Peter Rabbit
After breakfast, Damian practically dragged me to the Batcave, ushering me straight to the gym. With little more than a grunt, he picked up one of the heavier weights, his muscles visibly straining as he hoisted it toward me.
“Damian! You’re going to hurt him!” Dick shouted, quickly crossing the room to stop whatever reckless stunt Damian had in mind.
Damian smirked, holding the weight up before dropping it into my hands. I caught it effortlessly with one hand, holding it steady without a hint of struggle. The weight felt solid, but it barely made my arm quiver. I glanced up at Damian, who was beaming with pride.
"See, Dick? He’s fine,” Damian said, his tone full of smug satisfaction. “Dick, do one of the heavier ones!”
“Damian, you're not the boss.” Dick retorts.
“Shut up and do it!” Damian’s voice was sharp, but there was a playful edge to it, the tone he used when he wanted to push someone’s buttons. He looked me over with curious eyes like he’d just found a new pet to train, his brow furrowed as if assessing my potential.
“If the kid gets hurt, B’s gonna kick your ass, Damian,” Tim says while making his way over, studying the situation.
“He’ll be fine!” Damian retorts.
I couldn’t help but smile as the boys bantered around me. There was a lightness to the moment, a sense of camaraderie that felt almost normal despite the steel walls and high-tech equipment surrounding us. I held the weight with no problem, gently placing it back on the rack.
“Come on and pick this one up.” Damian stands at the largest dumbbell, looking at me longingly. I pick it up, no problem. Holding it above my head.
“Too easy…” I joke. The men looked at each other and back, chuckling.
“We need something bigger…” Dick says, now searching the cave for something for me to grab. On the other hand, Tim walks to me and grabs the barbell from my hand, straining to hold it with one hand before grabbing it with two and lifting it back onto the rack.
“That's not possible… how old are you? You look five,” He looks away from me and to Dick. “A five-year-old is beating me in a strength competition, Dick I’m I washed up? Did I spend too much time working at Wayne Enterprises? I’m weak?” Damian is now following Dick looking for something for me to test my strength. Tim left along with me.
“I think I’m six. I don’t know my birthday, though.” Tim looks at me curiously.
"I'm pulling up your file," he says, striding over to the computer. With a quick, effortless movement, he drops into the swivel chair, sending it rolling across the floor. He scoots himself back to the keyboard and starts tapping rapidly, scrolling through files with practiced ease until mine pops up on the screen.
“There it is,” he says, eyes scanning the contents. “It says you’re six, turning seven this August!”
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I step closer, peering over his shoulder at the screen. My name, details, and more information than I knew about myself flash before my eyes.
My face stared back at me from the screen, captured in that gray shirt with my number emblazoned across the front. A cold, distant reminder of a place I’d rather forget. My stomach tightened, and I quickly looked away, not wanting to see it anymore.
Tim caught the flicker of pain in my eyes, and without a word, he reached over and switched off the monitor. The screen blinked to black, erasing the image that had stirred up so much emotion.
“Sorry, Little Man,” he murmured, his voice soft with genuine apology.
I opened my mouth to say, “It’s oka—” but my words were cut short by a sudden movement. Damian, with his typical impatience, hurled something across the room. I turned just in time to see Dick snatch the flying object—a wooden training stick—out of the air with a practiced ease.
“Damian!” Dick barked, holding the stick like he’d just caught a live grenade. He shot Damian a warning look, but a hint of a grin was playing at the corner of his mouth. “Damian, NO!” He yelled next. I looked at Damian, who was standing on top of the Batmobile.
“Lift this, Peter!” He smiles wildly, proud he found something that could challenge me. I start to walk over. Tim grabs my shoulder and stops me, standing up.
Tim and Dick speak in unison. “No!”
“Than the computer!” Damian jumps from the car onto solid ground. This time Dick nods in agreement but Tim all but throws me away from his precious computer.
“NO!” He stands in front of the computer. “No one touches her!” The two boys start getting closer to Tim, who looks more panicked by the second. They look as if they are going to attack, and my senses spick. I crouch down into a ball, hiding under the table, covering my ears and watching the chaos unfold.
“All of you stop!” Bruce yells from the other end of the cave. The three boys turned to look at him. “No ones lifting anything!”
“Aww...” Damian muttered, kicking at an imaginary speck on the floor. His shoulders sagged, frustration radiating off him in waves. Meanwhile, Tim let out a deep sigh of relief and visibly relaxed, stepping away from the computer as if it were a sacred artifact he’d just protected from certain doom.
Dick chuckled, running a hand through his hair. He tossed the wooden training stick back to Damian, who caught it without looking, his eyes still fixed on the floor in a sulky glare. I peeked out from under the table, realizing that whatever tension had been brewing had dissolved the moment Bruce intervened. My small laugh bubbled up before I could stop it, and I climbed out, dusting off my knees.
Bruce’s gaze softened when he saw me, and he strode over, crouching down to my level with a patient smile. “You alright, kiddo?” he asked, his voice losing its earlier edge.
I nodded, feeling a little embarrassed for hiding, but Bruce’s calm presence was reassuring. He ruffled my hair gently before standing back up and turning his attention to the boys.
“Listen up,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. “No one’s lifting cars, computers, or any other Batcave equipment today. Understood?”
“Yes, Bruce,” Dick replied, shooting Damian a look that said I told you so. Tim gave a sheepish nod, clearly relieved that the computer was out of danger.
Damian, however, wasn’t quite ready to back down. “But Bruce,” he started, his voice filled with defiance. “He’s strong—stronger than he looks. We should be testing him, not babying him!”
“He’s six, Damian,” Bruce said with a sigh, wiping the sweat from his brow. He knew all too well that Damian had been training since he could walk, but this was different. “Let him build up some strength first, alright? He needs to gain a healthy amount of weight. Right now, he’s practically a twig!” Bruce's voice was firm, but a hint of concern was woven in, his gaze lingering on my skinny arms.
“Fine!” Damian grumbles, kicking his feet again.
“I’ve been trained…” I speak up, and the men's attention falls on me again. I have Peter Parker's training; this body also received some training. The people hoped to turn me into a weapon when testing was complete.
“You have?” Bruce said, almost concerned.
“Yeah…” I answer, looking back and forth between all the faces. No one is saying anything. Why? Is something wrong? Somethings wrong.
The tension broke when Alfred stepped forward, his voice calm and steady. “Master Bruce,” he said with that usual air of calm authority, “you’re needed with the League.”
Bruce’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening for just a fraction of a second before he nodded. “Thank you, Alfred,” he said, his voice neutral, though I could sense an edge of urgency beneath it. He glanced back at me, his eyes softer, almost reassuring. “I’ll be back home in a few hours,” he said. “You’ll be fine here with them.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure who he was trying to convince—me or himself. He gave me one last encouraging smile, then turned on his heel and headed toward the exit, his movements quick and purposeful. Alfred didn’t follow, instead staring us down.
“Master Peter,” Alfred said, his voice as gentle as ever, “I’ve gone shopping and picked up a few things I thought you might like. They’re in your room, waiting for you.” He paused, glancing at the others with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I thought you deserved a proper welcome.”
Damian perked up, clearly intrigued, though he tried to hide it by crossing his arms tighter over his chest. Dick raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips, and Tim shot me an encouraging nod.
“Can I go see?” I asked, the nervous energy in my stomach shifting to something closer to excitement.
“Of course,” Alfred said, his eyes crinkling with warmth. “I believe you’ll find it… suitable.”
Damian rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint flicker of curiosity. “What did you get him, Alfred? More of those boring books you think everyone should read?” he teased.
Alfred’s lips twitched with the barest hint of a smile. “I believe I got him something suitable, Master Damian.”
Dick clapped me on the back with a grin. “Come on, let’s go check it out,” he said. “I want to see what Alfred thinks is ‘suitable’ for you.”
Tim chuckled, and together, we made our way out of the Batcave, the promise of whatever Alfred had waiting for me sparking a warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time.
It was a lot. He had gotten me clothes that wouldn’t hand off my shoulder—more toys than I've ever had. More toys than any kid has probably ever had: stuffed animals, action figures, board games, some pretend flimsy swords, and more. Every time I blinked, I felt like more appeared.
My stuffed rabbit from my bag sits on a pile of books, cleaned, and no longer smells like chemicals and blood. I grab it, looking down at it. The first book in the pile, Peter Rabit.
“How did you…” I start saying, Alfred standing behind me, looking down at my choice in book.
“I know everything, Master Peter.” His tone serious, but he seemed to be genuinely happy. “I’ll bring lunch up if you want to relax and read for the afternoon?”
“Yes, please, Alfred.” I say, sitting down on the bean bag chair by the pile of toys, book and toy in hand.
Peter felt too old to be reading this book. It was made for children, and for Peter Parker, that was many years ago, but it felt comforting to look at the front pages. A promise of something, like a child within him, wanted to play with everything in sight.
I look at the book, open the first page,
Memories… pushing into my brain again…
My skin was on fire, the burned number freshly added to my skin. A tear slowly rolled down his face, looking around for comfort. An older boy, 8, maybe? Walking over to him, kneeling in front of him.
“Hey Little Man…” His right hand grabbed my shoulder and held me in place, the other wiping my tears. My stuffed rabbit sits in my arms, a small gift each kid got when they arrived—something to keep them busy—to make them forget. “I like your rabbit… I got a cat. Do you want to see it?” He holds up the toy, a brown cat, or looks brown.
It could be dirt. “I’m not a huge cat fan. I’m allergic…” He looks down at the cat. “But rabbits are pretty cool. Do you know Peter Rabbit?” I shake my head no. “How about I tell you the story? I’ll see what I can remember. My mom used to read it to me every night before bed!” He grabs my hand, walking over to his bed. We climb in together, and a small group of the other kids huddle around, sitting on the floor or the bunk above. He begins telling the story…
A tear rolls down my face as I look at the first page, ‘Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were— Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fr-tree’.
“Little Man?” I look up, almost expecting to see that boy again. Tears in my eyes well up, and I blink them away. “Hey, it's okay… everything fine” I rush over and hug Dicks legs.