “It must be very difficult to be a baby,” he says. It is good that he effectively skipped that period of development, because it would be bad for a tool to rely on other people so much. 

“I guess so,” Linda says. “Everything is so brand-new and there’s so much to learn. But Wade is doing a great job at learning it all. You’re doing a great job, too - Wally told me all about your debrief at lunch.”

The bright feeling in Gray’s chest keeps getting brighter. He nods, his face feeling tight again. 

“There are so many stuffed animals,” he says. 

“You seemed to really like the rabbits,” Linda says. She takes a few steps away from Gray, until she finds the shelving display she is looking for: this one contains animals from the petting zoo. “You want to buy a rabbit?”

The rabbits in the store vary: they are all nice and look soft and well-made. Some are more realistic, and some are less so. All of them are good.

“No,” Gray says. “I already have a rabbit at home.”

“You could have two rabbits,” Linda suggests. 

Gray shakes his head. 

No, That would be bad. He already has a rabbit - a pleasant, old, worn, stuffed rabbit. It would be bad to have a perfect, new rabbit next to it. It would be bad because — because the new rabbit will be better and everybody will like it more. And that would be bad for the old rabbit, which is — it’s imperfect, but it is okay like that. It is good like that. And it should not feel bad because the other rabbit is better and more perfect and more likeable.

“Well, what about…” Linda scans the shelf. “The pony was good, right? Maybe you could have a stuffed pony.”

Gray considers this. He doesn’t know what colour Ric— their mother’s childhood horses were. 

“I don’t know,” he says. He should ask Richard for more details.

Wally zaps back into existence beside Gray, a much less distressed Wade strapped to his chest. Wade makes a burbling greeting noise and shakes a handheld rattle and laughs. Since Wade does not know language yet, he cannot be laughing at Gray’s inability to choose correctly. He must be laughing at the rattle. 

“Ooh, picking out a reward, huh?” Wally holds up a semi-realistic stuffed cheetah. “How about a natural speedster? These guys can run up to ninety miles per hour in just three seconds.”

“I don’t know,” Gray says. “I did not see the cheetahs today.”

“Hm…” Wally strokes his chin. “Maybe the others will have some ideas…”

In the end, Wally draws the Titans together with a cry of ‘Titans together!”, briefly explaining the problem before requesting suggestions.

“You could get a bat,” Miss Raven suggests. “They are very cute, and your family has a strong bat theme.”

Gray shakes his head. Bats are like Batman and Batman is— it would be hard to relax with a bat in the room.

“No rabbits?” Gar frowns. “Huh. Well, I don’t know what to say. Uh… you liked the llamas, right? Those are cool.”

Gray considers this, then shakes his head. It is not a bad idea, but it is not the perfect idea.

“Penguins!” Lian grins. “Dad, tell him - penguins are the best!” 

“Penguins are the best,” Roy nods. “Or maybe a book about penguins - Dick said you do a lot of reading.”

Gray looks at the book shelf, which contains various books, board games, puzzles and notebooks. 

“I don’t know,” he says. Most of the penguin toys here are for the penguins that live in cold places, and it would be bad to keep his room cold. 

“I rea— I heard that you’re good at jigsaw puzzles, so maybe you could get one,” Linda suggests. 

“How interesting,” Kori says. “Dick doesn’t like puzzles, but if you enjoy them… oh, I think I can see a rabbit puzzle on the shelf behind you.”

Gray grabs the box Kori points out and examines it. One thousand pieces. It will be more difficult than the puzzle he did with Tim, which had around two hundred pieces.

“Seriously?” Richard asks, then he sighs. “Well, if you like it, let’s get it.” 

Richard takes the box from Gray and heads to the counter. After he pays, Richard directs Gray to expel waste again before they say good-bye to everybody and head back to the car. Lian and Roy also come to the parking lot, Lian clutching a penguin plush almost as tall as she is. 

“Bye, Uncle Dick, Uncle Gray!” 

Richard opens the car door for Gray. 

“Let’s get you home,” he says.

---

Blüdhaven is just as beautiful and interesting to look at on the way back to Titan’s Tower. The light looks a little bit different than it did in the morning and there are lots of people on the streets - small people, children, Gray identifies - and the traffic is a little slower.

“It’s the after-school rush,” Richard says. “We’ll be back soon.”

Other than that piece of information, Richard doesn’t speak very much. He simply drives, turning up the radio with a smile. 

The radio plays Creed and Matchbox Twenty and Nickelback and everything outside is interesting and nice. Richard takes a slightly different route through the city, taking them through a downtown area with lots of street art and the occasional glimpse of the sparky, ship-dotted sea.

On the way to the Tower, Gray counts five graffiti tags with Nightwing’s logo and two advertisements featuring the Titans and seven signs showing the words ‘Grayson Foundation’ and one billboard with Miranda Grayson-Lin's face on it.

“I told you, this is my city,” is all Richard says in reply. 

When they arrive at Titan’s Tower’s hidden underground parking lot, Richard directs Gray to go upstairs and pack his bag for going home. 

“I’ll be up in a minute,” Richard says. "Take the puzzle and put it in your bag. The stuffed cat and rabbit can go in there, too."

Gray does as directed, bringing the stuffed cat with him. Upstairs, Kori and Gar and Miss Raven are in the living room area with Vic and Donna. 

“Hey, man, how was the drive back?” Vic greets Gray with a smile and a wave. 

“It was efficient,” Gray answers.

"Was the zoo good?" Donna asks.

"Yes," Gray answers, and goes to the guest room. When he gets there, he finds the stuffed rabbit is lying on the bed, clean and dry, without a stain in sight.

The stuffed rabbit feels strange. It is soft, but it is soft in a slightly different way than it was before it got wet. It is an almost imperceptible difference, though, and so he sets the thought to one side. 

It is still a good stuffed rabbit, he thinks. It is still nice and comforting and familiar. It is good that he did not get the perfect and likeable rabbit.

Gray picks up the stuffed rabbit and holds it in the crook of his arm, like the stuffed cat, and begins to follow Richard's very clear instructions.

There is not much to pack. He only brought a few items. But he packs carefully and slowly, to savour the time he has in this nice, safe room in this nice, safe tower with these nice, safe people. 

It would be good to stay longer, Gray thinks. It will be good to do dance training with Cassandra and Steph, and it will be good to do literature training with Jason, and it will be good to meet Bat-cow with Damian, and it will be good to drink Alfred’s nice tea and interact with the stuffed animals and heated bedding in his bedroom, and it will be good to spend more time with Tim and Duke and play soccer with Luke Fox. 

But it would be good to stay here longer, too. 

Notes:

- The calming conversation between Kori, Rae and Gray is based on a real grounding technique where a person names five things they can see, four they can feel, three they can hear, two they can smell, and one they can taste.

- Since this is canon-but-a-step-to-the-left and Alfred is alive, I've named Dick's charity 'the Grayson Foundation', although I am wondering if I should have called it 'Haley's Foundation' instead...

Chapter 41: Return - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

When Gray returns to the living room with his duffel bag and the stuffed animals, Richard is already waiting with the other Titans. Wally is there, too, and when he glances in Gray’s direction, noticing his approach, he vanishes and reappears next to Gray.

“Hey, man, it was great to go to the zoo with you today. I know Linda and Wade had a great time, too.”

Gray nods. 

“We should return to the zoo,” he says. And then, just in case Wally misunderstands him and thinks he means right now (although that would also be good), he clarifies: “in the future.”

Wally blinks, and then he smiles. 

“You think so?” he asks. “Why’s that?”

“Yes, I think so. The zoo was good,” Gray explains. Then he adds: “Vic said that I might be permitted to go on more field trips with the Titans. We should go then. If I am already assisting the Titans, then it will be efficient to visit the zoo, too.”

“That’s very decisive,” Wally says, which is a strange thing to say because Gray is not allowed to make decisions. Wally nods. “Okay, I’ll talk to your dad, see what I can do. I gotta head back home in a sec, but it was nice to see you again.”

“Yes,” Gray says. Wally moves faster than Gray can comprehend, briefly grappling Gray in a non-combatative hold, lifting him in the air momentarily. Then Gray’s feet are on the ground and Wally is gone again — no, he’s standing near the stairwell, waving goodbye to everybody— and then he is gone for real this time and Gray continues to walk toward Richard, who is sitting on one of the couches beside Donna. 

Richard did not give any instructions for what to do next, so Gray simply stands and waits for Richard to acknowledge him, which he does after three seconds. 

“You all packed up?” Richard asks. 

Gray nods. 

“I can see you have your stuffed animals. Got your phone? Charger? Toothbrush? Clothes? Cup?”

“Cup?” Gray asks. 

“The cup you’ve been drinking out of here,” Richard explains, and Gray stares at him. “No? It should be on the draining board.” 

Gray moves so that he can see the kitchen sink. As Richard said, the cup is on the draining board, lid and cup separate. 

“I can take it to Bruce Wayne’s house?” 

“What a completely normal thing to say,” Richard’s smile seems strange and stiff for a moment. “Yeah, you should take it home. I bet Alfred will be so happy that you’ve got a cup that will keep your tea hot.”

“But then I will not have a cup here at Titan’s Tower and you said…“ Gray pauses. Richard only said that Gray should have access to Titan’s Tower in the future. He did not say anything about what he should have access to once here.

“Right, right,” RIchard says, understanding even though Gray did not explain fully. So he does have some kind of telepathic ability…

“We have so many cups,” Donna interjects, from beside Richard. “So many prototypes for merch. There’s a whole box of them with a different design. You can use one of those the next time you’re here. You could have one for home and one for here. Would that be good?”

“Yes,” Gray says. 

“And I also wanna send you home with some herbal tea, since you liked my berry tea so much,” Donna says, and she quickly rises and leads Gray to the kitchen, where she gives him the cup - slightly damp on the edges - and several boxes of tea. “Here, put these in your bag.”

Gray obeys, and by the time he has finished packing as Donna has directed, Richard and the other Titans have also come to the kitchen. 

“It was nice to meet you, Graham,” Kori smiles. “It will be good to see you again soon.”

“I’ve put my contact details in your phone,” Vic says. “I don’t need to sleep like a normal person, so you can contact me at any time of day or night if you have any questions or if you just w— if it would be good to talk.”

“Thanks for helping me at the zoo earlier,” Gar says. “C’mon, how about a goodbye hug?”

Gar does not wait for an answer before lunging at Gray with another non-combatative hold. It is not bad. And it is followed by similar non-combatative holds from Donna and Kori and they are not bad either. It would be better if they did not end so quickly, Gray thinks. They are warm and pleasant.

“I look forward to meeting you again.” Miss Raven says. 

“Yes,” Gray says. “We should drink hot chocolate again.”

“Alfred is either going to love me or hate me,” Richard mutters. Before Gray can figure out what that means, Richard continues. “Hey, by the way, how does your stomach feel? Any pain?”

Gray shakes his head. 

“Interesting,” Richard says. “If you do feel any stomach pain, you should let me know. That's an order, by the way. A standing order, continuing until I tell you otherwise. Okay?”

“Okay,” Gray agrees.

“Okay, time to say ‘bye’ to everybody,” Richard says. 

With that, Richard bids his friends goodbye, and Gray gives the Titans a small wave. Then Richard guides Gray back toward the hangar the Bat-plane is in, one warm hand on Gray’s shoulderblade. He is as talkative as usual as they prepare to leave Titan’s Tower. 

“Jason mentioned you know how to drive a lot of vehicles,” Richard comments, as he performs a short list of pre-flight checks. “Did those include aerial vehicles, like this one?”

“Yes,” Gray answers, buckling himself into his seat, then arranging the stuffed toys so they can look out of the window adequately. "But not hovercrafts. Doctor Burke forgot to set the download."

“Interesting,” Richard says. “Should I check which vehicle training simulations B has in the Cave? Maybe we'll have a hovercraft one. We'll definitely have a Bat-plane, if you'd like to try."

“Yes,” Gray answers. “If I complete the simulations I can be useful.”

“You don’t need to worry about being useful,” Richard says. “You’re fine as is. I meant more like ‘maybe it’ll be fun to play with B’s toys’. You and Jason aren't the only one who like to drive the Batmobile - Damian is always trying to drive it, and a couple years back, Tim secretly had another one built and snuck into the Young Justice HQ. I say ‘secretly’, Bruce caught on in within the week, but props to Tim for hiding it that long.”

“Tim is very intelligent,” Gray says. He knows this because it was in the Court training. Red Robin is extremely intelligent and an even more difficult detective than Batman. Suggested tactics: plant additional false evidence at assassination scenes to prevent garnering his attention. 

“That he is,” Richard agrees. He engages the engine and the Bat-plane slowly begins to rise, the hangar brightening as the roof opens. “You looking forward to seeing everybody at home again?”

“Yes,” Gray says. It will be good to be back at Bruce Wayne’s house. “When will I come back to Titan’s Tower?”

“Uh… I’m thinking a couple days around Halloween,” Richard says. “The safe— the cinema at Titan’s Tower is very secure, so you can hang out there and have a little slumber party on Halloween. I won’t be around on that specific night, but I bet the others would be very happy to spend Halloween watching movies with you, and I’m sure we can do some fun stuff on the days before and after.”

That sounds like a good plan. But…

“Why won’t you be around?” Gray asks. 

“Halloween is pretty busy in Gotham,” Richard answers. Gray shuts his eyes briefly as vehicle rises above the hangar opening, bright sunlight flooding the cockpit. “Batman usually needs my help.”

“Should I help Batman, too?”

Richard presses his lips together so that they briefly vanish. Below them, Blüdhaven sprawls across islands and coastlines. It is very beautiful. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Richard says, steering the Bat-plane north-north-west. Gray scans the beaches and the islets below until he spots it: the zoo, perched on a rocky hill on the mainland. “I’ll help Bruce and you can have fun. We can talk about it more later.”

Gray nods. He presses the stuffed rabbit and cat against the window so that they can see the view, too. The waters and the hills and the cliffs and the ships, all sweeping away in a blur of colour as the Bat-plane soars forward.

It is good.

---

There is a figure waiting in the Cave when they arrive. Gray knows it immediately. 

Bruce. 

He is dressed in Batman’s armour, except for the cowl. He is standing with his arms crossed, looking directly at the Bat-plane as Richard lands it. Gray cannot tell his facial expression from this distance, although even if Gray did have his optical implants, he probably still would not be able to tell Bruce’s expression. Bruce nearly always looks angry, even when he says that he does not feel angry.

There is a familiar, unpleasant feeling in Gray’s stomach.

“My stomach hurts,” Gray says. He hopes that it is not because of the solid food he ate. The chili and the shakshuka and the funnel cake were really good. And then he remembers: there was cheese on the fries. Cheese is a dairy product, like yogurt is. “Maybe it was the cheese.”

“Maybe,” Richard says, and there is a jolting feeling as they touch down on the landing pad. “That’s why you gotta tell me when your stomach feels bad, then we can work it out. Well done for remembering that, by the way.” Richard begins flicking various switches and buttons, powering the Bat-plane off. “Uh, and just for clarification, you don’t always have to physically find me to tell me, you can send a text message instead. And you should let me know when your stomach feels better, too.”

“Okay,” Gray says. He clutches the stuffed toys closer to his body. There is nothing nice for them to look at in this cold, dark Cave. 

Richard completes his post-flight tasks too quickly and leads Gray out of the plane. Richard goes toward Bruce.

“Hey, B,” Richard says. 

“Welcome back,” Bruce says. He looks at Gray. “You have a new stuffed animal.”

Gray nods. Bruce’s Batman boots have thick, rubber-like soles. More than an inch thick, Gray thinks. Is it for shock absorption or to make Batman taller and scarier?

“Who gave you the stuffed animal?” Richard asks, as though he doesn’t know. 

“Donna,” Gray whispers. 

Nothing more is said for nearly five seconds. 

“Tell me about your trip to Blüdhaven,” Bruce orders. “Was it good?”

Gray does not know what to say. What would be relevant for Bruce to know?

“There were tests involving my… involving the cranial informational storage devices,” Gray says. “Cyborg trained me in chess. There… there was a field exercise, where Richard taught me about our cover story and I helped to train Wade West in linguistics. It was good.”

There is silence for approximately three seconds.

“How about telling Bruce about the rabbits?” Richard prompts. “Those were really good, right?”

“The rabbits were good,” Gray agrees. “The zookeeper trained me in angora rabbit handling.”

Bruce makes a negative-sounding noise.

It would be good if this debrief were over soon. The ground under Gray’s feet is solid and there is a small amount of dust. Gray tries not to scuff the floor, tries hard not to move or make noise or draw negative attention from his master. It is hard.

“And we did some cooking together, too,” Richard adds. “Gray was a real help in the kitchen. And we found some foods he li— foods that are good for him. You wanna tell Bruce about that?"

Richard nudges Gray with his elbow. He is no longer speaking normally, but very quietly, almost a whisper, and his tone of voice is more similar to the way he spoke to Wade than his normal speech patterns toward Gray.

“I can’t want anything,” Gray reminds Richard. “I lack the capacity. I assisted you in cooking shakshuka.”

“Okay,” Richard says, although he does not sound as positive as he normally does. “Maybe you could go upstairs and put your things away. Then find Cass and tell her all about your trip to Blüdhaven.”

Gray nods. That would be good. He must tell Cassandra about all of the funs he had. Maybe Cassandra would like the rabbits, too. Surely she would - nobody could not like them.

“And before Gray does that, Bruce, I just want to clarify something," Richard says, loudly. "See, we were talking earlier and it seems like Gray might’ve misunderstood something you said earlier. He thinks that he’s not allowed into the manor gardens.” 

“He needs to ask for permission, so that Alfred and I are aware of his location and can ensure appropriate countermeasures are in place, in case the... flock of birds see him," Bruce answers.

“Bullshit,” Richard says. He speaks quickly and rudely and his tone of voice is suddenly angry. “If he’s wearing the wristband and he’s got his cellphone, you know exactly where he is. The flock of birds is nocturnal, so as long as he only goes out in the day, it’s fine. You’re being unreasonable and you know it.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Bruce says. 

Gray squeezes the stuffed animals tighter. His stomach aches, his internal organs twisted and knotted like Kori’s braided hair. It would be better if he didn’t hear Richard’s angry voice at all. 

“I have as much say as you do,” Richard says, and then he pats Gray on the shoulder, suddenly speaking nicely again. “Gray, you can go upstairs now, and I’ll talk to you later.”

Gray immediately sprints to the vestibule where the stairs are, trying very hard not to hear Richard and Bruce’s voices rising in anger behind him, blurring and fading into endless echoes as the distance between he and they increases. The elevator is not at the bottom of the shaft, so Gray continues up the stairs rather than wait.

It does not make sense, he thinks. Richard and Bruce were being cordial, and than suddenly Richard wasn’t. Bruce was in control, and then he wasn’t. Gray has no instructions for when humans ignore a clear hierachy or behave strangely: when Wade failed to respond appropriately, there was a reason and appropriate response, but there is no obvious reason or course of action for Richard and Bruce’s fury. Gray did not do anything wrong, because he followed all instructions and prompts adequately. And yet Richard and Bruce are angry.

By the time Gray reaches the top of the staircase, he— he does not feel right. He has far higher stamina and endurance than any normal human being. He does not need to breathe and he has no heartbeat. And yet he— he does not feel right. His pace is slow, and as he walks into the study, there is a— there’s a sudden urge to suck in a lungful of air and his legs do not feel strong and his stomach hurts. 

He walks through the halls, tracing a familiar path back to safety. The stuffed animals and Gray’s luggage can go upstairs and then he can find Cassandra and— and everything will be okay.

It will be okay. 

It will be okay. 

The words repeat in his head and— and after a minute or two of walking slowly and thinking the words very hard, the bad feeling begins to pass. Everything really will be okay. Richard was angry, but he was also nice to Gray. And even though Bruce was also angry, neither of them hit Gray and he was not punished in any way.

There is no option for everything to not be okay, because he will do dance training with Cassandra and Steph and he will meet Bat-cow with Damian and he will study literature with Jason and he will play soccer with Luke and he will do the rabbit puzzle with Tim and he will play games with Duke and he will go back to the Titans and have a Halloween slumber party and— and everything will be better than okay, it will be good. 

Someone else comes down the main staircase as Gray begins to ascend it. He glances up, and the horrible feeling in his stomach immediately lessens.

“Master Graham, you’ve returned,” Alfred says. He is smiling and not angry. Since he stops on the staircase, Gray does too. “Ah, and I see you have a new teddy friend with you. What’s it’s name?”

“Cat,” Gray says. 

Alfred is silent for a moment. 

“Of course,” he says. “I ought to have guessed that. Are you, by chance, going to your bedroom?”

“Yes,” Graham says. 

“Ah,” Alfred says. “We’re just putting the finishing touches on a rather special installation. Perhaps a detour to the kitchen is more appropriate. We can go to your room after dinner. I daresay you'll quite like what we have prepared for you."

Gray considers this. 

“Is Cassandra going to be in the kitchen, too?” he asks. “Richard instructed me to tell her about my time in Blüdhaven.”

“I believe she is in the city with Master Tim and Master Duke at present, but she will be back in time for dinner,” Alfred says. “Perhaps you could practice what you will tell her beforehand with me. And you could drink some nice, hot tea. Doesn’t that sound good?”

“Yes,” Gray says, and then, because he probably ought to make sure Alfred can make some space for the cup and the tea boxes in the kitchen, he continues: “the Titans gave me a lidded thermal cup and Donna gave me tea to take home.”

“Did she now?” Alfred murmurs. “Well, then. Come this way.”

And so Gray does. 

Notes:

For those who are interested, I have uploaded the first chapter of an AU where Gray first encounters the Bats while deployed by the Court. It is listed in the 'series' page for this work.

I am also working on part one of the ‘outside of Gray’s POV scenes’ collection of ficlets. If there are any specific scenes/conversations you are interested in, then please let me know.

Chapter 42: Changes - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Alfred leads Gray to the kitchen, where he directs Gray to place his bag onto a chair and to sit down at the kitchen table. Alfred puts a kettle of water on the stovetop. The kitchen looks very similar to how it did last time Gray was here, except the daylight outside reveals a well-maintained courtyard with wooden planters and various plants that Gray cannot recognise from this distance. The wooden trellises suggest that Solanum lycopersicum or Phaseolus vulgaris might be one of the plants.

“Do you have any laundry?” Alfred asks. “If you do, I can put them in the wash now and they’ll be ready for you to take upstairs by dinnertime.” 

Gray opens the bag and places his laundry into the plastic basket Alfred offers him. 

“And I see that you are wearing a different outfit today,” Alfred says. “Is that all cashmere?”

“I don’t know,” Gray says. 

“It should say the materials on the tags,” Alfred says. “May I?”

Gray nods. Alfred may do as he pleases to Gray, because he is a human being.

Alfred quickly tugs at the collar of Gray’s shirt and jacket, and the waistband of his pants, before stepping back. 

“Cashmere, bamboo silk, and cotton blends,” Alfred murmurs. “Do they feel good? Better than your previous clothes, that is?”

Gray nods. They feel very good.

“Then we shall arrange for you to have your own clothes with similar fabrics shortly,” Alfred says. “While Master Dick’s cast-offs are fine for now, you should have your own things.”

“What will happen to the old clothes?” Gray asks. 

“I suspect they’ll go back into storage,” Alfred says. “Or we might have them donated or recycled. It’s up to Master Dick, really.”

Storage would be best, Gray thinks, as Alfred heads into the adjoining laundry room. Although donation or recycling are okay as well. 

When Alfred returns, the kettle on the stove begins to whistle, and Alfred moves toward that area of the kitchen. 

“Donna gave me a special cup to keep the tea hot,” Gray says, as Alfred begins to pour water into a teapot. “She also gave me some tea to drink here.”

“Did she now?” Alfred asks. “I’ll give you a normal cup for now, and you can show me what she gave you in just a moment.”

This is what happens, Alfred pouring a stream of steaming liquid into a china teacup with a metal straw, stirring some sugar and milk into it. The tea is hot and good and tastes nice. He sends a text message to Richard to explain that his stomach feels better now. Then, when Gray has drunk about half of his cup, Alfred directs him to get the cup and tea out of the bag and show him and so he does. 

“This is very high quality,” Alfred says, examining the tea boxes. “She must be very fond of you indeed.” 

Fond is a term meaning affectionate or friendly towards. 

“Does that mean that Donna and I are friends?” Gray asks. “Vic and Linda and Kori all said that I am their friend now.”

“I think it does,” Alfred says. “I suspect that Master Dick’s other friends may also think of you as a friend. Who else did you meet at the Tower?”

“I met Gar and I met Miss Raven and I met Wally again and when we went to the zoo I met his son Wade and also Roy Harper and his daughter, Lian.”

“Miss Raven?” Alfred asks, raising one eyebrow. 

“That is what you called her and you are always correct,” Gray explains. 

“I see,” Alfred says. “I occupy a very particular position in this household, Master Graham. The way I refer to other people is not the same way you must necessarily refer to them. It is a very formal manner of speech which reflects my position of employment in this household. I suspect that, if Miss Raven thinks of you as a friend, she may feel more comfortable if you refer to her by her name. You ought to ask her the next time you meet.”

“Okay,” Gray says, and he files away that order to be completed later. 

“Now, you mentioned the zoo just now,” Alfred says, getting up from the table, his own teacup now empty. “Tell me about it. I am going to finish preparing dinner for everybody, but I am listening very carefully. Of course, you may prepare and drink more tea for yourself if you like - if you need help, then all you need to do is ask.”

Gray nods and obeys. It is nice to sit in this warm, comfortable kitchen and listen to the sounds of chopping and sizzling and stirring. It is nice when Alfred makes approving sounds and asks Gray questions about his trip. He is careful to omit information relating to expressing enjoyment and preferences, in case this is displeasing.

“I see that Princess Koriand’r made quite the impression. What did you do next?”

“Master Dick said what about my rice?” 

“And what do you think of chess? Is it an easy game or a difficult game? Would it be good to play again?”

There is a lot to talk about when he reaches the part about the petting zoo. His throat starts to feel sore on the inside and his voice starts to take on a slightly rough quality and his mouth feels dry, but there is so much to say.

“The rabbits sound as though they were very good,” Alfred says. “Master Graham, I think we should stop here for now, and you can tell me even more about the rabbits later. I shall make you some ginger and lemon tea - it sounds as though this may be the first time you have ever spoken at this length, and it can be rather uncomfortable to do so.”

Gray nods, although it would be better if he were permitted to continue talking about the rabbits. Alfred quickly makes a new hot drink with freshly grated ginger, a slice of lemon, and a heaped teaspoon of a transparent golden-brown gel. 

The concoction - the ginger and lemon tea - is good and it has a warming feeling inside his mouth and in his throat. 

“That would be the ginger, sir,” Alfred says, when Gray explains this. “Now, you mentioned eating chili, shakshuka and fruits with Tajín. Was it the warm sensation of the foods that was good, or was it something else?”

“The warm sensation,” Gray says. “There were many flavours and textures which were good, but the warm sensation was the most good thing.”

“I see,” Alfred says. “Today’s dinner is not quite as exciting, although I’m sure you will find it delicious. The main course is ratatouille, and you’ll have the option of several galettes, salads and a soupe à l’oignon. I trust that after your culinary adventures with the Titans, you’ll be amenable to tasting each dish.”

“Is that an order?” Gray asks. 

“It is not,” Alfred answers. “It is merely an expectation.”

That sounds like an order to Gray, but it is not wise to argue semantics. That is something only people do. He did that once with Doctor Stevens, who had been pleased and had told Doctor Griffith, who had not been pleased and Gray had been punished. 

Richard had not punished Gray for talking about word meanings at the zoo. It would be better if Richard were here. Then he could ask Richard and there would be clarification and there would definitely be no punishment.

Alfred continues to cook, but does not instruct Gray to help. Gray simply watches as vegetables become small and regularly-shaped under Alfred’s knife and doughs are shaped and pressed into pans and filled. Alfred cooks and and the sunlight streaming through the window changes and eventually Alfred looks up at the clock and smiles at Gray. 

“Dinner will be served shortly,” he says. “Would it be good to have a task to complete?”

“Yes,” Gray says. 

“I believe that Master Damian is in the art studio, painting,” Alfred says, and gives directions to the studio. It is on the ground floor, in the newest wing of the house, across the hall from the indoor pool. “I would like you to go to the studio and inform Damian that it is almost time to eat dinner. Then come to the dining room. You may leave your stuffed animals here.” 

Gray obeys. 

---

The studio is exactly where Alfred said it would be, and Damian is, as Alfred predicted, sitting in front of an easel in the centre of the room. The walls of the room are covered in pictures of various kinds. There are cabinets and a sink and a paper-drying rack and there are several doors leading off the studio. Damian glances up when he sees Gray enter. He is wearing a black apron, which has splatters of paint on it. 

“You have returned,” Damian says. He smiles a small, short smile. “Are you well? You do not usually come here.”

“Alfred sent me to tell you that dinner is almost ready,” Gray says.

“I see,” Damian says, setting his palette on a small table next to his stool. “I will go soon. I just need to clean my brushes.”

Gray turns back to the door, but before he can touch the handle, Damian speaks again. 

“Wait,” he says. “We can walk together.”

It is a clear order. Gray waits. Behind him, there is the sound of water running. 

“Have you ever drawn or painted before?” Damian asks. 

“No,” Gray answers.

“Maybe we could do that together.”

“Maybe,” Gray agrees. 

Damian is silent for a few seconds, then there is a small squeaking noise and the water stops. 

“We got off on the wrong foot,” Damian says. “I’m sorry about that.”

There is rustling. Something being set down. Cloth whispering, something being hung. Light footsteps coming Gray’s way, and then Damian is beside him, opening the door. He is no longer wearing his paint-splattered apron. Gray follows him down the hallway. 

“Richard is very important to me,” Damian says. “I was blinded by my fear for him. I should have known better: you are not the first clone I have ever met. I have been cloned myself. Several times, actually. Some of them were very nice. I should have considered that you might be very nice, too. I should have considered all of the evidence at hand instead of assuming the worst.”

Gray does not know what ‘the worst’ refers to. It does not matter, though, because Damian continues speaking. 

“You said in your text message that you liked the zoo. Here at the manor, we have a… well, I suppose it is a small zoo of our own. I thought that perhaps we could visit the animals tomorrow morning, before breakfast. Would that be good?”

“That would be good,” Gray agrees. “Is Bat-cow one of the animals?”

“Bat-cow is one of the animals,” Damian confirms, and Gray cannot help but bounce a little as he walks with Damian. 

“The cows at the zoo were good,” he tells Damian. “There were some Highland cows and they were very friendly. They permitted me to pet them for a long time.”

“They sound very pleasant,” Damian says, as they round the corner into the main hall. “Will you tell me about the other animals you met?”

Gray nods and begins explaining, in great detail, all of the animals he met. He continues to explain as they sit at their customary places at the dining table, and is careful to express just how good the rabbits were. Damian nods and seems pleased with his efforts, and when Gray cannot think of anything else to say, Damian smiles a much bigger smile than before. 

“It sounds as though the zoo was a good experience,” Damian says. 

“It was,” Gray says. “It was so good.”

“Gotham has a zoo, too,” Damian adds. “When Father has finished arranging everything, we could visit. I was planning to go with my friend, anyway. Perhaps you could come with us.” 

“Perhaps,” Gray agrees, and he barely manages to stop himself bouncing in his chair. That will be good. That will be very, very good.

He settles for flexing his hands instead, open and closed and open and closed. He stops quickly when Bruce enters the room just moments later.

“The others will not be joining us,” Bruce says. "Dinner will be just us three."

“Dick was supposed to spar with me this evening,” Damian says, frowning. “What—“

“He’s spending the night on Tim’s boat,” Bruce replies. “Duke and Cassandra are spending the night at their own residences. Tim will be at the Cave in time for patrol - I’m sure you can spar with him for a while if you ask nicely.”

Damian looks angry in Bruce’s direction.

“I told you this would happen,” he snarls, but does not say anything else. 

When Alfred enters the room a few moments later and sets out the food, he seems oddly stiff. 

“Master Damian, this galette is suitable for your diet,” he says. “Additionally, the soup has been made with an alcohol-free wine and a mushroom stock, rather than the traditional beef.” 

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Master Graham, I have some chilli flakes and some infused oil for you to add to your food, should you require a warming sensation,” Alfred sets a small jug - roughly thirty mililitres - filled with a bright red liquid and a spice shaker with small pieces of dried chilli pepper inside it. This is followed by another cup of milky tea. “And here is your tea. I will make some of your gifted tea inside your new cup for you to drink in your room.”

Gray immediately sticks his straw into the tea. It is hot and sweet and good.

“Master Bruce, on behalf of today’s contractors, I must thank you,” Alfred says, setting a steaming, bubbling ramekin in front of each person. “It isn’t every day they leave a job with leftover galettes and soup. At this rate, I might as well open a restaurant.”

Bruce grunts and starts to poke at the steaming ramekin in front of him, so Gray does the same. There is melted cheese and bread, and underneath that a brown substance with stringy pieces of vegetable. It smells savoury and is hot temperature-wise as it slides down his throat, hot enough to briefly make Gray’s mouth painful. 

It is good. 

The tomato galette is good and so is the sausage galette, too, and the salad that accompanies them tastes extremely green, but it is all room-temperature so Gray has to add a lot of chili flakes and infused oil and neither is actually very spicy. He uses the remainder of the chilli flake jar in the ratatouille - thinly sliced circles of vegetables Gray is unfamiliar with - some kind of squash? - and tomato sauce, and this time the chilli flakes feel hotter inside his mouth. He makes a note to ask Alfred about this later. 

“That’s a lot of chilli,” Bruce says, frowning. 

“Maybe he likes chilli, father,” Damian says. 

“I do not like anything,” Gray hastily corrects them. It may have been okay to like and dislike things at Titan's Tower, but not here. His stomach feels bad again. He— oh. There is milk in the tea. That— that might be it. He feels bad because he is drinking milk, because he forgot to tell Alfred that it is bad.

“Does your stomach feel all right?” Bruce asks. 

“Um…” Gray quickly notifies Richard of his pain. Richard has replied only with a thumbs-up emoji to his previous messages. “No, it feels bad.”

“It feels bad?” Bruce asks. “Did it feel bad earlier, or did it start just now?”

“Both. It felt like this earlier and it started just now. It is the milk.”

Bruce does not say anything else, staring at Gray without moving for a solid ten seconds. 

“Dick was right,” Damian mutters, and then he speaks to Gray. “If you feel like the milk is hurting your stomach, you do not need to drink it. You can just tell us that it is bad.”

Gray nods, and the tension melts from his body. It is good that Damian is here. 

He eats until he feels a ‘seven’ on the fullness scale he developed with Richard and then he waits silently for dismissal. 

---

Alfred leads Gray upstairs, but stops at the bedroom door. Gray quickly readjusts the bag strap on his shoulder, clutching his lidded cup tightly.

“I normally would not make any changes to your room while you are not here,” Alfred says. “Save for putting your laundered clothes away, that is. But it has become clear over the past week that your room did not suit your needs, and your overnight stay in Blüdhaven was the perfect opportunity to ensure that your room does suit your needs.”

Alfred opens the door, and it is immediately obvious what has changed. The bed is in the same position, facing the window, but the bed itself is completely different. It has tall posts attached to each corner that rise and rise and support two sets of  curtain rods. On the outer rods, heavy linen drapes have been hung to match the colour of the drapes on the windows. On the inner rods are light, partially transparent muslin drapes. There is a kind of ‘lid’ atop the curtain rods, made of the same linen as the outer drapes.

“I also took the liberty of changing the mattress. There is a small, hidden button set into the upper posts,” Alfred explains, showing the mechanism. “This will lower or raise the head of the bed, so that your body is well supported if you choose to lie upright.”

Gray nods, but his stomach feels strange again. It’s not— well, it is kind of bad, but the room is very nice and it is better now, but it is not the way it was supposed to be and it should be different, even though it is better now. He quickly texts Richard that his stomach doesn’t hurt any more, but that it doesn’t feel quite right either.

“I hope that your bed feels safe and more secure with these changes,” Alfred says. “Now, is there anything else I should change about your room?”

Gray surveys the room. It… it all seems okay and nice. But maybe he should think of something for Alfred to change, so that he does not change something unexpected again. 

“The bed,” he says. “The footrest should go against the window. Then I can see outside better if the mattress is all the way up. And I can see the sky first thing in the morning.”

“It shall be done,” Alfred says. “Although not tonight. By tomorrow, I am sure.”

Gray nods. Maybe that will be enough. 

“Now, I know you have had a very exciting few days. Perhaps you could get some rest,” Alfred says. “Which book are you reading now?”

“Um…” Gray picks a random book from the pile on his desk. Holidays and Celebrations. “This one.”

“Very good,” Alfred praises. “Then I shall leave you to it.”

With that, Alfred leaves. 

Gray carefully unpacks his items, placing his puzzle on his desk. He takes a photo of it and sends it to Tim. 

Graham (08:16 PM) 


When can we complete this puzzle? We should do it together. It was good when we completed the other puzzle together.

Tim responds almost instantly. 

Tim (08:17 PM) 


We can do it tomorrow. I’ll be at the Manor at ten.

There is also a text message from Damian, which arrived earlier.

Damian (07:39 PM) 

I will come to your room at 6AM. Alfred says that you have a shower in the mornings. Do not do this tomorrow. Get up, dress in old clothes and rubber boots, and complete any non-shower tasks you must perform. Then when we come back from the animals, you should have your shower and dress in nicer clothes. Then we can have breakfast. This is because the animals are nice, but taking care of them can be messy and I cannot go to school with dirt on my uniform. Send me an emoji if you understand, or ask me a question if you need more information. 

Gray sends an emoji of a cow. Then he dresses in his pyjamas and turns on the heated bedding and begins to read his book, playing music on his WaynePlaya. Various artists echo through the room: Yiruma and Il Divo and Rihanna and many more besides. Gray carefully arranges the stuffed animals so that they can hear him reading the information and he adjusts the drapes so that he can read using the light in the room. The muslin drapes allow light in but still feel more secure than not having any drapes, which is good.

The book is about different communities across the world and the different celebrations they have throughout the year. Some are national holidays, while others are religious holidays. Some communities have calendars that do not line up with the international calendar, so it is hard to tell when a holiday may fall. Some are on the same day every year. They are all interesting and many sound fun to celebrate. There are usually special foods to be eaten or special activities to be completed. The ones that have gifts seem especially good. He reads about Holi and Saint Patrick’s Day and Christmas and Purim and Valentine’s Day and Easter and Hannukah and Eid al Fitr and Diwali and Children’s Day and Lunar New Year and—

There is a knock at the door. 

The time is eight forty-three. There is no normal precedent for someone to come to this room at this time. 

“Graham, are you there?” a voice asks.

Bruce. It is Bruce.

He should already know that Gray is here, because he commanded Gray to come here earlier, but he did not know that. Gray’s limbs and jaw feel tight, a bad feeling sinking through his abdomen.

“Yes,” Gray answers, because he has no choice but to respond. 

“May I come in?” Bruce responds. 

Gray does not know how to respond to this. Bruce is his master and owner and a human being and may do anything he pleases and does not require permission from Gray. Is he asking whether the room is safe and secure? Is he ordering Gray to open the door? 

Now that Gray thinks about it, he has never seen Bruce open any door other than the Batmobile door. Maybe he is asking Gray to open it for him. Gray stands and shuffles to the door and opens it for Bruce, standing aside as Bruce enters. 

“I haven’t been around much lately,” Bruce says. “I forgot to ask you whether you liked your room.”

“I am incapable of liking or disliking anything,” Gray says, before he can stop himself. He is lying, because he can like and dislike things, because he did it with the Titans and it was fine. But Bruce is not the Titans because he Batman and an Owl and Gray’s master and— and it would be bad for Gray to be found wanting and thrown away. It would be so bad.

“Okay,” Bruce says. He gestures at the bed. “Maybe we should sit down.”

Gray nods and obeys Bruce’s gestural orders. Bruce opens the muslin drapes and sits on the edge of Gray’s bed. Gray sits in the space  beside him, so close that Gray can feel Bruce’s body heat even though they are not touching. Bruce is wearing a pair of velvet slippers. Black, like the rest of his wardrobe. 

“I see that your bed has been changed. Is it good?” 
 
“Yes,” Gray whispers. The nails of his toes are the same greyish colour as those of his hands. It would be better if he were wearing his slippers, too. And his bathrobe. And— and more soft, warm things. The carpet under his feet is soft but not warm.

Bruce is silent for five excruciatingly long seconds. Gray digs his fingers into the slippery-soft fabric of his pyjama pants and wishes his stuffed animals were a little closer. It would be bad to reach for them now and potentially displease Bruce.

“I’m not very good at this,” Bruce says, slowly exhaling. “I often struggle to communicate. I’ve been reminded of that a few times over the last two days. And I’ve also been reminded that I may not have explained the current situation to you very well. I’m… sorry for that.”

Bruce Wayne’s children and butler have apologised to Gray, but not Bruce himself. There were no instructions for what to do when a master apologises.

Gray grips the fabric tighter. His stomach feels bad. 

Oh— there’s an order he must fulfil. Tell Richard about the stomachache. Gray tears his eyes from the floor. His phone is lying on the nightstand, next to his lidded cup, and it’s very close to the stuffed cat. If he takes the stuffed cat at the same time as he takes the phone, Bruce may think it is all part of the same instruction and maybe he will not be angry. 

Bruce is silent as Gray completes this task, nestling the cat into the crook of his arm as he sends the necessary message to Richard. He simply looks at the phone in Gray’s hand as he types. 

“Everything is so new and strange here, isn’t it?” Bruce says, when Gray sets the phone aside. He speaks in a soft and quiet tone of voice. He does not mention the cat. Good. “I wonder if you feel a little anxious or a little scared sometimes.”

“I do not have feelings,” Gray reminds him. He has physiological reactions to stimuli, but no feelings. He was not made for them.

“Of course, I forgot,” Bruce says. He is silent again, this time for only two seconds. “I came here tonight to make sure that you understood your place in this household, and your ongoing mission. Can you tell me what your place in this household is, and what your ongoing mission is?”

Finally, an easy question from Bruce. Gray’s legs almost kick themselves out of the goodness of knowing the correct answer, and he barely manages to stop them.

“I am your possession,” Gray says, hoping Bruce did not notice the slight jerking of his legs. They do not move now that he is thinking very hard about not moving. “I am to obey you.”

Bruce is silent. 

“I see,” he says, but he does not sound positive. “Graham, when you are speaking to someone, it is customary to look at them. I would like you to look at me when I am speaking with you. You do not need to make direct eye contact: if it is difficult to look at my face, you may prefer to look at my eyebrows, hair or ears instead.”

That is a clear order. It is difficult to make direct eye contact with a displeased Bruce, so Gray looks at his left ear so that he can see the cityscape behind it. 

“Thank you,” Bruce says. “I would like to address a misunderstanding.”

That does not sound good. 

“The Court gave you to me, and so from that perspective you might be considered my possession,” Bruce says. “But I am a very wealthy man. I own a lot of possessions. If I need something to be done for me, I have friends I can ask and I have employees to assist me. Employees like Alfred, for example. Bruce Wayne has no need for a Talon.”

Gray’s stomachache becomes more intense and he digs his fingers into the cat’s fur.

“I… I could be a possession of Batman,” he whispers. "I could help you when you're him."

“I'm not so sure about that,” Bruce says. “I fund the Justice League. I have mentored some of the greatest heroes in the world: heroes like Nightwing. I have allies to assist me, like Oracle and Superman. Batman has no need for a Talon either.”

Gray does not dare to breathe or blink. He— this— it’s bad. It is so bad. He almost does not feel it when Bruce lifts his hands from his knees and holds them gently.

“I don’t need a Talon, but I do need you,” Bruce says. “It is very, very important to me that you are here. Listen carefully, Graham.”

Notes:

I realised after uploading the last chapter that I messed up Gray’s internal narration a bit. Early in the story, Gray heard Alfred (who is ‘always right’) call Raven ‘Miss Raven’ and I had intended to have him continue to call her that until told otherwise. But in the last story arc I got a bit mixed up and accidentally used ‘Miss Rachel’ instead. I’ve gone back and corrected that - sorry for any confusion!

Also, for anybody interested, the first two chapters of the alternate POV version of this fic has now been uploaded - there were so many requests for so many different scenes, I thought the easiest thing to do would be to just do the entire story. Again, this is listed under the same series as this fic, the name is ‘echoes’.

Chapter 43: Instructions - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

This is a shorter chapter than usual, owing to a busier schedule than normal. I hope to have another chapter uploaded later in May.

Also, totally minor change coming: I will be going back through the story in the coming weeks to change Cassandra and Stephanie's mentioned hero names to 'Batgirl' - at the time of writing the 'JL testing' chapters, I was not aware that they were sharing the mantle, and since then have completely forgotten to change it.

Bruce has given a direct order, and Gray is very good at following orders even if Bruce’s words don’t make any sense - there is no Graham without Talon because Graham is just a mask for the Gray Son to wear in public. Maybe Bruce will start to make sense shortly. 

Gray waits.

Bruce’s fingers are warm and callused, and he slowly rubs Gray’s knuckles with his thumbs. His facial expression does not seem to change, but his mouth tenses and untenses and he takes a deep breath, and Gray tries to keep half of his attention on the sky behind Bruce’s head because the sun is starting to set.

“How many children do I have, Graham?” Bruce asks, after seven extremely long seconds. “Name them for me, please.”

Oh. So Bruce is not going to start to make sense. Is this going to be like when the doctors gave him contradictory instructions? It did not happen frequently, but it was bad when it did happen because it meant that everything Gray did was incorrect.

A heavy feeling settles in Gray’s stomach. If he does the incorrect thing here, Bruce may punish him. He may even punish the stuffed animals this time. 

Gray clears his throat and tries very hard to do the correct thing.

“You have three adoptive sons, who are Richard Grayson, Jason Todd, and Tim Drake. You have one biological son, who is Damian Al Ghul-Wayne. You have one foster son, who is Duke Thomas. You have one adoptive daughter, who is Cassandra Wayne.”

“You have an excellent memory,” Bruce says. “How many of those children live with me?”

Gray hesitates. 

“Um… Richard lives in Blüdhaven so he cannot live with you,” he says. “And Jason never comes to dinner, so he does not live here either.”

Bruce nods. 

“Very good observations,” he says. “Only Damian lives with me full-time. The others have other residences they spend significant amounts of time at. Cassandra lives in Burnside, Tim in one of the waterfront districts, and Duke spends most of his time in the Narrows. I’m sure they’ll be happy to tell you more if you ask them.” 

Gray waits for Bruce to get to the point. The very important point where Gray has a purpose and a reason and clear, unambiguous instructions.

“I love my children,” Bruce says. “I love being a father. I grew up in this house. It was vast and empty and silent after my parents died. I thought it would stay that way forever. But fostering Dick brought such joy to this house - joy that was sorely lacking in my life. All of my children have brought me joy. They are more important to me than anything else in this world, even my own life.”

Gray watches Bruce carefully. His facial expression is intensely unreadable, but his voice is even and his words are clear. His rhythm of speech is slow and deliberate.

“I have a very special task for you,” Bruce says. “This task is more important than any task you have ever been given before. It supersedes every single instruction that has been issued to you at any point in your existence, except for those I have already given you. Do you understand?”

Gray nods.

A special task sounds good. His legs move slightly of their own accord.

“Your task is to be my son,” Bruce says. “Just like in the cover story. Oracle is drawing up legal documents for us as we speak. Your task — your only task, even if other Owls try to issue orders to you — is to be my son.”

Gray’s stomach drops, heavier than ever, still knotted painfully. His eyes drop, too, past Bruce’s smiling mouth and his black linen shoulder and his pink, warm hands wrapped around Gray’s cold, dead fingers.

He is not a son and never will be and never can be, only the Son and a weapon and a tool. He cannot be a familial son - admittedly he does not know the precise tasks this requires, but he does know that he is incapable of completing them because the book he read several days ago said that familial relationships require mutual love and care and he does not have any of those attributes and even if he did he is not a person and there is nothing to love or care for and this is not a task he is capable of. 

He is going to fail. 

Failing Bruce is going to be very, very bad.

“What’s the matter?” Bruce asks, and Gray remembers that he was supposed to look at Bruce’s face, so he quickly redirects his gaze. Bruce does not shout or punish him, but his face takes on a negative expression and he leans forward. His voice is less nice. “Graham, tell me what you’re thinking.”

It’s a direct order.

“I—“ Gray’s voice cracks and Bruce’s face begins to blur. He cannot tell the truth, but he cannot lie either. He settles for a half-truth: “I was not created for this task.”

“I know,” Bruce says. “But think about the tests you completed when you first came here. The results showed that if you were to be a Talon, it would be a waste of your potential.”

Gray stares at Bruce. 

His words make no sense. It would be better if Alfred or Richard or Jason were here. Maybe everything would make sense then. 

“Graham, you are very intelligent,” Bruce says, his voice quiet and soft. He is still staring at Gray, still rubbing his knuckles. “You are good at learning. And most of all, Graham, you are kind. Richard told me about your trip to the zoo and how you helped Wade.”

Gray’s stomach sinks, impossibly, even further. 

So Richard did tell Bruce about the trip. But maybe he forgot to tell Bruce about how bad Gray was. That would be good, because his actions were only bad in the context of Gotham and they were not in Gotham.

“You could do anything at all, Graham," Bruce says. "You could go to college for a while, like Dick, Tim, or Cassandra, or for ever. You could get a job, like Dick or Tim, or volunteer, like Duke and Damian. You could spend the rest of your existence simply having fun. Whatever you decide to do.” Bruce pauses. "Except for crime."

“I’m not allowed to make decisions,” Gray whispers. 

“You are now,” Bruce insists, and— and that is not right. It— the room feels strange, he feels strange, almost floating. 

It’s wrong.

All of it. It’s all wrong.

“I… I don’t have the required training to be a son,” Gray tries again.

“You’ll have all the training you need,” Bruce replies. 

Gray shakes his head. Bruce doesn’t understand at all. He doesn’t understand why this won’t work and that can only end poorly for Gray. 

“No?” Bruce asks, leaning forward. His facial expression has changed, his brows are low now, but his voice is soft.

No? Why would—?

Gray closes his eyes and wetness drips down his face.

He shook his head. A clear non-verbal refusal. 

Refusal is not permitted. It is never permitted.

“Shh,” Bruce hushes him, and his hand is on Gray's shoulder now. “Just breathe. Take a breath.” 

Instructions. Simple, clear instructions. 

Gray obeys. 

“Let it out,” Bruce instructs, and his hands shift, pressing the stuffed cat into Gray’s fingers. He squeezes it tightly, rhythmically, letting the fur texture brush against his skin time and time again. It helps to make his body less tight, less rigid. “Breathe in again. You’re fine. You’re going to be fine. Let it out slowly. Three… four… five, that’s it. In again, slowly, count to five in your head.”

Bruce gives commands like this for some time. His voice continues to be steady and strong and slow-paced.

Gray does not know how much time passes before Bruce presses a cloth against Gray’s eyes. 

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Bruce murmurs. He removes the cloth and the wetness seems to have stopped seeping from Gray’s eyes.

There’s a heavy sigh, warm air puffing against Gray’s cold, cold skin. 

“That was a lot of information at once,” Bruce says. “I know it’s a lot to process. We’ll talk more about the logistics of your new task at breakfast. For now, try to get some rest. Follow your usual night-time routine.”

That is contradictory, Gray thinks, and his eyes feel bad again. He is a Talon and he is not capable of rest.

There’s a shifting feeling underneath Gray and he cracks his eyes open to see Bruce’s black-clad legs and feet moving across the carpet. They stop at the doorway. 

“Goodnight, Graham,” Bruce says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

The door opens and closes, and then Bruce is gone and the entire room feels less— it feels less bad, but it does not feel good, either. 

It would be best if Gray were allowed to stay in the chest, he thinks. But that is not allowed, so the next best thing is to make the bed feel like the chest. 

Gray puts his cellphone on the bedside table and draws the canopies closed.

The bed is now dark, only a small line between drapes showing the faint glow from the bedside lamp. He wiggles his way back into his sheets and under the warm electric blanket and draws them up over his head. Then he reaches blindly for the stuffed animals and takes them under the safe cover of the blankets, too. 

It would have been a much easier task if he had his ocular implants. But Bruce does not want him to be a Talon and sons do not normally have night-vision and hi-res magnification capabilities.

It is not fair, Gray thinks, pressing his face into a pillow, his fingers tangled in the stuffed rabbit’s fur. It is not fair at all.

Chapter 44: Son - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

The final day of May still counts as 'later this month', right?

Apologies for the sudden wait. I had lots of writing planned for the last month, which… did not happen. Real life drop-kicked me in the face and I'm still clawing my way back. I hope to update this story at least once next month, and hopefully also one of the side-stories, too.

The bad feeling in Gray’s stomach does not go away. It stays and stays and for a time it gets worse and worse until it feels like something is rising in his throat and he swallows and swallows and digs his hands so far into the stuffed animal furs that the fabric starts to squeak, uncomfortably taut against his fingers. The music plays and plays and time passes and passes. The same thought echoes and echoes through his mind. 

This situation is bad. 

Bruce has a very poor understanding of Gray’s capabilities. 

Gray will inevitably fail to meet Bruce’s expectations. 

He cannot be downgraded back into a Talon again; Bruce made it clear that neither he nor Batman needed or wanted a Talon. 

There is only one thing that can result from failing to meet Bruce’s expectations.

He must succeed. 

But he cannot. It’s impossible. There is no possibility for success, and failure is not an option. 

He cannot obey and he cannot disobey and there is no clear path. There is a strange void in — in everything. It swallows tomorrow and the next day and the one after that and the whole future, all of it.

The thought repeats and repeats and the void gets bigger and bigger. There is a strange pressure in Gray’s head and his abdominal cavity. His extremities feel almost numb. There is a metallic taste in his mouth and his jaw hurts and his stomach hurts and—

BRR BRR 

BRR BRR

—and the cellphone on Gray’s bedside table buzzes loudly and Gray reaches blindly past the curtains which is hard to do but his fingers close around the phone anyway and it is still vibrating by the time he picks it up. 

There is a name on the screen, accompanied by a green button and a red. 

RICHARD is calling, the screen informs him. Gray accesses his technology training and taps the ‘answer’ button.

“Hey, Gray,” Richard’s voice is crackly through the phone speakers but still sounds soft and warm. That is good. Gray’s body feels less tense. “You sent me a text about your stomach hurting a while ago and I just wanted to check whether it still hurts or not.”

“Yes,” Gray answers. He sets the phone to speakerphone mode and lays it on a nearby pillow as he rearranges his blankets and stuffed animals for maximum softness. He grasps the rabbit and cat firmly in his hands, squeezing rhythmically. The softness of the toys and the flexing of his fingers make the tension in his shoulders feel better.

“Okay,” Richard says, and there’s a pause. “You’re in bed now, right?”

“Right.”

“I wonder if something happened before you went to bed. Maybe Bruce came to talk to you, even though I told him not to do that.”

Bruce sometimes follows Richard’s orders? 

Gray attempts to make sense of this information. Does this mean that Richard outranks Bruce in some circumstances? That does not make sense according to the hierarchy that is in place. 

“Gray?” Richard says. “Was I right? Did Bruce talk to you, is that what happened?”

“Yes,” Gray answers.

“What did Bruce say to you?”

Gray doesn’t know how to answer the question. Thinking about Bruce’s new orders and is bad but he cannot do anything else. Richard is nice and kind and helpful, and maybe he can— maybe there’s some kind of assistance he can give Gray. Some kind of training or clarity. Or maybe, if the hierachy doesn’t apply to Richard, then maybe he can talk to Bruce and revoke the difficult new order.

Yes, Gray thinks. That would be good. It would be good if Richard explained the situation to Bruce and Gray was re-designated correctly.

“He said that my designation has been changed,” Gray explains. “He said that I performed too well in the tests to remain as a Talon. He said that I have to be his son now.”

“Hm…” Richard is quiet for a moment, the only sound his static-y breathing. “Was that when your stomach started feeling bad?”

Gray shakes his head before remembering that Richard cannot see him. 

“No, it started earlier.” Gray thinks for a moment, then adds clarification because Richard always asks for clarification. “The soup at dinner had cheese. And I think the galettes had butter. And there was milk in the tea.”

There’s a short burst of static. 

“Right. The dairy,” Richard says. “We’ll talk about that later. I’ve asked Tim to run a few lactose intolerance tests with you tomorrow morning. Can I ask you something?”

“Yes," Gray answers. Reminding Richard of the hierachy seems to be pointless, because he always forgets and ignores it when Gray reminds him.

“Is the change in designation good?”

“No,” Gray says, and then he realises that maybe that was not a good thing to say. He is not supposed to disagree with his master. 

“Can you tell me why?” Richard asks.

“Um…” Gray thinks.

Is there a way to describe the bad change without incurring Richard’s wrath? He has been nice so far, but it was only because Gray’s poor performance with the Titans was not really poor at all by their parameters. 

“I don’t know,” Gray says, carefully not adding the words ‘how to say it’.

Richard hums.

“Could it be that it’s a big change? Or maybe you’re not feeling confident because you were originally trained for something else?” 

That’s very close to correct. Richard really is telepathic. 

That is very lucky. Gray doesn’t have to think bad things about his master’s orders, because Richard has thought them for him and in a way that isn’t bad or punishable. 

“Yes,” Gray says. Everything feels a little bit better now: his limbs, his fingers, his jaw, even his stomach. 

“I get it, it’s totally normal to feel like big changes are bad. I’ll make sure you get all the training you need. Brothers look out for each other, Gray, and I’m looking out for you. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“Okay,” Gray says. 

“One final-final question,” Richard says. “How does your stomach feel now?”

Gray considers this. There is still a tight sensation in his stomach, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. 

“It feels okay.”

“Any more pain?”

“No.”

“Great. Well, I gotta go: Two-Face and Penguin’s little bar brawl isn’t gonna break itself up. I’ll talk to you soon. Night, Gray.”

“Night, Richard,” Gray echoes, and then the line cuts off. 

Gray lets out a deep breath, one he had not even realised he had taken. 

It is good that he has a brother like Richard now, he thinks. It would have been better if he had been Richard’s brother earlier. Maybe the lab would have been warmer and kinder if he had been there, too. Maybe Richard would have looked out for him then, too. 

Wait. No, that’s not right. That would not be better at all. 

Gray’s lungs feel tight and constricted. 

That would have been worse. Significantly worse. Exponentially worse.

Richard would have died and it would have been Gray’s fault. 

It’s better that Richard became his brother now, Gray thinks, squeezing the stuffed animals again. If Gray is a very good brother - and if he is an even better son - then Richard will never know what it feels like to be frozen while conscious. He will never, ever feel the liquid in every single organ slowly freezing, solidifying blood lifting his nails from their beds, stretching open jagged patches of skin, his vision fragmenting before being blotted out by the the fluid inside his eyeballs crystallising and expanding and the tiny blood vessels of the sclera erupting, hearing warped and muffled and the unbearable coldness building and building into agony until his nerves eventually cease to transmit any information at all.

He will be very good. There is no other option. Otherwise Richard may attempt to look out for him and get punished in his stead.

Gray will somehow trick Bruce into thinking he is a good son. 

There must be a way to do it. There has to be, or he will fail, and he cannot fail. 

Gray carefully places his cellphone back on the bedside table and cranks up the music volume a few notches. He settles back into the blankets and pillows and closes his eyes and lets the crashing of drums and the low buzzing of an electric bass wash over him. 

He will succeed.

---

Morning comes slowly. 

When his alarm clock rings, Gray readies himself as instructed. He does not shower, but brushes his teeth and combs his hair. This morning, there is solid waste to expel. It is strange that humans have existed for so many thousands of years and yet not created a less unsanitary system of nutritional absorption. He looks in the wardrobe and finds a t-shirt and hoodie which both have the Wayne Enterprises logo and a pair of khaki pants with lots and lots of pockets. They seem to fit Damian’s stated parameters. There is also an old pair of rubber boots, which do not feel quite the correct size and sit strangely on his feet. He puts them all on and then looks for soft, comfortable clothes for later in the day: sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt with the words Black Canary.

After dressing, Gray makes his bed. He opens the curtains on the bed and the window and then arranges the stuffed animals such that they will be able to see the sun rising. Although today he is rising early enough that the sunrise has not yet appeared, the curtains on the bed are heavy and block out the light, so he will need to figure out a way to make sure he does not miss the sunrise in the future. He makes sure that the music player is plugged into its charger and sets it to play only music that he has added to the ‘favourite’ playlist, like Tim showed him the other day. Nearly every song he has heard so far is on that playlist, so he will definitely be back before the stuffed animals run out of music. 

Then he sits on the edge of the bed and waits for Damian to arrive. He waits for three minutes and ten seconds and quickly opens the door when there is a knocking sound at two minutes after six AM.

“You followed my instructions well,” Damian says. “Come. But be quiet - Father is sleeping.” 

It is hard to walk silently in the ill-fitting boots, but Gray manages to be quieter than Damian, who leads them to a door near the kitchen, which leads out of the manor. There is a basket filled with vegetables on the counter, which Damian takes.

“Titus and Alfred the Cat are in my room,” Damian says, at normal volume. “But the others are out in the woodland.” 

Woodlands are normally outside. 

Gray is not permitted outside. 

“Are we leaving the Manor?” he whispers. 

“We will remain in the grounds,” Damian says, opening the door. “It is only a ten-minute walk. Come.”

Gray does not. His shoulders feel tight.

“I am not permitted to go outside, even if it is part of the grounds,” he says. “Not unless Bruce or Alfred give permission.”

Damian’s brow creases as he looks up at Gray. 

“I see,” he says, stepping over the threshold. “Then it is a good thing I already have permission from them both. Caring for the animals is my job, since I brought them here. Only Ace is not my responsibility - he belongs to Father. Come.”

The tightness dissipates and Gray follows Damian out and into the cool air. It is similar to being out on the verandah at Titan’s Tower, except there is less wind and the air feels a little more humid. It is fairly dark outside, but there is just enough light to pick out nearby objects. The light has no obvious source.

Gray is careful to keep pace with Damian, walking a half-pace behind him. Damian does not speak much as they walk, but when he does, he does not seem to require an answer. That is good. Gray lacks the ability to say the correct answer.

“I did not like this place much when I first came here,” he says, as they head down a path lined with trees. “I lived in a hot, mountainous country before I lived in New Jersey. I thought it was very cold and that people were inhospitable.” Damian pauses. “I suppose that hasn’t changed much. But I have grown to enjoy Gotham. It’s my home.”

As they walk, something changes. It becomes easier to see - no, the strange light becomes brighter, and by the time they reach the woodlands, the sky overhead is starting to turn a pinkish-amber colour.

Damian leads Gray through a wooded path. It is strange: it is not completely unlike being indoors, and it is not completely unlike being outdoors. The sound here feels strange, too - almost muffled, and yet clear. There are many unexplained sounds, like rustling and cracking, but Damian does not seem affected at all and merely turns his head to address Gray when he stops at a particularly close noise. It would be bad if someone came to hurt Damian, Gray thinks, but Damian simply glances in the direction the close noise came from.

“The chipmunks and the squirrels will not bother us,” Damian says. “They are more afraid of us than we are of them. Maybe we can come back to the woods another time and observe them.”

Gray nods, and Damian continues to lead him onward. There is a strange and unpleasant smell in the air, and it seems to get stronger as they walk - it is the same smell that accompanied the cows at the petting zoo. When they emerge from the wooded path, into an area which has an outbuilding and what looks like a vast pasture, Damian speaks one more time. 

“We are almost there.” 

Gray follows Damian inside the fenced pasture which encloses the outbuilding. Damian walks through the open outbuilding door and beckons Gray to follow. There are a number of pens inside the outbuilding, which are open to the pasture area.

“I will prepare the food and water for the animals,” Damian says, leading Gray to a specific pen. “In the meantime, it seems that Bat-cow is awake already.”

Gray looks to where Damian points. There is a familiar brown-and-white shape inside the pen, just within arm’s reach of the pen fencing. He approaches cautiously and kneels next to the fence. 

“Hello,” Gray says. 

Bat-cow raises her head and looks at him, over her shoulder. There are streaks of mud coating her hindquarters. Her tail - a strange, small protuberance with a tuft of fur - twitches. Then there is a deep, loud sound — a sound that Bat-cow herself makes, Gray realises after a moment. 

It does not sound like ‘hello’. 

Gray clears his throat and tries again. 

“Hello?”

Bat-cow’s tail twitches again and she makes a huffing noise. And then there is a loud, unpleasant noise. It is not dissimilar to the chickens Gray saw at the petting zoo, and when he looks up, there is another animal which has entered another nearby pen, pressing itself up against the fencing to peer at him. When it sticks its head in the gap between the lower horizontal rungs, he can see that it is a Meleagris gallopavo. 

“Hello?” he tries, and the bird makes the same loud squawking noise again. Maybe it does not speak English, he thinks. He does not speak Bird, so Gray turns his attention to Bat-cow again. 

“May I pet you?” he asks. Bat-cow does not seem to understand the question, and there is no zookeeper here to tell him whether it is permissible to pet Bat-cow or not. 

The petting zoo was better than this, Gray thinks. Two animals is not much of a zoo. 

Gray rises to his feet and approaches Damian, who is refilling a trough with fresh water. Damian glances up as Gray approaches, even though Gray is sure that he made minimal noise.

“What animals live here?” he asks. 

“Bat-cow and Jerry the turkey are here right now,” Damian says. “Goliath sometimes spends his days here - I had thought he would be here today, but he is a dragon-bat and sometimes likes to stay in the woodlands with Wiggles, who is a dragon. We are also planning to build a special enclosure here for Monkey, but for now he is living at Gotham Zoo.”

“There are two animals here?” Gray asks. 

“I had anticipated three,” Damian replies. “Like I said, Goliath is unexpectedly not present. But I am sure you will meet him later.”

“Three animals is not a zoo.”

Damian frowns, but does not strike Gray. 

“How many animals is a zoo?” he asks, turning the water off. 

Gray considers this. 

“At least five,” he says. “And they should be different animals. And each animal should have friends of the same species.”

“That will be difficult,” Damian says. “Goliath is the last of his kind. But I agree: I think that we should have more animals here. I often rescue animals Father and I encounter as Batman and Robin. But Father often finds alternative homes for them. If we discuss this with Father, we may be able to convince him to let us care for more animals - he is eager to make you happy and will listen to you.” 

Gray shakes his head. 

“That is not true,” Gray whispers. “Bruce has ordered me to be a son. Arguing against him is not good - it will contravene his orders.” 

“It would not be arguing,” Damian says. “It would be persuading. Persuading fathers to loosen rules is a very important part of being a son. I should know - I have done this frequently since arriving here and Father still loves me.”

“But you are his real son,” Gray says. 

Damian makes direct eye contact with Gray, so he drops his gaze to the floor. 

“I might have agreed with you a few years ago,” Damian says. “But we are all his real sons. Blood relationships are not everything.”

Gray doesn’t know what to say. Damian’s words make sense: Bruce’s children - Damian and his siblings - are of course real. But Gray is not and should not be included outside of the context of the cover story. 

In the absence of anything to say, Gray does not say anything at all. It is clear that Damian, for all of his kindness and all of his experience as Bruce’s son, is not a good source of information for Gray’s newest task. He will need to find information from someone else: maybe Cassandra, who first brought up the idea of being a son at all. Or maybe Duke, who has much more recent experience of being a son than Gray’s other cover-story siblings. 

“Have you finished spending time with Bat-cow?” Damian asks. “I had expected you to stay with her a little longer.”

“I have finished,” Gray says. 

“Would you like to help me put the vegetable scraps and the dry feed out?” 

Gray nods. It would be best to finish this task quickly and return to the manor. Preparing for Bruce’s strange, vague task takes priority.

---

Although the water in the shower is hot and Gray wraps himself in the electric blanket once clothed, watching the sky outside as the sun finishes rising, there is an unpleasant, cold feeling in his core. The tea that Alfred left on the bedside table is still hot, and the unusual floral taste is good and reminds him of Donna’s friendly smile, but it does not help ease the coldness.

Alfred smiles when Gray opens the door, greeting him as usual. 

“Good morning, Master Graham. Did you rest well?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Master Damian mentioned that you assisted him at his menagerie this morning. Was that good?”

“It was adequate,” Gray mutters. 

“I see.” Alfred is silent for approximately one minute. “Master Graham, I can’t help but notice that you do not seem particularly talkative this morning. Is there a reason for that?”

“No,” Gray replies.

Alfred does not respond immediately. 

“I don’t know what I expected,” he says, and then sighs heavily. “Sit down. I shall bring your tea and breakfast forthwith.”

Gray’s feet feel like lead as he walks into the dining room. He can scarcely feel his hands when he slides into his seat, and although Bruce peers over his newspaper at him, it is much easier to look at the table instead. It is oak, he thinks, and the tree must have been fairly old because of the size and shape of the whorls in the wood. It has been varnished to a deep brown colour and the edges of the table have been carefully carved and polished smooth.

“Good morning,” Bruce says. His voice sounds unusually kind and positive. 

“Good morning.” Gray whispers. Human beings value reciprocation of greetings, and Bruce does not like to be reminded that Gray is not a human being,

“Did you have a good rest?”

“It was fine.”

“I understand. Last night must have been difficult. I’m sorry to have thrown so much information at you at once. But it was important to me that you understand what your position in this household is and what I expect from you.” 

Gray does not say anything. After a few moments, Alfred places a hot cup of milky tea and a plate containing several slices of toasted bread with some grilled vegetables, a fried egg, and a pile of strange, reddish, flat circles. It smells vaguely spicy and garlicky. There are some chili flakes scattered across the foods.

Gray briefly accesses his culinary training. The circles are a type of sausage. It could be sucuk, a type of beef sausage originating from Turkiyë.
He begins to eat. The food is pleasantly warm but it is hard to concentrate on the flavours while the coldness in his core remains and remains. 

Bruce eats as well, setting his newspaper down as he does so. Gray cannot see the headline. 

When Gray has finished eating the food on the plate and drinking the tea presented to him, he waits for dismissal. Unfortunately, Bruce decides to continue speaking instead. 

“What does being a son mean to you?” Bruce asks. 

Gray opens his mouth to say that he does not know, but that’s not completely true: Cassandra and Damian have given him some clues. So have the books he has read.

“Being a son means to be a male offspring of a person. Cassandra said that it involves having fun. And Damian—“ Gray pauses. Repeating Damian’s words might make Bruce displeased at him.

“What did Damian say?” Bruce presses, after a moment. 

“He said that it meant you letting us care for animals,” Gray says, choosing his words carefully to encompass the general meaning of Damian’s words, and none of the potentially displeasing details.

“I see. So he took you to his mini zoo this morning,” Bruce says. “Dick said something yesterday that had me thinking: would Damian’s zoo be improved with the addition of rabbits?”

“Yes,” Gray says, instantly. 

“I see,” is all Bruce says for approximately twenty seconds. “Can you think of anything else?”

Gray considers what Richard has told him about his— their— parents. 

“Being a son involves being loved and cared for by trusted individuals,” he manages. 

“Everything you’ve said to me so far is very good,” Bruce says. “Especially the last part.” He pauses. “Well done.”

Gray chances a glance at Bruce. His facial expression is positive, not unlike the photographs of Bruce’s public appearances at galas and charity events. 

“Being a son means that you are allowed to - and encouraged to - have fun. You are in a uniquely privileged position, in that I am able to provide a vast range of activities, educational opportunities and even vocational opportunities. I am able to do this to a far greater extent that almost anybody else on the planet. I would like to suggest that we begin your training by introducing you to different activities and events, which will eventually allow you to make an informed choice about what you would like to do. Does that sound like a good idea?”

Gray nods, his eyes fixed on Bruce’s ear just like yesterday. He can see the green trees outside. The leaves are moving in a breeze he cannot feel.

“Oracle has found an… an assistant, of sorts, to help you learn about being a person and adjusting to a civilian lifestyle. This assistant knows that you are the clone of Nightwing. She does not know that I am Batman, or any of the family’s identities. This assistant has significant experience working with… individuals who struggle to adjust to civilian life. She is not a doctor, although she has undergone medical training. You will meet with her regularly during my patrols and I would like a debrief after each session. I would like you to meet with her tomorrow evening, under the supervision of Oracle. Do you understand?”

Gray nods. 

“I will also schedule specific training sessions for you. These sessions will be delivered by myself, my allies, and other members of my family. These sessions will involve information relating to your cover story, such as the kind of public behaviour and etiquette I expect from you. They will also include emergency contingency plans. These will include situations linked to Batman, such as what you will be expected to do in the event of an Anti-Life outbreak, and situations linked to your civilian identity, such as what you should do in the event of a kidnapping.”

“But I am not alive and nobody can kidnap me,” Gray says. “I will not let them.”

“Graham, you are alive enough that Darkseid could harm you,” Bruce says, and he no longer looks or sounds kind. “A Talon of the Court might not be kidnappable, but Graham Grayson most certainly is, and he does not possess the skills necessary to fight back against potential kidnappers. That is final."

Bruce’s final words sound angry. Gray’s stomach feels bad again, but his cellphone is charging upstairs. Even though Gray did not hear his footsteps, Alfred’s wrinkled hand moves into Gray’s field of vision to take his plate, empty but smeared with a little oil and yolk, and his cutlery.

Alfred coughs softly, the sound loud in the sudden silence.

“I didn’t mean to sound negative, Gray,” Bruce says. “I… I apologise. It’s very important that you pay attention to the training and utilise it properly. Do you understand?”

Gray nods. The placemat in front of him is made of a slightly lighter-coloured wood than the table, maybe beech or ash.

“I’ll make sure you have a copy of your first weekly schedule before breakfast tomorrow. A physical copy and an electronic one,” Bruce says. He breathes out quickly. “I will see you at dinner. You are dismissed.”

As soon as Gray is sure that Alfred has moved sufficiently towards Bruce to avoid being inadvertently harmed by a sudden exit, he stands and walks as fast as he can out of the dining room and directly to his room. It is about quarter past eight by the time he closes the door behind him, which means that there are a little under two hours to wait until Tim arrives to do the puzzle. 

Gray climbs onto the bed, closing the drapes behind him, and sits as close to the window as he can until it is repositioned. It will be good if Bruce does not try to come to his room again, Gray thinks. He sends one text to Richard, as he was instructed to do, then plays more new music for the stuffed animals. The first song is from Cradle of Filth's discography.

The view from this window is always good, and Gray watches the islands that make up Gotham sparkle in the sunlight, little blobs sailing on the vast harbour waters and smaller dots whizzing over the wide bridge leading to the city. There are many people in Gotham - over six million, according to Gray's training, and there were many people in Blüdhaven, too. How many people are in the whole of New Jersey? He will have to ask later: maybe Alfred or Cyborg or Flash, since they know everything. 

Gray squints at the cityscape. Which part is Burnside, where Cassandra lives? Which part of the seafront is the district where Tim resides on his boat? And which area is the Narrows, where Duke spends his time? Gray’s geographical training included Gotham’s districts, but not the area surrounding Gotham. He saw a little of the city in the Bat-plane and on Jason’s motorcycle, but not enough. Without knowing the angle he is viewing the city at, knowing the districts is impossible.

It would be good to go into the city again, he thinks. Then he might know these things. 

For now, though, Gray leans forward and watches the world pass him by.

Chapter 45: Conversations - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

Hey all - apologies for the relative lack of updates on anything this month. I was not in a good mental space. But things are much better now.

This chapter was originally meant to cover the dance sesh with Steph and Cass, but Tim just kept wanting to investigate, and... yeah.

The two hours until Tim arrives are very long. Gray watches the city. There are many vehicle-dots passing over the bridges and there are several ship-dots passing slowly through the harbour, docking and sailing away. Maybe some of the dots are sailing or driving to Blüdhaven.

At quarter to nine, Gray sees a black car wind down the driveway to the gate in front of the house, then leave the grounds. This must be Alfred taking Damian to school (and hopefully Bruce to somewhere that is not here). 

Everything feels better after that. Gray allows his feet and fingers to bounce along to the rhythm of the music. Many songs fill the room, and there are so many different instruments and genres and languages and all of them are uniquely good. 

The music is so good - Sub-radio, Queen, MXFRUIT, Dvicio, and so many others - that the energy building in his body grows and grows and he simply cannot remain sitting on the bed. He finds himself walking, each pace matched to the rhythm. 

The energy does not dissipate. It builds further, higher, better. He nods his head and clicks his fingers and spins on his heels and at some  point — he does not remember when — his mouth joins in. It makes a brief humming noise, and then another, and another still, mimicking Phil Collins’ recorded tune. 

Doctor Griffith would have punished him for moving and making noise without permission, a small part of Gray reminds him. But there is no Doctor Griffith here now, and he is surrounded by objects existing well and bright sunshine and music that is very, very good. 

The humming becomes interspersed with minute vocalisations: a soft ‘ah’ or ‘dah’ where it matches the music well, and it becomes a challenge to match the rhythm and pitch and there starts to be a kind of— a kind of resonance, when he says a word like the musician does and the— the tone and the pitch are just right and the sound combines and becomes more. And sometimes he’s a slightly off, but it’s good in a different way. 

Some of the songs have repetitive parts, which is good because then he can use the correct words, but it’s still good when the songs are not repetitive because it’s still good to move in conjunction with the music and make the humming noise.

It is a pity that the other objects in this room cannot enjoy the music the same way he does, by moving of their own accord or vocalising. But they are here with him, and they are surely enjoying the music too, and Gray lets himself enjoy it a little bit more in their stead.

Gray bounces on his toes and between wrist rotations and heel-spins carefully makes sure that all of the especially good songs (which is all of them) are given the little heart on the music player screen. His face is so tight it aches. His throat aches a little, too - using his voice like this is unusual, but it’s good. It’s all so good. 

It is good that Gray does not tire, because the songs are so good and enjoying them is so much more good — good ceases to be an applicable concept, but he can’t quite think of a better word while keeping his fingers moving to the complex beat of an Owl City song which has a comparatively leisurely melody, and then he’s distracted by trying to correctly match the lyrics of something sung by Crystal Kay. He does not even have time to check the time. 

At one point, Gray picks up the stuffed rabbit, manipulating its limbs as he tries to match the notes of a Matteo Bocelli song. He thinks he performs this self-imposed task well, although he cannot hold each note as long as the recording can. As the last notes fade away, there is a loud clapping that is unexpected and does not match the niceness of the song.

Several things happen almost instantaneously:

Gray takes a half-step toward the music player to stop the noise. He realises that the clapping noise is not coming from the music player. He catches a glimpse of socked feet and an open door in the corner of his vision. Tim says a single word from the doorway, and Gray almost (but not quite) drops the stuffed rabbit.

“Bravo,” Tim smiles, and he stops clapping. “I hope I didn’t startle you. I knocked, but I don’t think you heard me.”

Tim doesn’t seem angry, but Gray is not very good at reading facial expressions. He is not quite sure what Tim would look or sound like if he were angry. Part of him does not want to be sure: it would be better if Tim were always pleased with him.

“I— I am permitted to do this,” Gray explains, squeezing the stuffed rabbit’s arms. His voice seems to have an unusual weak quality, but the softness of its fur is grounding. “I am permitted to move and speak of my own volition.”

“I know, I was there when Bruce told you,” Tim says, sounding positive. “It’s nice to see you enjoying something. The music player is good, right?”

“Yes, it’s very good,” Gray says, and then: “Are sons supposed to enjoy things?”

Tim blinks, and then he smiles a little wider. 

“Sons are definitely supposed to enjoy things,” he says. “So you’re doing exactly the right thing by enjoying the music. Is there anything else you’ve found that you enjoy?”

“Looking out of the window,” Gray says immediately.

“We can totally do that,” Tim says, after a momentary pause. “Anything else?”

“Rabbits,” Gray says. “They are soft and nice. Real rabbits, not stuffed rabbits. But the stuffed rabbit is also soft and nice.”

“Rabbits might have to wait a little longer,” Tim says, rubbing his lip with his thumb. He tilts his head. “You had a rabbit puzzle you wanted to do with me, right? Does the stuffed rabbit want to do it with us as well?”

“No, it is not capable of wanting anything,” Gray says. He holds it up briefly so that Tim can see, gesturing at the head. “It can’t think. Look, it does not have a brain, only —“ Gray consults his materials training “— a mixture of fibres, such as polyester, cotton or wool.”

Gray places the toy on his bed in the correct location and position, then stops the music on the player. 

“Jason said that you kept the music on for the toys when you went out with him,” Tim says. “Do you want to do the same thing now?”

“Yes, but it would be better to listen to music when we do the puzzle.”

“We could have music on when we do the puzzle,” Tim says. “If we go downstairs to the family room, we can put some music on the TV. What do you think?”

There is only one thing Gray can think of right now.

“Where is Bruce?” Gray asks. It would be bad if he is present when they do the puzzle. Maybe it would be better to do the puzzle here, where Bruce rarely comes.

“He’s at Wayne Enterprises this morning,” Tim says. “And in the afternoon he’s got a lot of charity stuff. He’s catching up on all his rescheduled appointments from the last week, basically.”

It seems strange that Bruce rescheduled so many appointments last week. Gray makes a mental note to investigate this: any insight into Bruce will help him succeed in his newest task.

“Okay,” Gray says. 

“Okay. We’re going to the family room,” Tim says, although he gives this instruction with the same tone of voice as asking a question.

Gray quickly sets the music back on for the stuffed animals and fetches the puzzle box, ready to follow Tim downstairs. 

“How does your mouth feel, by the way?” Tim asks. “Still the same?”

“Yes,” Gray says. “But maybe a little more green than it was.”

“A little more, huh?” Tim mutters. He leads them to the kitchen first, where Alfred is peeling vegetables at the island.

“Your refreshments, sirs,” Alfred says, nodding. There is a small cart containing a tray with Gray’s thermal cup and several cans labelled ‘Zesti’. There is another tray on the lower shelf, and this one features a bowl containing a small number of Citrus unshiu or Citrus reticulata and several vessels containing items such as popcorn, nuts, small bowls with different-coloured sauces, and various vegetables cut into sticks. 

“Thanks,” Tim says, and he drags the cart to the lounge room they had used earlier in the week, when Damian and Duke joined them. It would be good if Damian and Duke joined them again today. 

“They’re both at school right now,” Tim says, when Gray explains this. He parks the cart near the couch and begins clearing magazines and coasters from the coffee table, stacking them on a nearby side table. “Damian will come back here after, but Duke is going to stay with his family tonight - his mom is out of the hospital for a couple days. I think he’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe the day after.”

Duke is spending time with his mother. Maybe he will be able to explain being a son to Gray.

“Do sons always stay with their families?”

“Uh… mostly, yeah. It’s a little complicated. It depends on the family and the situation. I don’t know exactly what Duke’s situation is - we’re kind of more work friends, you know. But I’m sure he’ll explain it to you if you ask him nicely.” Tim pauses. “In my case, my parents worked overseas a lot, so we didn’t stay together all that often. And then when they came back, I went to boarding school for a while. When Dad got out of hospital we lived together and spent a lot of time together. And now… I guess it’s complicated. I don’t live here with Bruce, but we hang out a lot. It’s mostly vigilante stuff, though, unless it’s Wayne Enterprises stuff.”

Gray had almost forgotten that Tim is also Bruce’s adoptive son. Maybe he will have some unique, helpful insight. It is a difficult question to word, though.

“How do you do it?” Gray asks. 

“Do what?” Tim picks up a remote and turns the TV on. He glances at Gray, then pats part of the couch. “C’mon, sit down.”

“Be Bruce’s son,” Gray clarifies, obeying Tim’s order. He places the puzzle box on the table. It is shrink-wrapped, so he begins tugging at the looser but stronger plastic at the corners in order to produce a weak spot elsewhere.

“He’s not that bad,” Tim laughs, though he doesn’t hit Gray. He presses some buttons on the remote, bringing up a video playing app. “He’s a nice guy, really. He’s just been through a lot and he expresses his feelings really badly. When you get to know him better, I bet you’ll like him a lot.”

Impossible, Gray thinks. It also doesn’t answer Gray’s question. 

“What does being Bruce’s son entail?” Gray tries again. “What tasks do you complete?”

“Uh… I don’t know how to answer that question,” Tim says. “I mean, there’s a lot of stuff I do with or for Bruce, but a lot of it is stuff I’d do anyway even if he hadn’t adopted me. Did he say something to you?”

“Bruce says many things to me,” Gray answers. “He said that my new task is to be his son, but he did not give me any guidance or parameters for success.”

“Ah,” Tim says. “Okay. Uh… I don’t think that being a son is the kind of thing that has parameters for success.”

Gray’s stomach feels bad again. He focuses on tearing the plastic off the puzzle box and does not think about how he, too, will eventually be torn apart and stuffed in the trash, too. 

Tim does something with the TV remote and a strong drumbeat fills the room. 

“Let’s start you off on some classic Blink-182,” he says. “And in the meantime, maybe I can help you with the puzzle.”

Gray obliges, opening the box and tipping the pieces in front of himself and Tim.

This puzzle takes a much longer time to complete than the other one. Part of this is because this puzzle has more pieces and a more complex pattern. Part of it is because Tim is not very good at puzzles. He helps Gray to flip all the pieces so that the picture side faces upward before they begin, and also sorts the pieces into ‘edge’ and ‘not edge’. And after that he is not very helpful at all and mostly questions Gray and comments on the music and tries to fit together random pieces that don’t go together.

“I wonder…” Tim mutters, pressing together two pieces that don’t even share any of the same colours. 

“If they go together they will fit easily,” Gray reminds him. 

“Oh, right,” Tim says. “So you think I should look at the shape of the pieces?”

“You should look at the shape of the pieces and the colour and pattern of the pieces and the picture on the box,” Gray says. “Those pieces are not from the same section of the picture.”

“Really?” Tim says. “Will you show me what parts of the picture they’re from?”

“That part is from here,” Gray points to an area in the upper left quadrant, tracing his finger around one edge of a bunny ear. “This part is from here, where you can see the tail.”

“I get it now,” Tim says. “Thanks for helping me.”

After this exchange, Tim is much more efficient at linking pieces together. But this is a relative term, and he only links together five or six pieces in the time it takes Gray to build the entire bottom left quadrant and half of the entire exterior edge. He talks and plays on his phone instead and asks a lot of questions.

“Is this song good?” Tim asks. 

“Yes,” Gray answers. 

“Why is it good?”

“The different instruments and the vocals layer together well and the rhythm is pleasant,” Gray answers. 

“You have great taste in music,” Tim says. His tone of voice and his body language seem pleased. “Okay, I think we’ve got some Foo Fighters and some Rage Against The Machine coming up…”

They continue in this way for some time, with Tim ‘helping’ and asking questions and occasionally eating the food Alfred has provided.

“Have you tried popcorn before?” Tim asks. “It’s good.”

Tim is wrong. Popcorn is not good. The crispy puff of the food is tolerable, but the hard crunchy kernel is not and the taste is bland. Worse, the kernel pieces quickly become stuck between his teeth and into his gums. He declines the offer of a second piece and uses his tongue to dig the kernel shards out.

“Suit yourself,” Tim says. “Alfred also gave us veggies and dip. We’ve got ranch, sweet chilli… this one might be some kind of soybean?” 

The vegetables and dip are better. The soybean dip is very salty and a little warm and adds a complexity to the heat of the green chilli peppers, and the ranch makes the blandness of the cucumber sticks more palatable. The sweet chilli is mostly only sweet, but it is not bad, so Gray pours it into his mouth and swirls it around his mouth, savouring the taste, only getting a little on his shirt. 

“Interesting,” Tim says, and he types something on his phone again. 

The puzzle is interesting, Gray thinks, and he continues, accompanied by the sound of R.E.M. 

---

It takes approximately two and a half hours to complete the entire outer perimeter of the puzzle and approximately half of the interior, at which point Alfred calls them for lunch. 

Lunch is not a good lunch. Gray is given a bowl of a red soup with vegetables and tomatoes and pieces of ice. There are several smaller dishes containing items such as Olea europaea, and several different foods cut into chunks.

“Gazpacho, sirs,” Alfred says. “I have also prepared a variety of tapas: olives, tortilla española, several cheeses, Iberican ham, and I’m afraid the shipment of peppers I was expecting did not arrive.”

“That’s okay, this looks amazing. Thanks, Alfred,” Tim says, and he begins eating immediately. 

Gray does not start eating immediately, and he turns to look at Alfred. 

“It is cold,” he says. His stomach feels bad.

“Yes,” Alfred says. “This is a traditional soup from Spain. It is supposed to be cold.”

Gray looks down at the ice chunk. This is clearly a punishment. He glances at Tim, who is eating as though this is normal. It is not right that he should be punished, too.  

“What did I do wrong?” Gray asks. “Bruce said that nobody can punish me unless they tell me what I did wrong.”

Alfred should remember. He was there when Bruce said it, wasn’t he?

Gray can’t quite remember. He squeezes the soft fabric over his knees underneath the table.

“Master Graham, you are not being punished," Alfred says, softly and nicely. "Why do you think you are being punished? You’ve eaten soup before.”

“Good soup,” Gray says. Soup that does not have ice in it.

“How do you know whether this soup is good if you haven’t tried it yet?” Alfred asks.

“I think it’s very good,” Tim says, from across the table. Gray can hear the ice clinking in his bowl. “What makes you think it’s not good?”

“It’s cold,” Gray says.

“You seemed happy to eat the cold salad and galettes yesterday,” Alfred says.

“They were less cold,” Gray says, squeezing the fabric tighter. “It’s frozen.”

“I see,” Alfred says. “What can I do to make the soup better for you? Will removing the ice suffice, or should I warm the soup for you?”

Everything would be better warm, Gray thinks, except…

“It’s supposed to be cold.”

“Yes,” Alfred says. “It’s typically eaten in summer - I had thought that since the weather has been warm lately, it might be a good idea to have something refreshing. Was I mistaken?”

“No,” Gray answers immediately.

“I see,” Alfred says. “And what should I do now? Should I remove the ice, or should I warm the soup?”

“Remove the ice,” Gray says. He cannot quite bring himself to look at Alfred, even though he is not requesting anything and merely answering Alfred’s question. It would be bad to see Alfred wearing an angry facial expression.

“Then I shall return shortly,” a familiar, wrinkled hand enters Gray’s field of vision and takes the bowl away. “When I come back, you can tell me what you think of the tapas.”

Clear instructions. Gray nods, and reaches for the first item clockwise to his left, a small pile of green and black ovals. Olives. He picks one up: it is cool and slippery in his fingers. He carefully places it in his mouth and consumes it.

The olives have a strange, bitter-salty taste. This is not unpleasant, but it is extremely unlike anything he has tasted before. He does not consume all of the olives and moves onto the next dish, which is squares of potato and egg. It is bland but tolerable.

“I'm sorry that you thought you were being punished," Tim says, which is a strange thing to apologise for. He does not have the authority to punish Gray, does he? "But well done for explaining why the soup wasn’t good for you. Now we can fix it and you can enjoy it. Is there anything else you can think of that’s not good for you?”

Gray considers this. The only not-good things he can think of are rules Bruce has instituted, like not entering storage or not going into the garden. 

“No,” he says. He tries the next dish. It is a kind of cheese. It is very different from the cheese at the zoo. It has a complex, sharp flavour and does not stick to his teeth. 

“What about your room? Is everything there good? Do we need to change anything? Maybe some new blankets or bedsheets?”

“Everything is good and we don’t need to change anything,” Gray says. They should not change anything else. It has already been changed too much. His electric blanket is optimal and the bedsheets are much softer than any fabric permitted at the lab.

“Dick said he’s going to get some new clothes ordered for you later today,” Tim says. “I think maybe after dinner.”

The clothes he is wearing are fine, Gray thinks. Everything is fine as it is. 

"Uh... Dick is downstairs right now, by the way. He's doing something important, so we shouldn't go down and interrupt him."

Tim does not speak very much after that. This allows Gray to consume some of the ham tapas, which is folded pieces of meat on pieces of bread that are warm and crispy on the outside. It is very salty. 

Gray continues to eat the remaining tapas. He finds that the last mouthful of the previous dish seems to combine well with the first bite of the next, and by the time Alfred returns, he has begun combining mouthfuls of different dishes. 

“Are they to your liking, Master Graham?” Alfred enquires, placing an ice-free bowl on the table.

Gray nods, swallowing cheese and egg and potato and olive.  

“Which one is the most good?”

Gray is not sure.

“All of them. They combine well together,” he answers.

“I see,” Alfred says. “I hope you enjoy the soup. Do tell me if it is still too cold.”

Gray cannot find any ice in the bowl, no matter how much he searches with his spoon. That is good. The taste of the soup is good, too, although the temperature and texture is not entirely pleasant.

“Is it good?” Tim asks. 

“It would be more good with hot sauce,” Gray answers. When he has consumed all of the food provided for him, Tim permits him to go back to the family room. 

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Tim says. “I just have to talk with Alfred about something…”

In the end, Tim is not there in a sec. He takes approximately 687 seconds to return to the family room and does not offer any explanation. Instead, he settles next to Gray again and starts asking more questions. 

“Dick said you liked the rabbits at the zoo. How about telling me all about your trip?”

Gray obliges. There is a lot to explain.

He does not finish explaining before Cassandra and Stephanie arrive. 

Notes:

Due to real life commitments, the next chapter(s) will be uploaded sometime in mid to late August. Thank you for your patience and support so far <3

Chapter 46: Puzzles - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

Thank you all for your well wishes, and thank you for waiting for this chapter <3 The last month was very pleasant, but extremely busy. I had to split this chapter in half, but you can expect the second half to be up by the end of the month.

Edit: I have changed Tim and Steph's conversation slightly to make better sense/greater plot development.

It takes a very long time to explain the zoo, because Tim requests that Gray explain everything as fully as he can and there are so many good details that he needs to remember. Tim laughs when Gray explains Richard’s strange conversation with the woman at the zoo entrance and frowns when he describes the maze-like conditions of the zoo. Gray almost mentions his Florida Maze hypothesis, but Tim has asked him to explain the trip to the zoo, and that is not describing the trip to the zoo, and so he does not say it.

“I touched the grass and it was soft, but a different soft to the other soft items I have accessed,” he says. Requesting information on the neural systems of grassland is also not describing the trip, so Gray files that query away for later. “Richard gave me a wipe to clean my hands and instructed me to put it in the trash can and other Titans arrived. Kori was wearing a green dress and her hair was braided and she looked good. We pretended that it was the first time we met because of the cover story and I met Wally’s wife and son. Wade is a baby, which is smaller than a toddler. Because Wade is so small he cannot understand many things and has bad eyesight, so Wally gave me the special task of explaining the zoo to Wade. Then we went to the petting zoo and it was very good.” 

Tim nods intently, tapping at his keyboard without taking his eyes off Gray’s face. Gray does not look directly at Tim, instead using his eyebrow and ear as points of focus as Bruce instructed. It is easier to look at Tim than to look at Bruce. But it is still hard to look at him, and there is some energy in Gray’s body that will not dissipate - since he cannot complete the puzzle while speaking to Tim and while following Bruce’s rules, he settles for silently jiggling his knee and hoping that Tim does not notice.

“What was good about the petting zoo?” Tim asks. 

“Everything. But the rabbits were the most good thing.”

“Could you tell me more about the petting zoo? Where did you go first?” Tim asks, and so Gray does. 

He talks and talks and talks about the different animals and enclosures, dutifully repeating Richard’s story about his mother’s childhood horses word-for-word. He has to pause semi-frequently to sip tea and moisturise his throat and mouth and his throat begins to ache and he continues to speak.

“Can you translate that for me?” Tim asks. “Dick taught me a couple greetings, but that’s not enough to understand what you said.”

Gray translates the story as well as he can into English.

“You know, Dick once told me that not many people can speak Romani unless they’re part of the culture. Did you have any training on that?”

“No, I only have corpora downloads,” Gray says. “The Romani lexical and grammatical databases are incomplete; I don’t know all of the words Richard uses.”

“I see,” Tim rubs his chin with his thumb. “So you have multiple incomplete linguistic databases for various Romani dialects? Am I right in thinking that?”

Gray nods and thinks about Tim’s comment about culture. Maybe that is why the Romani dialects in his linguistics training are so fragmented, Gray thinks. Because the people who made the sources were not Romani. There are similar gaps in other languages and dialects, too: he briefly estimates that approximately a thousand of the corpora in his storage devices are incomplete. Did Doctor Burke have a similar problem with all of those languages as well? 

“Maybe,” Tim says. “What other languages are incomplete?”

The list is long, but Tim nods and taps at his computer as Gray recites all of the names. He is no longer making eye contact, which is good. Gray’s limbs feel less tense.

“What did you look at next, after you saw the horses? I know I’m typing right now, but I am listening.”

Gray nods and resumes his explanation, taking care to be very detailed in his description of the animals and how nice they were. And when he talks about the rabbits, his face feels tight and it is easy to recall all of the good details that Tim wants to know.

“— were very small and very soft and very friendly. There were more than five rabbits and the zookeeper showed me how to correctly hold and stroke them. The one that I held was very happy - I know this because Gar said so at lunch time - and I followed the instructions well. Richard and Lian and Roy interacted with the rabbits too. It was good. More than good.”

“Dick said you got a little emotional,” Tim says. 

 Gray’s stomach sinks. Does this mean that Richard told Tim that Gray had cried? It was okay to do that with the Titans, but it is not okay in Gotham.

No. He could not have. He promised to look out for Gray, and telling people about Gray’s poor behaviour is not ‘looking out’ under any sense of the term. And Tim does not seem angry, so this possibility is even more unlikely.

“I do not have emotions,” he says. 

“Talons don’t have emotions, sure,” Tim says. “But sons do. I bet Bruce would be pleased if you pretended to be happy next time he gives you something.”

Gray bets that he would not. 

“What happened after you left the rabbits?” Tim asks, and Gray begins to explain how he spoke to Wade and how Richard ate lunch with him. This time, as Gray speaks, Tim’s eyes shift, as though he is looking behind Gray, and his expression changes a little - he smiles more widely, nods, and gives a small wave. 

W-A-I-T-A-S-E-C, Tim fingerspells rapidly, so Gray does midway through a sentence. But then Tim cocks his head and frowns. Annoyance? Confusion?

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry, I meant…”

“Hey, Gray!” Steph’s voice comes from behind Gray. “It sounds like you had a really great day yesterday. How have you been?”

It is a strange question to ask, since she has just said the answer, and Gray is not sure whether he needs to look at Steph’s face to answer her question. Luckily he does not need to worry about this for long as both Cass and Steph walk into view and sit on the room’s second couch, which is within easy eyesight of Gray. He can look at them all without moving.

“Really great,” Gray echoes, and Steph’s small smile grows very large. 

“Great!” Steph says. “Cass and I just finished our college classes. What did you do today?”

“I brushed my teeth, excreted waste, combed my hair, dressed in different clothes, helped Damian care for Bat-cow and Jerry, showered, dressed in these clothes, ate breakfast, spoke to Bruce and Alfred, listened to music, began solving a puzzle with Tim, ate pop-corn and vegetables and sweet chilli, ate tapas and bad soup, began debriefing Tim, and now I am talking to you.”

“That’s a lot of stuff,” Steph says, and then her smile turns into a strange, tight expression and she leans in closer and speaks quietly but still very nicely. “Just so you know, when someone asks you that question, you should just pick out the parts of the day that were the most good so far, like two or three things. And you shouldn’t explain that you did personal hygiene and self-care stuff because people already think you’ve done them. Like, I didn’t tell you that I washed my hair or changed my tampon, right?”

Gray nods. She did not mention these things in her earlier answer and they fall under the categories of personal hygiene and self-care. “Is it a rule?” he whispers back.

Steph nods back, still smiling. 

“Yeah, it’s a silent social rule. No talking about those things unless it’s very important - like telling a doctor if there’s blood in your pee, or saying that you have to use the restroom.”

Gray is not sure how he is supposed to know whether there is blood in his urine, given that both fluids are the same colour. And even if he could detect this, it would be a bad idea to tell the doctors because every medical procedure he has undertaken under their care has been extremely unpleasant.

The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees. Steph seems to expect a response, so Gray nods. 

“I understand,” he says.

“Okay,” she says. “Hey, Tim, why don’t you tell us about your day?”

“Uh… I had breakfast with Dick and Bernard on the boat. Bernard went off to work, and Dick and I both came here. He’s downstairs, working on… something. I’ve been chilling with Gray, exposing him to rock legends.”

“Oh, cool,” Steph says. “Well, Gray, I’m going to expose you to some pop legends today. It’s gonna be really fun. Was the rock music good?”

Gray nods. 

“All music is good,” he replies. 

“That’s what I like to hear! Cass, you had a song in mind, right?”

Cass nods and looks directly at Gray.

“You will like it. Very fun.”

“I was thinking we should go to the dance studio,” Steph says. “The mirrors will make it much easier to dance in sync.”

“Yes,” Cass agrees and looks at Tim this time. “Finish with Gray?”

“Yeah, we’re pretty much—“ Tim pauses. “Actually, no. Sorry, there’s still one thing left I have to do. I was supposed to run some blood tests, but I forgot.”

“Do it fast,” Cass says. “We go to studio.”

“We need a little time anyway, I have to change into my workout gear,” Steph says. “How long do you need? Ten minutes, twenty?”

“Twenty should be enough,” Tim agrees, and then he looks at Gray. “Sorry, I should’ve been on the ball.”

Gray does not respond, quickly checking his English linguistic data. There does not seem to be an appropriate response for this idiom.

Tim taps on his cellphone and raises it to his ear. Approximately four seconds pass and then his body language and facial expression and tone of voice change significantly. 

“Hey, Dick, I just realised that I left the testing gear in the infirmary downstairs. You mind if I come down with Gray and start the tests?”

There is a faint noise, Richard’s unintelligible, tinny voice. Tim nods. 

“Okay, we’ll come down. Maybe three minutes?”

Richard says something and Tim nods again. 

“Okay, see you,” Tim says, and he hangs up. He looks at Gray. “You left your headphones and music player upstairs, right?”

“Yes, they are on the nightstand,” Gray answers. He left the music player charging so it could continue to play music for the stuffed animals. 

“The test will work better if you’re relaxed, so you should listen to music while we’re down there. You should go and get your headphones and music player.”

“The stuffed animals are listening to the music,” Gray says. “I can be relaxed without the music.”

“Not relaxed enough for the test to work,” Tim says. “It would really suck if we had to redo the test and use up time you could spend doing fun stuff like dancing or puzzles. Anyway, like you said earlier, the stuffed animals can’t want anything. They don’t have brains. I’m pretty sure they don’t have eardrums or cochlea either. They’ll be fine without the music. Go get your headphones, Gray. I’ll wait here.”

Tim’s words make sense, but there is a bad feeling in Gray’s stomach. It seems unfair to deprive the stuffed animals of music just because they do not have internal parts of the ear. He stands and leaves the room. As he does, Stephanie leans in to whisper to Tim. 

“Stuffed animals?” she asks.

“I think it’s a sensory thing,” Tim replies. "He's really attached to them."

"Attached enough to dote on them like pets?"

"I mean... it's not unusual for little kids to do stuff like that."

"Okay, but he's an adult. Superboy doesn't do that kind of thing, does he?"

Gray does not hear the rest of their conversation, because he obeys Tim’s command. When he returns, Cass and Stephanie have gone. 

“They’ve gone to the dance studio,” Tim says. “It’s in the pool complex - I’ll show you when we’re done downstairs.”

Tim instructs Gray to put his headphones on and play some music at a volume which is slightly too high for human ears for a long period of time. But fortunately Gray is not a human being and does not have to worry about things like tinnitus, so he obeys and follows Tim downstairs, timing his footsteps with the heavy drumbeat of Pendulum.

The air becomes damp and cool as they descend, and Tim takes Gray to the infirmary area. The chair from the dental implant removal is still there, but Tim motions for Gray to sit on a regular office chair. It rotates slightly as he sits down, and when Tim’s back is turned he surreptitiously tests it: the seat of the chair spins. 

Doctor Stevens would always spin on a similar chair until Doctor Griffith shouted at him to stop. Gray does not dare to spin the chair any more than that, in case Bruce’s hidden cameras are watching. 

Tim signs a simple explanation of the procedure after showing Gray a tiny pellet slightly smaller than a grain of rice. 

The pellet is a modified glucose monitor, which will be inserted under the skin near his stomach. It will wirelessly send data to a computer programme in the Batcave which will analyse his blood sugar levels, and this data will help Tim understand the extent to which Gray’s digestive system is capable of processing lactose.

Gray leans back in the spinning chair and Tim helps him to use clips to secure his hoodie, shirt and warming gift such that his lower stomach is exposed. Tim swabs his skin with an alcohol wipe and then smears an ointment onto Gray’s skin with a small spatula and shows him a timer, counting down from five minutes. He gives Gray a multicoloured cube with pieces which rotate around the centre vertically and horizontally.

This is a R-U-B-I-K-S-C-U-B-E, Tim signs. While the lotion works, try to make each side one solid colour. Then we’ll continue.

Gray nods and leans back. The rubikscube is an interesting puzzle, but it is difficult at first. The colours seem almost randomly placed and when he rotates one segment and the colour he wanted on that side rotates away too.

He glances at Tim who is typing at his laptop again, frowning. 

Tim is nice. He has done puzzles with Gray and is always kind. But he is not very good at puzzles, so it is important that Gray finds the correct solution. 

Gray carefully observes each face of the rubikscube, noting the position of each coloured square piece and which pieces will rotate with it. And then— then he can see it. He can make some horizontal lines of the same colour. And the lines can add up to create one whole side. 

He observes the faces again, trying to calculate the best order to pursue each colour and how he needs to rotate the pieces. This takes a significant amount of time: three minutes and twelve seconds, which means that, after his previous observation and initial attempt, he has approximately twenty seconds left. But he thinks he has a good strategy. 

Gray carefully rotates the sections according to his mental strategy. It is good to see all of the coloured lines align correctly. It is even more good to see them create a perfect whole-coloured face.

The rubikscube is complete with seven seconds left on the timer. Tim is looking at him, mouth slightly open. Then he brings his hands together, clapping and smiling. 

Awesome, Tim signs. You’re great at puzzles. You'll get another reward.

Gray’s face feels tight, and he feels nothing at all when Tim prods the area of skin he applied the ointment to. 

Be still, Tim signs, and Gray is very careful not to move at all and not even breathe as he snaps on a new pair of gloves and begins the procedure.

It is a very quick procedure, taking less than two minutes. Then Tim is smiling and pressing gauze against the tiny incision, which has already begun to shrink when Tim takes the black-stained gauze away. As it shrinks, a small piece of white becomes visible and less than five seconds later, the rice-sized pellet drops to the floor, Gray’s skin closing behind it.

Tim blinks, staring at the pellet on the floor. As Chappell Roan croons in his ears, Gray just about catches the words on his lips.

Should — expected that. 

Then Tim picks the pellet back up and places it on the metal tray the other tools sit on and he peels off his gloves. 

Your body rejects foreign items, Tim signs. 

Gray nods. It would be bad if his body tried to heal around a foreign body, like a piece of glass or a bullet, which could cause improper functioning. In the worst possible situation, this might cause infection - while Gray cannot really experience or die from illness, he could quite easily become a carrier of an easily transmissible disease. Any Owl who interacted with him could then become sick or even die, and Gray cannot begin to imagine what punishment that could result in.

You have many implants. How did the doctors make them stay in?

Gray shrugs. 

They didn’t tell you?

He shakes his head.

Tim thinks for a few moments. 

Was P-E-R-E-Z involved?

Gray considers this. 

Yes, that's right. He assisted Doctor Stevens in the implantation processes. Tim frowns when Gray signs this. 

P-E-R-E-Z is an O-N-C-O-L-O-G-I-S-T, right?

Doctor Griffith mentioned it twice. Perez’s speciality was instrumental to the success of the project, he said. He said it when it was Perez’s birthday and they brought a cake into the lab and all of the humans ate it.

You didn’t eat the cake?

Gray shakes his head. He had not been permitted to witness this: he had snuck a glance through mostly-closed eyes and listened to the sounds of chewing while he waited for his skin to knit back together. 

Tim’s facial expression changes, although he continues to look at Gray. 

A-L-F-R-E-D makes really good cake, he signs. I’ll ask him to make some cake tomorrow. You'll like it. 

According to Gray’s culinary training, cake sometimes contains fruit. Maybe Alfred will make a cake with chilli peppers in it.

Yes, Gray signs. Tim peels his gloves off and helps Gray unclip his clothes. Then Gray dutifully follows Tim back toward the vestibule leading to the house, the rubikscube stowed safely in his hoodie pocket. He cannot hear his footsteps, but he walks to the rhythm of Salt-N-Pepa's flow.

As they approach the vestibule, Richard comes into view, walking toward them from the direction of the holding cells. He says something that Gray does not quite catch, and a moment later, Tim presses a new item into his hands: this one is a flattish rectangle with a tiny plastic maze inside a square of transparent plastic. There is a small metal bead inside one of the maze paths, which is presumably the lost bad person, but no equivalent Talon beads.

Get the ball into the centre, then back out to the edge again, Tim signs, and Gray obeys, focusing on this new item. The miniature maze requires a lot of maneuvering, and Gray finds himself leaning in strange ways to move the ball, occasionally catching a few of Richard and Tim’s words out of the corner of his eye.

you done yet — — — augmentations — 

The ball drops into a path which Gray realises is a dead end. He turns the puzzle, but it is not quite enough. He has to lean to the left and it goes back to the correct place.

careful our guest isn’t too happy — —

The ball finally rolls into the middle. Good. He rolls it back, and has to lean backwards to make it move properly.

hour or two — — — but Bruce —

— going well — — much we can do

The ball bounces into a new dead end, which is not what Gray intended. Before he can correct it, Tim grabs his arm and guides him upstairs. 

“Bye, Richard,” Gray calls as they leave the vicinity. He continues to work on the miniature maze until they get back upstairs and Tim carefully pulls the maze out of his fingers and mimes taking the headphones off. When Gray obeys, there is a strange quality to the sound around him that he cannot quantify. 

“We’ll do a different test tomorrow,” Tim says. “We’ll do it before breakfast, so you won’t have to fast for too long.”

“Okay,” Gray agrees, and his voice seems too loud but Tim does not seem to mind. The idea of fasting is good and bad. It would be good to not digest more food, but it would be bad not to eat spicy or warm foods. 

Tim leads them to the living room and directs Gray to leave his headphones, rubikscube, miniature maze and music player next to the rabbit puzzle, then bring his tea to the studio. Gray's limbs start to feel like energy is building inside them as they walk towards the wing with the studio. He clenches and unclenches his hands and tries not to walk ahead of Tim.

“I’ll see you later,” Tim promises, as they reach the door. “I have to go do some stuff now. Stay with Cass and Steph until I get back, okay? Enjoy the dancing.”

“Okay,” Gray agrees, this time managing a more appropriate volume. These will be easy instructions to follow.

Chapter 47: Pressure - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

I had a very hard time picking Cass’s choreo song. In the end, I had Lady Gaga’s Abracadabra in mind when writing the details, but feel free to insert any high-energy song you like. (For anybody interested, the second choice for this section was Aespa’s Whiplash.)

The dance studio is an unusual space. It is a plain room approximately two thousand square feet in size. The floor is made of what appears to be solid wood, although it has a strange, bouncy quality. Unlike the art studio, the windows are situated near the ceiling, and one of the longest walls is entirely covered by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. There are different pieces of equipment pushed against the walls. These include but are not limited to a large speaker system which Cass controls from her phone, a long wooden bar resting atop two vertical pieces of wood, and a chilled water dispenser.

Dancing with Steph and Cass is both much more easy and much more difficult than Gray had anticipated. 

Dancing with Steph and Cass is easy because the music Cass picked is good: a strong drumbeat accompanied by rhythmic instrumentals and female vocals which are pretty but also predictable in many ways. There are notes repeated in specific, pleasing combinations and there are similarly repeated and echoed parts of the lyrics. The song makes his entire body feel energetic and it is easy to move in time with the music. 

Dancing with Steph and Cass is hard because Gray and Steph keep completing Cass’ choreography incorrectly. She had shown them the full dance at the start of the session, and since then they’ve been working through the song in counts of eight. The movements are deceptive: they appear simple, but getting the correct timing and precision is difficult.

“No. Wrong.” Cass stops the music, cutting off the singer mid-word. “Like this instead.” She demonstrates the correct sequence of movements again, chanting the song vocals slowly as she does. It is strange to hear the lyrics from Cass: the words fall out of her mouth as though they do not belong there.

“Isn’t that what we did?” Steph asks.

“No, you did this,” Cass starts, then performs a similar, but slightly different set of movements, ones which are marginally softer and vaguer. “Pointy. Sharp. Again.”

Cass starts the song from the beginning, and Gray does his best to match Cass’s movements. She is very particular; even more so than Doctor Griffiths. However, she is not unkind, and the punishment for performing poorly appears to simply be the knowledge that he has performed inadequately, which is much more pleasant than the punishments Gray incurred at the lab. It is also helpful: as Cassandra dispenses explanations and instructions which vary in quality, the knowledge of Gray’s own poor performance helps him to complete the dance routine more perfectly the next time he attempts it. 
 
It is a very different experience from when he and Cass danced with the violins, but it is not unpleasant. This is not a normal kind of correction; it is specific and clear and painless.

As they dance, Gray finds that it becomes easier when he tries narrating the movements in his head, like he did with Richard after he failed to complete the trapeze training. Step back - just a metre - crouch and twist at the waist, hand on the floor, lean, feet kick twice, crouch again, rise - but slow, take three seconds. 

Steph frequently stops for water breaks and speaks nicely to Gray and Cass. She gives lots of praise and asks lots of questions. 

“Dick and Tim said that you’re really good at gymnastics,” Steph says. “Do you like it?”

Gray thinks. It isn’t yet clear what answer Steph wants, so he settles for simply saying “it’s good”. 

“I think it’s good, too,” Steph says. “I used to do gymnastics when I was in school - I even competed for my high school team for a while. I just started going to a club near college - do you wanna come with? I bet you’ll have so much fun.”

“I’m not allowed to leave the manor without permission,” Gray says. 

“Should I ask Bruce if you can come with me? I think he’ll say yes if Dick tags along.”

It sounds like a good plan, so he nods again. Steph smiles. 

“I’ll ask Damian too,” she says. “There’s an amazing vegan Lebanese place next door I know he’d love.”

The practice continues and continues and there is more good correction and more improvement and the constant repetition of parts of the song is good. He knows exactly what he needs to do and when, and he only gets better and better at this task.

Eventually, they manage to complete the entire choreography in a way that pleases Cass. She doesn’t stop them this time, and Gray can see in the mirrored wall that their movements are highly synchronised. For three minutes and forty-three seconds, there is nothing except them and the music and the movements. 

As the final notes echo and fade, Gray holds the final position for a few moments, as Cass and Steph instructed. A clapping sound reverberates through the room, accompanied by a voice that makes Gray’s stomach sink immediately. 

“That was an excellent performance,” Bruce says, from the doorway. He is not supposed to be here. “Cassie, did you choreograph that yourself?”

Cass nods and smiles widely.

“Of course,” she says. 

“Wonderful,” Bruce says, his mouth stretched wide. “The three of you work well together. Was it fun, Graham?”

Gray’s mouth feels numb. He doesn’t know what to say. He looks at the floor: it is shiny enough that he can see a vague shape reflected back at him.

“It was good,” he whispers. 

“Speaking of good things,” Steph starts, picking up her water bottle and walking towards Bruce, “there’s a really good gymnastics club close to Gotham University. Maybe in a couple weeks, Dick, Damian and I can take Gray there.”

“No,” Bruce says. “He needs to stay at the Manor for now.”

“Didn’t he go to Blüdhaven the other day?” Steph asks. 

“That was different,” Bruce says. “The Titans were there and Gotham isn’t safe for him right now.”

“Gotham isn’t safe?” Steph asks. “What do you—?”

“We’ll talk later,” Bruce says, and his voice is no longer nice. “I’ll see you all later.”

The door closes with a thud and — and the studio feels different now. A warm hand rests on his shoulder. 

“Problem with Bruce,” Cass says, with an inflection that sounds like a question. She does not elaborate on the nature of Bruce’s problem.

“Yeah, he’s a jerk sometimes,” Steph says. “I’ll keep working on it, Gray. You’ll love the gymnastics club.” Steph pauses, then speaks again. “Earlier you were doing a jigsaw puzzle, right? Do you like jigsaws?”

“They’re good,” Gray says, and his voice sounds strange and weak. 

“I like puzzles too,” Steph says. “Can I give you a hug, Gray?” 

Gray nods. He’s not quite sure if the hierachy has changed since Bruce gave him the new task of being a son, but he’s fairly sure Steph still ranks above him. Steph’s non-combatative hold is not quite as strong and secure as Koriand’r or Wonder Woman or Richard, but it is still pleasant. It lasts only for a few seconds, the last few of which Steph squeezes before stepping back. The squeezing pressure and subsequent release feels — it is hard to describe, but once she steps away it feels like Gray’s muscles are no longer tense. 

“Should we go back to the den and finish that jigsaw?” Steph asks.

Gray hesitates, glancing toward the door. He does not know where Bruce has gone. Steph frowns when he says this. 

“I think he’s gone downstairs,” she says. “There was a — Tim said he’s working on a thing, right?”

Cass wiggles her hand in front of her body in a gesture Gray has seen before. Doctor Miller would often use it when poorly explaining his test parameters to the other doctors. 

“Kind of,” she says. “Batman is.”

“Okay,” says Steph, and she looks at Gray and states in a questioning tone: “Puzzle time.”

She appears to expect a response.

“Yes,” Gray says.

They leave the dance studio and return to the living room. Tim is no longer there, but the puzzle and Gray’s personal items are still in their places.

It turns out that Steph is very good at jigsaw puzzles. Much better than Tim. Her assistance means that Gray’s puzzle completion rate is almost twice as fast as it was with Tim.

“Aw, thanks,” Steph smiles when Gray tells her this. “You ever tried logic puzzles and riddles?” Gray shakes his head. “I’ll bring some next time and we can do them together. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Gray echoes. 

“You got it at Blüdhaven Zoo,” Cass states, gesturing to the puzzle. “I told you, have more than one fun. Blüdhaven Zoo is one fun. What else?”

This is an easy question. Gray clicks a new piece of bunny ear satisfyingly into place and tries to recount all of the fun things that happened at Titan’s Tower. 

“I watched TV and movies with Koriand’r and Donna and the other Titans,” he says. “I played chess with Cyborg. I helped Dick make breakfast. We listened to music on the journey to and from the zoo.”

“What kind?” Cass asks. 

Gray thinks back. 

“Alanis Morissette,” he says. “Donna Lewis. Matchbox Twenty.”

“You’re wearing a Black Canary tee,” Steph says, correctly connecting a rabbit head to a rabbit body in the puzzle. “Do you — is rock music good?”

“Yes,” Gray says. 

“Black Canary is based in Gotham,” Steph says. “And she’s a superhero too. If B ever gets his head out of his ass, we should totally go to one of her shows.”

“Dad… he is trying,” Cass says.

“Not hard enough,” Steph mutters. She clicks a new piece in the puzzle and smiles. “Hey, there we go! Looking good, right? We’re a total dream team, G.”

“Yes,” Gray agrees. 

“Saw Black Canary yesterday,” Cass adds. “Gave me tickets for next month, make up for Riddler spoiling last time.”

“That was nice of her,” Steph says. “It’s not her fault Riddler rerouted all the power in Coventry.” She sighs. “Okay, Cass - you work on Bruce, and I’ll work on teaching Gray everything he needs to enjoy a night out with friends.”

“Is that something sons do?” Gray asks. “Enjoying a night out with friends?”

“I guess so,” Steph says. “It’s something everybody does. What made you ask that question?”

“Bruce ordered me to be his son, but his instructions were unclear.”

“Oh, boy,” Steph mutters. “Yeah, that sounds like Bruce. Did you ask Tim about it earlier?”

“He did not provide helpful information.”

“Okay,” Steph says. “I’ll talk to him. Uh… so being sociable and doing stuff with friends is a really important part of life. You don’t always have to go out physically, but spending time with other people is important. So maybe you can call your friends or text — B gave you a phone, right? Oh, good — or maybe you can hang out and do stuff  just like we’re doing this puzzle together now. Does that make sense?”

Gray nods. 

“Is this the reason we are doing the puzzle together?” Gray asks. “To spend time with other people?”

“Exactly,” Steph smiles widely. “Cass said you’re doing activities with the rest of your family, and that’s super important too. I mean, for people with nice families it’s important. And you do have a nice family, so it’s important.”

“What do people without nice families do?” Gray asks. 

“Lots of stuff,” Steph says. She’s still smiling, but she seems different somehow. “Sneaking out at night to ruin their dad’s terrible plans, secretly dating a superhero...”

“Running away from home,” Cass adds. “You don’t do that. You stay here. Nice.”

“I don’t do that. I stay here,” Gray agrees. 

“And you can go to a Black Canary concert with your friends,” Steph says. “You have friends, right? You have me, and who else?”

“Kori and Gar and Donna and Victor and Roy and Lian and Wally and Linda and Wade and…” Gray pauses. “I don’t know who else. Maybe Calvin and Strix.”

It would be good if they were his friends, too. They seemed kind and it would be good to have friends who understand the Court and the correct order of the world, even though Calvin and Strix seemed to be operating with slightly outdated information. He’s not sure if retired Talons can have friends. It would be good if they can.

“That’s a lot of friends for a guy who’s been free for a week. I bet you’ll make even more friends super fast,” Steph says. Gray isn’t familiar with the idiom ‘free for a week’ and almost asks her what her strange turn of phrase means, but she starts speaking again. “It’s pretty common to meet friends through hobbies. Is there anything you like doing?”

“Listening to music,” Gray says immediately. 

“Have you ever tried playing music?” Steph asks. 

“No.”

“I play piano,” Steph says. “I think B has one in the ballroom. Maybe I can teach you.”

If Steph’s piano teaching is anything like the dance training this afternoon, then that will be a very good thing. Gray nods and continues to focus on the rabbit jigsaw. 

“What else do you do?” Steph asks. “Like, what’s fun to do?”

Gray thinks back to his time at Titan’s Tower. 

“Cooking. Playing chess. Watching TV and movies. Petting rabbits.”

“You like animals, huh?” Steph asks. “Did you meet Ace and Titus? They’re so cute. And Alfred the Cat is just the fluffiest.”

“No,” Cass says. “Titus… uhh… Talon makes it scary. Made Titus scared. Wait some time, then again.”

“Oh. Well, I guess at least the rabbits liked you, Gray.”

“At least the rabbits liked me,” Gray echoes, placing a new piece with a satisfying click. 

The puzzle is completed shortly before Alfred comes to collect them for dinner. 

“Wow, we did an awesome job,” Steph says, looking and sounding positive. “You want to take a photo or something before we put it back in the box?”

The completed puzzle is too large to fit in the box, and Steph nods when Gray explains this.

“Right,” she says. “Most of the time, when we finish a puzzle like this, we break it apart and put it back in the box. Then we can do it again another time. Or… I think some people like to keep it whole and frame it. You wanna do that instead?”

“Yes,” Gray nods. It would be bad to break the puzzle. It seems counter-intuitive to make the puzzle into pieces again, especially since it is doing such a good job of prettily and correctly displaying the picture. 

“Well, I guess we can leave it like it is. Maybe Alfred will have a spare picture frame lying around…”

“So many,” Cass says.

Gray finds that his breath comes easier and his stomach relaxes. He had not noticed his breath become harder, nor his stomach becoming tense. He picks up the miniature maze and tries to solve it. After a few moments, Cass and Steph begin speaking to one another quietly. 

---

Dinner is difficult. 

The food is delicious: a fragrant vegetable curry with rice, accompanied by various grilled proteins and chunks of pickled vegetables. Gray’s tea is wonderfully hot and sweet, and Alfred gives him a small bowl of sambal to make his spicier. Steph joins them for dinner and sits next to Cass. Richard and Tim and Damian sit in their customary places. 

“Duke’s at his uncle’s place tonight,” Richard says, before Gray tears his eyes away from the empty seat at the table. “He’s gonna come hang out tomorrow.”

Beside Richard, at the head of the table, Bruce looms. He speaks to each person at the table, a long and involved conversation with Richard and Tim, and lighter conversations with Steph and Damian. When it comes to be Gray’s turn, Bruce only asks one question. 

“Did you have a good day?” 

An easy answer. Too easy. Is it another test?

“Yes,” Gray says. 

“That’s good. I’m glad to hear it.”

Bruce moves on to speak briefly with Cass, and Gray tries to remember how his stomach is supposed to feel when he is eating. The strange, tight feeling — not quite pain, but close — makes it hard to gauge how much more he needs to eat, so he sets his spoon down early. 

“You okay?” Richard asks, and Gray nods. 

“Okay. We’ll sort out your clothes after dinner.”

There is nothing to sort out, Gray thinks. His clothes are fine and do not need to be sorted out. But he cannot say that, not here, not out loud, and certainly not in front of Bruce, and so he does not say anything at all and simply follows Richard to the bedroom after fetching his music player and other items from the living room table.

Chapter 48: Release - Wayne Manor, Bristol County

Notes:

Hi! Have a surprise extra September chapter! I plan to have a longer chapter up at the end of the month as the 'normal' update. ^.^

Just as a heads-up: in this chapter, Gray lets off some of his pent-up frustration and overwhelm.

(Also, I have gone back and edited some lines in ch. 46 for additional clarity/plot development)

His bedroom is wrong.

The bed has moved, just as he agreed with Alfred yesterday. Even though it was agreed, it is strange and not correct, the footrest of the bed being pressed against the window and the blanket storage container being placed behind the headrest. There is a strange feeling under his skin, in his fingertips. It is not a good feeling. His stomach feels bad again. He places his items on the bedside table and carefully does not look at the bed. He looks at Richard instead , who is opening his drawers and wardrobe. He should not be doing that. 
There is no rule against it, but he should not be doing it.

“My stomach hurts,” Gray almost says, but he does not because the feeling in his stomach is different. It is a bad feeling, but it is less like twisting pain and more like— more like he has no stomach at all.

“We’re gonna do this fast and easy,” Richard says, smiling as if something good happened. “We look at an item of clothing. You tell me if it’s soft or not. Yes, it goes back home in the drawer. No, it goes on the desk and we donate it to people in need. Understand?”

“I understand,” Gray mutters. It is good that the clothes will not be destroyed. Even if they are not soft, they have intrinsic value and exist well.

“Socks and underwear are probably gonna be fine, but I am ordering you some new pieces because a lot of this stuff is kinda holey or from back when I was a little skinnier and you deserve to have your own. Which kind was the most good?”

Richard places several different varieties of underwear and socks on the desk. Gray points at the most comfortable pieces. Richard nods, tapping on his cellphone briefly, then putting them back into the correct drawers. Then he presents a new bundle of fabric.

“Okay, how about these pants? Touch the fabric, tell me if it’s soft.”

The fabric is fleecey and thick.

“Yes.”

“Cool.” Richard quickly folds it and shoves it in its drawer. It is in the incorrect position. It should be on the right hand side of the drawer but it is on the left now. Richard picks up a new pair and holds them out. “This one?”

This fabric is rougher and less pleasant.

“No.”

“Okay. This?”

Gray does not look at the desk or the drawers. Instead he looks past Richard’s ear, out of the window. It would be best if this exercise ended quickly.

“No.”

“Okay, what about this?”

The exercise drags on and on and on and it does not stop even as the golden sunset outside turns to darkness. There is a variety of athletic wear: oversized, heavier pieces made of a soft black fabric and a variety of light-weight pieces in blues and greys and whites. There are button-down shirts made of cotton and linen and silk; many have bright patterns which make Richard smile.

There are pyjamas and dress pants and shorts and jeans and sweaters and suits. Some fabrics are stiff, some are scratchy, and some are slippery and soft. Some have an unpleasantly textured knit, some have a soft velvet texture. As the time goes on, there are more bad clothes until everything starts to feel bad.

“How about this sweater?”

It’s soft but the wrong kind.

“No.”

“Oh?” Richard says, and his tone of voice changes. “It feels like cashmere to me.”

“It’s incorrect,” Gray tries to explain. It isn’t possible to put the nature of the incorrectness into words; it just is.

“You think it’s not cashmere?”

“No,” Gray says. That’s not what he’s trying to say.

“Huh,” Richard says, and he presents another sweater. “What about this?”

“No,” Gray says. The texture is incorrect.

“But you said the brown version was okay earlier,” Richard says. “What’s different about this one? Is it the colour?”

“It’s incorrect,” Gray tries again.

“What’s incorrect about it?” Richard asks. “Is it the heaviness of the fabric? Is it the texture?”

“Yes,” Gray says.

“The texture?” Richard asks. At Gray’s nod, he looks in the knitwear drawer, pulling out the brown one from earlier. “Take a feel. Isn’t it the same?”

It would be best if this activity ended soon. Gray touches the fabric. Both sweaters feel the same. The earlier sweater is incorrect, too.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s incorrect.”

Richard doesn’t put the sweaters away immediately. He simply stops for a few moments, holding the sweaters.

“Did you sleep last night?” Richard asks.

“No,” Gray says. “I don’t need to sleep.”

“But did you try to sleep?”

“I…” Gray thinks back. “I tried to rest. I used the bed and closed my eyes and listened to music.”

“Okay,” Richard says. “I think we’re finished with the clothes for today. I’ll order some extras of the pieces you liked, and by the time Monday rolls around, you’ll basically have your own wardrobe. Sound good?

No, it doesn’t sound good at all.

“Oh? What’s not good about it?” Richard asks, and Gray’s stomach cramps painfully. He had not meant to say that out loud; the words simply slipped out by themselves.

“It… it doesn’t need to change,” Gray says. The threads in the plush carpet under his feet make an interesting pattern, tufts of spiral wefting. “It’s fine as it is.”

“I get it. It’s a lot of change, and that doesn’t feel good. But it’s gonna be good in the long run. You can’t keep wearing mine and Bruce’s old clothes,” Richard says.

Yes, he can. There’s no reason he can’t. The clothes he’s been wearing are perfectly serviceable.

“I get that, but you deserve to have your own stuff. It’s important for you to develop your own preferences and personality, and clothes are a really big part of how people do that.”

“I am not a person,” Gray corrects Richard. He presses the carpet fibres with his slippered toes: the texture is bouncy. It helps to distract from the bad feeling in his stomach.

“Maybe not right now,” Richard says. “But you will be.”

That’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.

The fabric against Gray’s skin feels unbearably heavy and his sight begins to blur. The bad feeling gets worse: the nothing-feeling is present in his hands and feet, a nothing-ness that tingles at his fingertips and that separates his extremities from the rest of his body.

“No,” slips out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“Gray?”

A hand grasps his arm and it shouldn’t. The next moments are a blur: he steps backward, the hand vanishes, there is darkness, and someone else’s words seep into his ears and echo inside his skull.

Part of his scalp burns.

Time passes. It is not a describable amount of time.

The voice continues. After seconds or centuries, the words begin to have meaning again.

“That’s it, just relax, unclench your fists.”

Gray is dimly aware that his hands are touching his head and it hurts. It takes a few moments to understand why. His fingers are twisted into his short hair, grasping and pulling strands tightly. That is why his scalp hurts.

“Breathe in, that’s right. Okay, you’re okay.”

“Okay,” Gray echoes. His face feels wet and cold. He knows the voice.

“You’re okay,” Richard repeats. “You’re okay. Deep breaths.”

Clear instructions. Gray obeys, greedily sucking in the relief of knowing exactly what to do with each lungful.

Okay. He’s okay. He will be okay. It is true; Richard promised.

“Just relax,” Richard continues. “Just relax.”

“Relax,” Gray croaks. His fingers do not obey immediately.

It takes a few minutes, but the pain eases, his hands falling somewhere he can’t quite place them, and he’s able to crack his eyes open. When he does, Richard is there. His facial expression could mean anything at all.

It is easier to look at the carpet again instead. It is strangely complex in its own way, with plush fibres twisting together in abstract patterns that shift every time he moves his eyes or blinks.

“Hey,” is all Richard says.

“Hey,” Gray whispers.

Richard nods. His lips disappear briefly.

“Change is tough,” he says. “Things were pretty much always the same at the lab, right?”

Gray nods. It’s good that Richard knows so much, because that means Gray doesn’t have to think so much and he is not very good at it. He’s not sure he could put together a response.

“I’m sorry there’s been so much change since you got here,” Richard says. “Don’t worry about the clothes. I’ll get them delivered here, but you don’t have to do anything with them until you feel ready. You want me to put all the clothes away where they used to be?"

It doesn’t matter. Richard will put them away wrong and it will be bad, Gray thinks, but he nods because it’s an answer.

“Okay. I’ll do that. You sit here and try to relax a little more. How about a stuffed animal?”

Clear instructions. Any answer. Nod.

“Rabbit?”

Nod.

Richard presses it into his hands, and Gray sits on his bed and stares at the stuffed rabbit’s fur as Richard opens drawers and folds clothes. He takes a long time: six minutes and twenty-seven seconds. In that time, Gray cannot decide whether the rabbit’s fur has been stained slightly pink or not.

When the clothes have all been put back, Richard comes to sit next to Gray on the bed, and the room is quiet for another one minute and ten seconds.

“I’ll talk to Bruce,” Richard says, and the bad feeling returns immediately, much worse than it ever has been before. “I’ll make sure he slows down the changes. Is there anything else you want me to tell him to do? I won’t tell him the requests are from you, don’t worry.”

“Are you… will you tell him that I was bad?” Gray manages to ask.

Richard does not speak for a moment. The bad feeling — the empty feeling — intensifies. It is so bad that it spreads to his chest and he can’t feel his fingers or toes at all any more.

“Bad? What did you do that was bad?”

“The sorting,” Gray says. “We had to stop the sorting.”

“Just now, with the clothes?”

Nod.

“No, I won’t tell him that you were bad. Do you know why?”

The bad feeling lessens. He squeezes the rabbit rhythmically now that he can feel his hands properly again.

“Brothers look out for each other?” Gray tries, glancing up to gauge Richard’s reaction. He hopes it is a pleasing answer.

“Close. It’s because you weren’t bad at all. You were struggling. We just have to figure out how to help you say when you’re struggling.” Richard smiles. “Or you might go bald, even with my amazing Grayson genes. Grabbing your hair like that isn’t a good idea. You’re not allowed to hurt anybody - that includes you, okay? Don’t hurt yourself.”

There is a— there’s a different bad feeling welling up in his chest. It makes his face feel hot. He ignores that feeling: a clear order has been issued.

“Okay,” Gray echoes.

“Okay. So what should I tell Bruce to do?” Richard asks.

Gray knows better than to say or think anything negative about his masters; he knows better than to give instructions to his masters. But this is neither of those, this is giving Richard suggestions which Bruce will listen to and won't even know he should punish Gray for. This is just talking to his brother, and brothers look out for each other.

“Give better instructions,” Gray answers. “Give clear and measurable parameters for success in all tasks. Give rewards more consistently. Don’t interrupt good activities. Don’t come to places unexpectedly. Don’t come to this room. Don’t ask me difficult questions.”

“The last one isn’t gonna happen,” Richard says. “But I’ll tell him the others. He listens to me, so you don’t have to worry about those.”

Gray nods. His stomach feels better. It is good that Richard’s place in the hierarchy is so high.

“I’m gonna ask Tim to come have a little slumber party with you. He’s just gonna sleep on a cot in here and keep you company while you rest tonight. How about starting your bedtime routine?”

Gray nods. It would be better to be alone, but Tim is nice and kind and maybe he will bring more puzzles to do.

“Do you have a bath or a shower before you go to bed?”

Gray had not realised that he is permitted to use the bath. The thought of being submerged in warmth is very good.

“No. I turn the electric blanket on and put on my pyjamas,” he says. “I also wash my face and teeth.”

“Okay, then I’ll wait here while you do that,” Richard says. “Want me to get your stuff for you?”

Gray considers it, then shakes his head. 

“No,” he says.

When he looks in the drawer, the pyjamas are arranged in a different order, but it is not as wrong as he had thought earlier. It is okay, actually.

The tightness in Gray's chest is gone. He scoops up a satin-soft blue bundle of fabric.

He will be okay; Richard promised. And Bruce will listen to Richard. Everything will be less bad, because brothers look out for each other.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of distortions