Okay.
So.
I'm four now.
Which basically means I know everything.
Except taxes.
And… why Mom keeps a silenced pistol inside the rice container.
But I'm working on it.
---
Today started like normal.
I wore my favorite hoodie (black, like Dad's), drew a dragon eating a helicopter (Mom said it was "disturbingly accurate"), and made Marc cry by asking why his girlfriend keeps leaving him on read.
(I was just being helpful.)
But then something happened.
Something weird.
I walked into Dad's office—
past the guards who still try to block me (fools)—
and found him leaning over a table with a map on it.
Nothing weird about that.
Except—
There were red dots.
And pictures.
And tiny scribbled words like "smuggling routes," "wipe out base," and "double-crossed in Prague."
Huh.
I looked at Dad.
He was dressed sharp. Serious.
Black suit. Gun holstered. Sleeves rolled up to show his tattoos.
I asked:
"Dad, are you... Batman?"
He stared at me.
Then did that thing where he rubs his face like I'm simultaneously his pride and his migraine.
"No, kid."
I squinted.
"You sure?"
"Positive."
"Then why are there guns under your desk, a man tied to a chair upstairs, and why did I hear you say 'cut off his thumbs' on the phone last night?"
...
He blinked.
Slow.
"…you weren't supposed to hear that."
"So you're not Batman."
"No."
"You're the Joker?"
He looked horrified.
I grinned.
Victory.
---
Later that night, I sat on the kitchen counter while Mom cooked.
I asked her the same question.
"Is Dad a villain?"
She didn't even flinch.
"Yes."
"What about you?"
"I'm worse."
And then she gave me a cookie.
I love her so much.
---
Anyway, it's getting obvious now.
My parents are not normal.
We don't go to theme parks.
We go to "secure estates."
We don't have uncles.
We have "cleaners" and "contacts."
And Dad once gave me a bedtime story where he changed the ending because the prince was "too soft and deserved to lose."
So, I think it's time I start investigating them.
Properly.
Tomorrow, I begin Operation: Who The Hell Are My Parents?
—