I'm not an idiot. I knew that directly approaching Batman was professional suicide. He receives thousands of messages a day—from lunatics, journalists, opportunists, even villains disguised as allies. A message from me, coming from a teenager he barely knows, would be buried in seconds. So I did the obvious: I went after those I already had real access to.
Thanks to Wally.
During our first official mission in Santa Prisca, when we were all exhausted in the hangar, Wally blurted out without thinking: "Dick, do you think Batman will approve of this?" The name slipped out like a shot in the dark. Robin froze for a split second. I pretended not to notice, but I treasured it. After the mission, when we were alone in the Bio-ship heading home, I pulled Wally aside and thanked him quietly.
"Thank you, man. Seriously."
He blinked, confused. "Why?"
"By the name. Now I know how to find Robin out of his uniform."
Wally's face turned red to the roots of his hair. "Shit. Don't tell anyone, okay? Batman will kill me."
"Relax. It just makes my life easier."
And it really did make things easier.
Two days after the mission, I found Robin alone on the roof of an abandoned building in Gotham—one of the lookout points he used when he was "off duty." I had already tracked his pattern: he liked to be alone after big missions, processing everything. I approached from above, silently, and stopped three meters from him.
"Robin."
He turned quickly, hand on his belt, but relaxed when he recognized me. "Forge. What do you want?"
"I want to speak to Bruce Wayne. The man behind the cowl. Not Batman. This is business."
He tilted his head, his mask narrowing his eyes. "How do you know who he is?"
"Wally let his name slip on the Bio-ship. After that, it was just a matter of connecting the dots. You and he are too similar in movement, voice, posture. It wasn't difficult."
Dick was quiet for a second. Then he let out a short sigh, almost laughing. "Damn Wally."
"Don't blame him. He was helpful. I need to talk to Bruce about technology. Things that are going to be worth a lot of money. And I know that Wayne Enterprises is racing against Apple and LexCorp in that sector. I want to propose a partnership."
He looked me up and down—analyzing my confidence, body language, whether I was armed (I was, but the cloak concealed it well). Finally, he nodded.
"Okay. I'll talk to him. If he agrees, you'll receive a message with the date and time. Just one chance, Forge. Don't mess it up."
"I am not going."
Two days later, I received the encrypted message: "Tomorrow, 2 p.m. Wayne Tower, main entrance. Bruce Wayne will be there to greet you. Come alone. – R."
I arrived on time. I wasn't wearing the full cloak—just the collar with the helmet retracted and the tactical jacket under a regular coat. Simple clothes, dark jeans, clean boots, nothing flashy. I wanted him to see the boy, not the security guard.
The receptionist led me to the private elevator. We went up in silence. When the doors opened on the top floor, Bruce Wayne was there, standing behind a huge mahogany desk with a panoramic view of Gotham.
He smiled — the perfect smile of a billionaire playboy — and extended his hand.
"Erick Smith. Or should I say Forge? Come in. Take a seat."
I shook his hand. Firmly, but not overwhelmingly. He was already sizing me up.
I sat in the leather chair across the table. Bruce remained standing for a moment, then sat down as well, leaning back slightly. Outwardly: the charming businessman, impeccable suit, combed hair, relaxed expression. Inwardly—I knew—he was Batman: eyes scanning every detail.
He analyzed me in seconds.
Clothing: inexpensive but clean jeans; a subtle tactical jacket (he noticed the reinforced cut at the shoulders, the fabric that didn't wrinkle easily). Shoes: practical, not designer. Posture: upright, shoulders relaxed, but forearm muscles tense—a sign of someone who trains hard. Eyes: direct, unflinching. High confidence—almost arrogant, but controlled. Breathing: steady, low heart rate. He wasn't nervous. He was ready to negotiate.
Bruce tilted his head slightly.
"So... you wanted to talk to me about business. Not Batman. What exactly do you have in mind, Erick?"
I didn't waste time beating around the bush.
"I have two functional prototypes and provisional patents filed. Disruptive technology that will change the mobile device market in the next two years. I want to sell exclusivity to Wayne Enterprises."
Bruce raised an eyebrow, but genuine interest appeared in his eyes for a moment.
"Continue."
I placed two flash drives on the table — one for each project.
"First: a multi-touch capacitive screen with support for multiple simultaneous gestures. Pinch-to-zoom, two-finger rotation, fluid swipe, palm recognition. It works on a 7-inch screen with latency below 15ms. The material is a layer of ITO + transmuted graphene that I developed myself. Nobody has this yet. Apple is working on something similar, but my prototype is ready and tested."
Bruce picked up the flash drive and inserted it into the laptop beside him. The demonstration video played: me rotating photos, zooming in on maps, using three fingers to rotate 3D objects. He watched in silence, but I saw the slight narrowing of his eyes—Batman calculating the impact.
"Second: high-density lithium-polymer battery. 2.5 times more capacity than the best on the current market. Charges from 0 to 80% in 18 minutes with a standard charger. I tested it on three different devices — it lasted three days of heavy use. Solid electrolyte synthesized by me. Provisional patent already filed."
Bruce plugged in the second flash drive. Technical data, discharge graphs, photos from the tests. He read it quickly—very quickly. Batman was absorbing it all.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced.
"Impressive. For a 15-year-old boy who spends his nights fighting crime, you have time for all this."
I smiled slightly.
"I don't sleep much."
Bruce didn't smile back. He was in negotiation mode now.
"Let's talk numbers. What's your starting bid?"
"For the multi-touch screen: $180 million upfront + 4% lifetime royalties on every unit sold that uses the technology. For the battery: $220 million upfront + 6% royalties. Total: $400 million + royalties."
Bruce didn't blink. Batman, inside, was calculating:
The kid arrives with excessive confidence. Modest clothes, but a tactical jacket—reinforced, probably lightweight Kevlar. He knows I know who he is. He didn't mention identities, which is smart. He offers total exclusivity. 400 million is a high number, but achievable. The cell phone market is going to explode in the next few years—Apple, Samsung, LexCorp. If I don't buy, Lex
Luthor might. Or worse, the technology leaks to the black market. Royalties of 4–6% seem reasonable, but he's testing the limit. He wants as much as possible without offending me. Clever. Arrogant, but clever.
Bruce tilted his head.
"400 million is a large number for a teenager. Why not 300? Or 250?"
I did not back down.
"Because these projects are worth billions in the medium term. The screen alone will define the standard for interaction on mobile devices. The battery solves the biggest current bottleneck. You're competing with Apple and LexCorp. If I take it to another company, you lose the lead. 400 million is fair for the risk I took developing it alone, with limited resources."
Bruce drummed his fingers on the table once—a classic sign of him thinking.
"320 million total + 3% royalties on screen and 4% on battery."
I shook my head.
"380 million + 3.5% on the screen and 5% on the battery. And I'll provide the complete source code, physical samples, and six months of technical support."
Bruce remained silent for a full ten seconds. The Batman inside:
He doesn't give in easily. He adjusted it downwards, but kept royalties high. He knows the real value. 380 million is acceptable—I can cover it with Wayne Tech's research budget without problems. The royalties will generate much more in the long run. He wants clean money, fast, probably to protect his family. The cheap clothes, the controlled trust… he's desperate to change his life, but he doesn't show it. Smart. I respect that.
Bruce extended his hand.
"380 million upfront. 3.5% royalties on the screen. 5% on the battery. Global exclusivity for ten years. Full source code, samples, six months of support. Deal?"
I shook his hand.
"Closed."
Bruce smiled — the smile of a charming billionaire.
"My lawyers will prepare the contract. You will receive the money within 72 hours of signing.
Welcome to Wayne Enterprises, Erick."
I got up. He walked me to the door.
When I stepped out of the elevator, I felt the weight lift from my shoulders. 380 million. More royalties. Enough to buy a safe house, hire 24-hour security, move my family to a better place within Gotham—or outside, if they wanted. Enough to protect those I love.
But most importantly: enough to continue forging my own power.
Because money is a tool. Power is the ultimate goal.
And I was just getting started.
Read the chapters in advance: patreon.com/cw/pararaio