The kitchen of Wayne Manor was a paradox all on its own. Cold and impersonal, like everything else in this house, yet filled with the warm smell of coffee, toasted bread, and old English tea. The kind of place where you felt a little less small in a world that was far bigger than you. I had woken up early. Well—maybe not woken up so much as fled my bedroom. My thoughts had been looping ever since I met the other Robins. One smiled at me like a big brother, another looked like he wanted to tear my throat out, and the last one stared at me like a medical scanner crossed with a behavioral-analysis AI. And Bruce? Still unreadable. But Alfred... Alfred looked human. He was already there when I walked in. He was cooking something in a cast-iron pan—eggs, maybe—with calm, methodical ease, as if saving Gotham's heroes also involved making sure they had a balanced breakfast. — Master Dale, he said without even looking at me. I was just about to bring up a tray. — Fair warning, I'm not very hungry. My stomach still thinks I'm fifteen and living in Montreal. He turned toward me, a faint smile on his lips. — Philosophical young people tend to speak in riddles. Would you like some tea? — Can I get real sugar? Not those tiny psychopath cubes? He nodded, completely unfazed, and gestured to a chair. I sat down at the counter, and he handed me a steaming cup. The silence was strangely comfortable. Not heavy. Not like the silence I had with Bruce, where every pause felt like some kind of test. I broke it first. — Alfred... I know I'm acting like the cool, detached type. Like, "yeah, I fell into Gotham, I've seen everything in my world," blah blah. But... I stopped. He calmly placed the eggs onto a plate, not rushing me. — But the truth is... I'm completely lost. He came closer, set the plate in front of me, then leaned against the counter, arms folded. — Then perhaps you should begin by telling me about... your world. I took a sip of tea. Hot, bitter, comforting. — My name was Dalphée. I was a girl. I was... good, I think. Figure skating champion. Ice, spotlights, spins at three hundred revolutions a minute—that was my world. My parents drowned themselves in debt just to give me coaches, competitions abroad, hand-sewn costumes. My mother even made several of them herself to save money so I could get custom skates because my feet are so narrow. If I'd worn normal-width skates, I would've broken my ankles trying anything at my level. — They believed in you, he said gently. — Completely. Until the end. We came to Gotham for a competition. One last one, I think. And then there was this guy. He thought we were rich. My parents tried to explain that we weren't, that everything we had went into my skating... He killed them. Just like that. Coldly. Right there. For nothing. I swallowed. — I don't even know if that part is real, because in my world Gotham doesn't exist! It's probably just a memory from this body... But I think something similar happened in my world too... I didn't realize I was crying until my voice cracked. Alfred handed me a neatly embroidered cloth handkerchief. Of course he did. — After that, I slipped. I blacked out. I don't know if I died... or if something cosmic grabbed me along the way. But I woke up here. A guy. In this world. And they told me I was "Dale Villeneuve," adopted by a billionaire who dresses like a bat at night. I laughed, but it sounded more nervous than amused. — And now I'm acting like, "yeah, sure, I've read all the comics." But the truth is... I've seen versions. Fictional versions. Here it's not the same. People bleed. People die. And I keep thinking that if I make one wrong move, there isn't going to be a writer around to save me. Alfred placed a hand on my shoulder. Light, but steady. — This world is not simple. Not for those born into it... nor for those who fall into it. You do not have to be perfect, Master Dale. Nor even "useful" right away. You have the right to exist. And to learn. — But they're watching me. Jason already hates me. Tim studies me like he's waiting for me to turn into a bomb. Dick is nice, but... I can tell he doubts me. And Bruce? Bruce doesn't look at me like I'm a traumatized kid. He looks at me like I'm some kind of strategic anomaly. Alfred didn't answer immediately. Then he said quietly: — Master Bruce is cautious. He has lost much. Too much. He always thinks in terms of risk. Logic. But beneath that armor, he has taken in more wounded children than he will ever admit. You are not an anomaly to him. You are... a promise he does not yet dare believe is real. I stayed silent. Alfred's words sank into my stomach the way the tea spread warmth through my veins. — Am I... real? I asked, more to myself than to him. Alfred crouched slightly so his eyes were level with mine. — You are here. You breathe. You suffer. And you like tea with real sugar. That seems quite real to me, Master Dale. I smiled. A little. Just enough that it didn't break. When I left the kitchen, my shoulders a little straighter, I ran into Dick in the hallway. He gave me a wink. — Alfred gave you the life-saving tea speech, huh? — A classic, I assume? — Don't worry. We all went through it. He placed a hand on my shoulder. Not like Bruce. Not like Alfred. But like a brother saying, without words: I know what it's like. Maybe I was lost. But I wasn't alone anymore. And in Gotham... that's already a lot.

Black Tea and White Truths