# Wayne Manor – The Morning of Departure
The first light of dawn crept across Wayne Manor's marble floors like a reluctant witness, chasing shadows through halls that had seen generations of Waynes face their destinies. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked with mechanical precision, each second bringing them closer to a departure that would change everything. For centuries, these halls had witnessed parties where Gotham's elite danced until sunrise, galas where millions were raised for charity, and somber business departures where men left to build empires. Today, they witnessed something stranger and infinitely more dangerous: three nine-year-olds preparing to leave for war.
Alfred Pennyworth moved through the space with the exactness of a man who had ironed dress shirts in foxholes and folded uniforms while artillery shells whistled overhead. His silver hair was perfectly combed despite the early hour, his bearing as straight as the day he'd first walked through these doors forty years ago. He set three identical duffel bags neatly on the mahogany table that had once hosted treaty signings and merger negotiations. Each bag was minimalist, military-style, packed according to Richard Dragon's specific instructions transmitted through encrypted channels. No comforts. No indulgences. Nothing that couldn't be burned, abandoned, or used as a weapon at a moment's notice.
"Right then," Alfred said, his cultured British accent carrying the weight of absolute certainty as he checked his antique pocket watch—a gift from Thomas Wayne on his first day of service. "Transport arrives in precisely thirty minutes. I trust you've all wrapped up any... unfinished business."
The words hung in the air like an unspoken prayer. Unfinished business. As if anything about this situation could ever truly be finished.
Bruce Wayne descended the grand staircase with the controlled grace of someone who had studied every great entrance in history and distilled them into pure, predatory purpose. Even at nine years old, his movements carried the weight of someone three times his age. His dark eyes—Thomas Wayne's eyes—swept the hall with methodical precision, cataloguing exit routes, defensive positions, and potential weapons with the same intensity someone might bring to clearing a hostile building. He looked like a boy, but carried himself like a man who had already decided that childhood was a luxury he could no longer afford.
"All arrangements completed," Bruce said, his voice crisp and businesslike, each word delivered with military precision. "House security systems upgraded and secured. Father's study sealed with biometric locks. I've left detailed instructions with Lucius regarding Wayne Enterprises contingencies for the next six months. Medical files encrypted and uploaded to a secure server accessible only by emergency protocols."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Emergency protocols, Master Bruce?"
"In case we don't come back," Bruce replied matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. "Someone needs to know our blood types, allergies, and baseline medical data. Dragon's training methods are... intense."
The casual way he discussed their potential deaths made Alfred's chest tighten, but he simply nodded. The boy was thinking tactically. It was both reassuring and heartbreaking.
Hadrian Potter emerged from the library with the fluid grace of someone stepping onto a film set, carrying a leather-bound journal that looked like it belonged in a museum. His movements were different from Bruce's controlled aggression—smoother, more naturally confident, like someone who had never doubted his place in the world until very recently. His green eyes held a depth that made him seem older than his years, as if he'd inherited not just his parents' wealth but their wisdom as well.
"Final letters completed," Hadrian said, his voice carrying that distinctive British aristocratic cadence that suggested centuries of breeding and education. "For Mother and Father. They'll understand our absence without learning anything that might compromise the mission or put them in additional danger."
Bruce turned to study him. "How do you explain a three-year disappearance to parents without lying?"
Hadrian's smile was small but confident. "You tell them a version of the truth. That their son needs to become someone capable of protecting them. That conventional education isn't sufficient for the challenges we face. That when I return, I'll be the man they raised me to be."
"Vague enough to be honest, specific enough to be believable," Bruce grudgingly admitted. "Not bad."
"I learned from the best," Hadrian replied, nodding toward Alfred. "Our butler has been expertly managing information for decades."
Before Alfred could respond to the compliment, the sound of boots stomping across marble announced Zatanna's arrival. She exploded into the hall like a force of nature barely contained by a nine-year-old body, her dark hair bouncing in a perfectly messy ponytail that somehow looked both casual and artfully arranged. Her impossibly blue eyes danced with excitement and barely restrained energy. She moved like someone who had never encountered a room she couldn't own within thirty seconds.
Behind her, Giovanni Zatara trailed with the dramatic flair of a stage performer in his prime, his silk scarf draped artfully around his shoulders despite the early hour. Even in crisis, the man was incapable of looking anything less than perfectly composed.
"Packed and ready for adventure!" Zatanna announced proudly, holding up a leather satchel that seemed far too small for a three-year journey. She spun in a circle, clearly delighted with herself. "Emergency magical kit, protective charms, healing potions, ward anchors, and three different ways to call in reinforcements if things get... really, really bad."
She grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Plus a few surprises that I'm absolutely not telling you about until I get to dramatically shout 'ta-da' at the perfect moment."
Bruce groaned, running a hand through his dark hair. "Zatanna, we're not putting our survival in the hands of your mystery surprise kit."
"Correction, Juice Box," she shot back without missing a beat, pointing a finger at him like she was casting a spell. "You're putting your very cute, very brooding butt in the hands of my extensively researched, expertly crafted, and completely awesome surprise kit. And you should be grateful I'm even sharing."
"Don't call me Juice Box."
"Why? Does it hurt your big, scary reputation?" She batted her eyelashes innocently. "What should I call you then? Bat-Boy? Mr. Serious? Captain No-Fun?"
Hadrian chuckled, a rich sound that seemed to fill the cavernous hall. "You realize you're poking a bear, right? And not just any bear—a bear who's been studying seventeen different fighting styles and tactical planning since he was seven."
"I like poking bears," Zatanna said sweetly, her grin widening. "Keeps them humble. Besides, what's he going to do? Brood at me? Oh no, I'm so scared of his disapproving stare."
Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing in a way that would have made grown men reconsider their life choices. "I don't do humble."
"You don't do fun either," she shot back immediately. "When's the last time you smiled? Actually smiled, not that weird thing you do when you're planning someone's downfall."
"I smile," Bruce protested.
"When?" Zatanna demanded, hands on her hips.
Bruce opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly running through his memory for evidence.
"See?" Zatanna declared triumphantly. "You can't even remember. That's tragic. We need to work on that during training."
"Training is for learning how to survive," Bruce said stiffly. "Not for developing personality disorders."
"Ouch," Hadrian murmured. "That was almost a joke. There might be hope for you yet."
Giovanni cleared his throat dramatically, drawing attention with the practiced ease of a man who had spent his life commanding audiences. "Mija, please, this is not a game we are playing. Master Dragon's training will be brutal—more brutal than anything you can imagine. Men have died attempting what you are about to attempt."
Zatanna's expression sobered instantly, the playfulness evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. When she looked at her father, there was steel in her eyes that matched her voice. "I know, Papa. I know it's not a game. But I'm not afraid of brutal. I'm afraid of being helpless again. I'm afraid of hiding in safe rooms while assassins hunt my friends. I'm afraid of being the person who needs protecting instead of the person doing the protecting."
She straightened, and suddenly she looked less like a playful child and more like a young woman who had made an unshakeable decision. "And I am done with that fear. Completely done."
The hall fell silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. Outside, the sound of helicopter rotors cut through the morning air like mechanical thunder, growing louder as their transport approached Wayne Manor's private landing pad.
"Our chariot arrives," Alfred said dryly, though his voice carried undertones of pride as he looked at the three children. "Though I imagine the seating arrangements will be somewhat less comfortable than you're accustomed to."
Through the tall windows, they watched a sleek black helicopter descend with military precision. It was clearly designed for function over comfort—angular, efficient, and completely unmarked. The kind of aircraft that existed in no official records and answered to no conventional authority.
The pilot jumped down before the rotors had fully stopped spinning—a wiry man in his thirties with sharp, intelligent eyes and a cocky grin that suggested he enjoyed dangerous jobs entirely too much. His movements had the casual confidence of someone delivering a perfectly timed punchline, all controlled energy and barely contained amusement.
"Wayne party?" His voice was brisk and cheerfully sarcastic, carrying easily over the dying rotor wash. "Please tell me someone here knows how to follow orders, because I've got a schedule to keep."
Alfred stepped forward with dignity intact. "At your service."
"Captain Mitchell," the pilot introduced himself with a lazy, theatrical salute. "Your friendly neighborhood chauffeur for this delightful mystery tour. Try not to spill juice boxes or leave crayon marks in my aircraft."
Bruce's eyes narrowed immediately. "What's our staging area?"
Mitchell's grin widened, clearly impressed despite himself. "Ooh, tactical thinking from the tiny commando. I like that." He tapped his temple. "Multiple transfers, varied routes, false trails. You'll get to your monastery eventually, but we're taking the scenic route. Keeps the bad guys guessing and makes my job infinitely more entertaining."
"Ooh, mysterious!" Zatanna clapped her hands together, bouncing slightly on her toes. "I love mysterious. It's very adventure novel. Very cloak-and-dagger. Please tell me we're riding donkeys through mountain passes at some point, because that would make this absolutely perfect."
"This isn't a story," Bruce muttered, but there was less bite in it than usual.
"Everything's a story, Brucey," she teased, throwing the nickname at him like a perfectly aimed grenade. "The only question is whether we're the heroes or the cautionary tale."
Bruce's jaw clenched visibly. "Do not call me Brucey."
"Brucey, Brucey, Brucey," she sang, absolutely delighted with his reaction. She spun in another circle, arms spread wide. "Brucey Wayne, the brooding boy billionaire!"
"I will find a way to make you regret that," Bruce said through gritted teeth.
"Promises, promises," she replied with a theatrical sigh. "You're all threat and no follow-through, Brucey."
Hadrian chuckled, the sound warm and genuinely amused. "Zatanna, you realize you're deliberately antagonizing someone who's been studying psychological warfare, right?"
"I'm not antagonizing," she protested innocently. "I'm socializing. There's a difference. Besides, someone needs to keep Mr. Serious here from turning completely into a robot before we even reach the training grounds."
"I am not a robot," Bruce said coldly.
"Then prove it," Zatanna challenged. "Smile. Right now. A real smile."
"I don't perform on command."
"See? Robot." She turned to Mitchell. "Back me up here. Doesn't he seem a little too intense for a nine-year-old?"
Mitchell studied Bruce with professional interest, like he was evaluating a particularly interesting tactical problem. "Kid, you're wound tighter than my ex-wife's purse strings. And that's saying something, because she once made me account for every penny I spent on coffee."
"I'm focused," Bruce replied stiffly.
"You're nine," Mitchell pointed out. "At your age, focused should mean not forgetting to tie your shoes, not planning military operations."
Alfred decided intervention was necessary before Bruce spontaneously combusted from frustration. He approached each child in turn, his movements deliberate and ceremonial, as if he were bestowing knighthoods rather than offering farewells.
"Master Bruce," he said softly, resting his weathered hands on the boy's shoulders. His voice carried the weight of decades of loyalty and the wisdom of a man who had watched three generations of Waynes face impossible odds. "Strength isn't merely muscle and skill, though you'll develop both in abundance. True strength lies in knowing when to fight, when to yield, and when to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Your father would be immeasurably proud of the man you're becoming."
Bruce's carefully maintained mask slipped for just a moment, revealing the frightened child underneath. "What if I can't learn fast enough? What if I'm not strong enough? What if I fail and everyone I care about pays the price?"
Alfred's grip tightened, his voice filled with iron certainty. "Then you'll learn harder, train longer, and push further than you ever thought possible. Because you are a Wayne, Master Bruce. And Waynes do not fail when it matters most. We endure. We adapt. We protect. And we never, ever give up."
He turned to Hadrian, his expression softening slightly. "Master Hadrian, your strength lies in empathy—in understanding not just how to fight, but why we fight. Don't underestimate that gift. These two will need your perspective more than they know, especially when the training becomes brutal and they forget who they used to be."
Hadrian nodded gravely, his voice quiet but absolutely steady. "Then I'll keep them human. I'll keep them alive. And I'll keep them connected to why we're doing this."
Finally, Alfred crouched before Zatanna, bringing himself to her eye level. His stern butler facade completely melted away, revealing the genuine affection of a surrogate grandfather. "Miss Zatanna, you bring light into darkness. You bring joy into grimness. You bring hope into despair. Don't let the training beat that out of you, no matter how hard it becomes. Gotham will need your laughter as much as your spells when you return."
Zatanna's eyes suddenly filled with tears, though she blinked them back quickly. Without warning, she threw her arms around his neck in a fierce hug that nearly knocked him over. "You better take care of Mr. and Mrs. Wayne while we're gone, Alfred. And Papa. Promise me you'll keep them safe."
"I promise, Miss Zatanna," Alfred said softly, returning her embrace. "That is what I do."
As the children shouldered their bags, Giovanni touched Alfred's arm, his handsome face grave with concern. His accented voice carried the weight of a father's fears. "Are we doing the right thing, amigo? Sending them away to this madness? They are children—babies, really. They should be learning algebra and worrying about school dances, not preparing for war."
Alfred's gaze lingered on the helicopter, its rotors beginning to spin up again. "Giovanni, they lost the chance at normal childhood the moment those assassins came through these doors. The moment Falcone marked the Wayne Family as targets. If this training changes them—hardens them, ages them, takes away some of their innocence—at least it leaves them alive to grow into the people they're meant to become." His voice grew steely. "The alternative is not acceptable."
"But what if it takes too much?" Giovanni pressed. "What if we get back fighters instead of children?"
Alfred was quiet for a long moment. "Then we help them remember how to be both."
Mitchell clapped his hands together sharply, his voice cutting through the emotional moment with practiced efficiency. "All right, touching farewell speeches are officially done. We've got weather windows to hit and bad guys to avoid, and I don't care how rich you all are, I'm not fighting a thunderstorm for free. Time to move, people."
"Your bedside manner is absolutely atrocious," Alfred observed dryly.
"Good thing I'm not a doctor," Mitchell shot back with a grin that was equal parts charm and mischief. "I'm just your friendly neighborhood smuggler of tiny vigilantes. Speaking of which—kids, grab your bags. We've got a schedule to keep and a very interesting journey ahead."
The farewells were briefer than anyone wanted but longer than they could afford. Bruce gave Alfred a handshake that was somehow both childishly formal and genuinely respectful. Hadrian embraced the butler with the natural warmth of someone raised with affection. Zatanna managed to sneak in one last squeeze around Alfred's neck, whispering something in his ear that made the old man's eyes soften.
"What did you tell him?" Bruce asked as they walked toward the helicopter.
"Secret," Zatanna replied with a grin. "But it involved a promise to come back with enough stories to keep him entertained for years."
"And enough skills to keep Gotham safe," Hadrian added quietly.
"And enough attitude to annoy you for decades," Zatanna concluded, bumping Bruce's shoulder playfully.
Mitchell was already in the cockpit running pre-flight checks. "All aboard the magical mystery tour! Buckle up, buttercups, because we're about to embark on the kind of journey that either makes legends or cautionary tales. Personally, I'm rooting for legends—they tip better."
The rotors spun up with increasing intensity, and the three children climbed aboard. The interior was exactly as utilitarian as Alfred had predicted—bare metal walls, netting instead of proper seats, and the kind of harness system typically reserved for military personnel.
"Cozy," Zatanna observed, settling into her spot with practiced ease. "Very... prison transport chic."
"It's functional," Bruce said approvingly, testing his harness with methodical precision. "No unnecessary weight, maximum efficiency, defensible positions."
"You know," Hadrian said thoughtfully, "most nine-year-olds would be complaining about the lack of comfortable seats."
"Most nine-year-olds aren't us," Bruce replied matter-of-factly.
Mitchell's voice crackled over the intercom. "Ladies, gentlemen, and brooding children, this is your devastatingly handsome captain speaking. Please return your seats to the upright position, stow all deadly weapons under the seat in front of you, and prepare for takeoff. In case of emergency, your flotation device is your own resourcefulness, and the exits are wherever you can make them."
The helicopter lifted smoothly, and Wayne Manor began to shrink below them. On the landing pad, Alfred remained perfectly still until the aircraft vanished completely into the morning sky. Only then did he turn, spine straight and shoulders squared, ready to face whatever came next.
The children pressed against the small windows, watching Gotham fall away beneath them. The city looked smaller from up here, more manageable somehow, though they all knew that was an illusion.
"No going back now," Hadrian murmured.
"Good," Bruce said firmly. "Going back was never an option."
"Adventure awaits!" Zatanna declared, but her voice carried a note of solemnity that hadn't been there before. "Ready or not, here we come."
The helicopter banked toward the horizon, carrying three children toward a destiny none of them could fully comprehend. Below them, Wayne Manor stood empty except for one loyal butler, while ahead lay mountains, monasteries, and the kind of training that would either forge them into legends or destroy them in the attempt.
The real work was just beginning.
---
## Three Hours Later – Somewhere Over the Atlantic
The military transport was a masterpiece of functional design and deliberate discomfort. Every surface was bare metal or industrial canvas, designed to be hosed down and forgotten rather than lived in. The walls vibrated constantly with the drone of engines that sounded like mechanical thunder, while overhead strips of LED lighting cast everything in harsh, institutional white. It was the kind of aircraft that existed for one purpose: getting from point A to point B while keeping its passengers alive and alert.
After leaving behind their families, their homes, and any remaining illusions about normal childhood, none of them had expected luxury. Still, the reality of their situation was beginning to sink in with every mile that passed beneath them.
Bruce had claimed the spot by the single porthole, his spine rigid as a steel rod, dark eyes locked on the endless expanse of clouds like they were enemy positions to be analyzed and catalogued. He didn't simply look out the window—he studied it with the intensity someone might bring to scanning a hostile perimeter. His mind processed flight patterns, estimated altitude changes, calculated airspeed, and tracked their heading by the angle of the sun. Even at nine years old, he radiated the focused intensity of someone who trusted nothing to chance.
"We've been airborne for three hours, twelve minutes," he announced without looking away from the window. "Heading roughly northeast based on sun position. Altitude approximately thirty-five thousand feet. We'll need to refuel at least twice before reaching our destination."
"Show-off," Zatanna muttered, but there was admiration in her voice.
Across from Bruce, Hadrian had settled into his spot with the natural grace of someone finding his mark on a movie set. He was reviewing his leather journal by the harsh overhead lighting, occasionally making small additions or corrections to what looked like carefully composed letters. His handwriting was precise and elegant, the kind of penmanship that suggested expensive private tutoring and generations of good breeding. His jaw was set in determined calm, but his green eyes held depths that suggested he was carrying the weight of more than just his own fears.
"Second thoughts?" Bruce asked without turning from the window.
"Third and fourth thoughts," Hadrian admitted easily. "But no regrets. Not yet."
"Good," Bruce nodded approvingly. "Doubts keep you sharp. Regrets make you hesitate."
Zatanna, meanwhile, had decided that military transport was just another stage for her particular brand of controlled chaos. She'd produced a deck of cards from somewhere and was performing increasingly elaborate tricks with the kind of flair that would have impressed Vegas professionals. Cards vanished into thin air, reappeared in impossible locations, and occasionally materialized in her companions' pockets or stuck to the metal walls with no visible means of support.
The flight crew kept glancing over at her with expressions that mixed professional concern with genuine fascination. They clearly weren't sure whether to confiscate her cards as potential weapons or ask for autographs.
"Where do you keep getting new cards?" Hadrian asked as she made an entire royal flush appear spread across her fingers.
"Magic," Zatanna replied with her most dazzling smile. "Also, I may have enchanted my pockets before we left. Papa taught me a few tricks about expanded storage space."
Bruce finally turned from his window analysis. "Please tell me you didn't bring anything dangerous in those expanded pockets."
"Define dangerous," she said innocently.
"Anything that could explode, poison someone, or alter reality," Bruce replied without hesitation.
Zatanna considered this seriously. "Well, by that definition... maybe?"
"Maybe?" Hadrian looked concerned.
"Look, I packed emergency supplies," she explained, making the cards vanish with a flourish. "Some of them are just more emergency-y than others. Like, level one emergency is a healing potion. Level five emergency is... well, let's just say it involves the phrase 'structural damage' and leave it at that."
Bruce stared at her. "You brought demolition spells on an aircraft."
"I brought solutions," she corrected. "Really, really effective solutions."
"That's..." Bruce paused, clearly trying to decide between horror and admiration. "Actually kind of brilliant. Terrifying and probably insane, but brilliant."
"Thank you!" Zatanna beamed. "I do try to be memorably crazy."
"Mission accomplished," Hadrian said dryly.
The intercom suddenly crackled to life, filled with Mitchell's cheerfully sarcastic voice. "Attention, junior death machines, this is your devastatingly talented pilot speaking. Hope you're enjoying the in-flight entertainment, because we've got about forty-five minutes before we hit our first refueling stop. Please take this time to contemplate your life choices and maybe practice your intimidating stares."
"First stop?" Bruce asked sharply. "How many transfers are we making?"
Mitchell's voice came back immediately, clearly amused that Bruce was taking the bait. "Enough to keep you guessing, Juice Box. Can't have you mapping our route and compromising operational security. Besides, mystery builds character."
"Don't call me Juice Box," Bruce said automatically.
"Would you prefer Brucey-Boy? Mini-Wayne? The Brooding One?" Mitchell's amusement was practically audible. "I've got a whole list here. Oh, here's a good one—Captain Serious McSeriousface."
Zatanna nearly choked on her own laughter. "Captain Serious McSeriousface! Oh, that's perfect. I'm never calling you anything else."
"You absolutely are not," Bruce said firmly.
"Captain Serious McSeriousface has spoken!" she announced dramatically. "And he commands us to... be serious, I guess?"
Hadrian was trying very hard not to laugh and failing completely. "You walked right into that one, Bruce."
"I don't walk into anything," Bruce protested. "I make calculated decisions based on available information."
"Calculated decision to get a ridiculous nickname?" Zatanna asked sweetly.
Before Bruce could formulate a response that didn't prove her point, Mitchell's voice returned. "Oh, this is better than cable. Tell you what, kids—whoever comes up with the best nickname for Brooding McGrumpypants gets to pick our in-flight music."
"We have in-flight music?" Zatanna perked up immediately.
"Kid, I've got a sound system that would make rock stars weep with envy. Question is, do you want to listen to classical, jazz, or something with actual energy?"
"Classical," Bruce said immediately.
"Something with actual energy," Zatanna countered.
"Jazz," Hadrian added diplomatically. "It's sophisticated but not boring."
Mitchell chuckled. "Democracy in action. I love it. Tell you what—we'll rotate. Everybody gets a turn to subject the others to their musical taste. Should make the next few hours interesting."
"Define interesting," Bruce said suspiciously.
"Well, let's see. I've got everything from Beethoven to death metal, with stops at country, pop, and something my nephew calls 'dubstep' that sounds like robots having a seizure."
"Please no dubstep," Hadrian said quickly.
"Aw, but the seizure robots are the best part!" Zatanna protested. "You haven't lived until you've heard mechanical bass drops at thirty thousand feet."
Bruce looked genuinely pained. "I'm requesting classical. Preferably something that promotes focus and tactical thinking."
"Tactical thinking?" Mitchell's voice was incredulous. "Kid, you're nine. Your biggest tactical decision should be whether to have pizza or hamburgers for lunch."
"I stopped being nine the night assassins tried to kill my parents," Bruce replied matter-of-factly.
The intercom went quiet for a moment. When Mitchell spoke again, his voice had lost some of its humor. "Yeah, okay. Point taken. Classical it is for now."
The cabin filled with the opening strains of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, the complex mathematical precision of the composition somehow fitting perfectly with the mechanical rhythm of the engines.
"Not bad," Hadrian admitted. "Though I vote for jazz next."
"And I vote for something with lyrics about adventure and possibly explosions," Zatanna added cheerfully.
Bruce actually almost smiled. "Compromise. Jazz with adventure themes."
"Does such a thing exist?" Hadrian asked.
"James Bond soundtracks," Zatanna said immediately. "Sophisticated jazz with spy adventures and occasional explosions. Perfect compromise."
"I..." Bruce paused, clearly surprised to find himself agreeing. "That actually works."
"See?" Zatanna grinned. "I'm full of good ideas. You just have to get past the initial terror to appreciate them."
The aircraft hit a patch of turbulence, causing everyone to grab their harnesses. Through the porthole, Bruce could see storm clouds building on the horizon.
"Weather's getting interesting," he observed.
Mitchell's voice confirmed his assessment. "Yeah, we're about to thread the needle between some pretty impressive weather systems. Nothing I can't handle, but you might want to make sure everything's secured."
"Define secured," Zatanna asked, suddenly looking less confident.
"Nothing loose that could become a projectile if we hit serious turbulence. That includes magical items, playing cards, and anything else that might decide to relocate suddenly."
She quickly secured her cards in her jacket pocket. "Good point. It would be embarrassing to explain how I accidentally took someone's eye out with the ace of spades."
"Only you would worry about that specific scenario," Hadrian said fondly.
The plane shuddered through another pocket of rough air, and suddenly their situation felt very real. They were three children, alone except for a pilot they'd known for less than four hours, flying toward an unknown destination to train with people who might or might not have their best interests at heart.
"So," Zatanna said, her voice carrying forced cheerfulness that didn't quite mask the underlying nervousness. "Anyone else wondering if we're completely out of our minds for doing this?"
Bruce didn't look away from the storm clouds. "Sanity is a luxury we can't afford."
"Translation: yes, we're wondering," Hadrian said with a slight smile. "We're just not saying it out loud because that would make it too real."
"Thank you, Hadrian," Zatanna said gratefully. "At least someone admits we might be crazy. Bruce just broods at weather patterns like he's personally offended by atmospheric pressure."
Bruce turned to face them both, his expression serious but not quite as severe as usual. "The clouds are carrying too much moisture for this altitude. The pressure differential suggests we're flying into a significant weather system. If I'm reading the patterns correctly, we'll hit serious turbulence in approximately twelve minutes."
"Or," Zatanna suggested with exaggerated patience, "it's just a storm, and you're overthinking meteorology because you overthink everything."
"I don't overthink," Bruce protested. "I analyze available data and prepare for contingencies."
"Same thing," she replied cheerfully. "But with more syllables."
Hadrian chuckled, the sound warm and genuinely amused. "You know, Bruce, she might have a point. Sometimes a storm is just a storm."
"And sometimes a storm kills you because you didn't take it seriously enough," Bruce shot back.
"True," Hadrian acknowledged. "But sometimes focusing too much on what might go wrong keeps you from noticing what's going right."
Bruce considered this for a moment. "What's going right?"
"We're alive," Hadrian said simply. "We're together. We're getting trained by someone who allegedly knows what he's doing. And despite everything that's happened, we're still us."
"Are we?" Zatanna asked quietly, and for the first time since they'd boarded, her cheerful mask slipped completely. "Because I feel like I've been pretending to be brave for so long that I can't remember if I actually am brave or if I'm just really good at faking it."
The admission hung in the air between them, raw and honest in a way that made the military transport suddenly feel very small.
Bruce looked at her with something approaching respect. "Being scared doesn't make you not brave. Being scared and doing it anyway—that's what brave is."
"When did you become wise?" she asked, blinking back tears she hadn't realized were forming.
"When I realized that none of us knows what we're doing, and that's okay," Bruce replied. "We're making it up as we go along. All of us."
"Even Captain Serious McSeriousface?" she teased, but gently this time.
"Especially Captain Serious McSeriousface," he admitted, and there was almost a smile in his voice.
Mitchell's voice crackled over the intercom again. "All right, junior philosophers, time to buckle up for real. We're about to hit that weather Bruce predicted, and I'd rather not have to explain to Alfred why I brought back scrambled children."
"You talked to Alfred?" Hadrian asked.
"Kid, I talk to everyone. It's called operational security. Also, he tipped me an obscene amount of money to make sure you three arrived in one piece and reasonably sane."
"Define reasonably sane," Zatanna called out.
"Still capable of holding a conversation and not trying to eat your own shoes," Mitchell replied cheerfully. "The bar is pretty low."
The aircraft bucked suddenly, throwing them against their harnesses. Through the porthole, lightning flickered between dark clouds that seemed to stretch forever.
"This is it," Bruce said, gripping his restraints. "Everyone secure?"
"Secure," Hadrian confirmed.
"Ready for adventure!" Zatanna added, though her knuckles were white where she gripped her harness.
"Adventure, right," Mitchell's voice carried over the increasing noise of wind and engines. "That's one way to put it. Hang on, kids. This is about to get interesting."
The storm hit them like a living thing, all wind shear and pressure drops and lightning that turned the cabin into a strobing nightmare. For twenty minutes that felt like hours, they were tossed through the sky like a toy in the hands of an angry giant.
But they held together. Bruce called out altitude changes and pressure readings like he was reading from a manual. Hadrian kept everyone focused on breathing and staying calm. Zatanna, when she wasn't turning green from motion sickness, kept up a running commentary of increasingly creative curses that would have impressed sailors.
When they finally broke through the other side of the storm into clear skies, all three of them were exhausted, battered, and somehow closer than they'd been when they started.
---
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