How far can this Ninja go?

He comes back next time with some grievous injury to his nothing, presumably from the massive shredded gash across his thigh plates. He sits and waits. I fix it for him. He is still nothing in there. I decide to add a drawing on the inside, of the type of beast I imagine could rend metal into scraps with a single blow. He puts it back on. He no longer moves as if he is injured.

Over time the interior of the knight becomes decorated with whatever odds and ends I could think to attach to the inside of a guy who’s got room to carry it. What really gets me is that he never removes any of it. Never requests a change. Not even when I installed a curtain rod for a small tapestry, or a bud vase to carry roses for his beloved, or an accordion folder for letters. He didn’t say a word for any of the many, many drawings of mythical beasts that now fight forever inside of his shell.

There are plenty of other forges. I’m not entirely sure why he keeps coming back here anyway. We’re pretty popular, but he could get his armor fixed a lot quicker (and with fewer ridiculous modifications) literally anywhere else. I asked him if I could get a look at his nothing again. He flipped up his visor and nodded his head so I could take a look. It was the same as it had been, filled with drawings and trinkets and weird little fixtures I’d put in there. I asked if he was annoyed by it, or liked it, or felt anything at all, but he literally only ever says nothing, so I’m not sure why I asked.

There’s not much room left in his nothing now. When he comes back for repairs I’ve had to fix my own foolish additions. Some of these pieces are intricate and irritating to repair, but I fix them anyway. It feels wrong to take any of it away from him now, even though I’ve been rudely encroaching on his nothingness to the point where it’s barely even there. How he squeezes his nothing back into a body so full, I’ll never understand. But it’s a game to me now, finding a spot not yet filled and putting something there. A dark part of me wonders if he ever gets filled up completely, if whatever sorcery holds the nothing-knight together may break, and it will all clatter unceremoniously to the floor.

When he hands me his breastplate yet again, it is so shockingly disfigured that I wonder if being made of nothing has somehow kept him alive. No ordinary knight could sustain such injuries. So I fix it. And he waits, unmoving, in a quiet corner of the forge. It’s like he’s watching, even though I know the reading glasses I put inside his helmet were just for fun. I’m careful to put it all back exactly the way it was when he last left. There’s no room to add more this time.

He examines the breastplate, and pauses before putting it back on, like he’s looking for something. Is he worried about the fit? But it suits him just as it always did. He calmly points to a little space, about an inch, between a miniature shelf and one of many pockets. There’s nothing there. I ask him what’s wrong, and again he points. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from him, and it’s barely anything at all. I take it to mean he wants something there.

I spend some time engraving a little snail in the gap. He watches, as much as nothing can watch. When I’m finished he holds the breastplate, but he doesn’t put it on right away. I ask him if something’s still wrong. He says nothing, and puts it on. I tell him I can’t add anything else. Even if he could ask, there’s no room left.

Next time he comes back, there’s nothing wrong with his armor—he lets me check to make sure. I ask him what he’s doing here. Out from one of many pockets, he retrieves a tiny rusted knife. It’s in miserable condition, barely worth saving. I tell him I could make him a nice new one, but I’ll fix it if he likes. He puts it away and reaches around to find something else, a needle and thread. Better condition, but I’m not a sewist and I tell him as much. He puts them away. He then retrieves a little twisted piece of wax paper. I open it. It’s candy. I ask if I can eat it. He says nothing. I eat it. It’s flavored with cinnamon. I’m surprised he let me take it.

He keeps bringing me candy now. His armor is the most laborious to repair out of every client my forge serves, but it’s my own fault so I can’t complain. Sometimes he keeps me company while I work. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something when he hands me mints. I wonder again at the lemon lozenges. He stares at me when I eat, as much as nothing can stare.

One day he brings me a little jar of honey. I thank him, I tell him I’ll save it for dinner. He watches me work, he puts his repaired armor back on, and he stays. My shift passes slowly, and when I finally pack up to leave it’s dark outside. He follows me out of the forge. I ask him where he’s going. He points to the jar in my hand. I ask him if he wants to watch me eat it. He says nothing, but the nothing-knight clearly wants something, so I open the lid and dunk my finger in the honey. I try not to get any on my chin. He stands there, inches away, watching me try to consume this jar of honey without a utensil. It tastes like clovers. About half the jar is left when I’ve finally had enough of pretending to be a bear, but he doesn’t move to leave.

I ask if he’s going to follow me home. He says nothing. I tell him he can if he wants to. Again, nothing. I start walking, and he follows at my side. I know he’s not going to say anything ever, so I fill the silence. I tell him I’m grateful for the sweets, I tell him about how his various components are made, I tell him I’ve never met anyone made of nothing before. I tell him it’s a rare opportunity for a smith to work so much on the inside of something. He says nothing. I tell him again how much I like the candy.

It occurs to me that maybe filling me with sugar is as close as he can get to filling someone else’s empty armor with trinkets. I’m not sure if that’s really why he does it. I tell him I don’t have room to be filled with anything on the inside, not like him. I’m not a container for much besides food. He offers me another piece of candy. Maybe he likes containing something, the way I like to feel full. Maybe it’s nothing at all.

—

They might have been one of the richest and oldest families in Gotham, but there was a reason why the Waynes were reclusive. Bruce never really questioned it when he was younger, living happily with his family. He just assumed everyone gathered only once or twice a year, since both his parents were constantly working (his father as a surgeon and his mother wrestling for respect at Wayne Enterprise). He had no idea it was because people- escpaically those of the first class- were upset with his parents constantly fighting against social norms.

For example, someone found out Georgie, one of the many butlers at Wayne Manor, had a male lover and went straight to Thomas to expose him. It was expected that they would throw out Georgie, let the wolves of the city tear him apart.

Instead, Thomas had thrown out the woman and then told Gerogie to invite his lover to dinner at Wayne Manor. Bruce later found out that Gerogie's lover had moved into the staff rooms with him because he had lost his job, and his landlord kicked him out when that woman went to spread the word about the nature of the men's relationship. His name was Victor, and he gave the best shoulder rides. They vanished a year later, and Bruce didn't know where they went, but Thomas and Martha had him pick the nicest pebbles from thier yard for them.

Bruce was aware of these things happening around him, much more than a child his age would be, but he didn't understand them. His intelligence let him see past the surface level and maybe even the first layer of social interactions, but adults were complicated and had so many layers to them, and the things they did that Bruce was violently reminded he was a child for all his intelligence.

That's why, despite the way everyone kept telling him that there was nothing he could do after that horrid night in the alley, Bruce used his intelligence and his childlike naivety to find a way to bring his parents back.

He went into his mother's secret safe, hidden under the Manor in a dark cave she thought he didn't know about. There he found a book, created with the blood of the Kane ancestors who weren't dark witches themselves but were great friends of the ones. He flipped through the book, under the covers of his bed, trying to stay out of Alfred's sight.

The Head Butler was busy getting all the affairs of his parents settled, letting go of the staff, ensuring that thier will was followed, and defending Bruce's inheritance against everyone. The man was busy, but thankfully, his parents had made sure he had power in case anything bad happened to them. The only problem was that Alfred was "worried" about Bruce's mental state after watching his parents get murdered in front of him.

Which meant that Alfred barely let him out of his sight. That's why reading his mother's forbidden "Dark Magic from the Coven of Witches, who was welcomed at Kane's table." It was a long title, but it was self-explanatory.

And in the middle of the book, Bruce found exactly what he was searching for.

He waited until Alfred had done his routine bedroom check, pretending to be sound asleep, clutching the book under the covers. Once the Head Butler (soon the only butler) moved on to retire for the night in his room, Bruce got to work.

He quickly pulled a giant teddy bear from his closet, struggling a little since it was the same size as himself, and tucked it into his bed. He made sure to pull the covers over its head and slap on a wig that matched Bruce's hair color, making it seem like he had buried himself in the blankets again.

Then, using a rope ladder he had stolen from the garden when the man was emptying out his worker shed, Bruce carefully climbed out of his window and ran. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, making sure to duck behind hedges, in fear that someone inside would spot him in the many windows of Wayne Manor. The people were all leaving, but the departure was slow, delayed by grief and confusion.

Bruce hoped that by the end of tonight, none of his staff would have to leave. That they could even call back the ones who were gone.

Eventually, he arrived in an area with no coverage, so he had to sprint until his lungs actually burned, but Bruce pushed on. He got to the wall where he had hidden another ladder, this one metal, and it was much harder to steal from the gardener. But it did what it was supposed to do. He was on top of the wall, pulled it up behind him, and used it to climb down on the other side in record time.

Which meant he was standing at the gate just as the taxi he had ordered earlier that night pulled up. Thankfully, he had been able to convince Ronnie, one of the maids, to record a "bedtime story" he wrote, in which she basically placed an order for a taxi. She flattered slightly when she saw he put his real address and actually paused at the destination, but she carried on, which meant he was able to play the recording into the phone receiver. The taxi company didn't suspect a thing.

The driver even helped him into the back seat, smiling warmly, because Ronnie had recorded the words "A ride for the young boy to a movie theater."

The ride was calm, the cabbie playing slow jazz on the radio, and the rain was gentle in the wind. Bruce watched Bristol slowly fade into Gotham, turning darker and grimmer as the cab made its way to the more dangerous parts of the city. He tried not to notice, forcing himself to focus on the water droplets instead of the sinking sick feeling in his stomach. He clutched the book to his chest, squeezing it when the familiar glow of that wrenched movie theater appeared.

The cabbie pulled into the curve, parallel parked, and then turned with a smile. He mentioned the price- much higher than it was because Bruce knew the mileage from his house to this place by heart after the weeks of obsessing over it-, but he paid the man anyway and got out. The gentle drizzle had stopped, which meant it was going to pour in about an hour. Hopefully, after he did what he came to do.

Bruce followed the path from the front of Morach Theater down the street and then took a turn into the alley that haunted his nightmares. He thought he could handle coming back here, but his feet froze only one step in, and the sounds of the gunfire blasted in his ears while his sight was overwhelmed by blood.

Bruce stumbled, landing on his knees, dry heaving as his world spun and the scream of his mother echoed over and over and over again. He was only able to snap out of it when his book fell from his shaking hands, splashing on a small puddle and making a loud bam. He scrambled to pick it up, wiping off the water as best he could. It didn't look too damaged, the heavy back cover protecting the pages inside.

Taking a big breath, Bruce gathered all the courage his eight-year-old body could contain, and he walked into the middle of the alley. A dark stain was near the wall, where his father's body had landed, but Bruce couldn't focus on it.

He flipped through the book until he found the page he wanted. It was hard to make out the words, since his sight was blurry with tears and his hands were shaking badly, but Bruce pushed the words out of his mouth. He had to do this. He had to call upon them.

____________________________________________________________

Hours later, Bruce walked back into Wayne Manor, which was lit up by the red and blue lights of police cars parked in front of his home. Alfred was speaking to an officer, looking as distressed as the night the Waynes went to the movies. A few servants were to the side, some talking to other officers, some hugging themselves, and others just waiting around.

Bruce beamed, raising his voice, "Alfred!"

At once, every head in the yard snapped to him. Alfred all but threw the man he was speaking to as he took off in a run towards Bruce. "Young Master! Are you alright? Did someone take you? What happened? Where on earth have you been!? Why are you smiling like that after giving me nine heart attacks!?"

He clutched the boy to his chest, dropping to his knees and hugging the boy like he was afraid Bruce would disappear. He wasn't sure why, because Bruce wasn't going anywhere, but he hugged back just as tight. While pressing his face into the Head Butler's shoulder, he responded to all the questions with a cheerful chirp.

"I'm okay. No. I went into the city. I used Dark Magic to strike a deal with Gotham and Phantom. I'm smiling because Mom and Dad are home!"

Alfred pulled back, his face crumbled with grief and sorrow, "Young Master Bruce, we talked about this. Master Thomas and Lady Martha passed away. They aren't coming home-"

"That's a rude way to greet the man of the house, isn't it, Alfie?" Thomas joked, strolling in with Martha holding onto the curve of his arm. They were dressed in thier finest outfits- the very same ones Alfred buried them in. The butler froze for a split second before he was yanking Bruce into his arms and rising to his feet. He twisted so that he could shield the boy with his body, glaring at the couple.

"Who are you?" Alfred growled in a cold voice that sent shivers down Bruce's spine. Martha and Thomas paused just a few feet away from thier dear friend, blinking owlishly at the hostile tone.

"What do you mean?"

Martha and Thomas Wayne are dead. Who are you and why are you wearing thier faces?"

Bruce raised his hand, suddenly aware of why Alfred was behaving this way. "It's really my parents. Phantom brought them back for me as long as I keep my side of the deal. I have to become a knight for Lady Gotham and protect her from the crime and corruption in Gotham. Phanotm asked that I have twelve children, whom he will send to me, to raise and protect. They sealed it with a mark on my hand, see? The bat symbol? I'm going to be Batman one day! I have a lot of training to do!"

Martha's bell-like laughter filled the air as the couple continued to walk towards a stunned Alfred. The head butler knew that laughter, knew the way she would raise her hand to tap against her chin as if she were planning to cover her mouth, but didn't go through the full motion. Bruce once heard him joke that he would know her in a room of over ten thousand people, and that holds true as tears slowly spill over his cheeks, staring at her like she was a walking miracle.

"Our Bruce has such an imagination." Martha giggles, causing Thomas' smile to soften, but it falls away into a worried frown. He reaches out, placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder, on the side that wasn't holding Bruce.

"Alfie, are you alright?" Thomas leans in, his blue eyes shining just as warm and kind as the day Bruce lost him. He beams at his father, leaning his head on Alfred's shoulder so the butler can answer.

His butler starts to shake, sobs spilling from his lips as he chokes, "My loves....you came back to me."

Thomas and Martha blinked, turning to give each other questionable looks before Martha carefully asked. "Of course, we came back, Alfie; we just went to the movies. It was only a few hours."

For some reason, those words cause Alfred to sob harder, nearly falling to his knees, and Bruce clings to his shoulders in fear of falling with him. Thankfully, Thomas has great reflexes, so he steps forward, pulling his arm away from his wife, doing his best to keep the sobbing man upright after catching him.

The police surrounded them, questions flying around, while Martha and Thomas scrambled to figure out what in the world was going on. No one noticed the pure joyful smile on Bruce Wayne's face, nor the book held at his chest.

The bat symbol on his hand faded out of view but was never forgotten. He would honor his part of the bargain. He would become the justice and protection this city desperately needed.