Chapter Text
Duke was old enough to recognize Bruce Wayne’s face.
Granted, the face that stared back at him was significantly changed from the one that had once spanned tabloid covers and captured TMZ segments. Still beautiful -- it seemed impossible for a face like that to lose its intensity, even with age. But changed, in ways that disconcerted Duke the longer he thought about it.
Wayne’s skin was pale, indicating significant time spent in space. His hair was thick but shot through with grey, the temples no longer strategically dyed and highlighted. His lips were chapped but still plush, reddened at one corner with healing skin.
Above sharp cheekbones just on the safe side of hollow, Bruce Wayne’s eyes scanned the crowd with all of Batman’s cold, distant intelligence. Even in a plain black uniform, he looked princely.
Duke stood a little straighter, feeling those sharp eyes pass over him as they swept up and down the line of recruits. Wayne stood at perfect parade rest in front of the crowd, shoulders back and feet spread shoulder-width apart.
Like he’s used to the weight of a heavy-ass cape, Duke thought to himself.
“You will address me as Trainer,” Wayne said, his voice soft but carrying in the training hall. “I will address you by your recruit number, and your recruit number only. You will address your fellow trainees by their recruit numbers. If you are observed using another name, you will be punished. Am I understood?”
Duke nodded. Several others did the same, trading nervous looks as they did so. Someone took a shaky breath to his left, hands twitching by their sides.
“You will speak when spoken to. You will reply to every question asked of you from a superior officer with the requisite honorific. If you are confused or forget, you will instead substitute ma’am or sir,” Wayne continued, flat and emotionless. “Repeat that back to me, please.”
The crowd of recruits shifted awkwardly, glancing at each other in the wide formation. Someone cleared their throat, ready to repeat the instructions.
“I said, repeat that back to me,” Wayne said, less forgiving than a concrete wall. “Now.”
They stumbled through the paragraph of instructions en masse, repeating it to Wayne’s apparent approval. The man nodded once when they’d finished, sharp and sudden.
“We will begin training at 08:00 hours during tomorrow’s day cycle. Are there any questions?”
Several hands shot up. Duke shot a daring glance at the question-askers, unable to resist.
“Recruit 120,” Wayne said quietly, calling on a meta in the third row Duke recognized from the transport up. A girl with water powers, from somewhere outside of Indiana. She’d been nervous and chatty on the transport, palms growing wet as she chattered about lakes and ponds.
“Are you--” the girl seemed to wither slightly under Wayne’s full attention, “--are you the Batman? I mean. Were you the Batman?”
Bruce Wayne’s public unmasking years ago had been global news. His subsequent disappearance, less so. But there had always been rumors, especially in Gotham -- and Duke had heard them all, over the years. Rumors of a VIP locked up in the Watchtower under the Regime’s careful watch. A lost prince, lodged up in the stars.
A fallen empire, an empty Manor. A legacy unfulfilled. And after almost ten years, nobody in Gotham could ever truly say why. Not with any great certainty, at least.
Wayne’s expression didn’t change. “I will only answer questions relevant to training. Next, Recruit 158.”
“Uh yeah,” a taller humanoid in the back row said, ducking his head slightly. “What exactly are we -- uh -- going to be learning? In the training?”
“Hand to hand combat, meta adaptation techniques, basic field medicine, combat strategy, and self defense,” Wayne listed off without hesitation, voice flattening the longer the list went on. “These are the training areas best suited to serve the Regime. After successful completion of this program, you will proceed to preliminary field service under the Regime as outlined during your enlistment. Recruit 105, next.”
Wayne called on a green-skinned meta in the front row to Duke’s left. The meta stared Wayne directly in the eyes, square-shaped pupils dilated wide.
“Will we get to meet Superman?”
If Wayne’s eyes had been cold before, they rapidly cooled now to unyielding ice. A vein in his temple twitched, visible under the too-pale skin.
“You will never,” Wayne’s voice lowered to a growl, “say that name again on this space station. Recruit 105, pack up your bags and return to the transport drop-off. You’ve officially washed out of this program.”
The crowd of assembled recruits went impossibly quiet, watching their failed classmate in open horror. There were wide eyes, open mouths, and shifting feet, but not a single sound reached the front of the room.
Recruit 105 faltered for a moment, eyes lowering to the floor, before they shuffled toward the exit. The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of their feet shuffling across the floor.
When they’d disappeared from the training hall, Wayne’s chin lifted. He addressed the entire room, his soft baritone ringing out with utter authority.
“I will see you at 08:00 hours for training. Dismissed to barracks.”
The assembled lines dispersed into the barracks with little cohesion, tripping over each other’s heels and bags as they went. Duke hefted his backpack off the floor, heading for the nearest bunk as he entered the barracks.
“--have a question,” one male recruit was saying to another, kicked up against one wall of the barracks. “How the hell did he know our recruit numbers? We don’t even have our uniforms yet.”
“No fucking clue,” the other recruit said, shrugging. “I heard from my brother that he’s got one of those memories. You know, the one where you remember everything you’ve ever seen? Eddy something?”
“Eidetic,” Duke said, tossing his bag down on the bunk in front of them.
“What?” the first recruit asked, staring up at him.
“Eidetic memory, that’s like a photographic memory,” Duke clarified, nodding toward the training hall they’d just left. “He must have memorized all of our recruit numbers before we showed up. Matched them to faces, probably.”
“There’s over 200 of us,” the second recruit said, eyes widening. “Fuckin’ A, man. That’s a lot of faces.”
“Yeah,” Duke said, shrugging. It was, but it didn’t seem like something outside of Batman’s -- Wayne’s -- wheelhouse. Not if he was the one who’d built this satellite, like the rumors said.
“He must be meta,” the second recruit said, “My brother swore up and down he was 100% human, but I don’t believe him. I mean, Bat--”
“Shh,” the first recruit said, shoving at the other recruit. “You want him to come in here and wash us out too?”
“He said we couldn’t say -- that other name,” the second recruit clarified, eyes darting to Duke’s face. “Not that one.”
“I think we should keep it all name-less, yeah? Little more kosher that way.”
Duke kicked his boots up onto the bunk, staring up at the mattress above him. He let his gaze soften, watching the shadows in the room slide in and out of focus.
There were still shadows in space, even under the dim fluorescent lighting. It was oddly reassuring. A part of him had expected it to be one or the other -- light or dark. The deep, depthless pull of space, or the burning, inescapable light of the sun.
“--old you think he is?”
Duke tuned back into the conversation still happening over by the wall.
“I dunno, man. I was only 12 when the Regime began. Maybe in his forties?”
“No way,” the second recruit said. “He would’ve been thirty. That’s way too young. He had kids.”
“Yeah, but they weren’t his. Not like that.”
“Whatever. When are you scheduled for the mess hall? I got put in B group.”
“Probably after we get our uniforms. I don’t fucking know.”
Duke glanced around the barracks, noting that the same conversation seemed to be playing out in staggered turns across the room. The chatter built into a constant swell of noise, loud enough to almost conceal the creak of the barracks and the thump of bags hitting linoleum.
“Hey, Eddy. When’s your chow?”
It took a moment for Duke to realize he was being addressed. He sat up, pushing down the reflexive thread of anxiety as the shadows in the corners of the mattress moved with him.
“I’m scheduled with C group,” Duke said. “And you shouldn’t call me that.”
“What?” the first recruit asked, haughty. “Eddy? C’mon, man. It’s not like they’re watching us in here.”
Duke glanced at the various concealed cameras in the room he’d been noting, one by one, and decided to forego any further resistance. “I’m 212.”
“138,” the first recruit stated, shoulders puffing up. “This is 197. We rode up together.”
“We all rode up together,” 197 said, rolling his eyes. “It was one big ship.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I really don’t.”
The night meal was a simple stew over rice, steamed vegetables, and a packaged dessert. Duke ate the stew, palmed the dessert into one sleeve of his new uniform, and tried to figure out if space really did make everything less salty.
Lights out came sooner than he’d expected, shuttering the barracks into darkness. When most of his nearby bunkmates had fallen asleep, he reached into his sleeve, carefully pulling the dessert out.
The stew and rice had been the most calories he’d eaten in one sitting since…it didn’t bode thinking about. A long time. He hadn’t eaten at the Regime transport center, even though there had been packaged snacks and cakes in the lounges.
Common sense -- forged and tested in Gotham -- told him that food on a space station was a limited commodity, and easily withheld. A calorie, carb-dense dessert hidden away could be the difference between life and death, as he’d learned. The sugar and preservatives kept it fresh and damn near shelf stable, past even when the preserved food was good.
He hid the dessert in the space between the mattress and the bed frame, tucking a shadow around it to divert any lingering eyes. If he was careful when he slept, it wouldn’t get crushed. Hopefully. He’d still eat it, even if it was.
There were no clocks, and he didn’t have a watch, but part of him still registered “dawn” when it came, several hours later. The tiny portholes in their barracks lit up in a reddish glow, brightening the room significantly.
Duke flinched as the morning buzzer sounded, grateful he hadn’t been asleep. He scanned the expanse of the barracks as the buzzer became an artificial voice, searching for any staff or personnel.
There were none. Just automated instructions to enter the showers and proceed to the mess hall when finished.
Breakfast -- first meal, that was what the automated voice had called it -- was thick oatmeal, thinned out with some sort of fatty milk. They each received a cup of fresh fruit and a slice of multigrain toast slathered in something that almost looked like butter.
Duke ate it all, not certain he’d have a chance to return to the barracks when they were done. His hunch was correct when, over the intermittent chatter in the mess hall, the automated voice returned, instructing them to proceed to the training hall.
They headed to the room they’d been in the previous day in loose formation. No one seemed suited to the military style of the program, and there was no enforcement. Still, no one seemed bold enough to test the instructions.
Duke stepped into formation behind 138, ignoring the meta's attempts to catch his gaze. He faced the front, examining the space where Wayne had stood the previous day.
It was tempting to let his gaze soften, seeing into the distant past. He blinked through a few blurry frames, not seeing anything except the ripple of dust in the air. The HVAC was strong, in this room especially. Almost suction-like.
Positive pressure. To filter what, though? And why only this room?
Wayne’s entrance put an end to the last whispers. The man stalked to the front of the assembly, wearing the same plain, black uniform from the previous day.
The healing skin in the corner of his mouth had reopened, dark and reddened against the curve of his bottom lip. Almost like he’d had it split, and then reopened after another hit. A training injury, maybe?
Duke didn’t get the impression Bruce Wayne -- Batman or not -- took hits frequently. Not if he had something to say about it.
“Recruits. Today’s training session will consist of basic blocking in small groups for assessment.” Wayne swallowed, the corner of his mouth pulling as he spoke. “Form up into pairs to start. We’ll move to four-person groups after mid-meal. Any questions?”
Duke waited for a hand to be raised. After a moment, a girl in the third row to his right finally put hers up, the sleeve of her too-big uniform rolling down.
“What if we, uh, can’t control what our powers do? Should we still be participating?”
Wayne’s expression didn’t change, but his head tilted a fraction of a centimeter to the left. “Explain, Recruit 107.”
“I -- well, when I hit people, sometimes my powers just go haywire, and people get really hurt. I shoot lasers out of my hands, so…” 107 trailed off, sounding uncertain. Young.
“Recruit 107, you’ll pair up with me for the duration of the initial training phase,” Wayne said, not blinking at the development. “Is anyone else concerned for the safety of their partners during this exercise?”
Nobody moved. Duke pursed his lips, knowing there had to be more. There were more than two hundred metas, all in one room. More than one of them had to have unpredictable or dangerous powers.
“If you are lying to me,” Wayne said, one eyebrow rising. “You will wash out of this program. And you will be punished according to Regime regulations for the unlawful injury or death of your fellow metahuman, if applicable.”
Duke was close enough to the front to see the slight curl of Wayne’s lips as he shaped the words Regime regulations. If Duke had to guess, the man was no fan of what those entailed.
The Regime had only ever been synonymous with one person. And Bruce Wayne -- Batman himself -- didn’t seem to like his rules. Was disgusted by them, even.
Maybe he really isn’t here willingly, Duke thought to himself, unearthing the treasure trove of rumors from his own memory. Memories of his cousin’s thirdhand recollection of his neighbor’s brother’s encounter with a strung-out Harley Quinn, who’d sworn up and down that Superman had stolen Batman from her beloved partner. Stolen, she’d insisted.
Like Wayne was a pawn to be taken in the first place. A valuable pawn, if the rumors were to be believed. One of the most powerful pieces on the board, labels aside.
Duke stared at the corner of Wayne’s mouth, letting his gaze soften again. The shadows around the man blurred fractionally, revealing nothing but the after-image of Wayne wiping a pale hand across his lips, smearing fresh blood across his chin.
That wasn’t useful. It only told him what he already knew -- that Wayne had been bleeding before he ever walked into this room. And he’d made meager attempts to hide that fact before being seen.
Even the after-image of blood was a vivid red against Wayne’s pale jaw. Too much blood for it to be a shaving accident. Too little for it to be serious.
“Form up into pairs and wait for instructions,” Wayne ordered in the present, drawing Duke back from the shadows. “107, with me.”
138 turned around immediately, smiling at Duke. “Partners?”
“Sure,” Duke said, shrugging.
“This is gonna be fun. I can just tell. He’s so badass.” 138 glanced at Wayne in the front, bouncing on his heels. “I bet he’s gonna have us doing some crazy jiu-jitsu in like, no time.”
“Aren’t we here to learn how to control our powers?” someone -- Recruit 98, according to their uniform -- asked, butting into their pair. “Not that this John Wick shit isn’t cool, but that’s what I signed up for.”
“Duh,” 138 said, “Obviously we’re going to do that too. But we gotta learn the basics first, right? That’s why they call it basic training.”
Duke was more inclined to call it conscription in the privacy of his own mind. But he wouldn’t ruin it for the others if he didn’t have to. If they wanted to view this as voluntary -- if their parents and family wanted to view this as something they chose, then more power to them.
Or less. Duke still wasn’t certain how the Regime consolidating metas in one training facility made the rest of them safer, but he wasn’t going to the person dumb enough to ask. All he knew was, once metas left Gotham, they rarely ever came back.
Staring at the afterimages of blood on Bruce Wayne’s jaw, Duke got the impression that was probably by design.