Son of Deathstroke

Brainstorms

Renegade suddenly remembered why he hated comfortable beds.

With lumpy beds, there isn't much you want to stay in. With the floor, you just have to stand up. And those scary ancient mattresses with the springs that feel like they could come out and impale you at any given moment? You can't WAIT to get off of those things. But with comfortable beds, you could just stay there in heavenly, cozy comfort until kingdom come.

And worst of all?

He could smell bacon frying.

"Being spoiled sucks," he muttered to no one in particular as he reluctantly swung his legs over the side of the bed-- by far the worst torment of recent events-- and got up.

He didn't bother to get into the clothes Bruce had given him the previous night before he went downstairs to the kitchen, following the beautiful smells wafting around the house.

"Good morning, young sir. Will you be wanting some breakfast?" Alfred lifted a slice of bacon out of the pan he was using and placed in on a plate piled with the stuff. On the counter next to it was a plate piled high with pancakes, and next to that was a platter with eggs and toast. "I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I took the liberty of making all that you young people seem to be enjoying these days."

Renegade grinned. "Wow. All this for me? I would've been happy with a couple Pop-Tarts." He took the plate with the eggs and placed a stack of pancakes and several slices of bacon on it.

Alfred placed another slice of bacon on his plate reprimandingly. "Which is exactly the kind of food I discourage, especially for breakfast. You require sustenance for the kind of lifestyle you lead."

Renegade plopped down at the counter indifferently and dumped a ridiculous amount of syrup on the pancakes. Seeing them sufficiently saturated in the sticky stuff, he took an enormous bite. His eyes grew wide, then closed in pleasure, as he chewed slowly and swallowed. "You make awesome pancakes. Wintergr-- I mean, this guy I knew made them just like this." He promptly stuffed in another mouthful of breakfast food and didn't speak until Bruce came in, dressed in what was probably casual attire for a billionaire but wasn't for just about anyone else.

"Good morning, Renegade."

"Mmm-nng," he mumbled back.

Bruce grabbed a slice of toast and sat down next to him, watching him eat. "It's not going anywhere, you know," he joked.

"Mm-hm. Pah deh ornduce."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "What was that?"

Renegade swallowed and pointed at the pitcher on far the end of the counter. "Pass the orange juice." He took a bite of egg and toast.

Bruce didn't move except to tilt his head. "Is there something else you need to say?" he asked hintingly.

Renegade stopped mid-chew. He thought for a moment, then said without swallowing, "You mean the 'magic word', don't you?" He took in the pointed look and pouted. When the billionaire made no move to pass the juice, he let out an aggravated sigh. "Fine." He hopped off the stool and stomped around the counter to grab it himself. He poured himself a glass and chugged half of it before continuing to eat.

Bruce looked disbelievingly and amusedly to Alfred, who just shook his head in amazement that someone would go so far out of their way to avoid saying please.

When Renegade seemed to be slowing down in his feasting, Bruce prompted, "You said you wanted help with a name?"

The teen swallowed hard. I did? Of course I did. I couldn't keep my stupid mouth shut. Well, no going back now. "Oh, yeah. I guess I did. Well, I mean, Renegade is pretty well-known in the criminal world. I need a new name, a new look, to go with the hero gig."