"You were lucky enough to be born into a successful family. Do you know how I managed to get rich? One day, I was digging a hole for a corpse and found a treasure!"
"But my father lent you the money."
"What?! How did you find out?!"
"I guessed!"
Grimacing in surprise, I tapped the child on the skull with my index finger.
"Go to hell!"
"Don't swear," I replied, giving him a light slap on the back of his head, which my young interlocutor didn't seem to feel at all.
Ah, Damien's fate is rather sad in the end. It might seem like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but that's only until you remember his crazy grandfather—who once threw his five-year-old grandson into an icy gorge and watched him suffer. Well, he called it training... And Damien's parents aren't exactly candidates for Parents of the Year, either.
So it falls to the butler and me to care for the troubled boy. Mostly, of course, it's Alfred who has become the loving grandfather the younger Wayne never had. But I don't simply stand on the sidelines—whenever I get the chance, I playfully tease—apologies, "troll"—and try to teach the kids the right path to heroism.
"By the way, where's Hiro?" I asked the little one about his new friend. "Weren't you two together?"
"When was that?! I have nothing in common with that Trouble maker," Ra's al Ghul's grandson shot back, denying any friendship. "He's just a pervert. He's probably chasing another girl with his X-ray glasses."
"Well, he's still a teenager. His hormones are a bit out of control. When you're his age, you'll start acting like that too."
"That will never happen."
"Yeah, yeah, we've all been there: 'I'll never get married, I'll be alone my whole life, I'm not interested in relationships...'"
"Alex, are you bothering Damien again?"A stunning blonde in a silver dress, shimmering in the firelight, approached us. Her equally beautiful friend in a fiery red dress quickly caught up.
"Leave the boy alone—look, he's afraid of you," another one, a woman in red pointed to the young man's trembling hand.
I doubted the nervous tic was from fear—anger seemed far more likely. Our Damien looked ready to hit someone. But who? Oh, I realized: little Toyman. Why was he glaring at me so fiercely? Sorry, but I honestly didn't know where Hiro was at that moment.
"I'm going to hang up the cards," Bruce's son muttered through clenched teeth, leaving the ladies and me alone.
"Vicki, Silver, you both look absolutely wonderful!" Vicki Vale, Gotham's chief reporter, and Silver St. Cloud, a businesswoman and head of a charity dedicated to rebuilding Gotham, are both dear to my heart—and both are supersoldiers, capable of handling dozens of thugs.
After they received Dr. Erskine's serum, I insisted they undergo basic combat training for beginners. After all, even if one is a supersoldier three times over, without knowing where to strike, defeat is inevitable. So, they began combat training under the direct guidance of Sasha Bordeaux and Tatsu Yamashiro.
Of course, they didn't become masters overnight, and it's too early to give them a yellow belt, but this is still much better than fighting blindly.
"Is Alison already on stage?" Victoria asked, peering through the thick spruce branches toward where Dazzler was performing, shining brighter than all the New Year's garlands.
"For two hours straight," I replied, admiring the girl's persistence. "But you're late for some reason."
"Sorry, getting ready took longer than expected," Silver smiled, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "After all, we haven't seen each other since that night and wanted to look our best."
Perhaps I should clarify: the girls were referring to that belated Christmas night, when, unlike everyone else, we celebrated a day later. Since Christmas is usually spent in a cozy family circle, the girls and I stuck to tradition, enjoying a calm, warm atmosphere of family togetherness.
Vicki Vale, Barbara Gordon, Silver St. Cloud, Sasha Bordeaux, Harley Quinn, Renee Montoya, Alison Blaire, and of course, our beloved Sharon (what would we do without the cat?) celebrated together with a festive dinner and family movies.
While cinema in this world isn't always brilliant—sometimes it's downright silly—among the vast selection, there are still films worthy of brightening our evening. After chatting with the girls briefly, I moved on through the room, searching for another victim for my "wise" advice.
On the way, I came across Hiro Okamura, diligently pouring ingredients into a shaker.
"Hiro, aren't you a bit young to drink?" I asked the young genius, who, mind you, is only thirteen years old.
"Small but mighty!" Toyman replied, still working. "Don't worry, it's a non-alcoholic cocktail... Well, almost. There's no alcohol, but the taste and sensations are no different. The final touch—" He closed the shaker and, donning a professional bartender persona, began juggling the contents. Clearly, this wasn't his first try.
"It's ready! You can try it." For some reason, what seemed most important in that moment was to come up with some cool last words—just in case I suddenly died. All I managed was:
"And who will the world revolve around now?"
"What are you talking about?" Hiro tilted his head in confusion. "Fine—if you don't want it, don't worry. I'll drink it myself…"
"Wait, are you sure you're going to drink that? Brave guy…"
Ignoring my warnings, Toymaker downed the drink straight from the shaker, not bothering with a glass.
For a moment, he lost consciousness. I was about to slap him awake, but, fortunately for him—and unfortunately for me—he came awake first.
"Incredible… You handled that stuff with ease! I think you're ready for the school cafeteria. Few return alive from there, son," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Lana Lang and Riri Williams, noticing our conversation, hurried over to join us. We talked about the celebration, our future plans, and the successes and challenges at Nidavellir. The chief engineers of the workshop were gathered—it would have been silly not to discuss such things.
But these were general topics, for I had visited the boys about three days ago and had personally seen their tireless progress.
Our valiant scientists are developing a high-tech forge furnace, designed to work with vibranium—a notoriously difficult material to handle, being the hardest metal on Earth and resistant to conventional methods. Significant progress has already been made.
The device isn't ready for use yet, but it's well on its way. All that remains is refining the technology, and our experts assure me this won't take long. Given that geniuses like Lana Lang, Hiro Okamura, and Riri Williams are in charge, I don't doubt it for a second. I am certain their invention will match, if not surpass, its counterpart in Wakanda—a kingdom built entirely from vibranium.
My head of security, Renee Montoya, interrupted our pleasant conversation. Despite the event's formality, she wasn't dressed up—she wore comfortable white sneakers, skinny jeans that highlighted her athletic figure, and a plain white T-shirt. She must have chosen this outfit for greater mobility, just in case anything unexpected happened. Renee is always so cautious…
She should just enjoy the holiday instead of worrying so much—especially since we're in the estate of the Dark Knight himself.
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