I’m a kid again, hanging out with an 8 year old Bruce Wayne. We’re at a rec center, keeping to ourselves, watching Nat Geo documentaries about bugs and monkeys and other cool stuff. Suddenly a horde of loud, chatty teen girls—the next generation of soccer moms—storms towards us, circles us, and scrutinizes us with dagger-sharp stares. “We’re watching One Tree Hill,” one of them states flatly. “Enough of this gross nature crap.” “Touch that TV,” Bruce utters in a gravelly whisper, “and you will suffer beyond all—” one of them smacks him across the face. He tumbles sideways and lands in a crouch. Glowering, he uses the back of his hand to wipe blood off the corner of his lip. He’s about to say something more when the teenyboppers swarm us, pinning our arms behind our backs and working us over with body shots, just as if we were getting tooled over by made men from Goodfellas. We’re both jerking and grunting as wicked, cheaply perfumed fists slam into our bellies. After arcing their designer-shoed feet into our nuts, they let go of our arms. We sag to the ground, coughing and spitting. “Well?” the leader asks triumphantly, “had enough?” Bruce looks at me and I see a terrible, heartbreaking thing: Resignation. Both he and I know that there is no conventional force that is capable of staving off a legion of teenyboppers intent on seeing One Tree Hill. But wait. I reach in my pocket and open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Bruce’s eyes light up as he accesses a fraction of the abilities he will one day possess. He gets to his feet and rasps, “That tickled.” The teenyboppers shriek in rage and come at him again, but this time, he fends them off with a dizzying array of blocks, sweeps, and throws. I’m watching in awe as he somersaults over the lead teenybopper and grabs the remote. He punches its buttons, quickly reprogramming the TV. The teenyboppers surround him again; they’re more cautious this time—their eyes just as vicious but warier. The lead teenybopper: “Just give us the remote. This doesn’t have to—” He cuts her off: “Epsilon Archimedes Mobius.” The three words triggers the self-destruct protocol he’s programmed into the TV and it explodes in a starburst of smoke and flames. As the teenyboppers wail in fury, we make a quick escape.