This is going to effectively be my "laboratory," trying out character and story ideas in advance to see if I want to continue them in a later game somewhere. I don't expect anyone to read them, but if you do, I always appreciate a boost for my huge and fragile ego.

My name is Dick Grayson. I am twelve years old. And tonight is the best night of my life.

"All right," Mister Bruce says, straightening the cuffs on his jacket as we ride in the back seat of his Rolls Royce, "Just to make absolutely certain you have it straight, let's go over the plan one more time."

I roll my eyes, but even so, I'm fidgeting with excitement. This is my first mission, my first actual assignment in the field, working with Mister Br-- ....with Batman. I'm going to be helping Batman.

"We arrive to Mister Dent's fundraiser a fashionable thirty-five minutes late," I recite. "You'll begin making the rounds and shaking hands with the high-profile VIPs in attendance, while I act disinterested and bratty. While it will look like I'm ignoring them and texting with my friends, I'll actually be wirelessly breaking into their phones and smart-devices, in particular looking for passwords and login data. If it's encrypted, I send it to your hacker friend Oracle. Primary target is Rupert Thorne, along with Commissioner Loeb, Mayor Hill, Roland Daggett, and Doctor Jeremiah Arkham."

"And your secondary targets?"

"Captain Jim Gordon to make sure he can be trusted, Oz Cobblepot to see if he had anything to do with the phony insider-trading allegations facing Wayne Enterprises' board of directors, and Doctor Quinzell to see if we can access her files on the Joker."

"Very good," Bruce nods. "What happens then?"

I scratch my head, trying to recall the details of the next part.

"Then, I find an excuse to go out on the balcony," I remember. "No later than 8:35, because at 8:40, we'll have a five-minute window where a WayneTech satellite will be in orbit directly above the city. During that five-minute window, I give it the information of all the VIPs we have, and it starts blasting the private servers of Carmine Falcone with military-grade code that will crack any cyber-security countermeasures he might have. It runs the login information over and over of everyone I've collected until it gets a positive, and at that point we'll not only have access to Falcone's personal network, but we'll know the identities of the VIPs on his payroll. Then it does the same thing with Sal Maroni, Roman Sionis, Anatoli Knyazev....and Tony Zucco."

Four years ago, Tony Zucco murdered my mom and dad, and walked away without a slap on the wrist. Four years ago, Bruce Wayne took me in, gave me a life I could have only dreamed of. But more than that, he gave me the chance to set things right--he started giving me the education, the training, and the equipment to take Zucco down. Mister Bruce wants all of the 'Five Kings' of Gotham taken down in one night.

I can't fight in Mister Bruce's war, not yet. I can't dodge bullets and break limbs like he can. I can't jump across rooftops-- well, I can, but I'm not allowed to. But if dressing up in an uncomfortable suit and pretending to have a good time gets us one step closer to seeing Zucco behind bars, then I'll wear this stupid bow-tie and play nice with all the old rich people he wants.

"I can't wait til we pull this off," I say, my leg bouncing up and down with nervous energy. "We'll take them all down, and Tony Zucco won't ever know that I had a hand in ruining that son of a--"

"Dick," Bruce interrupts, "language."

".....sorry," I mutter. For a man who spends his nights cracking people's skulls, he's very insistent on keeping things as wholesome as possible.

"Here we are, Master Bruce, Master Richard," Alfred announces from the driver's seat as the Rolls pulls up to the Westward Hotel, an old art-deco monstrosity that the very rich and old-fashioned love to use for these sort of functions. "the best of luck, happy hunting, and most importantly....have a wonderful evening."

".....removing their Title 238 protections, which will allow us to finally expand renovations into the Narrows," Mayor Hill explains to Mister Bruce over cocktails, while a string quartet in the far corner meanders through some Schubert. "We're predicting the new commercial center should bring in a half-billion in new business per quarter in the first year alone. Over time, well, the sky is the limit, and I believe Wayne Enterprises would do very well to get in on the ground floor, so to speak."

"Hm, it's definitely worth considering," Mister Bruce says, sipping his martini. Mayor Hill's "Gotham of Tomorrow" initiative sounds nice enough on paper-- renovate and rebuild the crumbling infrastructure and overcrowded housing projects in the Bowery, shaping Gotham to be closer to its 'Sister City' Metropolis. Mister Bruce has been skeptical about buying in, however-- too many questions about where the money is being spent. Or who is being contracted to carry out what project. Or what happens to all of the people whose homes would be demolished in the name of progress. "What do you think, Dick? A few new shopping centers, maybe a nice big WayneTech electronics store on Park Row?"

"....huh?" I glance up from my phone. "Oh, um, yeah, sounds.....sounds really neat."

It's a simple enough code. Mister Bruce chats it up with the Great and Good of Gotham while I break into their devices. After a few minutes, he asks for a progress report. If I say "neat," it means I've gotten the information I need and we can move on to the next target. If I say "cool," it means I need him to buy me some more time. If I say "interesting," it means I can't crack it, and I need to send it to our mysterious hacker friend, the elusive 'Oracle.'

So far, we've had four 'neats,' three 'cools,' and only one 'interesting' in Mister Cobblepot. It's honestly a little concerning how easy it is to get information off of these people; a more nefarious hacker with similar equipment could cripple the city's economy over an afternoon.

Mayor Hill gives me a disapproving frown, and Mister Bruce gives him a placating smile in return. "It's impossible to get him away from that phone. My fault, I'm afraid. I should be giving him stricter limits on screen time. Come on, Dick-- I know civics isn't the most exciting subject, but when you're older you'll appreciate its importance."

I roll my eyes, and Mister Bruce's gentle smile turns sour.

"Manners, Dick," he says, "what have I told you about acting up in public?"

I let out an irritated sigh. "That if I don't want to join in on society, I shouldn't be surprised if society doesn't want me."

"That's right," he says, a lesson we both agreed was appropriately stern-sounding and completely out of touch, the perfect thing for a spoiled rich socialite trying to play at being a parent. "Now why don't you go get some fresh air and think about that for a while. We'll talk on the ride home."

I slump my shoulders and walk away with a dejected look, while Mister Bruce turns back to Mayor Hill with an apologetic shrug. "Kids, right? Have to be fair but firm, like my old man...."

It's hard to keep from grinning. Now that I've been summarily dismissed and the norms of polite society dictate everyone shun me for a few minutes while I contemplate my faux pas, I can enact the second phase of our plan without anyone bothering me.

I step out onto the balcony, a rush of cool summer evening air tussling my hair and the echoes of passing cars resounding back and forth between the buildings from below. The street lights and gaudy neon signs wash the view beneath me in a thin orange haze, contrasted against the deep blue and purple of the night sky above. From up here, the city's almost beautiful.

No time for sight-seeing, though; I've got work to do. I open up the phone, and once I'm sure the coast is clear, I connect it to the WayneTech satellite in high orbit above the city. Furiously tapping and swiping at the screen, I navigate through the labyrinth of authentication codes, passwords, and fingerprint scans before Mister Bruce's computer network HARDAC lets me in. The security settings on HARDAC's internal AI are somewhere between 'vigilant' and 'paranoid delusional'-- if I so much as misplace a single digit or give it any indication that the line isn't secure, it will block me out permanently.

"Little John, Alan-A-Dale, Will Scarlet," I say, speaking the code words for today. It repeats back GUY OF GISBOURNE, ROBERT DE RAINAULT, PRINCE JOHN.

I speak the final code word, staring into the phone's camera to get a retinal scan. "Robin of Locksley."

ACCESS GRANTED. WELCOME, AGENT ROBIN.

I feel a swell of pride and excitement. My own code-name! I'm not just helping out on a job; I'm actually part of Mister Bruce's war now. Agent Robin. Helping Batman.

Batman and Robin.

INCOMING MESSAGE FROM AGENT ORACLE.

"Put it through," I say, like the Captain of a sci-fi starship answering the hail from an alien vessel. Maybe a bit silly for Dick Grayson to do. But Robin, well, who can blame him for being a little dramatic?

Welcome aboard, Robin. The Big Guy has been telling me about you. Your skill-set, anyway; your identity is still secure. Looking forward to seeing what you can do.

Thanks, I type back. Are you ready to bust this city open?

Easy there, cowboy, Oracle responds, This is just a milk run; HARDAC is going to be doing all the heavy lifting; we're just here to troubleshoot in case something comes up.

Right. Okay. So....what do I do?

Just keep the line open and don't get caught. This shouldn't take more than five minutes.

Acknowledged, I type, and then regret sending because it makes me sound like a space cadet again.

HARDAC begins downloading the information I've scanned from all of our targets, and I place the phone along the balcony rail. All I have to do is pass the next five minutes without incident, and I'll have completed my first mission.

"All right....no problem," I say to myself. "Just.....play it cool. Stay still. Stop fidgeting. It's only five minutes."

My nose itches.

I scratch it, then notice my tie is crooked. Without a mirror, getting it straight is tricky, but eventually I fix it.

Then I feel something stuck between my teeth. A string from a piece of celery, maybe? I start to work it away with my tongue, and then I feel that my boxers are starting to bunch up in the front, and begin trying to fix it without just sticking my hand in my crotch to pick them out.

It has to have been, what, three, four minutes now? I've got to be coming up on the finish line soon. Occasionally someone inside glances out at the balcony. Have I been found out? Did I blow it? Come on, just a little bit longer and--

I check the timer on the phone. It's only been fifteen seconds.

"Ohhh, come on," I groan. This is no good-- I need to do something with all this nervous energy.

On one of the unattended dining tables, I notice the cloth napkins are decorated with those unnecessary plastic ring things, each one round like a ball with a hole bored through to place the napkin. I pick one up, and I'm surprised by its weight, almost the weight of a baseball. Must be expensive-- an awful lot of effort for something that only exists to put an extra step before wiping your face. I pluck the napkin out of the holder and begin tossing the ring back and forth for a moment. After a few tosses, I grin to myself and pick up two more.

When I was traveling with Haly's Circus, we did a lot of easy street-performing acts before a show to get people's attention. Some of us would do sleight of hand, or freak-show tricks like hammering a nail into your nose. While my parents and I were acrobats, you can't exactly set up a trapeze set in the middle of the street, so we found other things to do to bring in customers. Myself, I learned how to juggle.

It's something I haven't done in a long while, not since coming to Gotham City. Juggling reminds people of clowns. And people in Gotham don't like clowns very much. But I've got to do something with my hands while waiting for the timer to run out.

I start with a simple three-ball cascade, which transitions easily enough into a 4-2-3 and a W-pattern, then I finish off that pattern with a Georgian Shuffle.

My feet need something to do, so I start walking back and forth as I go.

From there, I play a few passes of Juggler's Tennis, one ball arcing back and forth over the other two, which morphs into a Half Shower.

Still not enough. I step up onto a chair.

I go into the Columns, the Yo-Yo, and Al's Slide in quick order, and the Factory.

I walk forward, stepping up again. Now I'm feeling it.

A few rounds of Windmill, which I start alternating from side to another until it becomes the Mills Mess, then a high-arcing Full Shower. One more high toss, with a 360 spin to finish it off, aaaaand--

"What are you doing?"

My hand misses the napkin ring altogether, and it goes plummeting down to the streets below. It's only then that I realize I had stepped up onto the balcony railing, effectively tightrope walking thirty stories up.

"Oh! I'm uhhh," I stammer as I hop down from the railing. "I was just, y'know.....bored."

The girl who came out onto the balcony with me looks about my age, maybe a year or two older. She's slightly pale, which isn't unusual in Gotham, but has fiery red hair, a spatter of freckles across her cheeks and nose, and bright green eyes. She's....really pretty, but not pretty in the way that makes you feel dirty afterward, like Catwoman or that Poison Ivy lady. Pretty like the kind of girls in the crowd I would try to make laugh and smile as I winked at them from the trapeze.

"You were 'bored,'" she repeats, "so you decided to start juggling while balancing on the balcony railing of a skyscraper. You do realize how stupidly dangerous that is, don't you?"

My cheeks flush and a thin film of sweat beats on my forehead, but I try to play it cool. "I mean, it's only dangerous if I fall outward. If I fall in, it's just embarrassing. I mean, once you know how to do it, a balancing act is the same trick six inches off the ground as it is six hundred feet off the ground."

She gives me a skeptical look, then her eyebrows raise in realization. "Oh, that's right! You're Mister Wayne's ward, the one from the circus, right? My dad told me about what happened. I, erm.....I'm sorry about--"

"Don't be sorry, you didn't do it," I cut her off. "Sorry, I just...I don't really like to talk about it. It happened, and I just wanna, well...."

"Right, right," she says.

"So.....what were you doing out here?" I ask.

"Just checking something on my phone," she says, quickly pulling it out of her purse and glancing at it. I can't help but notice she's got the same model phone as mine. "It's nothing important."

"Ah, cool," I nod.

"Yup," she nods, and for a few seconds, neither of us really knows how to fill the gap in conversation. Finally, she pipes up again. "So you and Mister Wayne....is there....something weird on there? Because my dad's a cop, and he can--"

"What? No! No, no, it's nothing like that," I answer. "I think it's just, I dunno, he saw me going through what he went through and wanted to help me out. I mean, I know it's not exactly conventional, but no, there's nothing like what the tabloids were saying."

She turns to me and looks me dead in the eye. "You're absolutely positive. Hand to God, swear right now, there's nothing funny going on, and I'll drop it."

I can't really tell her that there's "nothing funny going on," because that would be a lie-- most people would probably consider a vigilante training a twelve-year-old to wage war on gangsters and terrorists to be 'something funny.' But I do look her in her eyes-- those piercing, emerald green eyes that I could just get lost in-- and I tell her the truth.

"Absolutely positive. Hand to God. Bruce Wayne is one of the good guys."

She returns the stare, like she's trying to search into my soul, then says "Okay, cool."

"Ummm, yeah," I say, finally having to pry myself away from her eyes. "So, uh, that was.....kinda personal. And we haven't really introduced ourselves yet. I'm, erm, Dick. Dick Grayson."

She gasps in embarrassment. "Oh! Oh God, I'm sorry, I'm just....I'm Barbara. Barbara Gordon."

She sticks out her hand, and I shake it. Her embarrassment gives way to a smile, one that I can't help but share. "Nice to meet you, Barbara Gordon."