Author's Note: I have been fascinated by Batman comics for many years and even more fascinated by the art of writing fiction. Although I possess a vast portfolio of stories, I have never yet had the courage to publish one for public scorn. With this, that will change...

Enjoy and Review if worthy of such accolades.

Details

Fighting at close quarters is, in its own way, something of an art form. The fluidity with which one must move in order to both defend and attack is a difficult balance. A game of inches, my instructor used to say, how many do you have to work with? The answer in this case would be, not many. Three of them have closed me down into the smallest of spaces. All of them are armed. This situation would seem suggest serious thinking is in order. That would be a mistake. Thinking whilst fighting for your life is a sign of desperation and an unwelcome distraction. So I do not think; I react. An opening appears before long and is immediately exploited. I land a firm right hook before ducking an attempt to pistol whip me. Another opening. I sweep away both legs before reflecting another telegraphed blow from above. By now, I am in full-flow. In less than ten further movements, all three are disarmed and, following another sequence of five movements, all of them are down on the floor. I count one broken arm amongst them and even that was merely a result of an awkward fall rather than needless brutality.

My partner is doubled over in the next room with two thugs moaning listlessly at his feet. He looks up, meets my gaze and then gestures to the broken window behind him. I know immediately one got away. The lack of noise points to a clean escape. It is only a temporary reprieve for the runaway. We will find him, one way or another. Meanwhile, we have five potential talkers in our possession. Interrogation is short-lived; all of them are ready to sing. We get a name and address inside of five minutes. Another minute and we're gone into the night, back on the hunt.

"Asshole caught me with a knuckle duster. Who the hell uses a knuckle duster?" Robin says between gritted teeth as we drive through the streets. His language is inappropriate. I understand his dismay at misreading the blow but say nothing. I am certain he will fill the silence momentarily.

"I think he fractured a couple of ribs. I guess I'm not going on the track tomorrow. I could've won that race you know, easily." I still say nothing. I just note the bitter disappointment lacing his words. I hear a sharp intake of breath as he re-assesses his own injury. "Okay, the adrenaline's wearing off. This feels like it's on fire." I note the position of his hands. They are firmly pressed against his left side. We are closing in on the address supplied to us.

"You know the worst part is gonna be when we get back home. Alfred's gonna try and ease me out of the car and I'm gonna scream like a girl." That particular premonition seems to frustrate him more than the treatment of the injury itself which I know is quite scream-provoking. I have learned with some difficulty that teenage boys are far less embarrassed by appearing weak if they inform before the event. I am uncomfortable saying nothing, but my partner prefers it that way. We have arrived at the address. "If you see this guy who's about six-and-a-half feet tall with a stupid little beard and an impossible set of shoulders, watch out for his right hook to the body." Robin calls to me as I leave the car and land on the rooftop. Now is the time for serious thinking.

The roof of this inauspicious warehouse is most likely nothing more than tin sheeting. My boots will muffle the majority of the sound, but I must tread carefully. Criminals do not take kindly to unannounced noise. The process is slow, but I navigate my way to a dusty skylight. One look at the darkened floor below and I know they've been alerted to my presence. The element of surprise is partially gone. I note that the moon is quarter-waning and therefore I am unable to be silhouetted against. It is somewhat of a saving grace. My switch to thermal imaging reveals something I was not prepared for. A rough guess informs me that there are approximately fifty persons in the warehouse, all of them armed with weapon systems. This building and its patrons are no longer a mere link in a long chain, but the end product itself. The drug shipment is here, in this warehouse, probably awaiting transportation to the docks. The number of personnel on guard suggests they are planning to move tonight, maybe even in the next few minutes. I have a decision to make.

My supplies of CS gas and contained explosives are severely limited. I estimate on my own, I would be lucky to disable twenty of them. That however is the odds on a frontal assault. With correct entry to the building and a generous assessment of the ground layout, plus a viable escape route, sabotage of the shipment is a highly lucrative option to consider. Silent takedown of each individual is not viable, nor is a meld of both plans. I spot the security installations and motion sensors a moment later and realize the futility of the effort. My portable jamming devices possess too small a disruptive field to make a hole in the sensor network wide enough to allow proper work. Withdrawal is not justified either; some action can be taken. I have now been motionless for twelve minutes.

They have no set patrol patterns, unfortunate but expected. Some have elevated heart rates, but not enough to suggest exploitable tension. I can see no established leader. I can speculate my speed in reaching the warehouse has had some impact on proceedings as the man Robin described is more than likely still on route. He is also a possible candidate for leadership of this operation, acting under the main boss Luciano Fognini. I still understand these are just theories and have yet to be proven accurate. I must act now.

A subtle tweak of my jamming device's mechanics allows me to slightly boost the power. I can extend the disruptive field by nearly a metre. This is imperative to what I am about to attempt. I gain a shaky entrance to the warehouse via a loose sheet and gently lower myself through the narrow gap. I keep my knees tight against my chest whilst scanning the immediate environment beneath me. Roof struts are directly under my feet, six to seven feet of drop at best. My imaging scans reveal one strategically placed camera looking directly onto the strut I intend to land on. I spot another crossing the other's field of vision. That particular camera is on the other side of the warehouse, a distance of three hundred or so metres from my current position. A cursory glance down to the personnel shows these camera feeds are being monitored. With a delicate twist of my body and a deft acrobatic manoeuvre, I manage to stick the improved device next to the camera. I wait.

The individual monitoring the feeds notices the breakdown and taps the screen. In a moment I have landed on the strut and retrieved the device. I am directly beneath the camera. The monitor of the feeds nods in approval. The intersecting camera is looking directly at my position, but the monitor does not notice my presence. I hang off the strut, dangling precariously above the heavy drop. The monitor is contained within a small room...with no roofing. My skills were not briefed to these people. Placing the device on my belt, I drop.

The monitor is disabled and unconscious before he can utter a word. He has a radio device in his ear. Placing the jamming device on the control panel impairs the function of the whole security system. I am free of electronic tagging. The next sequence of events is clinical. All individuals with radio links find their frequency scrambled. I detect a rise in adrenal levels. I leave the control room and sit in wait. My position is shaky at best. I am hoping they become agitated enough to switch on the lights. I test them by executing some very vocal takedowns of those individuals on the fringe of the perimeter. As intended, they switch on the lights and create dozens of shadows.

I have strung one up from a strut with the aid of my grappling hook and left him purposely conscious to attract attention. Their lack of discipline is welcomed as a sizable crowd gathers beneath the unfortunate. From my new position in the shadow of a large wall of packing crates I count the numbers. 12. I had hoped for more. A gentle roll of self-detonating capsules is undetected, landing in their centre without any fanfare. The ensuing theatrical explosion shakes them to action, but the gas is too quick to disperse. Moments later they are engulfed in a harsh, choking white cloud as the CS gas takes them. Donning a respirator, I enter the expanding mist and perform a series of nerve pinches to lessen their number. The approach of footsteps and random gunfire limits my time to work. I disable seven of the twelve before retreating to my previous position. I hear screaming and know my chances are high.

I anticipate everyone is looking up to the ceiling, expecting me to cut through the cloud and escape. Clinging to this belief, I re-enter the gas cloud. Using all my available batarangs and space, I negate a further seven before my cover is depleted due to the size of the building. I again fall back to the shadows and wait. The man Robin described finally arrived at the very height of the chaos and panic I have orchestrated. His expression says it all. Not only is this man clearly the leader, he too is also bewildered by the scene. His attempts at regaining order fall flat. He is inexperienced. I can use that to great effect. He does not fold the men back into a defensive position but does gesture to the packing crates with some urgency. They are riddled with holes from stray fire. I guess the drugs are within these crates. I do not move.

Through the din I hear the wailing of sirens closing. Robin has sent the message to Gordon. The leader hears the ominous sound too and gives the word to scatter. My presence is still felt though. Half of them are raving I'm still here whilst the other half are convinced the oncoming sirens are one of my tricks and wish to call my bluff. The sirens are very close now. The leader is looking ready to flee. I wait as the net closes tighter. The leader flees moments later and I move. I dodge concentrated fire on my position before casting the last of my CS gas capsules in their general direction. Their reaction times have improved. They clear the cloud in record time. But while they run only minimal fire is put down, a common battlefield error. I grab the leader, avoid his right hook and put him down. The screen between us and the others is slight at best, but I use it. My viable exit point is an unstable section of the wall to my immediate left. I throw my own weight and my captive's against the target and brace for the impact. We hit the concrete outside hard, but I avoid dislocating my shoulder. A swarm of police vehicles and armed officers surround the front of the warehouse. Gordon's response time has improved as well. I am confident he can handle the situation now.

I am reluctant to leave my grappling hook attachment behind for forensic purposes, but accept it as inevitability. I cannot re-enter the building at such a crucial juncture. I string the leader up a safe distance from the shoot-out and exit the scene.

"You were gone a hell of a long time, boss." Robin says to me when I get back in the car. I nod in agreement, noting the relief in his voice.

"The situation demanded careful thought." I say judging that to be a fair assessment of what transpired.

"Gordon can contain the situation now?" My partner asks as I fire up the engine. I nod.

"He can."

I am far from satisfied with my actions and feel particularly betrayed by impulsive action on my part. I was close to getting both myself and the leader killed at two separate times. I cannot afford such carelessness in future. I am in silent contemplation the whole ride home. Robin, his injury still upsetting him, is unusually quiet as well. I am somewhat thankful.

Arrival back at base can be described as a turn-over of varying proportions. Depending on Alfred's mood and my own, the transition to civilian routine can be smooth or unkind. Tonight Alfred is in a favourable mood and mine is only slightly soured by news of one serious injury sustained by a GCPD officer. The warehouse has been successfully raided regardless and the suspected leader in custody according to the police scanner and local media outlets covering the scene. Alfred first tends to my partner. Robin was correct and when he is moved, the boy screams at an ear-splitting volume. Alfred, as ever, is unfazed by his reaction. I make a brief appreciation of the car's condition; new tyres are required, but that is all.

While Alfred administers treatment to his frequent patient, I replace my utility belt in the armoury and remove the majority of my Kevlar plating. I instantly feel twenty pounds lighter. Alfred is nearly finished already, a new record I believe. I stand to one side and watch him tie off the gauze around the boy's ribs. His precision is enviable.

"How does that feel, Master Richard?" He asks. The boy nods quickly and Alfred understands his embarrassment; without his tunic, the boy is virtually naked. Alfred gives him a blanket which he snatches at, provoking a sharp yelp. Alfred turns his attention to me.

"Master Bruce?"

I shed my upper body suit and raise my arms so he can assess the extent of my injuries. Dick watches on in fascination. I wince at every slight ache so he does not miss anything. Alfred's analysis is completed swiftly. "Congratulations Master Bruce, you've been shot, twice." There is an uncomfortable silence. I break it.

"But?"

"But they are merely flesh wounds at best. The remainder of your efforts consists almost exclusively of superficial bruising and minor lacerations. Consider yourself fortunate."

It is only now I feel the sting of open wounds on my shoulder and stomach. I glance at the boy. I know he was momentarily frightened he had made yet another costly error. Alfred has no reason to stress him so. My mood sours further and the tension between me and the old man are palpable to the boy as he stitches me up. Long minutes pass. Eventually, Alfred is finished and is quick to leave.

"It is late, young sir; be sure you are in bed within the hour. Breakfast will be served at seven sharp. Will that be all Master Bruce?" I nod and watch him walk back up to the manor. Once he is gone, only the echoes of the cave endless recesses can be heard. We are alone. I turn to the boy. He has adopted an expression of guilt. He feels he should have been in the warehouse with me. He feels he has let me down...again. This is an absurd conclusion that only an adolescent can reach. Perhaps I have been distant these past few months.

"What did Alfred say?" I ask without drawing closer. He shrugs his shoulders without relinquishing his grip on the blanket.

"I'll be off school for a while. He says I need plenty of bed rest. You know, just the usual spiel."

The disappointment is evident in his voice, as is his fear of failure. I nod in agreement of Alfred's findings. "You performed very well tonight, Dick. I am impressed with the improvements you have made in tactical planning and awareness. Well done." I expected the words to sound hollow and cold, but I do believe they sounded uncharacteristically warm and complementary. The boy's bemused smile confirms this; he did not expect praise.

"Thanks. Did you get my guy?"

"I missed his right hook. Great scout." I reply with an appreciative smile. Dick looks curious.

"Was he the head honcho?"

"I believe so. In the event that he is, your performance is even more commendable."

The boy looks suitably happy now, relieved of his self-inflicted burdens. I am glad he is sated. It is important that he feels important. I would refer to his timely radio call to the police if it were not overkill.

"Come on, I'll give you a lift upstairs." I say moving in. Dick is reluctant to accept my offer of help, but quickly knows there are no other painless options. He gingerly raises his arms and I am mindful of his injury. He wraps his arms loosely round my neck and we begin the ascent. The boy is heavier than I remember by maybe as much as twenty pounds. The lactic acid has already pooled in my muscles and there is a burning sensation in my arm as we reach the top. I can feel the boy's heartbeat against my skin. It is slightly elevated. It is possibly because he is facing downwards at the staircase. If I were to fall or lose my balance now, we would both be killed by the drop. I will not do either of those things but Dick senses I am tired. I suppose my steps are laboured as we leave the darkness of the cave for the darkness of the library.

As we cross the parlour and begin up the main staircase, I am aware the boy is now looking directly at my face. He is going to say something so I wait.

"Bruce?"

"Yes, Dick?"

"What was up with you and Alfie in the cave?"

"A difference of opinion."

"But you guys didn't say anything."

"Alfred and I rarely need to speak to understand one another. It is nothing to concern yourself with."

"But it was about me, wasn't it?"

I stop three-quarters of the way up and return his gaze. He looks anxious again. He feels he is causing a rift in the family. He feels that something about his actions is pushing Alfred and me apart. Teenager's minds are so hard to rationalize that I rarely try with Dick. He has mood swings and random fits of temper as well as childish fears and inclinations. I admit my usual strategy involves pawning him off to Alfred because of my inexperience in such matters. Here on this staircase shrouded in the shadow of midnight I must attempt some form of delicate parenting. I must not lie. I must not tell the whole truth. Again a fine balance must be struck. My arm is beyond cramp at this point.

"I don't want to press you with responsibilities you have no obligation to undertake, Dick. In your condition, I was not prepared to take you into that warehouse. Even if you were willing to go, the right thing to do was let you remain in the car. My safety in that warehouse was my responsibility and mine alone. If I were to be shot or killed, it would be my fault and only my fault. I told you that you would be my partner only if you were a good soldier. That meant following my orders without question. I know you want to always support me out on patrol and operations, but you can't. You need to accept that. Alfred should not have made you feel guilty. I was not shot; I was grazed with two stray bullets, not even aimed shots. Your presence would not have prevented it occurring."

The boy appears to nod in acceptance. I believe he understands he is not at fault in the matter. He smiles at me. "Your arm must be killing you right now." He is entirely correct. I estimate the boy weighs 140lbs and I have been carrying him for almost ten minutes. Allowing my arm to extend now would return the muscles to normality by tomorrow. I do not. I smile instead.

"You have a way to go before you become too heavy for me to carry."

"Well, when I'm a lump of concrete like you we can test that theory, huh?"

"I look forward to a new challenge."

"That was almost funny, Bruce. Maybe I'm actually rubbing off on you."

"Perhaps."

Dick is himself again, entirely. I had never truly understood the appeal of children until Dick came to stay with us. I must confess his presence often lightens my mood when I feel nothing can. We are now on the landing and almost upon the boy's room.

"I think I can walk now." Dick says once we are in front of his bedroom door. I try to set him down gently. I hear a sharp intake of breath and know it could have easily been worse. We look at one another. "Thanks for the ride, big man. See you in the morning?" I nod. He opens the door, goes in and then closes the door without looking back. Teenagers. I silently wish him a good night and retire myself until daybreak.