# Alfred's Private Study – That Evening
The door to Alfred's study shut with a soft but decisive click—the kind of sound that carried the weight of decades serving in Her Majesty's forces, followed by years perfecting the art of domestic warfare in Wayne Manor. It was a sound that spoke volumes without saying a word: *You weren't invited, you won't be welcome, and if you think you can simply barge in here like some common hooligan, you clearly haven't been properly introduced to Alfred Pennyworth.*
The mahogany panels seemed to absorb the echo, creating a cocoon of secrecy within Wayne Manor's sprawling halls. Heavy curtains blocked out the Gotham night, and the amber lamplight painted everything in gold and shadow—the kind of lighting that made even the most mundane conversation feel like a conspiracy.
Inside, the atmosphere crackled with the tension of a military briefing crossed with a family intervention. Alfred moved across the Persian carpet with that distinctive precision—part butler gliding through his domain, part soldier advancing on a target, all lethal efficiency wrapped in perfectly pressed wool. His silver hair caught the light as he approached his massive oak desk, fingers dancing across hidden switches with the casual expertise of a man who'd been installing secret communication systems since before most people knew what the internet was.
The desk itself was a masterpiece of concealed technology. What looked like an antique writing surface opened to reveal encrypted communication arrays, secure satellite uplinks, and enough surveillance equipment to make MI6 jealous. Computer screens rose from hidden compartments, their blue glow mixing with the warm amber light to create an almost ethereal atmosphere.
"Gentlemen," Alfred began, his voice carrying that unmistakable Michael Caine cadence—warm gravel mixed with Yorkshire steel, honey poured over titanium, the sound of a man who'd seen empires fall and boys become legends. Each word was precisely measured, weighted with the authority of someone who'd once briefed generals and now found himself explaining to children why the world was trying to kill them. "Recent events have demonstrated quite conclusively that conventional approaches to family security are no longer bloody adequate."
Bruce Wayne—all of nine years old but carrying himself with the coiled intensity of someone much, much older—leaned forward in his leather chair. The massive piece of furniture should have dwarfed him, made him look like a child playing dress-up in Daddy's office. Instead, somehow, he looked like he belonged there. Like the chair had been waiting for him. Like the entire room had been waiting for him.
His jaw was already set in that familiar stubborn line—the same expression Thomas Wayne had worn when making difficult decisions, though on Bruce it looked less like careful consideration and more like barely contained violence. Blue eyes, sharp as winter ice and twice as cold, dissected every word Alfred spoke, analyzing implications, calculating probabilities, already three steps ahead in whatever game they were about to play.
Even at nine, Bruce Wayne looked like he could bench press a small car if he put his mind to it. Where other children his age were soft with baby fat, Bruce was all lean muscle and coiled energy. His dark hair was perfectly styled despite the late hour, and his expensive suit looked like it had been tailored by someone who understood that some children were simply born to wear armor.
"You mean the Falcone hit," Bruce said, his voice steady and deeper than any nine-year-old had a right to possess. Each word was delivered with the kind of controlled intensity that suggested he'd been practicing—not just speaking, but *commanding*. It wasn't a question—Bruce Wayne didn't ask questions when he already knew the answers, and he didn't waste time with uncertainty when lives were on the line. "The men who came for our parents. The ones who put them in medically induced comas."
Alfred's eyebrow arched slightly—a gesture that somehow managed to convey both approval and mild concern. "Among other concerning developments, yes, Master Bruce."
Beside him, Hadrian sat straighter, projecting that particular kind of calm that suggested hidden depths running far beneath the surface. Where Bruce was all sharp angles and barely contained aggression, Hadrian was smooth lines and diplomatic grace. His green eyes held that knowing quality—too old for his young face, weighted with the kind of understanding that came from seeing too much too early. But unlike Bruce's arctic focus, there was something warmer there, something that suggested he still believed the world could be saved rather than just conquered.
At nine, Hadrian Wayne was already devastatingly handsome in that aristocratic way that would make grown women swoon in a few years. Dark hair, strong jaw, shoulders that hinted at the powerhouse he'd become. But it was his presence that really set him apart—the kind of natural authority that made people want to follow him, trust him, believe in whatever he was selling.
"The organized crime families aren't just escalating," Hadrian said, his voice carrying that diplomatic smoothness that suggested he'd been raised in boardrooms and embassy functions. Even at nine, he could make violent revolution sound like a reasonable business proposition. "They're evolving. Learning. Adapting their methodologies and expanding their operational parameters." He spread his hands in an elegant gesture that somehow made the conversation feel like afternoon tea rather than a discussion of attempted murder. "What worked to protect Gotham's elite five years ago..." He paused, that devastating smile quirking his lips. "Well, it's rather like bringing a sword to a gunfight, isn't it?"
Bruce's mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close. The expression transformed his face from intimidating to merely terrifying. "More like bringing lawyers to an assassination attempt."
"Precisely my point," Hadrian continued, settling back into his chair with that easy confidence that suggested he could negotiate peace treaties or hostile takeovers with equal skill. "We need more than conventional locks, security guards, and legal immunity. We need to think like them—strategically, tactically, psychologically." His green eyes gleamed with something that might have been anticipation. "Better than them."
Alfred allowed himself the ghost of a smile—the kind of expression that suggested he'd raised sharper blades than either of these boys, thank you very much. "Indeed, Master Hadrian. Which is precisely why I've reached out to... certain resources from my previous life. Men of particular skill and questionable morality. Teachers who understand that sometimes the best defense requires a rather more aggressive approach to problem-solving."
Bruce straightened like a hunting dog catching a scent, every muscle coiling with anticipation. His hands gripped the leather armrests hard enough to leave impressions. "Training. You're talking about real training." His eyes lit up with something that might have been hunger, or possibly bloodlust. It was sometimes hard to tell with Bruce. "Father mentioned it once—alternative methodologies for when traditional security protocols prove inadequate."
"'Alternative methodologies,'" Hadrian repeated, lips twitching with amusement. Even his laughter was elegant, refined, the kind that could disarm enemies or charm allies depending on the situation. "That's a wonderfully Wayne way of saying 'learn to systematically destroy people who try to destroy us.'"
Bruce shot him a look that could have cut glass, melted steel, and probably violated several laws of physics. "Efficiency isn't brutality, Hadrian. It's mathematics. Force applied with precision and calculation to achieve optimal outcomes with minimal resource expenditure."
"Spoken like a future Fortune 500 CEO," Hadrian murmured, but there was genuine fondness beneath the teasing—the kind of warmth that suggested years of inside jokes and shared nightmares. "Do you practice sounding like a corporate manual, or does it come naturally? Because I'm genuinely curious about your process."
"I practice everything," Bruce replied flatly, his voice carrying the kind of matter-of-fact certainty that made the statement sound less like boasting and more like a simple statement of natural law. "Physical conditioning, mental exercises, strategic analysis, tactical planning, resource management, threat assessment." He leaned forward slightly, blue eyes blazing. "That's the point. Excellence isn't accidental—it's methodical."
"Right," Hadrian said slowly, like he was talking to someone who'd just declared their intention to juggle live grenades for fun. "Because methodical nine-year-olds are completely normal and not at all concerning."
"Normal nine-year-olds don't have parents in comas because crime families decided to send messages," Bruce shot back, his voice never rising but somehow filling the room with barely contained violence. "Normal nine-year-olds don't inherit billion-dollar companies with target signs painted on their backs."
"Fair point," Hadrian conceded, though his diplomatic smile never wavered. "Though I'd argue that most nine-year-olds also don't sound like they're planning military campaigns during casual conversation."
"Maybe they should," Bruce said grimly. "Maybe if more people thought strategically instead of reactively, fewer of them would end up dead or in hospital beds."
Alfred cleared his throat—a sound that somehow managed to cut through the philosophical debate like a sword through silk. There was distinct amusement threading through his professional demeanor, the kind that suggested he'd refereed sharper arguments between deadlier opponents. "If you are both quite finished with your fascinating exploration of childhood psychology and strategic planning methodologies..."
"We're finished," Bruce said immediately, all business. "What kind of training?"
"Comprehensive training," Alfred replied, moving to pour himself a cup of tea from the service that had appeared as if by magic. "Physical conditioning that will transform you from pampered children into functional weapons. Strategic thinking that will teach you to see three moves ahead of your enemies. Surveillance techniques that will make you invisible when you want to be and impossible to ignore when you don't."
He paused to take a sip, letting the words hang in the air like smoke.
"Intelligence gathering that will teach you to extract information from anyone, anywhere, under any circumstances. Resource management that will show you how to turn anything—*anything*—into a weapon or an advantage. Psychological warfare that will let you destroy enemies without ever laying a finger on them."
Bruce was practically vibrating in his chair, hands clenched into fists. "And combat?"
Alfred's smile could have powered a small city. "Oh yes, Master Bruce. Combat. Extensive, comprehensive, absolutely merciless combat training."
Bruce leaned forward so far he was nearly out of his chair, blue eyes blazing with something that was definitely not appropriate for a nine-year-old. "When do we start?"
"Patience, Master Bruce," Alfred said, settling behind his desk with that weary affection that suggested he'd been managing eager young warriors for longer than he cared to remember. "Proper preparation takes time. Considerable time. And more importantly, it requires the right instructor. Someone who understands that young minds require... specialized approaches to education."
"Who?" Bruce demanded, impatience bleeding through his careful composure like cracks in armor. "Who's qualified to teach what we need to learn?"
Alfred set down his teacup with ceremony that somehow made the gesture feel monumentally important. "Richard Dragon."
The name hit the room like a physical force. Bruce went very still—not the relaxed stillness of someone at rest, but the coiled stillness of a predator calculating distance to prey. His mind was clearly racing, processing, analyzing every implication.
"Dragon," Bruce said slowly, rolling the name around like he was tasting it. "Father consulted with him during the Tokyo acquisition. Elite tactical instruction. Former military—Special Forces, if the whispers were accurate. Specialized in..." He paused, searching for the right euphemism. "Unconventional problem-solving methodologies."
"That's a rather diplomatic way of saying 'professional killer,'" Hadrian observed mildly, but his green eyes were sharp, alert. "Though I suppose 'consultant' does look better on business cards than 'assassin for hire.'"
"Dragon trains more than just killers," Alfred said carefully. "He trains protectors. Guardians. People who stand between the innocent and those who would destroy them. The distinction is subtle but crucial."
Hadrian tilted his head, that devastating smile playing around his lips. "Dragon. Rather poetic, isn't it? And probably not coincidental." He fixed Alfred with a look that suggested he understood far more than he was letting on—a diplomatic skill that made him dangerous in entirely different ways than Bruce. "I'm guessing our Mr. Dragon has considerable experience with children who aren't exactly... typical?"
Before Alfred could respond with anything more than a knowing look, the study door opened without so much as a knock—a bold move that would have earned anyone else a glare capable of withering roses, freezing blood, and generally making grown men reconsider their life choices.
Giovanni Zatara strode in like he owned every room he'd ever entered, his black cape sweeping dramatically behind him with theatrical flair that somehow never looked ridiculous. His dark hair was perfectly styled despite the late hour, every strand in place like he'd just stepped off a movie set. His smile could have powered half of Gotham and convinced the other half to invest in whatever he was selling.
At forty-something, Giovanni Zatara looked like he'd been designed by someone who understood that charisma was a weapon and sex appeal was armor. Tall, broad-shouldered, devastatingly handsome in that Latin lover way that made women forget their own names and men question their sexuality. His accent wrapped around words like velvet around steel—smooth, seductive, but with an edge that suggested crossing him would be inadvisable.
"Perdón por la intrusión," he said, spreading his arms in theatrical apology that somehow managed to make the interruption seem like a gift to everyone present. "But my daughter, she was most insistent—*most* insistent—that we be present for this conversation. You know how children can be when they set their minds to something, sí?"
Behind him, Zatanna bounced into the room like barely contained lightning, all energy and attitude packed into a nine-year-old frame that somehow managed to command attention without even trying. Her dark hair caught the lamplight, creating an almost supernatural halo effect. Her eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that seemed to hold starlight and mischief in equal measure—sparkled with intelligence that was definitely not age-appropriate and confidence that suggested she'd never met a problem she couldn't charm, trick, or explode her way out of.
Even at nine, Zatanna Zatara was going to be absolutely devastating when she grew up. She had her father's bone structure, her own supernatural charisma, and the kind of presence that made people stop and stare. But more than that, she moved like someone who knew exactly how dangerous she was—fluid, graceful, with an undercurrent of power that suggested crossing her would result in very creative forms of revenge.
"Darn right I was insistent," she declared, planting her fists on her hips in a pose that brooked no argument and somehow made her look like she was ready to take on armies. Her voice carried that same musical quality as her father's, but with an edge of determination that suggested she'd inherited more than just good looks. "You boys think you're going to learn secret ninja fighting techniques without Zatanna Zatara? Ha!"
She gestured dramatically—a move that was pure Giovanni—and somehow made the air shimmer slightly around her hands.
"I can already do magic—*real* magic, not card tricks or pulling rabbits out of hats—but I want the rest. Punching, kicking, strategic planning, psychological warfare, infiltration techniques..." She grinned, wild and bright and absolutely fearless. "The whole superhero package deal, boys."
Bruce stared at her with the expression of someone who'd just realized his carefully planned military operation had acquired unexpected variables that might explode at any moment. "This isn't a game, Zatanna."
She stuck her tongue out at him with zero shame and maximum sass. "Neither is getting stabbed by assassins, Captain Obvious. Besides," she added, her grin turning predatory in a way that would have been terrifying if it weren't so absolutely charming, "wouldn't you rather have someone around who can literally make your enemies disappear? *Poof*." She snapped her fingers and sparkles actually appeared in the air. "Gone. Problem solved. No muss, no fuss, no inconvenient bodies to explain."
Hadrian chuckled—the sound rich and warm and genuinely delighted. "She raises an excellent point, Bruce. Magic plus martial arts sounds like a significant strategic advantage to me. Unless, of course, you'd prefer not having someone around who can teleport you out of a building that's about to explode."
Bruce's jaw ticked—a sure sign he was annoyed but couldn't find a logical counter-argument, which was probably his least favorite situation in the entire world. "Teleportation creates operational dependency. It weakens combat discipline and strategic thinking."
"Or," Hadrian countered smoothly, settling deeper into his chair with that diplomatic grace that made even disagreement look elegant, "it keeps you alive long enough to develop that discipline in the first place. Dead heroes don't get to be disciplined, Bruce. They just get to be dead."
"Dead heroes also don't get to protect anyone," Zatanna added cheerfully, somehow making mass destruction sound like a fun weekend activity. "And since I'm planning to protect *all* of you beautiful, stubborn, magnificently stupid boys, learning to punch bad guys seems like a solid investment in my future career prospects."
"Your future career—" Bruce started, then stopped, looking like he was rapidly recalculating several important equations and not liking the results.
"What, you thought I was going to grow up to be a housewife?" Zatanna laughed, the sound like silver bells mixed with barely contained chaos. "Please. I'm Zatanna Zatara. I was born to be magnificent and terrifying. The only question is whether I'm going to be magnificently terrifying with or without proper combat training."
Giovanni beamed at his daughter with the pride of a man who'd successfully raised a weapon of mass destruction disguised as a charming young lady. "She gets this from her mother, you understand. The determination, the fire, the complete inability to accept 'no' as an acceptable answer to reasonable requests."
"Reasonable?" Bruce looked like he was developing a migraine. "She wants to learn military-grade combat techniques so she can add them to her magical arsenal. That's not reasonable—that's terrifying."
"Terrifying for our enemies," Zatanna pointed out helpfully. "For you boys, it's just really, really useful. Think about it—I can scout ahead invisibly, extract information from targets, provide emergency evacuation, create distractions, disable security systems..." She counted off on her fingers, each point delivered with the casual confidence of someone listing their qualifications for a job interview. "Plus, if we ever need someone to literally disappear evidence, I'm your girl."
"You're nine," Bruce said weakly.
"So are you," she shot back. "And you're talking about learning to kill people with your bare hands. At least my methods are more environmentally friendly."
"Gentlemen," Alfred cut in, his voice sharp enough to slice through steel. "And Lady Zatanna."
Zatanna beamed at him like he'd just handed her the crown jewels. "See? Alfred gets it. Alfred always gets it because Alfred is perfect and wise and definitely the smartest person in this room."
Alfred's expression softened fractionally—the kind of look that suggested he'd been completely won over despite his better judgment. "Master Dragon's training facility in Nanda Parbat has considerable experience with... unconventional educational approaches. Integrating martial and mystical disciplines would not be beyond their considerable capabilities. In fact, I suspect they would find the challenge quite stimulating."
Giovanni spread his hands, that Antonio Banderas smile lighting up the entire room like a solar flare. "There! Perfect! The children learn to fight, to think, to plan, to protect each other like a beautiful family of young warriors. And they have a magician watching their backs—what could possibly be better? It is like a beautiful story, no? Like legends being born!"
Bruce crossed his arms, chin tilted in that way that made him look like a brooding billionaire despite being nine years old. The expression was pure Wayne—stubborn, determined, and absolutely unmovable. "If we're going to do this—and I mean *really* do this—it has to be serious. No distractions. No half-measures. No treating this like some kind of summer camp with throwing stars and friendship bracelets."
Zatanna plopped into the empty chair beside Hadrian, swinging her legs and smirking at Bruce like she'd just won an argument he didn't know he was having. "Relax, Batsy. I promise to try not to sparkle *too* much while I'm saving your magnificent but unnecessarily paranoid life."
"Don't call me Batsy," Bruce growled, the sound genuinely threatening despite coming from someone who probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet.
"Would you prefer Brucey?" she asked innocently, batting her eyelashes in a way that suggested she was enjoying this far too much.
"I'd prefer Bruce."
"How about Dark Knight Junior?"
"Zatanna."
"Ooh, or Baby Batman!"
"Stop."
"Shadow Prince?"
"I'm warning you."
"Brooding McBrooderson?"
Hadrian was trying very hard not to laugh, his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. "I rather like Baby Batman, actually. It has a certain ring to it."
Bruce turned his glare on his brother—the kind of look that suggested fratricide was suddenly seeming like a viable option. "You're not helping."
"Wasn't trying to," Hadrian admitted, his diplomatic mask slipping to reveal genuine amusement. "This is far too entertaining. Besides, she has a point—you do brood rather magnificently for someone who hasn't even hit puberty yet."
"I don't brood," Bruce said through gritted teeth. "I think strategically about complex problems."
"While glowering dramatically at shadows," Zatanna added helpfully. "Which is totally brooding, by the way. Magnificent, intimidating brooding, but still brooding."
"I do not glower."
"You're glowering right now," Hadrian pointed out.
"This is strategic assessment of potential threats and resource allocation," Bruce insisted.
"To our faces?" Zatanna laughed. "What are we, enemy combatants?"
"You might be," Bruce muttered.
"Ooh, I like that," she said, clapping her hands together. "Enemy combatant. That sounds way more exciting than 'annoying little girl who won't go away.'"
"You're not annoying," Bruce said automatically, then looked like he immediately regretted the admission.
"Aww, Brucey!" Zatanna beamed at him. "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me!"
"I take it back."
"Too late! It's already burned into my memory forever and ever."
Giovanni laughed—rich, warm, genuinely delighted. "Ah, mija, you are terrible and wonderful. Just like your mother."
"Mom taught me well," Zatanna said proudly. "She said the key to being a successful woman is to be charming enough that people want to help you and terrifying enough that they don't want to stop you."
"Sound advice," Hadrian murmured. "I should write that down."
Alfred rubbed his temples with both hands, a gesture that suggested this was exactly the kind of chaos he'd expected but hoped to avoid. "If I might interrupt this delightful display of sibling dynamics and tactical psychological warfare..."
The secure communication array on Alfred's desk crackled to life, cutting through the banter with electronic precision. The sound seemed to transform the atmosphere in the room, shifting from playful argument to serious business in the space of a heartbeat.
"Wayne Manor," a voice filled the study—calm, measured, carrying the kind of quiet authority that made everyone suddenly sit up straighter. It was the voice of someone who'd seen everything, done everything, and lived to tell about it. "This is Richard Dragon."
Alfred leaned forward, his entire demeanor shifting into something sharper, more focused. Years of military training reasserted themselves in his posture, in the way he held his shoulders, in the sudden laser focus of his attention. "Richard. We're ready to discuss terms."
"Excellent," Dragon replied, and there was something in his tone that suggested he was genuinely pleased. "I trust young Master Wayne and his companions are prepared for a rather more intensive educational experience than they might be accustomed to?"
Bruce spoke before Alfred could respond, his voice steady and sure, carrying a confidence that belied his age. "We're ready for whatever it takes, sir."
A pause. Then something that might have been approval in Dragon's tone—the kind of recognition that passed between warriors. "We shall see, young Wayne. We shall see indeed. And the others?"
"Ready and willing," Hadrian said smoothly, his diplomatic training evident even in casual conversation. "Though I suspect our definitions of 'intensive' might vary considerably."
"I like intensive," Zatanna declared cheerfully. "Intensive means exciting, and exciting means I get to learn new ways to be awesome. Plus, intensive training stories are way better at parties than 'I went to boring regular school and learned to be boring.'"
Another pause, then something that might have been laughter. "Indeed, Miss Zatara. I suspect you'll find Nanda Parbat quite... educational."
Giovanni clapped his hands together, still beaming like someone had just announced his birthday party. "Ah, this will be magnificent! Like watching young lions learn to roar, young eagles learning to soar!"
"Or young magicians learning to punch people," Zatanna added helpfully. "Don't forget the punching. The punching is very important to my personal development."
"The punching will be comprehensive," Dragon assured her, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now. "Along with weapons training, tactical thinking, surveillance techniques, intelligence gathering, psychological warfare, and approximately seventeen different ways to disable an opponent using only common household items."
"Seventeen?" Bruce leaned forward, suddenly all business. "What about unconventional materials? Environmental weapons? Improvised explosives?"
"Those are more advanced courses, young Wayne. But yes, we'll cover those as well. Eventually."
Zatanna practically bounced in her chair. "This keeps getting better and better! Can you teach me to make people tell the truth without using magic? Because magic truth spells are easy, but I want to know how to do it the hard way too."
"Interrogation techniques are indeed part of the curriculum," Dragon confirmed. "Though I suspect your... natural charisma... will prove quite effective in that regard."
"See?" she said triumphantly to Bruce. "Natural charisma! That's code for 'magnificently terrifying,' right?"
"Something like that," Hadrian murmured, looking like he was having the time of his life.
Alfred looked around the room—at Bruce's determined intensity, like a young predator scenting prey; at Hadrian's calm resolve, diplomatic grace wrapped around steel core; at Zatanna's irrepressible confidence, chaos and charm in perfect balance; at Giovanni's theatrical enthusiasm, every gesture a performance—and felt something settle in his chest. Pride, perhaps. Or maybe just the satisfaction of a plan beginning to take shape, pieces falling into place like a perfectly executed military operation.
"Very well then," he said, his voice carrying the weight of decision. "The training begins in one week. Master Dragon will expect you to arrive prepared for a rather different sort of education than Gotham Academy provides."
"Define 'different,'" Bruce said immediately, because of course he did.
"The kind where failure might actually hurt," Alfred replied dryly. "Physically, mentally, emotionally, and potentially spiritually. The kind where there are no participation trophies, no second chances, no calling for Daddy when things become difficult, and no mercy for those who aren't willing to push themselves beyond what they thought possible."
"So basically like magic training, but with more bruises and less sparkles?" Zatanna asked brightly.
"Rather more bruises, yes. And significantly less sparkles."
"Perfect!" She grinned at Bruce and Hadrian like someone had just announced Christmas was coming early. "This is going to be *so* much fun."
Bruce looked like he was about to argue with her definition of fun, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he turned to Alfred with that laser focus that suggested he was already three steps into planning mode.
"What do we need to know before we leave?"
Alfred smiled—the first truly warm expression he'd worn all evening, the kind of smile that suggested he was genuinely proud of all three of them. "That's exactly the right question, Master Bruce. Exactly the right question indeed."
"Practical considerations first," Dragon's voice crackled through the communication array. "Pack light. Bring nothing you're not prepared to lose or have destroyed during training exercises. The facility will provide all necessary equipment, weapons, and materials."
"Weapons?" Giovanni asked, his theatrical demeanor shifting slightly toward something more protective. "These are children, Richard."
"These are potential warriors," Dragon corrected firmly. "And in my experience, Mr. Zatara, treating children like delicate flowers is the fastest way to get them killed when real danger arrives. Better they learn proper weapons handling under controlled conditions than face armed opponents with no training at all."
"He has a point, Papa," Zatanna said reasonably. "Besides, I've been handling magical implements since I was five. A sword or a gun can't be that much more dangerous than raw chaos energy."
"That's... actually a terrifying point," Hadrian murmured.
"Thank you!"
Bruce was already deep in planning mode, his mind clearly racing through logistics and possibilities. "Duration of training?"
"Minimum six years," Dragon replied. "Potentially longer, depending on aptitude and circumstances. This isn't summer camp, Master Wayne. This is comprehensive education in survival, combat, and strategic thinking. It takes as long as it takes."
"Six years," Bruce repeated, and there was something like hunger in his voice. "Good. That's good."
"What about our regular education?" Hadrian asked, ever practical. "Tutors? Correspondence courses?"
"The facility has extensive educational resources," Dragon assured him. "You'll continue your academic studies alongside your tactical training. Though I suspect you'll find the curriculum somewhat more... practical... than what you're used to."
"Practical how?" Zatanna asked.
"Languages that will actually be useful in the field. Mathematics applied to ballistics and structural engineering. History focused on military strategy and intelligence operations. Literature that teaches you to read between the lines and understand coded communication."
"That actually sounds awesome," she said admiringly. "Way better than 'analyze this poem about flowers' or 'memorize these dates when boring people did boring things.'"
Alfred cleared his throat. "There are also certain... political considerations to address. The facility's location means you'll be temporarily beyond the reach of certain law enforcement agencies and regulatory bodies. This provides both opportunities and risks."
"Translation: we'll be off the grid," Bruce said with satisfaction.
"Completely off the grid," Dragon confirmed. "Which means no outside communication, no contact with media, no interference from well-meaning relatives or concerned authorities. For six months, you belong to me and the training. Nothing else exists."
Giovanni looked slightly troubled. "Perdón, but this sounds very much like—"
"Like exactly what they need," Alfred cut in firmly. "These children have targets painted on their backs, Giovanni. The normal world has already proven itself inadequate to protect them. This is their chance to learn to protect themselves."
"Plus," Zatanna added cheerfully, "it sounds like the most exciting six months of my entire life. Way better than sitting in boring classes learning boring things with boring people who don't even know magic exists."
"You realize," Hadrian said thoughtfully, "that we're essentially agreeing to disappear from civilization for half a year to learn how to be living weapons."
"Yeah," Zatanna grinned. "Isn't it great?"
Bruce's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "It's perfect."
Dragon's voice carried clear approval. "I believe we understand each other. One week, then. I'll send coordinates and transportation details. Come prepared to work harder than you've ever worked in your lives."
"We will," Bruce said with absolute certainty.
"Excellent. And children?"
"Yes, sir?" all three replied in unison.
"Don't disappoint me."
The communication array clicked off, leaving the study in sudden silence. For a moment, nobody moved, the weight of what they'd just agreed to settling over them like a heavy blanket.
Then Zatanna broke the silence with a delighted laugh. "This is going to be the best thing that's ever happened to us."
"Or it's going to kill us," Hadrian pointed out mildly.
"Even better!" she declared. "Either we become magnificent unstoppable warriors, or we die gloriously in training. Win-win!"
Bruce actually cracked a smile at that. "You have a very unique perspective on risk assessment."
"Thank you! I try to be optimistic about my inevitable rise to legendary status."
Giovanni shook his head, but he was smiling too. "Mija, you are going to give me gray hair."
"Papa, you're going to be *so* proud of me when I come back knowing seventeen different ways to disable enemies with household items. Think of the dinner party conversations!"
Alfred stood, moving to pour himself another cup of tea with ceremony that somehow made the gesture feel like a military salute. "Very well. One week to prepare. I suggest you spend the time wisely—proper rest, physical conditioning, mental preparation."
"And saying goodbye to our old lives," Hadrian added quietly. There was something wistful in his voice, a recognition that whatever they were walking into would change them fundamentally.
"Goodbye to being helpless victims," Bruce corrected, his voice hard with determination. "Goodbye to being afraid. Goodbye to depending on other people to protect us."
"Hello to being absolutely terrifying," Zatanna added brightly. "I'm particularly looking forward to that part."
Alfred raised his teacup in a mock toast. "To the future, then. Whatever it may bring."
"To the future," they echoed, and somehow the words felt less like a hope and more like a promise.
The real education was about to begin.
---
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