Ted Kord had survived a lot—alien invasions, killer robots, Booster’s attempts at cooking—but nothing quite prepared him for this.

Meeting the Bat. Or, more importantly, meeting your adoptive father.

Bruce Wayne didn’t need to yell or threaten to be terrifying. He didn’t even need to glare. He just looked at Ted, and it was like being dissected under a microscope wielded by someone who already knew exactly where to cut. Every misstep, every nervous joke, every moment of overexplaining? Filed away for later use.

He was sure there was already a contingency plan with his name on it. Bat Anti-Beetle Spray. A countermeasure for every one of his gadgets. Maybe even a private note in the Batcomputer labeled Talks Too Much—Potential Liability.

Ted had tried—really tried—to make a good impression. Keep things professional, impress Bruce with his intellect, maybe even find common ground. Instead, his mouth ran on autopilot, and somehow, he ended up suggesting minor upgrades to the Batmobile’s suspension system. To The Bat.

At least Bruce hadn’t outright dismissed him. No death threats. No ominous "stay away from my child" speech. Just that piercing, unreadable stare that made Ted question every life decision he’d ever made.

Now, back at your shared home, slouched on the couch, he was reliving every second of the encounter like a post-mortem of his own social demise.

He groaned, rubbing his face. “He judged me.”