The morning sun was barely breaking through the edges of the curtains when Jorno stirred, his body still unused to the softness of the bed beneath him. He blinked, adjusting to the unfamiliar surroundings of his new room—a stark contrast to the grimy streets he'd called home just days before. The luxury was overwhelming, but his instincts had long taught him not to question a good thing when it came.
Stretching his thin arms and stifling a yawn, Jorno slid out of bed and dressed in his worn, tattered clothes. His coat, once a fine piece of fabric, was now torn and threadbare, a relic of a life he didn't want to remember. As he opened the heavy wooden door to the hallway, he was greeted by the sight of an elderly man waiting patiently, standing with the energy and poise of someone half his age.
"Ah, hello, sir," Jorno greeted, bowing his head slightly in politeness, his voice soft but respectful.
The man smiled, a glimmer of amusement lighting up his face. "Good morning, Master Jorno," Alfred greeted, his tone warm but laced with his trademark dry humor. "I must say, Master Wayne has taken quite the interest in you. In fact…" Alfred leaned in conspiratorially as if sharing a secret. "He's decided to adopt you. Though, ah, don't tell him that. It's supposed to be a bit of a surprise," he added with a playful wink.
Jorno blinked in confusion but nodded. "Understood, sir." The boy's voice was steady, but Alfred noticed something odd—the way the boy held himself, with a strange combination of politeness and detachment, as if he'd been trained to be respectful in situations like this.
Alfred's sharp eyes took in the state of the boy's ragged coat. Politeness from a child in the slums? He thought, his curiosity piqued. There was more to this boy than met the eye.
"Now, before anything else," Alfred continued, "might I ask for your name? I am Alfred Pennyworth, the resident butler at Wayne Manor. It's a pleasure to meet you."
The boy hesitated for a moment, deep in thought as if he had to remember his name. "Jorno, sir," he finally said, giving only his first name.
"Ah, I see. Just Jorno, then?" Alfred noted, his mind already running through possible backstories—orphans like this often had far more history than they let on.
"Very well, Master Jorno," Alfred said kindly, though his heart sank at the idea of the boy losing connection to something as personal as his name. "Now, let's get you cleaned up, shall we? Afterward, you'll meet Master Wayne in the living room."
Later, in Wayne Manor's Living Room
After a warm bath and being dressed in proper, fitting clothes, Jorno found himself standing in front of a large set of double doors that led into the Wayne Manor living room. The grandeur of the space didn't escape him; everything was large, polished, and grand—far too grand for someone like him. The long, polished oak table stretched across the room, and at the far end sat Bruce Wayne, dressed sharply but without extravagance, his eyes unreadable.
Jorno entered the room quietly, bowing slightly once more. "Hello, sir," he said, his voice low.
Bruce glanced up from his seat, studying the boy as Alfred discreetly exited the room toward the kitchen. The hint was clear—this was Bruce's moment to connect with the boy. Bruce, never one for small talk, got straight to the point.
"Did you sleep well?" His tone was calm, even.
"It was great, sir," Jorno responded, using the word 'sir' again, a formality that Bruce noted instantly. The boy's politeness seemed almost rehearsed as if he had been trained to use it out of either respect or fear. Perhaps both.
"Treat this place as your own," Bruce said lightly, his tone firm but welcoming. "You can eat freely. Don't hesitate."
At that moment, Alfred returned, carrying a tray with an unusually cheerful meal—pancakes, topped with fresh fruit and syrup. "Bon appétit, everyone," Alfred said with a smile, enjoying the rare chance to say "everyone" instead of just "Master Wayne."
Bruce ate with his typical refinement, every movement precise. Jorno, however, dug in with unrestrained hunger, shoveling the pancakes into his mouth with abandon. It wasn't hard to guess why—this boy hadn't eaten properly in days, maybe longer.
So, he refuses food when offered directly, but the moment I permit him to eat freely, he does, Bruce observed silently. He's still afraid of us...
Once they finished, Bruce carefully pulled out a book from his side—Aerodynamics: The Science of Air in Motion. It was similar to the book Jorno had been reading the previous day. Jorno's eyes flicked over to it, curiosity piqued as Bruce handed it to him without a word. The boy took it eagerly as if the weight of the knowledge within was something comforting to him.
Back in the Batcave
An hour later, Bruce met Alfred downstairs in the Batcave. The atmosphere was more serious now, with the quiet hum of computers and surveillance monitors around them.
"Watch this," Bruce said, directing Alfred's attention to a monitor. The screen showed footage of a sleeping Jorno in his room. Bruce appeared on the screen, holding a pink rubber ball. He threw it gently toward Jorno. The ball stopped mid-air, inches from the boy's body.
Alfred raised an eyebrow, watching carefully.
"I didn't throw it hard enough to hurt him, but I didn't throw it at him either," Bruce explained. "And yet, it stopped—almost as if grabbed by something."
Alfred remained silent, intrigued but cautious.
Bruce then played another video, this time holding a red rubber ball. The same throw, but this time, the ball bounced harmlessly off the wall and fell to the floor.
Alfred frowned. "The colors?" he asked, sensing where Bruce was going with this.
"Exactly," Bruce said. "The only difference between the two was the color. I put four different colored slippers in his washroom. He chose the red ones. He dislikes pink, but prefers red."
Alfred gave a bemused smile. "So, you're telling me you threw rubber balls at a child?" he said dryly, though he couldn't resist the urge to poke fun at Bruce's methods.
Bruce ignored the comment, his voice growing more analytical. "Look closer at the footage. The pink ball—just for a moment—had humanoid indentation marks. Whatever stopped the ball had fingers. It's a protection system—one he controls, but it's also automated. Invisible, untouchable to normal objects, but able to interact with the physical world."
Alfred's expression grew more serious as the implications settled in.
"Master Bruce," Alfred warned gently, "please don't start thinking of this child as a mere experiment. That would be… wrong."
Bruce glanced back at the screen, his expression unreadable. He didn't reply.
But deep down, Alfred could see it—the subtle shift in Bruce's demeanor.
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[Auther: I love dragging things out until I see it fit to change.]