Author's Note: Cricket is a character that has appeared in precisely one panel of one issue of the Red Robin comic series prior to the New 52 reboot taking place. I wanted to flesh him out a bit more and explore his possible motivations and abilities. Billed as one of the world's deadliest killers, but only seen once beating both Tim and Cassandra Cain simultaneously in Hong Kong, it seems incredulous to me that no-one has done anything like this before.

So, told from Bruce's POV in this opening chapter, the Batman sets out to foil the assassination of a foreign politician by Cricket whilst also attempting to gain a deeper knowledge of the assassin's psychology.

This will run for at least four chapters and, depending on reaction to this story arc, I may do more stories featuring Cricket in some supporting role or other.

Please read and review.

Enjoy.

Cricket

Bruce

There is an assassin in Gotham this evening. A leading foreign dignitary from Hong Kong, Karen Wu, is transiting through the city on route to high-profile political meetings in New York. She has been met with death threats from radicals and disgruntled people over her policies. Most of the threats are not to be taken seriously. However, someone has hired the services of one of the world's leading assassins to eliminate her from play, likely a political rival with considerable finances. She is not ignorant of her status as a target and has hired additional security to protect her passage to New York. If Red Robin's intelligence is to be believed however, such measures will not be enough to save her. She will not die in my city though, not tonight.

I only pray I am enough.

I arrive at her hotel in time to discover a hallway full of barely alive bodyguards, most of them covered in their own blood. The assassin is already here. I hear noise and track it to her hotel suite, presenting myself just before the assailant can deal a killing blow to their target. My sudden appearance startles them long enough for Miss Wu to escape their immediate vicinity and lock herself in the en-suite bathroom. The assassin is exactly as Tim described, but I am still bemused by their appearance and general demeanour.

I am presented with what appears to be a ten-year-old boy dressed in an outfit that simultaneously evokes both Victorian high society and dressage. Knee-high black boots are combined with pin-striped trousers, a matching waistcoat and what appears to be an immaculate white dress shirt. His skin is pale, his hair is silver and his eyes are concealed by welder's goggles. He sports dove-grey riding gloves on his hands and tops off this bizarre costume with an Edwardian tailcoat and what could possibly be a school-tie. It is as immaculately knotted as his shirt is pressed.

This is him, the boy known only as Cricket.

I thought perhaps Tim was exaggerating when he said both he and Cassandra were soundly beaten by a child even more violent and cruel than Damian at his worse. However, judging by what I saw outside, and the volume of blood spattering this boy's boots and gloves currently, he was likely correct. We regard one another in silence for a few moments before I break it.

"Do you know who I am?" I ask. The boy smirks, displaying pristine and perfectly aligned white teeth.

"Oh, I know. You're the Bat." He replies with the clipped and polished tone that reveals his origins as not being that far from Alfred's birthplace of Kensington. "Everyone else was too scared to come to this picnic – because 'the Bat' might get them." He laughs derisively, but genuinely amused the notion that I am a deterrent to crime.

"I take it you consider yourself..." I do not get time to finish my sentence. In the blink of an eye, the boy has closed a ten-foot gap and aimed a kick at my head. I cannot dodge the blow completely, there is insufficient time, but I do mitigate it enough so that the outer edge of his foot can only skim my cheek. His speed is even more remarkable than was indicated. He lands behind me and pivots on the balls of his feet with the fluidic grace of a seasoned ballet dancer.

"My, my! Faster than you look, that's for certain." The assassin laughs before launching into another frontal assault, this time done at a much faster speed. He is now throwing two strikes before I can even block once. The disorientation caused by his blurring movements is also not helping my situation. I am hit multiple times and from multiple vectors. Fortunately, he is still only a child and his blows do not possess the weight required to injure me. However, if he can maintain his current workload, the cumulation effect means I will succumb in a matter of minutes...if I wished to fight him hand-to-hand.

I don't.

If Cassandra Cain was outmatched in unarmed combat with this boy, I have no chance. I am also mindful that Tim, even with his vast fighting experience, suffered broken bones and dislocations without stretching Cricket's talents to breaking point. But I was prepared to be overwhelmed by melee attacks. That is why I specifically wore this variant of my suit. Every time he strikes my body, my gauntlets are charged with electrical current. When I judge them to possess the equivalent voltage of a police taser, I will hit him directly in the chest. The amount of current should be enough to render him unconscious without stopping his heart. In theory at least.

When he hits me with a stiff kick in the mid-section, I deem them ready for field testing. I have memorised his fight pattern and what I can manage of his timing. He always follows two left straights with a right cross. That is when I must make my move. As soon as he throws one left, I know another is already on its way. When the second one lands, striking my solar-plexus, I adjust my feet slightly. The right comes in faster than one-tenth of a second. I shift a fraction of an inch to put him off line. I swing a counterpunch directly at his sternum, where the current will have the greatest effect...

Only to find air. He is fast enough to change direction when already committed to a strike. Amazing; it is almost super-speed. I think I hear him chirp in surprise. When I pull my arm back to my side, Cricket is already back in his original position ten feet from me. He is laughing giddily.

"This is super fun!" He crows in what I can only interpret as delight. "Aren't you smart? They said you were smart."

"You need to leave. Now." I growl. I know it is not an effective measure, but I can use his response to grade his psychopathy. The boy regards his hands briefly.

"So funny when people get covered with other people's blood, don't you think?" Cricket says gesturing to my suit. I do not need to glance down to know his fists and feet have transferred copious amounts of blood from his clothing to mine. He grins impishly. "Now we look like accomplices. Isn't it grand? We could share the money if you like. You'd make a good murderer."

"I don't kill."

He scoffs. "I don't see why not. It's very easy. Shall I show you?"

He is at the bathroom door in the time it takes me to hitch my breath. He kicks it down before I can point my feet towards him. Frightening talent. I am undeterred though. There is a weakness. I throw multiple batarangs in his direction, expecting him to evade all of them with his movement. He does, but they land where I need them to. Before he can move beyond the doorframe, the projectiles emit an ultrasonic wail. Normally beyond human hearing, I believe his insect moniker may not be entirely based on his chirping and speed alone. He seems to lose his equilibrium, confirming my suspicions that his hearing is incredibly sensitive. It was a calculated risk, but I think it has been justified. Hopefully he is in too much pain to notice my presence behind him...

I almost deliver the blow intended for his chest to his back before realising I could paralyse him if I strike his spinal cord. I hesitate for only a moment, but it is enough for the boy to jump away. His feet scrape the ceiling in carrying him over my head. He lands on his feet but sinks to one knee, clutching his ears with both hands. I see his blood trickle down the sides of his face. His smile is gone.

"That's a rotten trick." He announces through gritted teeth.

"Perhaps your mother can kiss them better for you." I reply dryly. Another calculated risk. How angry can I make him, and what effect does this have on his combat abilities? He wrinkles his nose in distaste and I believe I have hit a nerve.

Then he laughs.

"You really think she's still alive?" He asks rising to his feet.

I do not need to assess his psychology further. He is a classic psychopath, in the mould of practically all others like him, including the Joker and Floyd Lawton. The only difference is his age. It must have manifested very early in life, possibly related to his upbringing or natural abilities. It is terrifying to imagine this is what Damian could have been if not for siding with me. I watch as Cricket scrutinises his own blood on his fingers.

"It's been a while. I think we've played enough now, don't you? It's time to fight for real instead of just pretend." The boy says looking at me sideways on. He is still smiling.

Normally such talk is only a bluff from my opponents, one last desperate act of defiance before defeat. I know he echoed similar words to Cassandra when she and Tim fought him in Hong Kong. My gauntlets will prove effective, but I have to hit him, a feat I do not believe is possible. I have one other method to subdue him, but it will require absorbing even more punishment than before to achieve.

Before I can argue as to which method will yield the most success, Cricket besieges my defences again, this time operating with speed I cannot even see. He hits me a dozen times before I can offer a half-hearted counter-swing in reply. These blows hurt far more. If my body were less conditioned, my ribs would already be broken by the time he launches another attack sequence. This one contains as many as twenty strikes, if not more, all of them aimed at my face and mid-section. I lunge for him in vain as he flips over my head and begins to unleash kick after kick to my back. The number of hits must exceed thirty when I collapse to one knee. He is only softening me. I am bruised, but not broken. Not yet. He wants to enjoy this triumph.

"I knew you couldn't fight me at full-strength." Cricket sings in my ear. He is close enough to my head that I can smell his breath. Is that really chocolate? I lift my head to witness him theatrically cock his left fist and aim it at my head. "Do you have any last words?"

I look him in the eye and smile. "Do you?" I ask before an arming beep, the sort heard just before an explosive charge detonates, reverberates around the room. The boy is fast enough to slip out of his tailcoat before the charge I planted on his back explodes. But I anticipated that. So, I press the detonator again. A second beep is heard, but this time he cannot find the source. The charge nestled behind his necktie functions, sending him three feet back across the room. I deliberately lowered the yield on my charges so that the worst injuries sustainable are flash burns and a temporary concussive effect. It was prudent on my part. His body would not have handled anything of greater strength, not on his sternum anyway.

"Will, will there be more?" A terrified Miss Wu asks, tentatively emerging from the bathroom as I approach my fallen foe. I shake my head.

"No. He was more than enough. There will be no others."

I instruct Miss Wu to go downstairs and alert the lobby staff. She scampers past both myself and Cricket's prone form without incident. I carefully examine the boy but determine that he is indeed out for the foreseeable future. Remarkable. For all his speed and skill, sleight of hand and his own overconfidence were the only tools needed to defeat him. It is an oddly hollow feeling to have beaten someone without connecting successfully on one single strike. Granted, I only threw four punches and the last two were distractions rather than legitimate attempts, but it is still poor.

I crouch down beside him as he lies eagle-spread on his back with a neat circular hole in the fabric of his dress shirt. Beneath the hole is what appears to be superficial burns and nothing more. Excellent. I produce magnetic restraints from my belt, place both his hands on his chest and then snap the restraints around his wrists. I perform the same procedure with his ankles before finally snapping a magnetic collar around his neck. If required, one press on a hand remote will force all the restraints together, effectively locking his body into a foetal position that even Killer Croc could not muscle his way out of. It should be enough to transport him back to the cave. I definitely want further analysis conducted on him.

Before returning home, I ensure ambulances and paramedics have been called for Miss Wu's injured security detail. I also take the opportunity to examine their injuries to determine if Cricket has a distinctive modus operandi when dispatching his adversaries. Perhaps then I can ascertain which recent assassination victims around the world belong to him and build a more substantial profile. There does not seem to be any notable hallmark or calling card to his work though, save for the fact all of it is violent. Jim will want me to bring Cricket in to face judgement for this attempted murder but I doubt there is a facility in the world that can safely house him. Except mine.

Alfred objects strongly to keeping the boy in captivity just for the purposes of scientific study. He is welcome to his ethical and moral objections. When I reveal Cricket's possible body count is one-hundred-and-eight in only a two-year period of activity, the old man is less critical of my actions. He is even more receptive to the idea when I add what injuries he inflicted on Tim and Cassandra in Hong Kong. However, he now has a new concern with Cricket's prolonged incarceration here: Damian.

I want to broach the subject with him but have other concerns when the assassin stirs back to consciousness, despite the trauma only occurring fifty minutes ago. Cricket is disorientated momentarily, but soon realises his predicament. For safety reasons, I have removed his boots and any long piece of clothing such as his necktie and belt. He is currently housed in the Perspex cube known colloquially as the 'Fish Tank', which is situated just east of the practice area. He immediately tests the strength of his prison with a series of rapid-fire kicks. The walls hold firm. He nods his head in understanding.

"You really are smart, Mr Wayne. Very smart." He calls through the glass. Somehow, I am not surprised he knows my true identity. It only helps to narrow down his parent organisation or school of instruction. I can discount dozens immediately now he has divulged that fact to me willingly. "A second charge. I should have known you weren't silly enough to fight me hand-to-hand. Too smart for a game of fisticuffs, aren't you?" The boy adds with a sneer as he begins to pace the length of the cage. I say nothing but do approach the glass until I am practically pressed against it.

Cricket stops pacing and looks at me with vague interest. Perhaps he wonders if he has hit a sore spot with me. Despite his situation, one thing this child does not look is afraid. He manoeuvres in front of me and cranes his neck up. "They said you collect things, Mr Wayne, to remind you of your victories. Is that what I am, a trophy for your collection?" He asks before giggling and completing a brief twirl. "Am I a pretty enough trophy for you?" Is this still a game to him? I say nothing and turn away from him, intending to go talk with Damian about our new 'houseguest' in private.

"Tell your butler I like my Beef Wellington rare, Mr Wayne! And lots of trifle for pudding!" Cricket calls after me, clearly expecting to be well-treated in captivity. He is not misguided in this respect. Even though he is one of the deadliest and most prolific killers in the world, he is still just a child. I will not deny him basic necessities in pursuit of my goals. I stop in place and consider.

"Do you like strawberry or raspberry trifle?" I inquire. There is a short silence.

"Raspberry, please." Cricket responds with obvious confusion at my question, if his sudden manners are any indicator. I incline my head without looking at him.

"I will make sure the message is passed on."

Damian regards me as if I am delusional when I inform him of Cricket's detainment. The boy is aware of the assassin's credentials and reputation. That is why he deems capturing him is impossible, until a live security feed proves otherwise. His delusion gives way to awe, before reverting to contempt when he realises I could not subdue Cricket without gadget trickery. Despite his sourness at what he thinks is cheating on my part, he continues to talk. He is adamant the child has not been trained by the League of Assassins or the Court of Owls. When pressed as to why, my son stares at me in incredulity to grant me the complete range of his emotional arc in less than ten minutes.

"Because he's too good, Father. Whoever trained him is far beyond my grandfather's level and those stupid Talon soldiers. I have seen security footage of his assassination in Laos from last spring. He moves like nothing I've ever seen. He must have some sort of meta abilities to be so...beautiful in combat." His reaction is what I was afraid of. The boy is an admirer of Cricket as a fighter. That I can understand, given Damian's love for combat. What I cannot understand is his choice of words. My son finds beauty in nothing. Things are either 'admirable' or 'poor' in his eyes, but they are never beautiful. Apparently, in Damian's eyes at least, the sight of a ten-year-old boy massacring a room of soldiers and their general is of greater merit than any of human civilisation's most coveted treasures. I clap a hand on his shoulder.

"He knows who I am, Son. The likelihood is he knows who you are too. That already makes him dangerous without your added infatuation to his lethal nature. I do not want to keep you from assisting me in the cave with my analysis of him, but I need to know you will not be seduced by his reputation. He strikes me as someone willing to go to any levels to escape captivity." I say honestly. The boy's eyes first look insulted but soften shortly after. He appreciates my concern, given he used to kill people whenever it suited him. I do not need or want a relapse.

"I understand, Father. I promise I will not prove to be a liability." He tells me with all the conviction I need to assuage further doubt. I will watch their interactions closely, but only as a precaution, not a control measure. I incline my head in appreciation.

"Good boy."

An hour later finds us both outside the Fish Tank watching our detainee eat his Beef Wellington at the single fixed table and chair in the cell. Cricket holds his plastic cutlery properly and employs well-drilled dining etiquette; he is always mindful his elbows are off the table and that his posture is never slumped. I find myself learning something new every moment about him. He is still sporting his welder's goggles because I could not remove them from his head. Either they are fixed in place or fused there. I feel it is crucial to understand which.

"Is the meal to your liking?" I ask whilst keeping a respectful distance between us.

The silver-haired boy nods. "Your butler knows how to make a great Beef Wellington, Mr Wayne. Most chefs I ask for it cooked rare give me medium-rare instead. It all gets very upsetting sometimes. Am I still having trifle for pudding?"

"If you cooperate, you may help yourself to seconds on all the courses."

"What if I don't want seconds?"

"Then you will have no dessert to begin with."

"That seems inhumane."

"Does it? Withholding dessert is inhumane, but murdering politicians for money isn't?"

"Withholding pudding is always inhumane, Mr Wayne. Oh, do you have Eton Mess? I adore Eton Mess! It's so chewy."

"Well, he seems to have his priorities in order, Father." Damian quips sarcastically in a way that echoes my own sense of humour. His remark perks Cricket's interest and his attention actually wavers from his plate to the boy's direction.

"You. I've heard of you. Your grandad's a loser." The assassin says, clearly trying to push buttons that have no effect. Damian's face remains blank.

"And who do you believe my grandfather to be?" He asks our guest with only the faintest hint of curiosity.

"Ras Al Ghul. He calls himself the Demon's Head, but he's really just a weak, old man half-a-dozen centuries past his prime." Cricket answers to display that, even if he isn't part of the League, he knows of them.

"Has someone told you that?" Damian inquires.

The silver-haired boy scoffs almost exactly as Damian is prone to do. "No. I've played with the League before. I belted his arse two years ago."

Damian scoffs back with the same derision. "When you were eight?"

"Nearly nine, actually."

"How many assassins did you dispatch?" My son asks. Cricket sets down his cutlery, stands up and then wanders until he is stood directly in front of Damian, revealing they are the same height and build. Perhaps they are the same age too? The assassin leans his forearms against the glass and rests his chin atop of them before replying.

"Twenty-one. I left him alive though. Because that hurts him most, not being good enough to kill."

"He values honour."

"Well, he shouldn't. Honour makes you weak."

"My father's honour is the only reason you are still breathing. Anyone else in his position would have killed you."

"Nobody else has ever been good enough. Your dad is the smartest man I've come across, but he's not much of a fighter. I bet he can still beat you in combat though. You must be as weak as a kitten."

"You are clearly new to the rules of capture. Your aim should be to establish a rapport with your jailers, get them to see you as a human being instead of a prisoner. Thus far, you just come across as a shallow bastard that no-one could possibly like." Damian retorts. I am impressed with his composure, given how much his fighting prowess means to him. Cricket smiles.

"Funny. That's exactly how they described you."

This touches a visible nerve with Damian. The boy's unreadable expression breaks just enough for our captive to identify a weakness he can exploit. Cricket is what my son used to be, not what he is now. Damian has worked hard to change himself into a better person, but moments like this make him question his progress and whether it is enough. I want to reassure him, but know I cannot, not in front of this cold and manipulative individual.

"Are you done with your Wellington?" I ask to shift his attentions to me.

"Can you put it in the fridge? I think I might like it for dinner tomorrow."

"Perhaps. It depends on whether you will answer one question for me: your goggles, are they fixed or fused to your skin?"

Cricket laughs and claps his hands together. "That's all? You are silly, Mr Wayne. If I tell you, can I have trifle?"

"I will consider it."

The assassin reaches behind his head before effortlessly slipping the goggles off and presenting us with his eyes. It becomes immediately clear that his need for the goggles is not to conceal his identity. He has the tell-tale eye-shine of those who have a tapetum lucidum, otherwise known as natural night-vision. Judging from how sensitive he seems to the cave's lighting system his goggles are a necessity for daily life. Why he wears them at night is another matter. At least I can now confirm his ethnicity is not Chinese as Tim speculated. He is European, if his eye shape and bone structure are reliable indicators. The reflective nature of his eyes makes identifying colour difficult, but I believe they are green.

"They just naturally stick to my skin." He says, blinking myopically before putting them back on. "Trifle now?"

"That was the arrangement. Damian?" We retreat out of earshot. "What do you think?"

"You mean aside from the fact that acquiescing to his every demand is a poor way of building his trust?" The boy says scathingly.

"He has an idea of torture in his mind. By distorting that vision, we are better placed to exploit him for intelligence. We have already learned more about him than Tim or Cassandra, or any global intelligence agency, ever has before." I counter only for him to scoff.

"What have we learned, Father? That he can use a knife and fork? That he likes Eton Mess? That he bested the League in combat? Who hasn't done that in our family?"

"We have learned he is educated, of European ancestry, and likely either has a natural mutation in his genome or has been artificially altered in some way. We know he is left-footed, but right-handed and that his hair colour is naturally silver, not dyed."

"What possible significance is this cretin's hair colour?"

"Silver hair is a by-product of having too little melanin in the bloodstream."

"He's not an albino, Father."

"I never said he was. I was simply stating that the fact he is so pale and his hair lacking any real pigment points to a melanin deficiency in his cells. It may be a heredity condition in his family lineage, one we can trace." I suggest only to be met with an eye roll.

"To what end, Father? What is the purpose of any of this? I appreciate as a scientist, you wish to understand his biological make-up and how his abilities can be countered, but why treat him as anything else but a laboratory specimen? Why let him be conscious at all? It would be far better to keep him fully sedated until your analysis is complete. Call it the ultimate safety measure. Not only can you perform all manner of scans, take tissue and hair samples and examine his eyes in finite detail, you can also prepare him for transfer to a secure holding facility in the future..." Damian trails off. I see the realisation in his eyes at the exact moment he sees the compassion in mine. He immediately shakes his head in disagreement. "No, Father. This one cannot be housebroken. You cannot turn Cricket."

"Can I at least attempt it first, Son? He is the same age as you and has clearly endured a similar upbringing. You have come around to my method of working. If we can understand this boy, perhaps we can make him an asset instead of an adversary." I say with what I imagine to be a plausible argument for his rehabilitation. My son is wholly unconvinced.

"Father, I abstain from killing because I love you. You are my centre and the reason I have the motivation and reason to adapt my methodology. Cricket clearly has no centre. He probably never did. You cannot become his centre." Damian says stiffly. I fold my arms.

"Why?"

"Because he only respects himself. Regardless of my opinion on others, I have always respected you, because you are my father. I owe my superior genes and intelligence to you. Cricket owes you nothing but a thrashing for locking him in a cage against his will." The boy is adamant in his outlook on our guest. I can see that well enough. But he is always stubborn. Although his argument is also predicated on logic and plausibility, I feel there is still room to work. I glance back over to Cricket who is now receiving his raspberry trifle through the delivery slot by Alfred's steady hands.

"Shall we make a deal? If I make no real progress with him in a week, then I will act as you suggest and deliver him to the relevant agencies for safekeeping. Does that strike you as fair?" I say without taking my eyes off the Fish Tank as the exchange of Wellington for trifle is made seamlessly. I hear the boy gift me a deflated sigh.

"I doubt it will take you seven days to find him unsuitable for reconditioning, Father, but try if you must."

"Excellent."