The Rolls-Royce glided through Wayne Manor's gates with the whisper-quiet dignity that only comes from engineering perfection and unlimited maintenance budgets. Bruce pressed his face against the window like the child he technically still was, watching the familiar grounds materialize from memory into reality—manicured lawns that stretched toward distant tree lines, the manor itself rising against the darkening sky like something from a Gothic fairy tale, every window glowing with warm light that spoke of home and safety and everything they'd been fighting to protect.
"It looks exactly the same," he said quietly, wonder bleeding through his usual tactical control. "Six years, and it's like time stopped the moment we left."
"Alfred's doing," Hadrian replied, his own voice thick with emotion as he took in the sight of home. "Maintaining everything perfectly, keeping it ready for our return. As if he always knew we'd come back."
"Of course I knew," Alfred said from the front seat, his cultured voice carrying absolute certainty. "You're Waynes. Waynes always come home, no matter how long the journey or how difficult the path. It's practically a family law at this point."
Zatanna had gone uncharacteristically quiet, her theatrical energy subdued by the weight of homecoming. When she finally spoke, her voice was small in a way that suggested genuine vulnerability beneath her usual bravado. "Do you think they know? Your parents, I mean. Do you think on some level they know we're here, that we came back like we promised?"
Bruce's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "We're about to find out."
The car rolled to a stop before the manor's main entrance, where the massive oak doors stood open in welcome. Warm light spilled across the steps, and for a moment it was possible to imagine Thomas and Martha Wayne standing there to greet them, smiling with parental pride at the remarkable young people their sons had become.
But the doorway remained empty except for shadows and memory.
Alfred emerged first with practiced efficiency, opening doors and assisting with luggage extraction despite the fact that all three teenagers were perfectly capable of managing their own bags after six years of military-style training. Some rituals transcended practical necessity—they existed to mark transitions, to acknowledge that something significant was ending and something else beginning.
"Welcome home, Masters Wayne, Miss Zatara," Alfred said formally, gesturing toward the open doors with ceremonial gravity. "Your rooms have been maintained in your absence and are ready for immediate occupancy. However, I suspect there are other priorities that require attention first."
Bruce didn't need clarification. His feet carried him forward with automatic precision, through the entrance hall with its soaring ceilings and priceless artwork, past the grand staircase where he'd slid down banisters as a child, through corridors that held a thousand memories of laughter and family dinners and the comfortable chaos of normal life before assassination attempts had shattered everything.
The master bedroom suite occupied the manor's east wing, its position chosen generations ago to catch the morning sun and provide views across the estate's most beautiful gardens. The doors were closed but not locked—Alfred had never locked them, as if some part of him refused to accept that the room's occupants wouldn't simply wake up and emerge any moment.
Bruce's hand hesitated on the ornate brass handle, six years of training and tactical preparation suddenly inadequate for the simple act of opening a door and facing what lay beyond. His fingers trembled slightly—the only visible crack in his otherwise perfect control.
Hadrian's hand settled on his shoulder with quiet solidarity. "Together. Like everything else."
"Together," Zatanna echoed, moving to Bruce's other side in silent support.
Bruce nodded once, then pushed the door open.
The room beyond was exactly as he remembered and nothing like it at all. The furniture remained unchanged—the massive four-poster bed that had probably been in the Wayne family for generations, matching wardrobes of dark mahogany, comfortable chairs positioned near windows for reading, family photographs in silver frames on every available surface. But the medical equipment transformed the space from bedroom to hospital ward—monitors displaying vital signs in steady electronic rhythm, IV stands with bags of nutrients and medications, oxygen equipment humming with mechanical efficiency.
And in the bed, motionless as carved marble, lay Thomas and Martha Wayne.
Six years had been kind to them in ways that felt almost cruel. Modern medicine and Alfred's obsessive attention to their care had preserved them—their skin remained healthy, their muscle tone maintained through daily physical therapy, their bodies kept in perfect stasis like sleeping royalty from some twisted fairy tale. They looked like they might wake at any moment, open their eyes, and ask what everyone was making such a fuss about.
But they didn't wake. They never woke.
Bruce approached the bed with wooden movements, his usual fluid grace abandoned in favor of mechanical steps that carried him forward through sheer force of will. When he reached his father's side, his hand extended almost against his conscious control, fingers brushing Thomas Wayne's where they rested atop the covers.
The skin was warm. Alive. The pulse beneath Bruce's fingertips beat with steady rhythm that confirmed life continued despite all appearances to the contrary.
"Dad," Bruce said quietly, testing the word he hadn't spoken aloud in six years. It felt foreign on his tongue, like vocabulary from a language he'd almost forgotten. "I'm home. We're home. Hadrian and I, we... we did what you would have wanted. We learned to protect ourselves, to fight back, to be strong enough that no one can hurt us the way they hurt you."
His voice cracked on the last words, professional composure finally shattering under the weight of six years' accumulated grief and desperate hope. "Please wake up. Please. I need you to wake up so I can show you what I've become, prove that sending us away wasn't a mistake, that we didn't waste those years. Please, Dad. Just... please."
Hadrian had moved to Martha's side, his diplomatic mask completely gone to reveal raw emotion beneath. His mother looked peaceful—her dark hair spread across the pillow, her delicate features unmarked by the violence that had put her here, her chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of mechanical respiration support.
"Mother," he said, his cultured voice rough with unshed tears. "I've missed you. Every day for six years, I've missed you. Your laugh, your wisdom, the way you could make any problem seem manageable through sheer force of optimism and strategic planning." His fingers found hers, gripping gently. "I became The Dragon. That's what they call me now. I inherited a legacy from our teacher, and I've tried to honor it the way you taught me to honor all responsibilities. But I'd trade all of it—every technique learned, every battle won, every moment of glory—for five minutes of conversation with you. Just five minutes to hear your voice again."
Zatanna stood at the foot of the bed, her theatrical confidence completely abandoned in favor of genuine grief for the people who had become surrogate parents during her friendship with their sons. "Mr. and Mrs. Wayne," she said, her voice small and achingly sincere. "I promised Bruce and Hadrian that I'd help protect them, help keep them safe until you could do it yourselves again. I don't know if we succeeded or failed at that promise, but we're here. We made it home. And we're going to keep fighting until we figure out how to bring you back to us properly."
Alfred had entered the room so quietly that none of them had noticed his arrival. He stood near the door with his usual professional composure, but his eyes held depths of grief and determination that six years of patient vigil had done nothing to diminish.
"Dr. Thompkins visits daily," he said, his voice carrying the clinical precision of someone delivering a medical report rather than discussing people he loved. "Their vital signs remain stable. Brain activity continues at levels consistent with normal sleep patterns rather than deeper comatose states. There is no medical reason they should not wake—which makes their continued unconsciousness all the more frustrating for the physicians attempting to treat them."
Bruce looked up from his father's beside, his pale eyes burning with intensity. "No medical reason. What about non-medical reasons? Magical causes? Supernatural intervention that conventional medicine can't detect or address?"
The question hung in the air like an accusation, and Alfred's expression shifted into something more troubled.
"I have considered that possibility, Master Bruce. Extensively. However, Giovanni has examined them multiple times over the years, and he detected no magical residue, no supernatural influence, nothing that would suggest their conditions result from mystical attack rather than purely physical trauma from the assassination attempt."
Giovanni Zatara, who had followed them to the doorway but remained respectfully outside the family moment, spoke up with professional authority tempered by genuine sympathy. "I performed comprehensive mystical diagnostics when the attack first occurred, then again annually since. If magic was involved in creating or maintaining their comas, I would have detected evidence of it. The absence of such evidence strongly suggests their conditions are purely neurological—the result of physical trauma rather than supernatural intervention."
"But you can't be completely certain," Hadrian pressed, diplomatic skills allowing him to ask difficult questions without causing offense. "The absence of detected magic doesn't necessarily prove its absence entirely. Simply that it's sufficiently sophisticated to evade your diagnostic methods."
Giovanni nodded with professional respect for the logical objection. "Correct. I cannot claim absolute certainty—no practitioner honestly could. But based on decades of experience with magical diagnostics and extensive knowledge of mystical attacks, I believe the probability of supernatural causation to be less than five percent. Their injuries, their continued conditions, their response to medical treatment—all of it aligns with purely physical trauma and neurological complications."
"Five percent isn't zero," Bruce said flatly, his tactical mind already working through implications. "Which means we can't eliminate magical intervention as a possibility. If there's even a chance that their conditions result from supernatural causes that conventional medicine can't address, then we need to pursue that avenue alongside traditional medical treatment."
Zatanna stepped forward with renewed determination, her theatrical energy returning now that she had a concrete problem to address. "I can learn diagnostic spells. Advanced ones that go beyond what Papa typically uses. There are texts in the House of Mystery, techniques developed specifically for detecting subtle magical influences that resist conventional detection. If something supernatural is involved, I'll find it."
Hadrian's hand moved to the Dragon's Claw pendant, feeling its steady pulse against his chest. "And I have resources through the Dragon's legacy. Ancient knowledge, connections to mystical practitioners across multiple traditions, access to techniques that predate modern magical understanding. Between Zatanna's developing skills and my inherited knowledge, we can conduct diagnostic examinations that exceed anything previously attempted."
Alfred's expression held something approaching hope beneath his professional composure. "A systematic approach combining traditional medical treatment with comprehensive mystical diagnostics. Dr. Thompkins would approve—she's always advocated for exploring unconventional possibilities when conventional approaches prove inadequate."
Bruce remained at his father's bedside, but his posture had shifted from grief-stricken child to tactical analyst processing information and formulating strategy. "Three years of preparation before we start the war against Gotham's criminal element. We use that time not just to gather intelligence and resources for the eventual campaign, but also to pursue every possible avenue for waking them up. Medical research, experimental treatments, mystical diagnostics, consultation with specialists across multiple disciplines."
"A dual-track operation," Hadrian agreed, his diplomatic mind immediately recognizing the elegance of the approach. "Public-facing reintegration and education while we secretly conduct comprehensive investigation into both criminal conspiracies and magical possibilities. We develop the capabilities needed for both objectives simultaneously."
"And when we succeed," Zatanna added with absolute confidence that suggested she'd already decided success was inevitable, "when we figure out how to wake them up, they'll have sons who are ready to protect them properly this time. Sons who won't let anyone hurt them ever again."
Alfred allowed himself a small smile, the first genuine expression of hope he'd worn since their reunion. "Then we have our operational framework for the next three years. Systematic preparation on multiple fronts—criminal intelligence, mystical research, continued training, public reintegration. All of it building toward two primary objectives: dismantling the criminal infrastructure that threatens this city, and restoring Thomas and Martha Wayne to consciousness."
Bruce finally released his father's hand, straightening with visible effort. "We should let them rest. We'll come back tomorrow, start establishing routines for regular visits and updates. They may not be able to respond, but that doesn't mean they can't hear us. Doesn't mean our presence doesn't matter."
"Dad would want detailed tactical briefings," Hadrian added with fond remembrance. "Mother would want to hear about our emotional well-being and interpersonal relationships. We'll provide both—comprehensive updates that assume they're listening and understanding everything, even if they can't show it."
As they filed out of the master bedroom, each of them paused in the doorway for one final look at the scene that would define the next three years of their lives—two people they loved suspended in sleep that refused to end, surrounded by machines and medical equipment that could sustain life but couldn't restore consciousness.
"We're going to fix this," Bruce said with absolute conviction. "Whatever it takes, however long it requires, whatever resources we need to deploy—we're going to wake them up and make sure the people responsible for putting them in this condition face consequences that exceed their worst nightmares."
"Together," Zatanna and Hadrian replied in unison.
"Together," Bruce echoed. "Like everything else."
Alfred closed the door with gentle finality, the soft click of the latch sounding like a promise being sealed rather than simply a door being secured. "Your rooms are prepared, your belongings can be unpacked at your leisure, and Cook has prepared a welcome home dinner that should arrive within the hour. For tonight, perhaps we simply enjoy being home again. The war can wait until tomorrow."
But as they descended the grand staircase toward the dining room and the promise of the first proper meal they'd had in six years, none of them could quite shake the feeling that the war had already begun the moment they'd set foot in Wayne Manor again.
The real question was whether they'd be ready when it finally arrived in force.
Though after six years of Dragon's training, three extremely dangerous teenagers, and Alfred's systematic preparation, the criminals of Gotham were about to discover exactly how unprepared *they* were for what was coming.
The crusade had come home.
And this time, it brought dragons.
—
The study had always been Thomas Wayne's sanctuary—floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves holding medical texts and business journals, a massive desk that had witnessed three generations of Wayne family decisions, leather chairs positioned around a fireplace that crackled with warmth against the autumn chill. The room smelled of old books, expensive scotch, and the particular scent of furniture polish that Alfred insisted was "traditional" despite probably costing more per ounce than gold.
Bruce had claimed his father's chair without hesitation, a choice that would have seemed presumptuous from anyone else but felt grimly appropriate given the circumstances. His fingers traced the worn leather armrests where Thomas Wayne's hands had rested countless times, and something in his expression suggested he was drawing strength from the connection—or perhaps making a silent promise about the legacy he intended to inherit.
Hadrian occupied one of the wing chairs with aristocratic ease, the Dragon's Claw pendant catching firelight as he settled into a position that managed to be both relaxed and alert. Six years of training had made certain postures automatic—always facing the door, always aware of exits, always positioned to respond to threats even in supposedly safe environments.
Zatanna had kicked off her shoes and curled into the corner of the leather sofa like a cat claiming territory, though her blue eyes remained sharp and focused despite the casual positioning. She'd grabbed one of the decorative pillows—probably worth more than most people's cars—and was hugging it against her chest in a gesture that suggested she needed the comfort even if she'd never admit it aloud.
Alfred had settled into the remaining chair with his usual professional composure, though he'd finally allowed himself the luxury of loosening his tie after what had undoubtedly been an exhausting day of coordinating international extraction operations and emotional reunions. A crystal decanter of scotch sat on the side table within easy reach, along with enough glasses for everyone present.
Giovanni Zatara stood near the fireplace with theatrical energy that even exhaustion couldn't entirely suppress, one hand resting on the mantle in a pose that would have looked perfectly natural on a stage. His cape—because of course he was still wearing the cape—caught the firelight in ways that suggested he'd positioned himself specifically for optimal dramatic effect.
"Right then," Alfred said, pouring scotch with practiced precision. "We find ourselves at a rather significant crossroads. Three years before you can legally access full control of Wayne Industries resources and establish the operational infrastructure necessary for systematic intervention against Gotham's criminal element. The question becomes how best to utilize that preparation time."
He distributed glasses with diplomatic efficiency—full measures for himself, Giovanni, and Bruce, slightly lighter pours for Hadrian and Zatanna despite their protests about being "functionally adults after six years of training that would kill most people."
"Dragon prepared you for combat, tactical thinking, and teamwork under impossible pressure," Alfred continued, settling back into his chair. "But warfare against organized crime requires capabilities beyond physical confrontation. You need to understand your enemies—not just their methods and resources, but their psychology, their motivations, the fundamental thought processes that separate criminals from law-abiding citizens."
Bruce leaned forward with immediate interest, his tactical mind already engaging with the problem. "Criminal psychology. Understanding how they think, what drives them, what vulnerabilities their worldview creates that we can exploit. It's not enough to be better fighters—we need to be better *thinkers* who can anticipate their moves and counter them before they're even executed."
"Exactly, Master Bruce. Though I would argue the distinction is even more fundamental than psychology alone. You need to understand not just how criminals think, but how they *operate*—the practical tradecraft of organized crime, the technical skills that enable their activities, the networks and relationships that sustain their enterprises."
Hadrian swirled his scotch thoughtfully, his diplomatic instincts recognizing implications in Alfred's careful phrasing. "You're describing something beyond academic study. This isn't about reading criminology textbooks or attending university lectures on deviant behavior. You're suggesting we need practical, hands-on experience with actual criminal methodologies."
"Correct, Master Hadrian. Which presents certain... ethical complications that require careful consideration and explicit acknowledgment before proceeding further."
Zatanna hugged her pillow tighter, her theatrical demeanor subdued by the weight of what was being discussed. "You want us to learn how to be criminals. Not just fight them or understand them theoretically—actually learn the skills and techniques they use. Become proficient in the very activities we're planning to spend our lives opposing."
"To defeat an enemy, you must first understand them," Giovanni said with uncharacteristic seriousness, his theatrical presentation giving way to genuine paternal concern. "This is wisdom as old as warfare itself. But mija, Alfred—what you're proposing goes beyond understanding. You're suggesting they immerse themselves in criminal thinking and practice, which carries risks beyond physical danger."
His dark eyes swept across the three teenagers with intensity that suggested he was calculating costs and benefits in real time. "When you teach someone to think like a criminal, to operate like a criminal, to see the world through criminal eyes—you risk creating the very thing you oppose. The line between understanding your enemy and becoming your enemy is thinner than most people imagine. One does not study darkness without being touched by it."
Bruce's expression hardened, but his voice remained steady. "I'm already touched by it. We all are. The moment professional killers put my parents in comas and forced us into six years of training to survive similar attempts—we lost the luxury of innocent perspectives. The only question is whether we use our darkness productively or let it consume us without purpose."
"Well said, Master Bruce," Alfred acknowledged. "Though Mr. Zatara's concerns are valid and deserve thoughtful consideration. What I'm proposing isn't merely academic criminology or theoretical understanding. I'm suggesting you study with someone who has lived the criminal life, who understands its psychology and methodology from direct experience rather than external observation."
He paused, letting the weight of the proposal settle over the room like morning frost. "Someone who can teach you to think like criminals, operate like criminals, understand criminal networks and relationships from the inside—while also maintaining enough distance from that life to serve as instructor rather than recruiter."
Hadrian's diplomatic instincts immediately focused on the critical question. "You have someone specific in mind. Someone you trust despite their criminal background. Someone whose criminal expertise you believe outweighs the moral hazard of exposing us to their worldview and methodology."
"His name is Henri Ducard," Alfred replied, his voice carrying the weight of complicated history. "Former intelligence operative, current independent consultant specializing in what he diplomatically terms 'unconventional problem-solving.' His background includes military service, intelligence work for multiple governments, and a rather extensive period operating in what one might generously call 'grey areas' of international law."
Bruce's pale eyes sharpened with predatory interest. "Grey areas meaning he's committed crimes. Serious ones, presumably, if he's qualified to teach us criminal methodology and psychology."
"Mr. Ducard's activities have occasionally diverged from strict legal compliance, yes," Alfred confirmed with diplomatic understatement. "Though determining the precise nature and extent of those activities has proven... challenging. He's very good at maintaining operational security and compartmentalizing his various professional activities."
"Concerning qualifications for someone you're proposing as an instructor," Hadrian observed with aristocratic skepticism. "If you can't determine the full scope of his criminal activities, how can you assess whether he's trustworthy enough to mentor three teenagers in criminal methodology without corrupting us in the process?"
Alfred took a slow sip of his scotch, clearly choosing his words with exceptional care. "I cannot provide guarantees about Henri Ducard's character or ultimate intentions. What I can offer is personal history—I've known him for over twenty years, worked with him on several occasions when conventional approaches proved inadequate, and maintained contact sufficient to form reasonable judgments about his capabilities and limitations."
He set down his glass with deliberate precision. "Ducard is not a good man in any conventional sense. He's pragmatic to the point of amorality, willing to employ methods that most people would find unconscionable, and entirely comfortable operating in moral grey zones that make civilized society deeply uncomfortable. But he's also not evil—not sadistic, not cruel for its own sake, not interested in causing harm beyond what he judges necessary for achieving specific objectives."
"That's a remarkably thin distinction," Giovanni said with theatrical gravity that didn't quite mask genuine concern. "Not evil versus not good—these are not opposites but rather different points on a spectrum of moral compromise. What you're describing is someone who has rationalized his way into accepting behaviors that society rightly condemns."
"Perhaps," Alfred acknowledged. "But I would argue that fighting organized crime—truly fighting it, systematically dismantling the infrastructure that allows it to flourish—requires precisely that kind of moral flexibility. Criminals don't operate according to rules of civilized society. They exploit those rules, use them as shields against consequences while simultaneously ignoring them when advantageous."
His voice grew harder, carrying the weight of hard experience. "You cannot defeat that kind of enemy while maintaining perfect moral purity. You cannot dismantle criminal enterprises using only methods approved by ethics committees and legal scholars. At some point, the choice becomes stark—compromise your principles sufficiently to actually achieve your objectives, or maintain perfect virtue while innocent people suffer and die because you refused to do what was necessary."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to suffocate. Firelight danced across their faces, casting shadows that made everyone look older, harder, more dangerous than the relatively young people they actually were.
Zatanna broke the silence first, her voice small but steady. "You're asking us to become the kind of people we're supposed to be fighting. To adopt criminal methodologies, develop criminal skills, learn to think and operate like the very enemies we want to eliminate. And you're justifying it by saying the ends justify the means—that saving innocent lives excuses moral compromise."
"Yes," Alfred replied simply, not flinching from the accusation implicit in her words. "Though I would frame it slightly differently. I'm not asking you to become criminals—I'm asking you to understand criminals so thoroughly that you can predict, counter, and ultimately defeat them through superior application of the very tools and techniques they've spent lifetimes perfecting."
Bruce stood abruptly, moving to the window with restless energy that suggested his tactical mind was working through scenarios faster than his body could process them. When he spoke, his voice carried absolute conviction that belonged on someone three times his age.
"I don't care about moral purity. I care about results. If learning criminal methodology makes me a better weapon against the people who destroyed my family, then I'll learn it. If understanding criminal psychology helps me dismantle the organizations that put my parents in comas, then I'll study it until I can think like they do. Ethics are a luxury for people who don't have blood on their hands already."
He turned back to face the room, pale eyes blazing with intensity that made him look genuinely dangerous despite being fifteen. "Dragon taught us to be weapons. Ducard can teach us to be *effective* weapons—ones that actually achieve our objectives instead of just making ourselves feel virtuous while criminals continue destroying lives."
"Bruce—" Hadrian started, his diplomatic instincts recoiling from the absolutism in his brother's voice.
"No," Bruce interrupted with unusual force. "I know what you're going to say. That we need to maintain our humanity, preserve our moral compass, avoid becoming the very thing we're fighting. And maybe you're right—maybe there is a line we shouldn't cross, principles we shouldn't compromise."
His jaw tightened with visible effort. "But I don't know where that line is, Hadrian. I don't know which principles are worth preserving and which are just comfortable illusions that keep us from doing what's necessary. What I do know is that right now, criminals have every advantage—experience, resources, established networks, political protection, and most importantly, they're not constrained by rules that we're expected to follow."
He gestured toward the master bedroom where their parents lay unconscious. "If we're going to actually change that situation, if we're going to build something better rather than just making symbolic gestures that let us feel good about ourselves—we need every advantage we can get. Including the ones that make us uncomfortable."
Giovanni moved from the fireplace with theatrical flair that didn't quite mask the seriousness of his intervention. "Master Bruce, I understand your passion, your determination, your absolute commitment to protecting those you love. These are admirable qualities. But what you're describing—this willingness to abandon all ethical constraints in pursuit of your objectives—this is how heroes become villains."
His voice grew more intense, carrying the weight of someone who'd seen similar transformations firsthand. "You think you'll learn criminal methodology while maintaining your essential goodness, study evil without being corrupted by it, walk through darkness without carrying some of it back into the light. But darkness doesn't work that way. It seeps in gradually, compromise by compromise, rationalization by rationalization, until one day you look in the mirror and don't recognize the person staring back."
"Then what's the alternative?" Bruce demanded, frustration bleeding through his control. "We fight criminals using only methods approved by people who've never faced real danger? We handicap ourselves with arbitrary rules while our enemies do whatever works? We lose because we were too virtuous to do what victory required?"
"The alternative," Hadrian said quietly, his diplomatic voice cutting through the building confrontation with careful precision, "is that we learn criminal methodology while maintaining constant awareness of why we're learning it. We study darkness while anchoring ourselves to light. We develop capabilities that could be used for evil while ensuring we only deploy them in service of good."
He stood, moving to Bruce's side with the solidarity of someone who'd spent six years learning to fight alongside his brother. "I'm not suggesting we reject Ducard's training or refuse to learn what he can teach us. I'm suggesting we approach that education with clear understanding of its dangers and explicit commitment to guarding against them."
His green eyes held steady contact with Bruce's pale stare. "You're right that we need every advantage. But Giovanni is also right that those advantages come with costs. The question isn't whether we pay those costs—it's whether we pay them consciously, deliberately, with full understanding of what we're sacrificing and why."
Zatanna uncurled from the sofa, setting aside her pillow to join her friends near the window. "I vote we do it. Learn from Ducard, study criminal methodology, develop all the dark skills that make us uncomfortable. But we do it together, and we watch each other for signs that we're going too far, losing ourselves in the darkness we're studying."
Her blue eyes held fierce determination beneath the theatrical presentation. "We become each other's anchors. When Bruce starts thinking like a criminal instead of just understanding how criminals think, Hadrian and I call him on it. When I get too comfortable with moral compromise, you two drag me back. When Hadrian's diplomatic flexibility starts looking like ethical relativism, we remind him where the actual lines are."
She reached out, grabbing both their hands with surprising strength. "We've survived six years of Dragon's training by watching each other's backs, covering each other's weaknesses, refusing to let each other fall. This is just another kind of danger—more subtle maybe, more insidious, but ultimately the same principle. Together, we can handle it. Apart, we'd be lost."
Alfred had been watching this exchange with something approaching approval, his professional composure softening to reveal genuine pride in how they were approaching impossible choices with remarkable maturity.
"Well said, Miss Zatanna. And that brings me to the practical structure I'm proposing for your next three years." He refilled his glass, then gestured for them to return to their seats. "Year One: Henri Ducard. Criminal methodology, psychology, tradecraft. Learning to think and operate like the enemies you'll eventually face. Year Two: Specialized technical training—computer systems, surveillance, forensics, whatever specific skills your individual paths require. Year Three: Integration and field testing—putting everything together through carefully controlled operations that build experience without exposing you to unnecessary risks."
He paused, ensuring he had their complete attention. "Throughout all three years, you'll maintain civilian identities and public personas. Bruce Wayne, the young industrialist preparing to assume leadership of Wayne Industries. Hadrian Wayne, the scholar and diplomat with interests in international humanitarian work. Zatanna Zatara, the talented performer following her father's theatrical legacy."
"Masks hiding masks," Hadrian observed with understanding. "Our public identities serve as cover for our training activities, while our training activities prepare us for eventual operational identities that will require their own separate covers."
"Precisely. And regarding Henri Ducard—he'll be based here at the manor for the duration of Year One, with appropriate cover story about serving as private tutor for your 'continued education' following six years of international boarding school. His presence will be explained as ensuring you receive appropriate instruction before returning to formal academic environments."
Giovanni stirred with obvious discomfort. "You're inviting a career criminal into your home. Giving him access to three impressionable teenagers during their most formative period. Trusting him to teach criminal methodology without actually recruiting them into criminal activities. Alfred, I respect your judgment, but this seems extraordinarily risky."
"It is risky," Alfred acknowledged without hesitation. "But so was sending them to Dragon's monastery for six years of training that could have killed them. So is their entire plan to wage systematic war against Gotham's criminal underworld. Risk is unavoidable at this point—the only question is whether we manage it consciously or pretend it doesn't exist."
Bruce had returned to his father's chair, his expression thoughtful rather than confrontational now. "When can Ducard arrive? How quickly can we begin the training?"
"He's currently completing an assignment in Eastern Europe. I've already contacted him regarding your requirements, and he's agreed to be available beginning next month. That gives you four weeks to settle into civilian life, complete your initial reintegration, and prepare psychologically for what will be an... intensive educational experience."
"Four weeks," Bruce repeated, his tactical mind already planning how to utilize that preparation time. "We can use it for continued physical training, reviewing criminal case files from Gotham PD, beginning preliminary intelligence gathering about Falcone's organization and other major criminal players."
"And maintaining actual civilian activities," Alfred added firmly. "Dinner parties, social obligations, public appearances that reinforce your cover identities. You need to be comfortable operating in normal society before you can effectively operate outside it."
Zatanna groaned theatrically, though there was genuine resignation beneath the performance. "Social obligations. Dinner parties. Pretending to be normal teenagers who care about fashion trends and celebrity gossip instead of optimal tactical approaches to systematic criminal dismantlement. This is going to be torture."
"Necessary torture," Hadrian corrected with diplomatic sympathy. "If we can't convincingly portray normal wealthy teenagers, our covers will be compromised before we even begin operational activities. Acting is a skill like any other—it requires practice and dedication."
"Easy for you to say, Lord Fancy-pants. You were born knowing how to make small talk look like diplomatic negotiations. Some of us have to actually work at pretending to be civilized."
Giovanni finally moved to sit beside his daughter, one arm draping across her shoulders with paternal affection. "Mija, if you need assistance with civilian social protocols, I am happy to provide coaching. After all, I have spent decades performing for audiences who expect certain behaviors and presentations. The skills translate quite directly."
"Thanks, Papa," Zatanna said, leaning into his embrace despite her theatrical protests. "Though I reserve the right to complain extensively about the fundamental injustice of having to pretend I care about things that don't matter while preparing for things that matter enormously."
"Complaint rights acknowledged and accepted," Giovanni replied with fond amusement.
Bruce stood again, moving to the fireplace with restless energy that suggested his mind was already three steps ahead, planning and calculating. "Alfred, I want complete files on Henri Ducard before he arrives. Everything you have—background, known activities, professional history, psychological assessments if available. If we're trusting him with our education in criminal methodology, I want to understand exactly who we're dealing with."
"A reasonable request, Master Bruce. I'll have comprehensive briefing materials prepared within the week."
"And Gotham's current criminal landscape—I need systematic intelligence about major players, their organizations, territorial control, revenue sources, political protection. Everything that's developed or changed during our six-year absence."
"Also reasonable. Though I should warn you that the situation has become considerably more complex than simple organized crime hierarchies. New players have emerged with capabilities that exceed traditional criminal parameters."
Bruce's eyes sharpened. "Define 'exceed traditional parameters.'"
Alfred's expression grew troubled. "Enhanced individuals. Technology that shouldn't exist. Operations that suggest coordination beyond simple criminal conspiracy. Gotham's underworld is evolving in ways that conventional law enforcement isn't equipped to address."
"Then it's good we're not conventional law enforcement," Bruce replied with grim satisfaction. "We're something else entirely. Something that can adapt to challenges that exceed normal parameters."
Hadrian stood as well, the Dragon's Claw pendant pulsing with silver light as if responding to the weight of their discussion. "Three years of preparation. Learning to think like criminals, developing technical capabilities, building operational infrastructure, maintaining civilian covers, and throughout all of it—investigating every possible avenue for waking our parents and identifying everyone responsible for putting them in comas."
"Ambitious schedule," Zatanna observed, joining them near the fireplace. "But then, Dragon trained us to handle impossible workloads under extraordinary pressure. This is just another kind of trial."
"With significantly higher stakes," Giovanni added quietly. "Dragon's training could kill your bodies. What you're describing now could kill your souls. Please, all of you—be careful. Be conscious of what you're becoming. Guard your humanity as fiercely as you guard your lives."
The three teenagers exchanged glances that carried six years of shared experience, mutual trust, and absolute commitment to protecting each other from all threats—external and internal.
"We'll watch each other," Bruce said simply. "Like we always have."
"Together," Hadrian and Zatanna agreed in unison.
Alfred raised his glass in a toast that felt more like a vow. "To the next three years. May they prepare you for the war ahead without destroying what makes you worth fighting for."
They drank together as the fire crackled and shadows lengthened across the study's expensive furnishings. Outside, Gotham's lights were beginning to emerge against the darkening sky—millions of people going about their lives, unaware that three dangerous teenagers had just committed themselves to systematic preparation for a war that would reshape their city's relationship with crime, justice, and the thin line between hero and villain.
The crusade had found its next phase.
And Henri Ducard was about to discover exactly what Dragon's training had created—three weapons sharp enough to cut through Gotham's darkness, assuming they didn't lose themselves in the process.
The real education was about to begin.
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