Date: Monday, May 9th, 2011, 7:00 am
Location: Gotham Academy, Gotham
3rd Person POV
The bright summer sun radiated on Zoe's exposed arms as she walked through the ornate wrought iron gate. Everything about this school screamed "old money and privilege," two things she was not accustomed to. Just last month, she was running from the police in an alleyway in Gotham in her old, worn combat boots, a torn-up army jacket, and some clothes she had stolen from the clothesline. Now, she was dressed like the other students from wealthy and affluent families, wearing pristine, crisp white polo shirts or tailored blouses, navy shorts or skirts, and sensible loafers or sneakers.
The students around her laughed and chatted in small, preppy clusters. Their conversations were meaningless to her. She gripped the straps of her worn backpack tighter, feeling like an alien from a different planet. She looked around, seeing only judgment, curiosity, or outright disinterest. No one knew her story, and she was going to keep it that way. Her goal was to get through classes these next four years and, once she was 18, ditch Luthor.
"This sucks; why couldn't he just send me to a regular school," she muttered as she kicked a stray pebble on the intrinsically detailed red brick pathway that led to the school. Lex has given her a rundown of the school during the drive here as if he were in a business meeting. "The reason why I choose Gotham Academy for you is because it's an elite school. I know you would rather go anywhere else, but it is an excellent school where students who graduate have been proven to have higher SAT scores, as well as more college opportunities. I want you to conduct yourself with your best behavior, as you represent LexCorp and me, but I also want you to learn and have fun. You are here regardless for the next four years; you might as well make the most of it."
From Zoe's perspective, Gotham wasn't just a school but a museum of wealth —a fortress built of stone and snobbery. The main building, all Gothic arches and ivy, looked like something out of a fantasy novel, not a place for actual teenagers. Sunlight, filtered through the leaded-glass windows, cast patterns across polished marble floors. Every hallway seemed to echo with hushed, polite laughter. The air even smelled different – not of stale cigarette smoke and street food that she was used to, but of disinfectant and something subtly floral, probably from the manicured gardens she'd glimpsed outside. The lockers were a dark, gleaming wood, not the scratched, dented metal she imagined most public school lockers to be. It felt like walking into a carefully curated exhibit, and she was the only piece that didn't fit.
After some time, she finally found her locker, although the lock itself, which had been provided to the students, felt foreign to her. After struggling for a few minutes to turn the key given to her by the front desk clerk, she grew exasperated and decided to simply pick the lock open. She took out a bobby pin, and after a few seconds of fiddling with it, she was finally able to get the lock to open up.
"Fucking finally," Zoe muttered. She quickly grabbed the textbooks the school left inside her locker and was about to head promptly to class so she wouldn't be late on her first day. However, when she turned around, a boy was standing right in front of her.
"That was very impressive, new kid! Not a lot of people could do that," said the boy.
Zoe took a good look at him. He looked impossibly put-together, even with his polo shirt perfectly tucked and his shorts impeccably creased. He had dark, unruly hair that seemed to defy gravity, perpetually tousled but somehow stylish. His eyes were an unsettlingly bright, almost electric blue, and he held a disarming smile. His uniform, despite its expensive cut, didn't weigh him down; he wore it with an inherent lightness. Zoey, however, trusted no one, especially not boys, who looked like they stepped out of a magazine and appeared out of nowhere.
"What do you want?" Zoe questioned, making it known that she didn't want to talk.
"First day, right? You've got that new-kid aura. You look… like you'd rather be anywhere else. I get it. This place can be a bit much." He paused. "I'm Dick. Dick Grayson," He said as he stuck his hand out for a handshake with a bright smile.
Zoey eyed him suspiciously, noting the expensive-looking backpack slung casually over one shoulder. He was everything she despised: privileged, effortlessly charming, and probably never had to worry about where his next meal came from.
She didn't shake his hand and instead Just replied, "Zoe," withholding her last name from him.
Dick nodded. "Cool. Well, Zoey, if you need help finding classes or just, you know, finding anything in this labyrinth, I've been here a while. Consider me your unofficial, unsolicited tour guide. I know all the secret shortcuts."
Zoey finally met his gaze. There was no pity there, no judgment. Just a curious, almost open warmth that unnerved her more than outright hostility ever could. It wasn't very clear. "Why?" she asked, her voice clipped, suspicious. "What's in it for you? Nobody does anything for free."
He laughed, a genuine, unforced sound that echoed a little too loudly in the otherwise hushed, respectful atmosphere of the hallway. Several nearby students glanced over, particularly a group of girls clutching textbooks like armor, who immediately stopped their hushed conversation and gazed at Dick with thinly veiled admiration, some giggling softly. Zoey noticed the lingering looks and the way their eyes followed him. He was clearly a popular boy, the kind everyone wanted to be around. So why was he wasting his time on her?
"What's in it for me?" he repeated, seemingly oblivious to the attention. "Well, according to my adoptive father, he told me we actually have a lot in common, so I wanted to meet you in person myself. Plus," he lowered his voice so only she could hear, "I'm just really, really bored. This place can be a little… stuffy, you know? Always good to have a friendly face, even if it's a reluctant one. Besides," he added, a twinkle in his eye, "you're the first person I've seen all morning who doesn't look like they just rolled out of a GQ photoshoot. Your boots are pretty cool, too. Nice studs. Definitely a statement."
Zoey narrowed her eyes. Was he mocking her? However, before she could say anything, the first bell shrilled, a loud, jarring sound that made Zoey jump. Dick straightened up, his easy demeanor unchanged. "That's homeroom. Follow me. Unless you'd rather wander the hallowed halls alone and risk being eaten by the school mascot – it's a surprisingly vicious gargoyle, allegedly."
Zoey hesitated. The idea of getting lost in this labyrinthine building, of drawing more attention to herself by looking utterly bewildered, was far less appealing than enduring the presence of this annoyingly cheerful rich kid. "Fine," she grumbled, pulling her backpack higher on her shoulder and falling into step reluctantly behind him. "But don't expect me to be grateful. Or friendly."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Dick replied, glancing back with a grin that reached his eyes. "Just don't get lost, and try not to punch any teachers. They get surprisingly sensitive about that, especially Mr. Harrison in chemistry. He's got a fragile ego."
The day was a blur of unfamiliar classrooms, disorienting schedules, and a constant feeling of being an outsider. History, English, and math—all of it felt pointless compared to the stresses in her life. Her mind kept drifting to her father, who was imprisoned, and her new life living with Lex and Mercy. Every polite smile from a teacher, every overly eager greeting from a classmate, felt like a fresh insult, another reminder of the chasm between her world and theirs. She sat in the back of every class, observing, analyzing, and waiting for the inevitable moment when she'd have to flee.
She navigated the crowded hallways like a ghost, her senses heightened, constantly aware of everyone around her, a skill honed on the streets. The other students were like a different species. They discussed weekend trips to the Hamptons, their parents' charity galas, and which designer had the best new spring collection. They moved with an ease, a casual confidence that came from never having to look over their shoulder. Their uniforms were always spotless, their hair perfectly coiffed, their laughter light and carefree. Zoey felt the constant, invisible pressure of their judgment—the subtle snickers she sometimes caught, the way conversations would die down when she approached.
When lunchtime finally came around, she sat in a deserted corner of the bustling cafeteria, picking at her food. She ignored the noise around her when she felt a shadow fall over her. She looked up and saw it was Dick Grayson balancing his tray of food with a cheerful lopsided smile.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked as he sat across the table from her, not waiting for an answer.
"If I say no, would you leave?" Zoe asked, annoyed.
"Hmmm...maybe," Dick said as he began to eat his pile-high amount of food on his tray.
Zoe sighed and said, but with resignation in her voice, "Do what you want. It's a free country."
"So, how have you been hanging so far? Anything you're actually looking forward to? Besides the end of the day, I mean. Or escaping, if that's still on the agenda?" His blue eyes twinkled.
Zoey snorted. "Leaving. Leaving this school. Leaving this city. Eventually. And yeah, escaping is always on the agenda. It's usually a good one." She met his gaze directly, challenging him to react.
Dick took a bite of his apple thoughtfully. "Fair enough. That's a valid agenda. But seriously, there are some cool clubs here if you're into that. Like, the parkour club is surprisingly good if you're into that kind of… agile movement. I heard they even teach you how to scale walls that aren't just for, you know, fun.
Zoey almost scoffed. Parkour? She'd been doing practical evasive maneuvers her whole life, scrambling over rooftops and scaling fences to escape trouble, not fancy flips for fun. "I'm not here for clubs," she said, her voice flat, the anger returning, a familiar shield. "I'm here because… I have to be. Because my guardian decided my life needed a 'makeover.' He thinks he can just… buy me a new life."
"Dang sounds rough, a multibillionaire taking you in and providing you with free housing, food, and education. Sounds terrible," he said sarcastically.
Zoe was going to yell back at him on how he doesn't understand anything, but Dick interrupted her and said, "Listen, Zoey. I don't know what you've been through," he continued, his voice softer, more serious, almost confidential, "and you don't have to tell me. Ever. But this place, it's… it can be more than just classes. It can be a place to figure things out. To just be a kid for a bit, even if being a kid feels… complicated. Everyone here has their own personal issues, believe it or not. Even the ones who look like they have it all figured out, the ones with perfect hair and perfect grades. You're not the only one faking it till you make it, you know? Sometimes, the biggest fights aren't with locks or the law. They're with yourself. His blue eyes seemed to hold a flicker of something deeper, something knowing, a glimpse of understanding that transcended his cheerful exterior.
Zoe stared at him, the sarcastic retort dying on her tongue. The noise of the cafeteria faded into a dull roar. His words, about fights with herself, about everyone faking it, echoed in her mind. It was unsettling. No one ever talked to her like that, certainly not some privileged rich kid who claimed to be bored. She wanted to dismiss it, to scoff and walk away, but she found herself still sitting there, picking at a stray crumb on the table. A surprising silence settled between them, not awkward, but almost… companionable. When the bell finally shrieked, jarring her back to reality, Zoe flinched. She looked at Dick, who just offered a small, knowing smile. As she gathered her things, the familiar weight of her stolen life pressed down, but for the first time, a small crack had appeared in her carefully constructed defenses. She just wasn't sure if that was a good thing or the start of a whole new kind of trouble.
Meanwhile, Dick's guardian had been adamant with the young ward about fostering a connection with Zoe. "Dick," Bruce had stated, his voice a low, gravelly rumble in the quiet of the Batcave just a few nights before, "this Zoe Lawton… she's in a difficult situation. Her father is Deadshot, a man we put behind bars before he escaped. Her guardian is now Lex Luthor. A complex dynamic, to say the least."
Dick had merely raised an eyebrow. "So, you want me to be nice to Luthor's new pet project?"
"I want you to be a good human being, Dick," Bruce had replied, his gaze intense. "She's a child. A troubled one, yes, but a child nonetheless. And regardless of our... professional differences with Lex Luthor, a child in need deserves a chance. Furthermore," Bruce had continued, a calculating glint in his eyes, "you and Zoey, despite your vastly different upbringings, may find you have more in common than you realize. Both of you, in your own ways, have experienced significant loss and a disruption of your normal lives due to circumstances beyond your control. You both understand what it feels like to be thrust into a new reality. You both carry burdens, perhaps even secrets, that most of your peers here couldn't possibly comprehend. I believe it would be beneficial for both of you to get along. For her, to have a peer who isn't judging her. For you, to perhaps gain a new perspective, and to remember that there are other kids out there navigating complex worlds, just like you." He'd even subtly suggested that a good relationship between Dick and Zoey could indirectly influence Lex's approach to the girl, possibly softening his own hardened stance on human connection.
This conversation lingered in Dick's mind, adding a layer to his natural inclination to lend a hand. He genuinely felt bad for Zoey, saw the anger and hurt masked by her defiance. He wasn't just being nice; he was following an instinct and a subtle directive from Bruce.
A faint, unfamiliar sense of… something other than just dread. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be as bad as she thought. And maybe, just maybe, she'd have to start watching Dick Grayson even more closely than she watched Lex Luthor, not just for signs of manipulation but for the baffling possibility of genuine friendship.