Questionable tactics - part 1

I have been waking up in this manor for past 40 years and each morning through no volition of its own has made itself known to be different.

There have been good mornings and bad ones. 

Ones that have been bad are those that I have known to be unquestionably ugly ones, the kinds that have been laying in the wake of midnight shadows to lay a trap on our lives, and as much as I would decline to confess in the presence of master Wayne there have been moments when I very nearly walked the precipice of momentary bafflement, only to come away unscathed.

It is not easy to ruffle my feathers, suffice to say my wings have seen times of cyclonic gale and excruciating episodes of such mammoth proportions that I’ve been able to forge myself into calmness that befits a patient monument.

Yet, what I’m about to narrate is an incident most curious, and it began on a morning that I’d take the liberty of calling good, since Gotham seemed to be living in fugacious calmness as is its wont before a heavily powdered lunatic decides to escape Arkham. 

It was the first day that autumn made itself felt and Master Dick had stayed over after a small get together which to an innocuous eye might be no less than a gala, but in Wayne Manor these little parties were a common display of practiced charade as performed effortlessly by Master Bruce. 

I was laying down master Bruce’s raiment’s for the day when a small groan made itself audible from a room downstairs. The sound, faintly perceptible as it were wasn’t distressing and I’d assumed it to be master Dick, for after having witnessed his excesses from last night, it wasn’t hard to conclude that a rather hungover young man had begun to have a queasy early morning, though this thought did surprise me.

I was still deciding on the socks when the groan much louder this time made itself felt, and from the sounds of it there was a hint of wretched affliction to it.

There was an acute sense of unease that shrouded my person, because Master Dick was not known to be foible. Light hearted yes, but not the kind to be hungover sending sos signals via sickening groans and as much as I’d have liked to believe that it was in fact him the sounds had made it hard to.

I hasted my retreat from Master Bruce’s bedroom and repaired for downstairs from where I was sure the sounds emanated.

This was supposed to be a morning with few incidents and I resolved to keep it so for Master Bruce’s sake.

My suspicions were ignited into blazing realness when I spotted Master Dick still in his nighttime pajamas holding eskrima sticks, his twin weapons of choice almost gliding in stunned soundlessness towards the noise that seemed to be coming from a room.

For a shrinking moment I let myself smile with both a sense of relief and pride at knowing that Master Dick was all well and that he wasn’t the one making such agonizingly shameful mewling noises, but then who was?

Judging by his expeditiously alert acknowledgment of my presence he looked just as relieved and poising himself in an efficient fighting stance he beckoned me towards the closed room.

After making a quick survey of all the open doors, the exits and means of entry I did a final glance over in case I’d missed any feints or booby traps, and in a hushed whisper of dead silence turned the door knob.

The room which sometimes served as a smoking room for after dinners and late night cocktails seemed to be deserted.

No one looked to have been inside, though the curtains were drawn and windows open, and the crisp autumn chill had begun seeping in. The wall beside the window housed a collection of antique wall clocks and one vintage piece at the bottom looked to have been moved, or rather grabbed hastily, and there it was again, that same groan, a low sad pained sound which had by now evolved into a sob.

We moved towards the couch with its back to the wall and saw a person lodged behind it, still in his party clothes and looking worse for wear.

‘A straggler it seems’ grunted Master Dick while we moved the still ailing guest from last night into a guest room.

‘Do we call a doctor or would one of your pick-me-ups suffice, Alfred?’

‘Our patient seems to be of a rather gentle disposition Master Dick, that or he has rather distorted his agony.’

‘You mean he’s overdoing it?’

‘Indeed, he doesn’t look like he had anything to drink, at least nothing more than a snifter; moreover he does look a little too young to be drinking’

‘Somebody lose their kid at the party Alfred?’  Master Dick was almost short of guffaw but thought better of it, considering the ailing young adult who looked to have gone a sickly green in the face.

‘Perhaps a quick visit by the doctor wouldn’t do any harm Master Dick. Oh, this seemed to be a lovely day too’

‘Of course we don't have to tell him anything. He’s finally had a breather and we might as well let him be with his life for a while. How about we handle this mess, not that it looks all that messy. What do you say Alfred?’

It was perhaps Master Dick had stolen the very words from the tip of my tongue, for neither of us wanted to stress out Master Wayne, no matter how small the matter. 

It was only a fortnight ago when Nightwing had crawled into the bat cave holding a tattered cape and shattered cowl sheltering an almost limp visage within. That meeting with Bane had not gone as planned, the ambush didn’t make matters easier and the eight inch long laceration that nearly gouged out Batman’s shoulder muscle had bled profusely. 

Fortunately the wound wasn't as threatening as it appeared and the scar tissue would never fade. The only bright side being that Gotham’s streets would stay safe for a moment longer before crime reared its ugly head, but for the time being it was abated.

Master Bruce had recovered since, enough to be in good spirits to play golf. Neither of us needed reminding of that damaged night and the timings of a young person falling sick in the house were most inopportune, but not as Master Dick had put it ‘messy’, and on that account we were absolutely wrong.