Problem Child 16: Robinterlude 1

Can you ask Beautia ho…

Damian did not react to the incoming message, rapidly spamming flower attacks on the big screen in the family television den. His opponent screamed verbal abuse over the microphone as his avatar was buried under an avalanche of impenetrable daisies.

Father looked up from his laptop disapprovingly, but his gaze did not land on the lit message from the girl he certainly did not know Robin associated with. He merely frowned at the sounds of an adult temper tantrum. Foolish. Damian would never pass up the chance to note the contents of a message on his Father’s phone. “Damian,” He began, in a tone that was familiar.

“No, Father,” Damian said absently. “I do not require you to develop an algorithm to identify my online opponents. By sending Batman to their homes to discuss their hostility to children online, I would in fact be doxxing myself and disturbing the integrity of my screen name as a means of privacy. Thank you.” His character kicked a bomb into the pit of despair and sent limbs of earlier defeated opponents flying to deal aerial damage to the pitiful survivors. Ha. His domination was complete.

Father sighed, clearly put-upon by the leashes he found himself entangled in. Damian could find no sympathy for him, given that Father was the originator of most of the bounds on his own life. Father went back to his work after a moment. Damian concealed any hint of smugness resulting from his power to restrain his nominal superior. Who was truly the powerful one in their relationship?

It was but a few minutes to finish the round with gratuitous floral violence, grievously wounding the ego of his unseen opponent. Damian indulged in a peaceful sigh, the anger in his veins sated by his triumph. He turned on his mic to interrupt the loser’s screams with a calm, “I hope that you get better soon.” 

Father let out a huffing laugh through his nose.

Then Damian disconnected from the match and leaned back to casually pick up his phone while the game went back to the lobby screen. He acted as if there was nothing at all unusual to be seen, and therefore Father did not so much as glance over to inquire.

Can you ask Beautia how Herkimer would contact her father for money? He’s kidnapped someone and we want to trak him down, he has no bank accounts of his own and Marvel suspects that Sivana/ MSoE funded him.

Hmm. MSoE? Damian typed up rapidly. Clarify term.

The reply was quite fast, considering that his texting companion was barely literate, young as she was.

Monster Society of Evil, a colition of Marvel’s antagonists.

Damian nodded slightly to himself as he typed up his response.

Understood. I will ask her. She remains outwardly amenable to providing assistance in exchange for the opportunity to attain a legitimate career.

He put the phone in his hoodie pocket and leaned over to pick up his empty drink glass. He left with only a grunt that was meant to signify an interaction.

Father made an answering sound and did not look away from his screen, blasting the white-hot misery of financial documents directly into his visual association cortex. Lines of bleak black text reflected off the reading glasses perched on his head, for he was quite elderly at 43 entire years of age.

Damian tore his thoughts away from his eventual inheritance of the Wayne Empire and the Batman suit. He put his glass in the dishwasher and continued on his way. Surely Father would stagger on until Damian was at least 14, and could attain the great powers and responsibilities that he leaned on from his most useful ally of late.

“Thomas.” Damian came to a stop in the doorway.

“You can just come in, Dracula,” Thomas said absently. “Standing invitation.” He was lying on his bed, holding his phone above his face and typing. Damian eyed it, assessed the likelihood of the fool dropping the electronic device on his face, and decided not to mention it.

“I have never consumed the blood of a human,” Damian clarified. “Although it may be more ethical than your indulgences.” After all, a human could consent to share their bodily materials, but an animal could not be considered capable of such.

Thomas pulled his phone down enough to squint at him through one eye. “Are you here to ask for a favor?”

Bemused, he raised an eyebrow. “Yes. What else?”

“And that’s how you open the conversation?” Thomas wondered. But he was smiling, daft as he was. He hauled himself up with a groan. It sounded disturbingly like the way Father and other elderly people did when they sat up.

Damian felt a spike of anxiety. Everyone was forever making such sounds and speaking of their lower backs. “Is it pain?” he demanded. “Is it old age setting in?” Thomas was only four years Damian’s elder. He had thought that he had a longer stay of execution from the ravages of degenerative infirmity. His plans required him to have the use of his knees until age 30 at the least.

“Oi!” Thomas threw his pillow. Damian kindly grabbed it rather than step aside to let it fall on the floor. That would have been disgusting.

“Your hygiene is abominable,” he explained. He flung it back at Thomas with all his power, achieving a satisfying result. “Please take better care of your items.”

“I am not dealing with sudden onset old age,” Thomas said, slamming his errant pillow back down at his side with a heaved sigh. He put his forearm over his eyes and did a good show of looking beleaguered as he swooned against the headboard. “I’m fifteen,” he enunciated. “You get that, right?”

“You have attained many years,” Damian allowed generously. “Which is why I have come to you with a proposition.”

The response he got was a groan. 

He pressed on heedless. “I desire to speak with the fancy woman–”

“I don’t know what that means exactly, but I’m sure it’s offensive,” Thomas cut him off.

Damian scoffed, keeping a straight expression as if he was unaware of the wordplay. “Nonsense. It refers to a woman who is kept. Is she not that? We are keeping her in an apartment.”

Thoman groaned again. Most amusing. Would he ever think to correct a seeming misconception? Damian had the positive regard for him necessary to render correction when due.

The inequality of their goodwill did sour his mood slightly.

“I must converse with her in regards to the financial arrangements between her family and a crocodile.” Damian crossed his arms. 

“That’s my favorite sentence from you.” Thomas hauled himself to his feet and stuffed his feet into his house shoes. “Yeah, we have a deal. The dark bargain is struck, little man.” 

“Much obliged,” Damian said tightly. He followed at Thomas’ heels down the hall, to retrieve car keys from the bowl in the front room.

Father was in the entryway in a matter of moments. As always, he had the ears of a hunting dog when it came to possible child misbehavior.

Damian and his co-conspirator leveled their parental figure with identical looks of mildly unimpressed neutrality. “Has he forgotten about the band practice yet again in his infirmity?” Damian asked quietly, as if in a private aside to his companion.

Father looked aggrieved.

Thomas executed an adept facial maneuver that implied he was hurt that Father did not remember his interests but was hiding it. “Bruce,” he said, somehow exuding youthful vulnerability. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say take care, drive safe.” Father recalculated instantly and moved over to put a hand on each of their shoulders in turn in benediction. “Have a good time at school, boys.”

Damian lifted the side of his mouth in a very faint sneer that said ‘I would never deign to associate with this cretin, were he not the only means of transportation to my beloved school event.’

“Where’s your clarinet?” Father asked, looking him over.

“At school,” Damian said flatly. They had not actually bought one for this ruse, as it was wasteful. He had borrowed one to bring home periodically. “I do not need to practice it here, thank you.”

“If you’re sure.” Father’s lips ticked upwards in a garish show of amusement at what he saw as youthful foibles. More fool he! Damian and Thomas exited, pursued by none, and went their separate ways once they had reached the city center. Damian pulled his backpack over his shoulders, heavy with a Robin suit, and gave Thoman a companionable nod. “Your assistance is, as always, appreciated,” he commended. 

Thomas revved the engine. “Yeah, see you in three hours, little man. I’m going to go find someone to race before Batman flaps out.” He was openly gleeful, as ever, at the potential to attain great vehicular speed, empowered as he was by his learner’s permit.

Damian grunted acknowledgment and took his leave.