Dick woke me up at 6 a.m.
And that, already, was an assault.
— Up, Dale! You've got an artistic showdown to attend!
— What...? I groaned, face buried in the pillow. What kind of sentence is that? Are we in Black Swan or what?
He pulled the curtains open. Sunlight hit my skin like an invisible sniper. I yelped and dove back under the covers.
— Hey! Lethal UV rays here, remember? I'm fine dying in an explosion, but not toasted like a forgotten waffle!
— I booked the training room downstairs. Let's see if figure skating can compete with actual circus training.
I grumbled, but I got up anyway. He had that smile... that competitive look athletes know all too well. The kind that says you're going to regret underestimating me.
Spoiler: I had absolutely underestimated Dick Grayson.
⸻
The Batcave had a massive training area I hadn't explored yet. Mats, ropes, bars, trampolines, weights, targets... It was like a cross between a dojo, a military gym, and some kind of demonic circus.
Dick was already there, warmed up, wearing a tank top, muscles loose and ready. He'd even tied his hair back. Show-off.
I was in a tracksuit, covered head to toe in SPF 90 like a vampire going on a field trip.
— Rule number one, he said with a playful glance. No mocking origins here. Whether you come from a parallel universe or a Quebec skating rink, what matters is what you can do with your body.
— Perfect, I said. Because I'm about to destroy you with my spins.
— Show me what you've got, champ.
We started simple.
I showed him a scratch spin. He let out a low whistle.
— You spin fast.
— Two hundred fifty revolutions per minute. I almost threw up once at three hundred.
Then I followed it with an axel jump—no skates, solid ground. I landed it clean. I swear his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
— Okay. You've got fire in those legs.
— I was wearing sequins before you even learned how to walk a wire.
He laughed.
— My turn.
He launched into motion. Backflip, twist, silent landing. Then he jumped, grabbed a hanging bar, and swung like a pro. Smooth. Feline. Like an Olympic-level acrobat.
I applauded.
— I'll admit it—that's stylish. Even if you've never glided on ice with twelve kilos of rhinestones on your shoulders.
— And you've never flown ten meters up without a net.
— I once broke my arm botching a toe-loop landing to Tchaikovsky. We all suffer in different ways, man. Plus, in my original world, I was a girl, so I kept accidentally hitting my chest against my cast.
He winced a little.
After the demonstrations, we moved on to the challenge: improvise a short routine each, with imposed music. And who picked the music?
Alfred, of course.
That man is a legend.
He put on The Phantom of the Opera.
— Seriously? I sighed. You want us to die dramatically on a high note?
— It seems appropriate, Master Dale, he replied in his usual British calm.
Dick let me go first.
I used the music for a fluid floor sequence—spins, rotations, improvised arabesques. No ice, no skates, but my body remembered what to do. Rhythm, musicality, absolute control of movement. I finished on my knees, arms extended, head bowed.
Dick applauded.
— Impressive. You can feel the anger beneath the grace.
— Thanks. Your turn, Cirque du Soleil.
He launched into his routine. His style was completely different. Less poetry, more raw mastery. Climbing, swinging, landing without a sound. And every pose, every motion, had that feline quality that made him unmistakable.
He ended suspended from a rope, perfectly balanced, gaze fixed downward.
I applauded in return.
— We've got completely opposite styles.
— But complementary, he said. You move like a poem. I move like a blade.
He dropped to the ground and held out his hand.
— Truce. We're both artists. Different mediums, same obsession.
I took his hand without hesitation.
— You know... you're not as annoying as I thought.
— And you're not just some lost little prince from another world.
We smiled at each other. Honestly. I think it really made Alfred happy to see us starting to get along.
As we left the room, I called out:
— Hey, if we ever fight a villain in an opera house, we're doing a duet, right?
— Are you kidding? Of course we are. I'll take the high ground—you take the stage.
And for the first time since I got here... I laughed.
A real laugh.
No defenses. No sarcasm.
Maybe I hadn't found my place in Gotham yet.
But maybe I'd found... a partner. A friend.