Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vol. 1

Vicki Vale hated Gotham. It was easy to admit that. The air was thick with smog and humidity. The city itself was dirty, and falling apart in every possible manner. Soon enough, she lost count of every crack in the concrete, or every gunshot that rang out. Each time she stepped outside of her apartment, she had to be looking over her shoulders. 

Vicki was sure that the people she had spoken to were exaggerating. They had to be. There was no way that a city could be as horrible as people had been saying. Vicki wasn’t an optimist, by any means. But even she had her limits. 

Then she lived her first week here. In that time period, Vicki found herself hearing of at least five different shootings, three murders, and over a dozen robberies. And that didn’t even count the damn ‘crime families’ she had been hearing rumors about, or the two honest-to-God bodies that Vicki had found on one of her walks home.

If there was a hell, it had to be Gotham City. 

The worst part about all of this was that Vicki couldn’t even get anything done! She was stuck in some dead end job at what should have been a good paper, a job that took forever to get started. It was bad enough that she didn’t even know the full details. It wasn’t worth… anything. But it put food on her table, and kept her living, which was better than nothing. At least it would have, if the damn subway cars weren’t taking forever. 

Eventually, something seemed to have mercy on her, and Vicki found herself staring up at a large, damn near imposing building… if she had been anyone else. The words ‘Gotham Gazette’ found themselves glaring back down at her. Vicki sighed, shutting her eyes for a moment and let out the breath she had been holding.

She hadn’t expected the Gazette. Cesspit that Gotham was, at least the newspapers were credible sometimes.

“Time to start at the bottom. Here goes nothing.” She muttered to herself. Taking a moment to fix herself up, Vicki marched into the building, trying to at least put on some sense of purpose as she continued to walk forward. 

A woman sat at the front desk, bored out of her mind as she tapped away at the computer in front of her, speaking to someone on the phone. A receptionist. There was a small mercy that Vicki didn’t have to start there. Walking forward, she spotted a small plastic pumpkin, still full of candy. Idly snatching one of the chocolates on top, Vicki cleared her throat, trying to catch the other woman’s attention. 

“One minute Greg. I’ll get back to you.” She moved the phone away, looking up at Vicki. 

“Excuse me? I’m looking for Morton Monro-”

“Name?” The receptionist blandly cut Vicki off, causing her to blink in surprise. 

“Vicki. Vicki Vale.”

That awkward silence while the receptionist was working was thick enough to shove a knife through. Vicki sighed, almost tempted to pull out her phone to kill some time, but thankfully it didn’t turn into that.

“Third floor. First door on the left.”

Vicki muttered a sheepish thanks as she hurried towards the elevator, already pressing the button for the third floor. A quick glance at her watch showed that she wasn’t late, but that didn’t mean that there were already signs that something was off. 

This could have just been the natural sense of pessimism that came with her work. Or it could have just been the restlessness that was finally wearing away. Maybe she could get some actual work done!

Making her way out of the elevator once it hit the proper floor, Vicki’s hurried walk slowed to a crawl as she looked towards the first words that caught her eyes. 

‘Picture News Magazine’

‘Morton Monroe: Executive Editor’

This wasn’t what she had been promised. That wasn’t the deal at all! Vicki was doing her best to school her features, hoping that this had to be a mistake. Taking a deep breath, she walked forward, knocking on the door. It didn’t take long for a hurried voice to call out.

“Uh…shoot. Come in!”

Vicki didn’t hesitate to march in, already prepared to make her case. The man before her wasn’t… admittedly much. Messy, dirty blonde hair. A cheap black suit and a yellow tie. He had a pair of gray eyeglasses, which he was adjusting. Vicki didn’t let him take a second to recover.

“Mister Monroe, I think there’s been a huge misunderstanding about something. I was hoping to discuss-”

The man in front of her cleared his throat, fixing up his tie as he did so. 

“Sorry, Vicki Vale, right?”

“Yes sir, I don’t mean to barge in, but I was hoping to talk about-”

“Your work here. Right, I guess I’ll be the first to say it. Welcome to Picture News Magazine.” Monroe said, forcing a bit of enthusiasm into his voice as he held out his arms. Vicki could feel one eye twitching, as she did her best to try and keep both her blood pressure from skyrocketing, worse than it already was. 

“I was under the impression I was going to be working at the Gotham Gazette.” She told him, doing her best to not let the, admittedly, slightly forced smile leave her face. 

“You are. Heck, Picture News Magazine’s a subsidiary of the Gazette.” Monroe told her, letting out a playful laugh. Seeing her expression not changing at all, he had a confused look on him. “Look, Miss Vale-

“Vicki, please.” 

Monroe didn’t even blink at the introduction, continuing on.

“Right, Vicki. I don’t seem to understand the confusion here. You were offered a job. I’d assumed you’re coming in to work. We don’t have many journalists lining up in our neck of the woods. And after that whole fiasco in Metropolis…”

Even as he trailed off, Vicki tried to stop the wince from coming. Damn damn damn . The one thing she’d been dreading. Sure, she had blown things, but Vicki hadn’t thought it was going to be that… bad. The excuse sounded weak, even in her head. But she wouldn't worry about that right now. Monroe was still talking, looking almost sheepish.

“Vicki, I gotta be honest, I’m surprised you even wanted a job in journalism after everything was said and done. You burned enough bridges that you made Rome look like a candlelit dinner for two.”

She couldn’t hide the wince this time. Metropolis. It all came back to Metropolis. A part of her wanted to just forget about it, but that clearly wasn’t going to change things. She’d have to start at rock bottom. If someone could even call it that, anyway. Taking a deep breath to cool her thoughts, Vicki shook her head. 

“There’s no confusion. I got offered up a job, and I said I’d take it. So I’ll be happy to. Like you said, there’s not many people looking to join up, so I might as well make the best of it.” Vicki told him, putting on a smile. It was as fake as the clothes on Monroe’s back, but it was at least an attempt. 

“Great! Now, it’s a real shame you weren’t here last you. Would’ve made this a bit easier to get through. Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush here, right?” Monroe said, offering up a shrug. “Our magazine has one focus, and one focus only.”

Vicki was almost interested. Almost being the keyword. And that interest dropped upon seeing a picture placed on Monroe’s desk. 

“We don’t have many celebrities here, but this one? This one takes the cake. Meet Gotham’s Prodigal Son. Bruce Wayne. Take a look.”

She found herself staring at what could only be considered an imbecile. Black hair, scruffy and unkempt. Two beautiful women were with him, one on each arm. It was almost like he didn’t have a care in the world. He was dressed well enough, and was surrounded by people with cameras. She couldn't help the statement that came out of her mouth.

“Bruce Wayne? Isn’t he just some rich guy? What’s his deal?”

“Right. You’re from Metropolis. You wouldn’t know the full story.” Barely phased by her question, Monroe tapped the picture idly. “This guy’s parents got killed. Mugging gone wrong. It happens here in Gotham, but not to the rich. Never them. Leaves this one all by himself, the whole Wayne Empire at his fingertips. And then he up and vanishes. People thought he was dead. And here he is, ten years later, like nothing happened. Just taking the company his family built up by storm, and looking good while doing it.” He offered up a grin, and Vicki was dreading what came next. 

“So, what’s the plan here?”

“The plan? You’re gonna shadow him. Dig up every little piece of info you can. The people wanna know about Bruce Wayne, but no one wants to actually try. That’s where you come in. That’s your assignment. Just keep up with him, try and track down where he might end up. Heck,  if you can dig up something good, even better. Doesn’t matter what it is, just as long as it’s something.”

Vicki simply stared. Her stomach was doing constant flips, and she struggled to hold back the bile forming for a moment. This? This was going to be the sum of her work?! Chasing around a rich boy cruising through life, going to board meetings and eating at restaurants so expensive that her wallet would die just looking at them?! 

Yes, it was a tragedy that his parents were killed. Anyone could agree on that. Yes, it seemed heartless to not really put much stock in it. Really, what else could she feel? There had to be some other assignment, anything else that she could have worked on!

But this was the real world. Things weren’t going to just magically work out. Vicki had started as an intern before. She could work her way up again. Right now, she had to do the smart thing. Keep her mouth shut and follow her instructions. 

“If this is the job…”

“It is. This is your assignment, if anyone can manage it, you can.”

“Anything I can follow up on right now?”

It was like Christmas had come early. Monroe could only grin as he went to his computer, tapping away at one thing or another. That distraction gave Vicki a chance to finally shiver, let her face scrunch up into a snarl. She needed a way to express her rage, and this was the only thing that could go without her ending up in prison. The expression on her face vanished as quickly as it had appeared when Monroe looked back at her, showing Vicki his monitor. 

“I got some sources saying that Wayne’s going around, visiting just about every piece of property he owns in the city. Some sorta charity thing or another. Should be at one of his restaurants right now. Think of this as your tour across Gotham. Let’s you get used to the city, and you’ll get an idea for what you’re gonna be expecting here.” Monroe looked pleased at the plan he had cooked up, and Vicki didn’t feel like bursting his bubble, if only for the sake of her job. 

“I’ll get right on it. Don’t worry, Mr. Monroe. I won’t let you down.” Vicki shot back, offering up another fake smile as she spoke up. 

“I know you won’t. Now get going. Wayne ain’t gonna be staying there for long, don’t wanna lose track of him after all.” With that said and done, Monroe turned back to his computer and began typing away. Clearly, she had been dismissed, and Vicki didn’t need to be told twice. 

She marched out the door, as quickly as she had come in. Her face was impassive, even as she quickly jabbed the button for the ground floor. It was only when the elevator doors were shut, and she was sure that she was alone, that Vicki let her frustrations out. 

She wasn’t sure if the elevator was soundproof or not, but it wasn’t that bad. Just a single moment to let out a scream of anger. She would have kicked the elevator, thrown her phone, something had her sense of self-preservation not hit her. She couldn’t risk it. Vicki was on thin ice as it was, and having a meltdown in her office wouldn’t help things. Not if she wanted to at least make a decent living in this city. 

It was a hopeless, almost defeated Vicki Vale that left the elevator that she had so confidently marched into. She didn’t have a chance in hell at actually making her case work, not with her reputation. Anyone else would have likely just laid down and died. 

Not her though. Vicki was not about to let one thing ruin her life. If she was going to be given the worst possible assignment, she was going to give it her all . Monroe wanted stories about Bruce Wayne? Fine. She was going to deliver it, all tied up in a bow. 

It wasn’t the first time that Vicki had to track someone down, or tail them around a city. Even as she stepped out of the Gotham Gazette, she was already forming plans as she walked along the sidewalk. She’d have to get a reliable form of transportation. Track down other things about Bruce Wayne, get her some threads to follow up on. Any rich person had to have some dirt on them, after all. Above all else, though, she was going to need-

Her thoughts were cut off by the sounds of breaking glass, and what might have been gunshots. 

A taser. She’d probably have to invest in a taser by the end of this all.

Next Chapter: 14th November

Chapter Text

This city was sick. That was probably James Gordon's first thought as he stepped into his newly assigned office. The smell of cigarettes and cheap booze followed him as he marched forward, carrying a box of his personal belongings.

He did his best to ignore the stares he was getting, all from officers he didn't have a chance to know. A part of him was already checking his surroundings, hardly phased at the cacophony of noises that drowned out the station as a whole. Men and women on all sides, being booked on numerous charges. The frown on James' face worsened as some officers to his right pocketed clearly-stolen money, not even attempting to hide their deeds.

His city had gone to hell. Yes, it had been a while since he had been here, but to see it now? It was like looking at a dying relative. The good, decent memories still echoing in his mind, poisoned by all the wrong around him.

This wasn't the first sort of assignment he had gone through. Years on the force had taught him well. But that didn't excuse the gut feeling James had in his stomach. He was just waiting for the other shoe to drop at this point, unsure of what to expect from here on out, even as he stood in the center for another moment.

The commissioner had already spoken to him on the phone, promising a team on his first day, but James didn't see anyone there. In the bare-bones room, there was only his own things, still laid on the box that James had brought in.

He rifled through his things, trying to at least get a feel for what was probably going to be the main part of his day from here on out. He took out a single photo, and the weariness that had been plaguing James this whole time began to seep away. His wife, daughter, and son stared back at him, smiling and practically climbing all over him.

It had been taken right when he had just arrived back home. Most of his fellow Marines had been going through the same thing. Distracted by the family. His sister had taken the photo without him realizing. Barb had insisted on taking it with him.

'For good luck,' she'd said.

A throat clearing interrupted James's thoughts. He looked up, almost instinctively trying to stand at attention. He must have missed his team or something, considering that Commissioner Loeb was standing before him.

"Sir," James said, holding himself back from snapping into a salute. "Apologies, I was just getting settled in." He didn't have to worry about that, not here. It was hard to tell whether or not the commissioner was impressed; his face was rather impassive, all things considered.

"Easy, Gordon. Glad to see you're already up and at it. Like the desk so far?"

He didn't, not really. It looked like someone had dragged it out from an alley and tossed it into the room, hoping for the best. James could see the wear and tear, what looked like years of use against it. He picked at one area in particular, fingers brushing against scratches deep in the wood.

"It could use a bit of work, but I'll manage, sir.. Where's my team? I was expecting to see more people here already."

The commissioner let out a snort before squeezing through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Loeb was certainly on the heavier side, and looked like he hadn't been on the streets in a long time. Receding hairline, jowls stuck in a perpetual frown. The uniform he wore was messy, hastily put together. Like Loeb had just thrown everything together. Small things that certainly irked James, but it wasn't like he could call it out.

He gestured for James to look out the window, where the seemingly endless stream of people being dragged in—either in cuffs or not—continued to swarm the station.

"They're out there, Gordon. Lotta work to be done in Gotham. Work that'd probably break any lesser man, if I'm being honest. Especially on Halloween." His superior remarked, seemingly unfazed by everything he was witnessing. James couldn't help but agree. He'd wanted to go out tonight. Give his son his first real experience with the holiday. But then work called him in, and it was only sheer dumb luck that Babs was able to at least keep James entertained. She wasn't going to her school's dance, or any sort of hangout that needed her attention.

"I read your file. Your work in the Middle East, and that stunt you pulled in Chicago. It's got people's attention. Folks dunno what to make of you." Loeb grunted, stepping out of the office as he motioned for Gordon to follow him.

"Sir? I was hoping to get my work started already. If there's something you need me to do, just tell me. I'll get it done." James wasn't antsy, no. He would never concede that, not to the Commissioner. Not to his wife. Not to anyone. But he hadn't managed to get any work done in months, and that was starting to get to him. Something was going on, and Loeb wasn't telling him anything.

"Easy, Detective. You're getting your assignment. Right now, in fact. You wanted work? Here," the Commissioner said, gesturing towards a room he had stopped in front of. "Let's see what you can make of this." James entered, eyes narrowed, as he stared at the room. It looked like the kind of place that any team could call home. Desks piled with notes, files upon files filling the room. Finally a whiteboard, which held a map of the city and most importantly, sketches of what looked like a giant bat which was almost taunting him.

It was a list of crimes. Or, more accurately, attempted crimes. In terms of connection, James couldn't see anything.

A robbery of a bank here, a mugging behind a back alley there. Even an instance of a couple and their child nearly getting killed, in what was either a random act of violence, or a targeted hit. It was the sort of crimes that James had seen often, back in Chicago. You didn't leave that city without seeing your fair share of horrors.

But all these had failed. The reports varied. The bank crew found themselves surrounded by smoke, and beaten until they couldn't stand, much less identify what had attacked them. The mugger? Dragged into the shadows, kicking and screaming. His would-be victim only caught a "glimpse of something 'dark and fast'".

Perhaps the greatest thing mocking him was the last crime, involving the family, right where the previously mentioned sketch was. It was going to be a clear-cut case, a tragedy. Then, what was described as 'a giant bat'—by two terrified adults and a child—swooped down, beating the attacker into an almost unrecognizable pulp.

If Loeb hadn't been here, watching his reaction, James was sure he would have laughed. A vigilante in Gotham? It was a surprise to be sure, but anyone could have had enough and taken matters into their own hands. But a giant bat? That was just… absurd. But first impressions were everything, so James had to be sure.

"Sir, is all this… accurate?" James frowned in confusion at the honestly sad lack of details. He winced, feeling the sudden impact of Loeb slapping his shoulder. The man chuckled, almost mockingly, at James' flinch.

"Like I said, Gordon. Folks don't know what to make of ya. Plus with your previous incidents… well, you're not exactly any officer's friend here." James could practically feel the slime coming off the Commissioner, and fought the urge to smack the man's hand away from his shoulder. He bit back every insult, every sneer that he could, and decided to speak.

"I know I've made my fair share of mistakes, sir. I'm grateful for the chance to prove myself, and get whatever trust I've lost here." Every word tasted like salt, drying his mouth. It was as if James was rubbing sandpaper on his tongue. But he couldn't afford to lose his cool. Not here. Loeb could only snort, tossing a small stick of nicotine gum in his mouth.

"You're gonna have to earn that trust again. But yeah, it's all accurate. We have ourselves a giant bat sweeping through Gotham, stopping crime. Dunno when the rest of the team's coming in, but don't expect a long line of volunteers. For now? Figure something out, then maybe we'll talk. Good luck."

With that, the Commissioner walked away. Or more accurately, staggered away, given the older man looked like he was one burger away from a heart attack. James kept staring at the back of Loeb's head, almost hoping his glare would induce that heart attack in question. When nothing happened, he could only sigh as he marched into his office.

If he was going to be given the horrible assignments, he was going to do them right. So he started with some basics. Even if the basics had, like James' sanity, left the station as soon as a giant bat was mentioned.

The issues were there, right off the bat. James inwardly groaned at the accidental pun, cursing whatever higher power was at work, but he was starting to lose his train of thought. The first issue was the locations.

The bank robbery was on one side of town, the mugging on the other. The attempted triple murder was smack dab in the middle of the last two crimes, at what most of the city had come to know as "Crime Alley". James paused at that mention, his hand brushing up against the map.

Everyone knew about that location in particular. James himself was barely shipping out when he heard about the Waynes getting gunned down in cold blood. It was—in most people's opinion—the tipping point that had made Gotham into the hell it was today. Given how things were looking right now? A small part of James couldn't help but agree. Gotham had died when the Waynes did.

James shook his head, trying to get out of his own reminiscing. Now wasn't the time to get all teary-eyed. There wasn't anything he could do then. It was doubtful that he'd be making a difference now, with how Loeb was already treating him. But he had to try, damn it.

Locations were all over the place, yes. But they still gave James in the chaos, there were signs. Patterns. Ideas of where to look.

He had lost track of time—jotting down countless notes on the whiteboard in front of him—when someone behind him cleared their throat. He turned around, coming face to face with a woman. She was blonde-her hair tied tightly in a ponytail-with steely blue eyes, and she was dressed smartly in business attire, a far cry from everybody else he'd had the pleasure of meeting that day. Above all else however, it was a familiar face, especially given the way she chuckled at him.

"I'd heard we got a new hire. Didn't think it'd be you, Jim."

"Sarah Essen, as I live and breathe. I thought you'd still be guarding suits in Washington."

She let out a snort in response. "My old employers decided to 'cut costs', so I didn't really see a point in staying up there. I tried one of those cushy office jobs the V.A. offered, but I can't just sit still, yaknow?" Essen said, offering a shrug. "And well, here I am. Working with you."

"Here you are," James shot back, chuckling alongside her. A ghost of a smile on his face. Maybe things weren't going to be that bad. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a worn pack of cigarettes. Barb had warned him to not get attached, but everyone had their own vices. Vices he was sure Essen still had.

"Still smoke?"

"Not as often. But I take one every now and then. Need a break?"

"Understatement of the century. Loeb's got me working a wild goose chase."

Essen let out a very unladylike snort, leaning down to look at James' own work. She eyed what was clearly her own handwriting, having been erased to make room for a set eyes. Sarah looked back at James, who didn't even look apologetic.

"Goose chase or not, you've got at least some leads. It's always good to have a fresh set of eyes, but that one? We just got that a few day ago." She noted, tapping the sketch that had gained Gordon's ire. "Heard there were crazies up here, but a giant bat? Didn't think the world had gone mad."

"Seems it's always been mad. Wanna head to the roof? Seeing as how we're working together, might as well try and compare notes. That and we don't wanna stink up this place with smoke."

She let out a laugh as James gestured for the door. She nodded, indicating for him to follow.

"Just like old times. Come on Jim. Let's talk shop. Just don't mind Flass if you see him. Man's a pig at the best of times."

"Flass?" The name rang some bells, from the whispers James had heard walking up here. Even with the hell surrounding him, there was some comfort in the fact that he wasn't about to walk into it alone.

"You'll know him when you see him. Now come on, I haven't had that brand in a while."

James huffed as he walked alongside Sarah. Maybe, just maybe, things weren't going to be as bad as he had thought.

Next Chapter: November 28

Chapter Text

Alfred Pennyworth was a number of things to be proud of. A soldier. An actor. A friend. Most importantly, butler to the Wayne family. It was a simple enough life. Despite all of that, Alfred couldn't stand to look at his accomplishments, focusing—instead—on his failures. Especially in how he had failed Bruce.

He could only sigh as he knelt down in front of a single tomb. It was a beautiful sight, truly. Marble, clean and proper despite how long it had been. Two of the most important people in his world, taken far too soon. It was time for their usual routine, given it was the only peace Alfred felt he was getting as of late.

"Greetings, Thomas. Hello, Martha."

As always, it took Alfred a moment to compose himself. He should have been used to this sort of thing. It wasn't the first time he had visited their graves. It wouldn't be the last. But it didn't mean the pain would fade away.

Just when he thought he could stomach the sight of looking at the tomb without any sort of aching in his heart, his mind would only flash back to that damnable phone call.

If nothing else, Alfred was a professional. He would grieve as he always did. In the comfort of his room, away from prying eyes. For now, he would continue his duties, as fit as any good butler. With that, he brought out the supplies needed to tidy up the tomb, and got to work.

"Your son is certainly making waves, you know. Far more than when he first came home last year. " He idly said, picking at the little vines that had grown up along Thomas' side of the tomb, violets blooming. The barest hints of a smile were on his face, noting it was the same plants that Thomas had added here in his spare time. He had insisted, and Alfred didn't have the heart to say they likely wouldn't have lasted. Alfred was pleased to see that, in the end, his instincts had been wrong.

"He still isn't exactly doing what… well… any of us would have wanted, I do have to admit. The company's fine, by the way. I've been doing my best to take care of it in your son's absence. We're finally getting to work on some of the things we used to talk about, Thomas."

And what a chore that had been. Alfred could understand the pain that Bruce had been going through, more than anyone. But they all grieve differently. Bruce simply took his pain… and vanished.

Bruce had inherited a burden, one no child should have had to deal with. He couldn't handle it, and left the company in Alfred's care. The only consolation was that Alfred knew Thomas and Martha better than anyone, so it was easy to find compromises where the board only saw profits.

A small chip was forming on the corner of Thomas' side. Alfred would have to make a note to get that fixed in the near future.

"Why, if I hadn't known any better, I would say young Master Bruce has inherited both of your spirits. He's intelligent. So much smarter than either of us had considered. He could have been a doctor at this point, if he pushed his mind to it. But his anger. Goodness, his anger. Sometimes it scares me."

Most nights, Bruce would stumble back into the cave that they had set up shop in. Each and every night, he was either nursing new wounds, or fixing up old ones. Alfred was given the task of washing off the blood Bruce often had on his hands, or repairing the suit. The only consolation was that he was still talking to Alfred. But now he was so… reserved. Cold. The boy Alfred helped raise was gone, replaced by a wall of fury and stubborn pride.

There was dirt forming around Martha's name. Unacceptable. Alfred reached out, brushing the carved letters as carefully as he could manage.

"I'm not sure what I'm doing anymore, Martha. But I feel like I can't talk to him. You always had a way with Bruce, especially when he wouldn't talk to Thomas or myself. It seems like I'm losing him. It's all because of this city. This damnable city. It takes everything good and spits it out a broken mess. Or worse." Alfred was not ashamed to admit that he lost his sensibilities for a moment. He took a shuddering breath, taking a moment to control himself.

His anger was subdued, at least for the moment, by a sight beneath Martha's name. A small rose had formed. Alfred considered cutting it, before deciding it was best to leave it there for the time being. Martha did enjoy roses, after all.

"He's throwing himself out there. Every night. It's always something new. A new fight. A new scar. It's as if the boy wants to get himself killed. But it's all he does now. All he's been doing. Goodness, it scares me. I was never a doctor, not like you. Or Thomas for that matter. I tried to stop him. Dear god, I tried. But what if it wasn't enough? What if, one of these days, that boy does something stupid and never comes back? I-"

Alfred sighed, head hanging for a moment as he tried to compose himself. In his room. He could have a moment in his room. But Thomas and Martha needed him. They always did. The tomb was in far better shape now. But when that chip was repaired? It would be impeccable.

"Perhaps I have failed him, in some ways. I'm not perfect, by any means. But I promise you. Both of you, I'll do my best to take care of Bruce. Even if he doesn't want it sometimes… I'll never stop. I swear it."

With that promise, Alfred stood up. He noticed small drops of water. A frown graced his aged features as he looked up. There were no clouds, and the sun was still shining. He reached up to his own eyes, and blinked away the tears that had fallen.

"Goodness me, my apologies."

Alfred fished out a handkerchief, dabbing his eyes with it. Tidying himself up, he gave one last bow to the couple before him.

"Until next time, Thomas. Take care, Martha."

With that, he marched back towards the Manor. He had some duties to uphold, after all.

Alfred carefully made his way down the stairway, glancing around at the dank and ominous cave that had slowly become Bruce's home. Not the comfortable, carefully sorted out room with all the amenities that one could afford. No.

But no. Home was the dank, underground cave with a massive computer screen. Home had turned into the area where he would test insane gadgets, or constantly train his body. And home was especially where the armored suit that Bruce had donned would loom, acting as a watchful guardian for him, waiting for its master to rise.

Speaking of which, said Master was currently sprawled out on a cot that Alfred had only intended for emergencies. Much to his irritation, Bruce had instead taken it as an invitation to forgo his actual bed in favor of the cave.

The bats stirred briefly above the duo. They were certainly an… interesting challenge to manage, but Bruce had insisted on leaving them all there, regardless of his concerns. They weren't Alfred's main concern, however. In his current state, Bruce was. He always would be.

He was still resting, thankfully. If nothing else, the fact that he was getting at least 6 hours of sleep was honestly the only real blessing that Alfred could count on. It showed that there was still some reasoning with him, even if Bruce had once again returned with a new wound. A series of bruises that were already starting to turn blue and purple. Several other similar patterned hits across Bruce's back could be seen, most of them turning green or yellow.

The wounds that Bruce had received a few days before hadn't gotten worse, at the very least. His latest nightly venture was tame, and that was better than nothing.

They were all healing, yes, but Bruce wasn't simply letting them stay that way. 'Criminals,' in his words, 'were getting bolder.' More prepared. And that meant that he would have to be as well. Alfred despised how much Bruce was pushing himself, but there wasn't much he could do. Not at this rate. Not without starting another argument.

With that in mind, Alfred left a carefully prepared breakfast for Bruce, full of protein and all his other needs, then marched back up the stairs. The rest of the Manor had to be taken care of, especially given that they were finally celebrating Halloween again. At first, Bruce had objected, citing no need for the festivities.

But Alfred, for once, put his foot down. Appearances were important, after all, especially for someone like Bruce Wayne. If he wasn't going to at least take the effort to go out and make his own public appearances, they could at least show that the Manor was open to anyone who wanted to make their way over.

In the years that Bruce had vanished, Alfred had… attempted to keep in high spirits for all the holidays. Attempted being the keyword. But it was often hard to find the joy of celebrating things when everyone was gone. So for a time, Wayne Manor had shut its doors for just about any big occasion.

While Halloween might have been a grim time to actually open the doors for once, perhaps this change of pace could do both him and Bruce some good. A sense of something normal in what their life had become.

Alfred found himself losing track of time as he stepped back outside, directing a small crew of helpers to at least make the front of the manor look approachable. It was a simple set up, but simplicity worked in most cases.

Cobwebs along the door, small skeletons and pumpkins. No bats, however. He had to handle enough of the real blasted things, a fake wouldn't do here. But all the other decorations? They were doing their magic, and hopefully it looked inviting enough for people to show up. With the decorations looking well enough, Alfred moved back inside to check on the other things for today.

Already he had stocked up on a large amount of candy, prepared small bags of goodies. Things to make the holiday a bit more enjoyable. It had been a while, so perhaps Alfred was overcompensating. And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to enjoy his work again.

A small movement caught Alfred's attention, out of the corner of his eye. Bruce had already woken up, and for once was out of the cave. He turned around, giving the younger man a short bow.

"Good afternoon, Master Bruce. It's good to see you awake. I was going over a few things, and there was something I wanted to discuss."

Bruce gave a non-committal grunt, nursing the mug of coffee that Alfred had left for him downstairs. At the very least, he was dressed in a robe, covering up his injuries.

"The decorations for the manor are nearly complete. I'm sure that we'll be catching a few curious eyes by the end of tonight." Alfred said, reaching into one pocket and pulling out an envelope. "But I believe this might be of a greater note to you. Wayne Enterprises is holding a gala for Halloween. I know it's been sometime since you've been out in public, but this feels like—"

"I'm not too sure, Alfred. There's more important things to do."

Alfred had been afraid of this. He let out a quiet sigh, shutting his eyes to collect himself.

"Master Bruce. While I do understand that your… nightly activities… are important—"

"Important? They're my only concern right now, Alfred."

"But they're not. You're Bruce Wayne. This is your company's event. And it would be in poor taste for you to not show up. If nothing else, at least come for an hour. Make yourself known, let the people see you." Alfred took a step forward, holding out the invitation for Bruce to properly see.

"If you truly want to make a difference, then you must take these opportunities to attack the problem from every angle available to you. And this one won't involve you risking life and limb. It's one night, Master Bruce, to raise a bit of money. Please. All I want you is to consider it."

Bruce didn't say anything, instead just taking the invitation out of Alfred's hand and slowly stumbling away. Likely, to either shower or lie down once more. Either way, he could only watch Bruce and frown. The fact that he took the invitation in the first place was a better sign than Alfred was hoping.

In any case, there were more preparations to check over. The day was still young, and the two of them had far too much time on their hands. With that, Alfred began his trek through the manor, already making notes to prepare two suits. A respectable tuxedo, since the gala had specified black tie, and the suit both of them knew that Bruce would prefer to be out in, especially on Halloween.

As bitter as Alfred had become, he only hoped his words couldn't be proven wrong. It was only one night, after all, and even Bruce deserved a chance to rest.

Next Chapter: 12th December

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne was an imbecile.

That was the first impression that she had gotten from the man, considering how he acted at the restaurant that Vicki had found him at.

It was one of those high society places, where the portions were small enough that a person could eat seven and not count them as a whole meal, and the prices were so bad you'd have to take out a second mortgage to afford them.

Of course Wayne was there, laughing away as he drank champagne, a pair of women in sparkly dresses and far too much makeup beside him. Wayne wasn't paying them any mind, just laughing at something a fatter man in a suit had told him.

Wayne had lingered inside that place for an hour, chatting away. Vicki wanted to try and get closer, but considering the fact that nearly everyone had a bodyguard built like a brick wall around them, she didn't like her chances. Then he finally exited the restaurant, and Vicki knew she just had to take the risk. Even if it was a poor one.

"Mister Wayne! Vicki Vale, Gotham Gazette. Could I get a moment of your time?"

Probably not her best idea, lying about her job on the first day. But like Monroe had told her, Picture News Magazine was technically a part of the Gazette. So really, in Vicki's mind it was more of a half-truth.

Wayne turned to face her, waving off another person as he approached what looked like a brand-new car, shiny exterior and all. He had this dumb sort of look on his face, like he was half paying attention to the world at large.

"The Gazette? Oh! Is that one I own?" Wayne asked her, a sort of airy tone to his voice. For the first time, Vicki could actually get a good look at the man of the hour. Clean and freshly done hair, a suit worth probably a dozen years of her salary. But his eyes were another story. Sharp, piercing blue. A hint of some sort of fire underneath them.

Vicki was about to speak up, maybe to attempt to answer Wayne's question, when a person exited the car the two were standing next to. An older gentleman, in a nicer suit than Wayne's. More dignified. He cleared his throat, and Wayne's attention went to the older man. Turning back to Vicki, he offered up a dopey sort of smile.

"Sorry, I'd love to stay and chat, miss. But I have to get going. Feel free to make an appointment with my people, get back to me then!" That same grin still on his face, Wayne stumbled into the car, with the older man giving Vicki a short nod before he entered the driver's seat.

The car sped off, and Vicki was left in the dust. Literally and metaphorically. She let out a tired sigh, head hanging for a moment before she stomped on. She wouldn't get anything from Wayne like this, so she would have to dig deeper.

And that led to her current frustration. The next week, trying to chase the man around, day after day only to get brushed off by security while he was at some function or another, or barely missing Wayne as he flew around in his helicopter. The sheer amount of just… wastefulness that came from checking over the man was driving her already frayed nerves to what anyone could see was a breaking point.

The first thing Vicki had done was try and see if there was anyone that could give her at least a hint about the mysterious Bruce Wayne. It didn't matter who the source was, as long as there was something that she could sink into. Actually, that was a lie. The first thing Vicki had done was purchase a taser, because Gotham always liked to remind her about how horrible things were.

The common person didn't seem to know anything about the wayward billionaire. It was all just the same stuff, really.

"Bruce Wayne? Rich bastard just came back and ain't doing shit."

"Wayne? I heard he's making up for lost time. Spending more money than God could have."

"Man, what I would love to get my claws on Bruce Wayne! Could you imagine the-"

That last statement really had Vicki regret asking the common people. That or pray that there was some way to bleach her brain.

However, her biggest payout was when Vicki actually went through the various companies that Wayne had his fingers in. Granted, it was easy to tell where the best places were, considering his name was plastered all over them, but seeing what they were actually spending gave her exactly what she needed.

When he first arrived back in Gotham, there were events. So many events. Everyone wanted a piece of the pie, celebrating Gotham's prodigal son. People invited him everywhere, and to everything. But eventually it all just… stopped. Sure, the money kept flowing, but Bruce Wayne had turned into a ghost. No one saw anything from him. Not his investors, not the socialites hoping to score something.

That was until last week, when Wayne had shown his face for the first time in months. Sipping champagne with his investors, and living up to the typical rich party boy. Finally, all the threads were in place, and Vicki found what she was looking for.

Wayne was hosting two different events for Halloween, it seemed. One was a charity gala, where the rich and mighty would probably drink and laugh things away. Vicki had a sour taste in her mouth of the image. The other was probably a far better thing. Word had spread that a haunted house was being hosted at Wayne Manor, and it was open to the public!

Apparently, it hadn't been done in forever, so it was the talk of anyone Vicki could get a hold of. It was certainly better than trying to sneak into an expensive gala, so with that information in hand, Vicki had at least one plan of action. No matter how desperate it might be.

Thankfully, if there was one thing Vicki could count on, it was that cheap Halloween costumes were on every corner of the city. A gold mine for the desperate and needy, something that Vicki most certainly was at this point.

Given that most of the bigger stores were either packed or were too expensive for her at the moment, Vicki ade due with one of the smaller side stores. Vicki was in luck and came out of the store wearing an old witch costume. Honestly it barely counted as a costume, given that it was just a cheap 20 dollar dress and a pointy hat, but at this point it was better than nothing.

She flagged down a taxi, internally wincing at the fact that it was going to be more money to spend, and with that Vicki was on her way to Wayne Manor. Of course, the Taxi couldn't just drive up to the Manor itself, not when it was guarded by a massive fence, and a looming, cast iron gate.

Vicki didn't mind that, paying the fare and exiting the cab. She stared, mouth agape, at the massive structure that she could spot in the distance. If anything screamed 'old money', then it was Wayne Manor. Ornate, finely detailed, even from this distance. At the moment, the sun was going down, and that made the already imposing manor look even larger. It loomed over everything like a presence, and Vicki had to shake her head to gain focus.

Already, people were lining up to get in, so she moved along with the crowd, clutching her purse. At least she was making progress, and this time she wasn't going to be turned away.

Vicki moved forward, making it seem like she was adjusting the cheap costume she had gotten a hold of, in order to listen in on the people ahead of her. They were muttering, and maybe it was something interesting.

"Hey, you think we'll see Bruce Wayne?"

"You kidding? He's probably heading over to that fancy ball on the other side of the city. Sipping out of gold cups and eating off diamond plates. No way he's gonna be here."

"Nah, we actually might. It's his home. Not like he's gonna leave this place up for grabs, right?"

It wasn't much, but at least it was telling of what Vicki had come to expect.. Wayne was rich enough that he could afford a private army. It'd be something to worry about, sure. But maybe, just maybe, she could get the scoop she needed! Now that she was here it didn't look as promising, but it was enough!

The sun had set by this point, and the pathway that people were following along was illuminated by a large set of path lights, a nice thing to keep people moving forward. Vicki eyed the decorations scattered across the… well, lawn would be an understatement. The miniature field that everyone approaching could see. Inflatable pumpkins to give more light, an actual miniature pumpkin patch where children could be seen, taking pictures with their parents.

She found herself creeping closer and closer to the entryway, where all the guests were lining up to head inside. Vicki once again found herself staring, head going up to see the Manor itself in its entirety. Cobwebs along the door, small skeletons and pumpkins lined up alongside the edge. But the building itself looked amazing.

Marble columns, massive oak doors, countless windows, with light coming out from each of them. And judging by her count, there were at least four floors, and somehow the entire building had been decorated.

However, Vicki was brought out of her stupor and ushered in. Finding herself nearly crushed to death by the sudden bottleneck of people, Vicki followed the crowd. She bristled, trying to not get caught in the literal wave of people that had surrounded her by this point.

Finally, the group was inside the manor. If the outside was considered well decorated, Vicki couldn't be sure what to call the interior. A massive chandelier hung in the center of the room, more cobwebs and similar decorations scattered about. Off to one side, she spotted what looked like an honest-to-God knight's armor, standing guard at a door to the left. A massive staircase spiraled upwards, clearly leading to the rest of the manor.

Vicki spotted a man at the top of the staircase. He held himself all prim and proper, and was on the older side. Something about him was familiar, but Vicki couldn't spot it until he was scanning the crowd. It was Wayne's driver, from back at the restaurant. Vicki silently cursed and hid behind a man taller than her. Eventually the man gestured for the group to come forward, and he finally spoke up.

"Greetings, and good evening. My name is Alfred Pennyworth, and I would love to be the first to welcome you all to Wayne Manor. It is our hope to please and frighten you all with a short tour around the manor, though there are a few warnings. Please, do not fight the actors that are likely here to scare you tonight. They are merely doing their job, and it would be in poor taste to otherwise hamper that. Please do not wander off, the tour is meant to take guests all across the manor, but even then some areas are considered off limits. And please." At this, Pennyworth offered a short chuckle. "Enjoy the rest of the evening."

With that, he stepped to the side and gestured for the group to make their way forward. Vicki followed them, mind running wild as she thought of ways to get more information. Bruce Wayne had to be here, right?

A small part of Vicki could at least see some of the appeal of the place at least. Ghosts, ghouls and monsters popped up out of the shadows, massive fake spiders fell from the roof to scare people. But after living in Gotham for at least a week, Vicki found herself almost numb to what should have been a fun time. That dampened her mood, albeit barely.

However, in the chaos that was slowly going on, from the screams of some of the group she was a part of, to the dimmed lights, there was an opening! Vicki spotted a door, ever so slightly ajar. All the other doors had been shut tight, and all the other hallways had been cut off to keep the group going, but this was it!

Glancing around, she saw that the group she was with had practically jumped out of their costumes because of the sudden change in lights. They blinked, the hallway went dark, and after five seconds they blinked on again. Vicki mentally counted, waiting for the perfect chance. The lights would dim in three, two, one-

Just as they shut off, Vicki made her move. She put on a face of horror, faked obviously, and moved back, against the slightly opened door. As the lights flicked back on, Vicki found herself moving back, through the doorway. Quickly closing the door shut behind her, Vicki turned around to see where she was.

The hallway was different than the rest of the Manor's areas. Clean, proper, with bits and pieces of what looked like fine furniture and pictures decorating the area. But none of the Halloween things, not this place. Vicki moved forward, thankful that she had worn sensible shoes for this plan, and tried to see if anything stood out. Or at least, that would have been the plan,

Instead, just as she turned around a corner, Vicki found herself face to face with Bruce Wayne himself.

He was leaning against this massive grandfather clock, a beautifully made one at that. For a moment, there was something else on his face, besides the dumb and charming smiles that Vick had grown accustomed to in the last week. It was a scowl, an intensity that she really hadn't seen on anyone else before. But after a second it had passed, and back was the charming, dumb grin.

"Oh wow, I didn't think Alfred would let anyone else back here. How's the haunted house so far?"

Vicki had to shake herself back into focus, once again. Wayne wasn't dressed up in some costume, not like the rest of the staff. Instead, he was in a fine tuxedo, far better than the hastily put on suit he wore the first time they had met.

"It's been interesting, so far. Mister Wayne, I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm-"

"Vicki Vale. I remember. But I did a bit more digging. You're with Picture News Magazine, right?"

Vicki's stomach dropped, and it took all the willpower she had to not let out a noise of surprise. She was a fool. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course, Wayne would have investigated anyone claiming to be from the Gazette. He was rich, he could afford to! But Vicki was here already, she couldn't stop now. Seeing how she was caught, well… this was better than nothing.

"You're right, Mister Wayne. I work for Picture News Magazine. Technically, however, it is an offshoot of the Gazette. I'm just trying to get a quote here, because I feel people want to hear what you have to say. If it's not me, it's gonna be someone else printing things, without hearing your side of it. This way you get a chance to get in front of this. Give me that and I'm gone. That work?

Desperation. It had really made Vicki a fool. But even as she ignored the pit forming in her stomach, there was a glimmer of something in Wayne's eyes. Not the intensity that was there before, but more… amusement?

"You always did have a way with words, Ms. Vale. You used to work in Metropolis, right? I swear I've seen your old articles, lotta nice work there. How'd you end up here in Gotham?"

Vicki let out a huff, almost instinctively rolling her eyes.

"Tell you what, Mister Wayne. If I can get at least a few quotes from you, I'll gladly spill."

Wayne hummed, and Vicki was… unsure of what was going to happen next. Would he actually agree to this? Was she just quite literally about to get thrown out, along with the rest of her dying career?

"That sounds like a fair trade, but maybe I can offer something better. Listen, after this I'm heading to this gala. If you're willing, I'll gladly take you along. You get your interview, and I at least have some pleasant company. Seeing as how you've been so willing to try and talk, I might as well give you the benefit of the doubt. Sounds like a plan, Miss Vale?"

Vicki wasn't sure whether to laugh or slap him. Did he honestly think she was that desperate? She was in a tough spot, but it would never get that bad. Never. Instead, she let out an almost unladylike snort.

"You're aware if I do that, anything I write is null and void, right? Conflict of interest, and all that fun stuff. Maybe we can just start with a quote, and after that we can finally discuss a meeting. How's that for a plan, Mister Wayne?"

He chuckled, and now the amusement was clear as day. He reached into one pocket, pulling out the latest WayneTech Phone.

"In that case, Miss Vale, why don't I just get you a proper invitation to this gala? I'm sure there's a lot of people who'd like to speak to the Gazette." He offered her a wink.

Vicki smirked back at him. "I think we can work something out. But please, call me Vicki."

"I'd be delighted, Vicki. Please, call me Bruce."

Next Chapter: 26th December

Chapter Text

Halloween went… actually okay, in James’ opinion. It was just him meeting with Essen and the rest of his team, and honestly, it could have gone worse. Detective Flass was certainly a character. The exact sort that Essen had warned him about. The moment that he and James had met, there was already something off about the guy. 

The man was all smiles and good looks, the kind that James had seen in high school. The football stars that never grew up, always flying off their athletics and size. James had dealt with enough of these guys when he was in basic. It should have been a cakewalk to handle him.

But it was the eyes that had made him pause. He almost reminded James of the spooks, back when he had been deployed.

The type of people that would likely shoot you in the back if things got too heated, or always sniffed around for a way to get their promotion, maybe even get a new thousand dollar suit to top it all off. He could see why Essen wasn’t a fan of the man. 

It didn’t help that James spotted something before Essen had introduced him to the team. Loeb and Flass, talking to one another in hushed tones. No clue what the pair had said. But they had shaken hands. If Loeb was the slime that kept all the hands around here sticky, Arnold Flass was the one who kept up the appearances. 

Of course, this was just speculation. A part of James wanted to believe that not everyone he was meeting in Gotham would be a horrible or crooked person. Essen was proof of that. Maybe appearances could be deceiving. Maybe Flass was a decent man, under all the things that James had seen and heard. But that was too many ‘maybes’ for James to rely on faith alone. 

So as Halloween came and went, James wrote up a file on Flass, one he would keep at home. Just something to make notes out of. If he was wrong, that’d be the end of it. If he wasn’t… well, at least he had something to start off with.

Of course, settling into the unit was something that would take a bit. James, if anything, was adaptable at least. With Essen there to back him up, he was able to at least get a lay of the land. Understand just what they were likely dealing with, especially when it came to the ‘giant bat’. 

James still couldn’t believe it. A giant bat loose in Gotham, and one that was beating up criminals to boot! It was almost something out of a kid’s show, with how absurd that it was. Logically, there had to be an explanation for this. Sometimes, however, logic meant evidence. 

That’s what led James here, exploring yet another of the sites where something ‘dark and fast’ had swooped in, and beat a group of men into a nearly unrecognizable pulp. Of course, when records came back on just who the unknown had beaten, James was certainly more curious now than before. 

Alleged members of the Maroni Crime family. ‘Alleged’, meaning that they couldn’t get anything solid on these guys, not yet. James had done his homework, and he knew people like this were bound to show up. It wasn’t just the petty criminals this thing was going after, but also the big dogs.  

And here they were, trying to either rob or attack a business that ‘might’ have been related to one of their rivals. Of course, no one saw anything. Nothing that would have stood out. That was just how things were. But even then, there were still clues. Bits and pieces of small things that anyone else would have missed, if they weren’t looking, at least. 

Waving around a flashlight, something had finally caught James’ eyes. In one corner, near where the men had been found, the ground looked damaged. He frowned, moving to one knee to inspect it further.

After making sure to put on disposable gloves — because this could have been evidence, of course, but also because this was Gotham and James didn’t want to take any risks — he ran his hand across the blackened areas of concrete. Bringing up one finger, he frowned upon seeing the stain. It looked like soot. Bringing it closer to his face, James waved his other hand closer, trying to get an idea of the fumes. He almost flinched back as soon as they struck his nose, internally cursing. 

Sulfur. James had only really smelled it back when he was deployed. Really, they were only ever used for one thing, in his experience. Smoke grenades. It hadn’t been just a random occurrence, back at the bank, or a fire in the chaos, like one squad member had suggested. Whatever, or more than likely now whoever this was, they were using smoke grenades. 

Standing up, James waved over one of the CSI members, who was checking over something or another. 

“Get a sample of this stuff. I wanna see what this is. Put a rush order in if you have to.” James ordered. The man didn’t hesitate, already bringing out a small sample bag. Walking over, he could see Essen moving over to intercept him. The look on her face spelled trouble. Or annoyance. James couldn’t help but pity the fool that had gained her ire. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised, but there are no witnesses. Aside from the people that were attacked, it seems everyone’s either gone blind or deaf. You able to find anything?”

James nodded back towards where he had spotted the residue. 

“Found some damage on the concrete. Seems whatever did it caused a bang. Smelled like sulfur.”

“Sulfur? Wait a sec…”

Essen reached into one pocket, bringing out a notepad she had been scribbling in earlier. She was old school like that. Jim was too, and he could respect it. 

“The only one conscious did mention a black cloud. It could have just been a figment of their imagination but if they smelled sulfur that would mean… Wait . You’re kidding me,” Essen blinked, then let out a short chuckle as she glanced back in the direction James had pointed towards. “You’re telling me that our giant bat was using smoke grenades?”

“Seems to be. And it might not be the only one. Let’s try and focus our search. I’m thinking…” James paused, pointing over to one section by them. “Head ten feet that way. I’ve got a hunch here. If I’m right, there’s something we can add to this.” 

Essen looked at James for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then she smirked. 

“Knew having you around would make a difference. Alright Jim. Let’s see if your idea holds up.”

With that, she marched off in the direction James had pointed out. He was about to start following her, only to pause. Something gnawed at the back of his mind, something he was clearly missing. He brought out his own notepad, checking over details from the last time this thing…  person had been out. 

The bank crew hadn’t had much luck in spotting their attacker. Same with the mugger who had gotten dragged away. But the family? They, even the kid, had noted that the ‘giant bat’ had in their own words ‘swooped in’. 

Swooped. Almost as if…

His brow furrowed, James slowly looked up. 

“Son of a bitch. He’s using the rooftops.”

It was a leap, that much was for sure, and it had taken some convincing to actually get their captain to let James get up here, and god if he wasn’t already regretting that decision. 

James hated heights. Sure he could manage on a plane, or when he was inside a tall building, but actually looking over a rooftop, checking out if his hunch held any merit.

He bit back a curse as he made the mistake of glancing over the side. Yep, that was regret, alright. But he still had a job to do. 

James forced his gaze away from the edge, back onto the rooftop itself. He brought out his flashlight, glancing around to see if there were any indications about his theory. So after much reluctance, he slowly moved forward, finding the spot above where the men had been attacked. 

He was cold now. Christ, had it been snowing already? November had just gotten here. 

He stopped right before the edge, shining his flashlight down. There it was . 

Footprints. Not his, given that they had come running in from the exact opposite direction that James had entered the rooftop, from where the entrance was. Whoever this was, they had likely gotten here from yet another rooftop. 

Then they reappeared, and following them revealed the perpetrator had likely jumped off of this rooftop as well. Grabbing his radio, James couldn’t hide the satisfied grin on his face. 

“Essen. We’re gonna need more of the CSI team up here. I got something, and I don’t want to risk contamination while it’s still fresh.” Even as he said this, James was snapping what pictures he could.

“Belay that order, Essen. You and Gordon need to get back to the station.”

That wasn’t their captain. It was the commissioner. James frowned, his gut screaming at him that something was wrong. 

“Sir, we’ve got at least something to follow up on, we should at least-”

“ Now , Gordon. You’re wanted back at the station right now. It seems your ‘giant bat’ has struck again. Except this time, he’s attacked one of our own.”

James blinked, glancing down at his radio.

“Can you repeat that, sir?”

“You heard me, Gordon. He’s hit one of us. I want you to get to Gotham General. Grogan should be able to tell you everything you need to know.

James hadn’t actually been to Gotham General since he had gotten back. The last time he had actually done so was back when he had shipped out. But now that he was back, James was surprised to see it was still in decent enough condition. 

The rest of the city was going to hell, sure, but at least their hospitals were alright. It was better than nothing, in times like these. 

He and Essen were marching down the hallways, having been directed to Grogan’s room. It was still hard to wrap his head around this. At least he had someone to give him some context here.

“Didn’t meet Grogan yet. What’s his deal?”

Essen snorted, rolling her eyes at the question. 

“Ed Grogan’s a sleaze ball at the best of times. Likes to hang around all the clubs, talk to all the workin’ girls. Supposedly that’s how he gets his informants, but I’m not too sure. I do know that he’s on the take, though. Always pocketing extra money when he thinks no one’s looking,” she muttered, glancing around for a moment. “And that’s not even including the ‘evidence’ he has to take when he’s undercover.’

“That bad, huh? Isn’t he Flass’ partner?”

“Yep. They’re always attached at the hip when they’re not on their own, always bragging about how much great work they do. You’ll forgive me if I don’t find his approval worth anything.”

“No kidding. Even if you hate his guts, let’s try and be civil. Could be helpful to see what he’s got.”

Essen glanced at him, giving a bitter chuckle before offering a shrug. It was as good as anything that James would get out of her. The rest of the walk was in silence, at least until they made it to Grogan’s room. After they greeted the officer placed at the door, they walked in. But neither of them could contain their shock.

“Christ alive.”

“Holy shit.”

The pair of them had gone over the dozen or more people that this thing had gotten a hold of. They had seen lots of whoever this was, what they were capable of. But it still didn’t prepare James for the fact that Grogan looked like absolute hell . 

One of his arms was in a cast, the same with one leg. His nose had been broken, and swelling was still going down. One eye was swollen shut, and Grogan had a neck-brace. His other eye was wide open, and it was constantly darting around the room. It snapped to the doorway where Essen and James stood, and Grogan flinched at their gaze. 

“Easy there, Grogan. Just us.” Essen said, walking forward. James followed her inside, giving the man a nod, fishing out his notepad. 

“Ed Grogan. I’m James Gordon. I’d hope we’d be meeting under more pleasant circumstances. But we might as well get this over with quick. Can you tell us anything that happened?” James asked, approaching one side of the bed. Essen loomed on the other, her arms crossed as she stared at Grogan. 

“… Why are you here?” His gaze went to a darkened corner of the room, almost like he was expecting the shadows to attack him. 

James blinked at the question. He turned to Essen, who shrugged back at him. Glancing back to Grogan, he could only shake his head. The man was terrified. That much was evident. But they couldn’t work on fear. James decided it was best to just get the man to focus, maybe that would get him out of this. 

“I’m investigating our mystery man. Seems he got to you pretty bad, huh?” Grogan’s one eye glared back at James, but it was clear that it was more bark than bite. He sniffled once, his face scrunching, before the fear came back.

“Not a he. It . That thing… it ain’t human.” 

“Maybe he is. That’s our job to figure out.” James noted, raising an eyebrow. They’d spooked Grogan, like all the others. Essen rolled her eyes, poking at Grogan’s good arm. 

“Come on Grogan. Eyes on us here. You wanna make sure it doesn’t come after you? Maybe you can let us know what happened.” She told him, getting a nod from James. Grogan looked between the pair, his eyes darting towards the exit for a moment. He swallowed, taking a deep breath. 

“Well. I already made my report. Why do I gotta say it again?”

“We just wanna get the facts straight. Report’s one thing Grogan, but you telling us? Might help you remember something.” James said, offering the man a shrug. “Just try not to exaggerate, and we can get out of your hair.”

“Fine, fine. Like I mentioned in my report, I’d gotten a tip about a drop off. Coke. A small bust, but figured it could lead to a dealer. I was in the middle of apprehending some of the suspects. And then…” Grogan let out a cough, looking both sheepish and defiant at the same time, looking between Gordon and Essen, almost daring them to challenge his next statement. He sniffled again, rubbing his nose. 

“And then, uh , I heard giant wings flapping. It flew down from the sky. The wingspan was probably about thirty feet across. One of the suspects I hadn’t been able to disarm drew a pistol.” The look in Grogan’s eyes grew distant, as if he was back there. 

“The suspect fired. Point-blank at the thing. The bullet just… bounced right off it. Didn’t even faze it. Then the thing just started… laughing. A few more gang members charged forward, some of them had weapons. Then something flew from that thing’s hand. It looked like claws. ”

Essen’s face looked as if it was carved from stone, but James knew that she was more amused than anything else. A part of James wanted to think that this was all theatrics, tricks of the light. But the look in Grogan’s eyes? It said a lot, even as he was scribbling down more notes. 

“Claws? You sure?” James asked, eyebrow still raised. Grogan scowled, looking away from the pair. 

“Maybe it wasn’t claws. But there were these dart… things. The suspects with guns dropped down as soon as the darts struck. Whatever it was, it paralyzed them. But it practically ignored them. Pounced on me.” Grogan’s good eye was still distant, even as one arm began to shake. 

“I tried to fight back. Raised my gun. But the thing got in close first. I couldn’t even explain I was a cop, it just wailed on me. Next thing I know, I’m waking up here.” He finally said, letting out a shaky sigh. He looked back at James and Essen, his body still shaking. 

“We done here?” 

James nodded, putting away his notepad. 

“We’re done here. Come on, Essen, let’s give the man some space.” He said, gesturing towards the door. Essen nodded, and she moved to exit. “Grogan. Get better soon. Call us if you remember anything else.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll try.” Grogan told him, sniffling one last time. 

With that said and done, James found himself leaving the room as well. Essen was waiting for him, leaning against a wall. 

“So. Whadda think?”

“I think that whatever Grogan saw, he believes it.” James said, shrugging as he marched forward. 

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Essen said, following him along. “… You know now that I think about it, Grogan ain’t the first cop that’s been injured in recent memory. Usually when we deal with an officer down, it’s a body bag. Lotta the guys just say they fell, or had accidents. Pretty sure Grogan’s the first one to admit he got attacked.”

“Hm. No kidding? If that’s the case… Think he was doing what he said?” James asked, pressing a button to call the elevator. 

“Nope. I heard he was having some problems, but this probably confirmed it. You heard the way he was sniffling?”

“I figured it was allergies, but you’re telling me otherwise, right?” He shot back, causing Essen to chuckle. 

“I’m thinking if we checked over his clothes, if they hadn’t been washed yet, that he was probably covered in the stuff. Five bucks says he was there for a deal. If we look back at the other officers that reported injuries… we might find a pattern. I’m thinking that this thing’s cleaning house.”

“Hm. Maybe you’re right.” James said, hearing the elevator door opening. He stepped in, Essen following. 

“Wanna head back to the station? Gonna have to look through all the flies.” Essen asked, chuckling as she hit a button.

“Great. More paperwork. Still take your coffee with one cream? Figured we’re gonna need it.”

“You’re telling me, Jim. Least we got something to work off of.”

James let out a tired sigh, realizing that the night had only begun.

Next Chapter: 9th January

Chapter Text

There were few things that gave Alfred hope, nowadays. However, this week had certainly marked an improvement from the previous. The haunted house was a smashing success. People from all over were able to come and enjoy the festivities, and, for once in so many years, Wayne Manor felt more alive than ever. However, what really had gotten Alfred’s spirits up was the newspaper before him.

Bruce Wayne: The Man Behind the Money

By Vicki Vale

The article in question had been written by a rather… committed reporter who had evidently taken quite some time to get an interview with Bruce, from what Alfred had been told. It was enough that she had apparently managed to sneak onto the property, using the haunted house as a means to get a quote from Bruce himself. 

Alfred wasn’t sure whether to be impressed with her ingenuity, or aghast at the fact that the haunted house had been used in such a way. Of course the cameras had caught her, and someone was already moving to intercept the intrepid Miss Vale, but Bruce had found her first, and charmed her away from anything truly dangerous. 

He did have to give credit where it was due. For a woman who had been essentially blacklisted from most if not all sources of the press, to get back on her feet so quickly was something to commend. That is, even if she did tell some tall tales in order to get a few words from Bruce. 

While it certainly was not the way that Alfred would have gotten an interview to the world at large, at least it was progress . Bruce had been spending far too much time with his nightly activities, and not enough time with the company that his parents had fought so much for. Martha had committed enough blood, sweat and tears from her clinics, and Thomas? God, Thomas had done wonders in pushing the company, and the city into a better tomorrow. A brighter tomorrow. But that was gone now, leaving only a husk in it’s place. 

Even if Bruce did not want to admit it, the Wayne name and legacy was here with him, and Alfred would be damned if he was going to let that foolish boy get himself killed. So here Alfred was, sitting in front of a massive computer monitor, keeping an eye on the foolish boy in question getting into yet another patrol. 

A small part of Alfred — much to his shame — was honestly impressed with how Bruce carried himself, underneath the mask that he had put on, each and every night. The feats of acrobatics and strength that he had slowly been managing to accomplish almost reminded Alfred of his younger years, back when he was in the Circus, or as most people had known it, MI6. And ‘circus’ was an apt comparison, considering the ways that Bruce was leaping and throwing himself, or the theatrics that he managed to conjure up to scare the people he fought against. 

Alfred found himself frowning as the images in front of him shifted, showing Bruce taking on yet another group of ruffians. Lucius Fox was a man of many talents, and designing a camera that could be fit over a person’s eyes and capturing a real time image was nothing short of remarkable. 

In this instance, however, Alfred found himself seeing the world through Bruce’s eyes, and all he was seeing was rage . Sheer, and utter fury. More akin to hellfire than anything else, especially in the instances where Bruce lingered, putting a bit more force into his blows than what was likely needed. 

The man that Bruce was staring down at was a great example of that. Red hair, dressed in a sensible long coat, and armed with a pistol. He was in the middle of a drug deal, and had taken a shot at Bruce, when he had chosen to intervene. 

Instead of trying to move out of the way of the bullet like any reasonable man, Bruce merely decided to laugh and let the bullet hit him in the chest. Then he proceeded to beat the man senseless, ignoring all the other people for a moment. What had followed was a beating that almost reminded Alfred of how certain prisoners of war looked after a few hours of ‘interrogation’. 

As Bruce had finally moved to focus on the rest of the group, Alfred had taken it upon himself to see if the first man was on any of the files that Bruce had been slowly building up. His face was certainly familiar enough to Alfred, and that could mean something, even as he leaned forward to look through a series of folders stacked to the side. 

Two years of hard labor and investigation, but it was clear in Bruce’s mind that his work was barely beginning. Alfred made a small sound of recognition upon finding the file he was searching for. 

Detective Edward Grogan. He had been in the Gotham City Police Department for a number of years, and spent quite a long time undercover. That, it seems, was responsible for the substance abuse that the man was suffering from, based on the numerous photos that Bruce had clearly been able to acquire. 

Several notes were scrawled alongside the file itself, which listed both a detailed look into Grogan’s life, and a list of accomplishments that the man had acquired. If anything, Alfred’s frown deepened upon reading what Bruce had figured out. 

Grogan’s addiction is only getting worse. What money he isn’t spending on his next high is going into barely keeping him alive. The only real constant in his life is Detective Arnold Flass, but that’s changing. His addiction is slowly turning into obsession, and it’s going to be his undoing.

It was cold, calculating and methodical. It also reminded Alfred of a certain someone else, the more he kept reading. Letting out a tired sigh, Alfred found himself looking back up at the computer screen. What a shame, he really hadn’t wanted to start an argument tonight.

Alfred had to admit that the waiting was the worst part, when it came to handling Bruce’s nightly occurrences. Every night, unsure if his ward was going to come back or not. Every night, waiting to see if the camera feed he kept watching would suddenly turn off because someone had finally gotten a lucky hit. 

The pit forming in Alfred’s stomach vanished as the roar of that ghastly beast that Bruce called a car drove into the cave. It rumbled to a halt, the black armor coating the car in question fresh with new scorch marks. 

Bruce exited the car, and Alfred could only stare at him for a moment. It was so hard to recognize the man in front of him. Each and every time he tried to find the boy he helped raise, but now Alfred could only see the urban legend that was taking Gotham by storm. 

Black armor that almost seemed to swallow the light when Bruce moved, segmented and bulletproof in all the places that mattered. A long black cape, that certainly added to the frightful nature of Bruce’s current attire. But it was the face that honestly unnerved Alfred the most. Fully covering his face was a black, unfeeling mask that turned his eyes into mere pinpricks. Dried blood covered the gauntlets he wore, remnants of his newest outing. 

It was as if a dark wraith had taken form, and was hellbent on wrecking as much fury as it could manage. 

“Good evening, Master Bruce. Eventful night?” Alfred asked, waiting to see just how Bruce would react to the question. 

Bruce said nothing, not as he stomped forward towards the computer Alfred had spent the better half of a night in front of. Pausing for a moment, Bruce took off his mask and set it aside, before practically collapsing in a nearby seat.

“Fine, Alfred.”

“Oh, is that so? Well that’s delightful to hear. The same as always then?” Alfred asked, doing his best to keep the dull surprise out of his voice as he walked forward. Bruce let out a short grunt, and instead began to take off the upper half of his suit. 

Taking a moment to get a bottle of water, Alfred placed it beside Bruce, not saying anything as the younger man kept removing pieces of armor. As he reached over for something and winced, Alfred reached for a nearby medical kit. 

Already bruises were forming, next to the ones that should have been healing at this point. However, aside from those, it seemed that Bruce had managed to sustain a few cuts on patrol. Those would likely be the worst things to worry about, and so Alfred got to work. Fishing out a bottle of antiseptic, he quickly began to clean off the wounds. Bruce barely flinched, having taken time to finally remove his gauntlets, and the large belt full of gadgets at his waist.

Neither said anything for a moment, with Bruce taking small sips of water and Alfred finishing his work of cleaning off the wound. When that was sorted out, and as Alfred reached for the sterile sewing kit, he decided it was finally time to discuss the elephant in the room. 

“So, Master Bruce,” Alfred finally said, his hands unflinching as he began to apply some stitches. “You’re targeting the police now? Seems like a leap from the usual ruffians.”

Bruce turned, giving Alfred a short glance. “Detective Grogan happened to be in the line of fire, Alfred. I wouldn’t call it targeting.” 

Alfred only raised an eyebrow, having finished stitching up the first cut. “The beating you gave him convinced me otherwise, sir. What changed, if I might ask?”

“... He’s the first one I found that was blatantly getting a bribe from criminals. He’s the first link. I get to him, I might get to the others. Make them scared. Desperate.”

The reasoning was admittedly sound. But there was more to it, there always was. 

“Considering the files I found, I would have figured you had enough evidence to get them taken off the streets, though. Why not send it anonymously?”

Bruce gave a short grunt. Those were becoming a large part of his vocabulary, it seemed.

“Grogan’s just one detective. The others I have files on are beat cops. I need more, Alfred, before I can make my move. I think the Commissioner's dirty. Maybe even some of the captains. If I hit them now, it’s only stopping a small leak. All the evidence I’ve gathered would get thrown out, if the wrong people are still in power. If I take my time, it gives them more chances to slip up. Until then? I just make sure they can’t get back on the streets.”

“Sir. While I do compliment taking initiative… This is going to be met with force. Escalation on the police’s side of things, especially once they notice that you’re going after them. You’ll be made a priority target in return. You know that, right?”

Bruce nodded, barely. Alfred began to attend to his other cut while they spoke. “I know. It seems they’ve already got a group dedicated to tracking me down. It’s been led by a newcomer. Detective James Gordon. He’s an interesting case.”

Alfred let out a short hum, nodding along at Bruce’s statement. Internally, he couldn’t help but sigh. Bruce couldn’t see that this sort of attention was the worst case scenario. He shouldn't have to have expected this. It shouldn’t have gotten this far. 

“Interesting, you say? Why?”

“He’s got a clean record. Seems to have transferred over from Chicago after uncovering some corruption on his end. So he stands out, compared to half of the GCPD. I’ll have to find out more, but he’s someone to make a note about.” 

“If you say so, sir.” Alfred said, letting out a short sigh as he pulled away. “I would recommend not pushing yourself, considering the work I put into those stitches, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to tear them anyway,” he blandly said, wiping off his hands.

Bruce let out a bitter chuckle. “I’ll try my best, Alfred.”

“I just want to reiterate, perhaps some caution next time? I understand that you want to get to the bottom of this, but you’re only one man. Everyone has their limits.”

Bruce turned to face Alfred, sighing. “Maybe. But I haven’t found mine yet. I’ll be careful, Alfred, but I still have to try.”

“It’s all I ask of you, sir.” Alfred told him, shrugging as he turned around. Bruce marched towards the computer, and it took all Alfred had to not roll his eyes. “I would recommend you getting some rest. Your dinner’s already in the oven. I’ll set it to warm. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course, sir. Always.”

Next Chapter: 23rd January

Chapter Text

Vicki was stewing in her new office. Well, 'office' was something of a stretch. It was basically more of a supply closet that Monroe cleared out, shoved a tiny desk in, and gave to her as a 'reward' for her 'initiative'. She almost scoffed at the words, not for the first time considering murder. Unfortunately, it was still illegal, especially in front of witnesses. That and, sadly, Monroe was still paying her bills.

Damn it! This should have been it! She had done what was, by all accounts, impossible. An interview with Bruce Wayne! That should have given her something, anything really! A bit more recognition, a chance to maybe climb the ranks towards the Gazette.

But no. Monroe had taken it upon himself to get credit for the article. Sure it had her name plastered on it, but he was already strutting around, telling everyone that he was smart enough to get Vicki into that damn Wayne Haunted House.

Of course, given that Vicki was so gracious to cover the event in the first place, Monroe was 'nice' enough to give her a meager raise, telling her to 'keep up the good work'.

Good work. Good work?! You would tell someone that when they found a spelling issue right before a paper was going to be sent to print. You'd tell a person that when they brought in a box of cheap donuts for people to enjoy, not when a supposed rookie had managed to get her hands on Gotham's Prodigal Son and get a quote from him!

And instead of trying to use the actual damn interview like she wanted to do, he just brushed that off and had Vicki writing that stupid puff piece article. Something to get the readers of this damn magazine invested. Even then, that should have meant more for her. But what did she get? Nothing but a little pat on the back from a slimy little—

Taking a deep breath, Vicki tried once again to cool herself off. She couldn't afford to get angry at Monroe. Not when she was barely getting back on her feet. Sure, she could maybe complain, but there was one good thing that came out of all this.

She still had the notes. The actual interview that she had conducted. Not the barely usable drivel that she had snagged at the manor, but the actual, good questions that Vicki had snagged when the pair had arrived at the Gala.

Sure, the rest of Gotham's elite were honestly easy pickings when push came to shove, and it was easy enough to see how they ticked. She had dealt with the type before, and honestly some of the people that Wayne had directed her way certainly opened the door to some potential sponsors.

But Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor? The man who no one had any real ideas about? His words were practically a gold mine. Of course, if there was one thing that Vicki had learned through all of this, she had to make sure that Wayne was telling the truth.

With nothing else but spite and her laptop, it was finally time to start fact checking her interview. Wayne might have certainly been all smiles and charms, but that didn't mean Vicki could trust him for this sort of thing. Hell, it probably meant she had to be extra careful making sure that whatever she could publish was actually verifiable.

He claimed to have left the city when he was fifteen, but stayed in the United States for a couple of years. Something about needing to get away from the city, trying to figure himself out. She couldn't exactly blame him, really. Witnessing your parents getting gunned down and staying in the city it happened wasn't exactly good for anyone's health, and it was probably his best bet to leave.

Honestly, any rich teenager would likely have made headlines, especially with what was basically an endless budget, but Wayne was different. Wherever he ended up going, he was able to stay out of the public eye, only appearing in the briefest of photographs, or small mentions of him being spotted, more often than not by trashy, headline seeking magazines. Almost like the one she was working for—focus. Vicki had to focus.

Regardless, she was almost impressed with the way he operated. Almost like a ghost. Out of sight, out of mind.

By the time he was seventeen, however, Wayne was traveling the world. Exactly like he claimed to have been doing. That was where things had gotten interesting. The first picture certainly made Vicki roll her eyes. Partying at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Because of course he was. But that wasn't the only time he was spotted.

It took some digging, but Vicki found Wayne appearing in the oddest of places. Museums, universities, libraries. But it didn't stop there. Throughout that year in particular, it almost seemed like Wayne was hopping from one European country to another.

England, where someone snagged a picture of him at Cambridge.

Italy, Venice especially, where he was spotted at an art museum.

Germany, where he was apparently listed as a wealthy investor for an engineering university, with records verifying he was there for a number of weeks.

At one point, he even ended up in Switzerland. That one wasn't surprising, if Vicki was being honest. As cliché as it was, rich people tended to go to Switzerland for its banking. She certainly had traced a number of people's accounts back in Metropolis, and it wouldn't shock Vicki if Wayne had one set up as well.

A pattern was slowly starting to form, however. Beneath all the partying and debauchery that Vicki had come to expect from a trust fund kid, Wayne clearly had something in mind. In all the headlines, there was the moron that was partying at the top of the Eiffel Tower. But away from them, when you had to do some actual digging, there was someone who was honestly using his money for something useful.

By the time he was twenty however, something had shifted. Or maybe his focus had changed. It certainly made Vicki pause, and she had to make sure she wasn't imagining things.

"Oh you've got to be kidding me."

At some point, Wayne had apparently found his way over to Asia. Whether it was for the culture or the food, Vicki couldn't be sure. What she was sure about however? The picture that she had found of Wayne waving around what was clearly an expensive samurai sword. He had the same dopey grin that she had first seen on his face, back at the restaurant. Acting like a fool with no care in the world. The people around him cheering and waving drinks.

A bit more digging, and Vicki finally was able to figure out what this was. Some sort of business party, with a theme surrounding samurai. The sword in question? A very good-looking foam replica. Glancing back at her notes, Wayne had mentioned meeting up with some business partners in Japan at one point.

From there it was certainly far more difficult to actually pin Wayne down in a single area for long. Small, apparent sightings on private yachts and planes, small mentions of him somehow ending back up in Europe again. And by twenty-five, he was back home, having flown in from England, back in Gotham.

Here, Vicki could certainly see that the man looked exhausted. All the pictures, the press swarming him. It was almost a miracle that people even knew that he was arriving, yet somehow it had happened. Everyone was lining up to see Gotham's lost billionaire, wanting to see what to expect. But no matter what people were asking him, Wayne remained silent, just waving everyone off and entering a car, speeding away.

After that, things were relatively silent. He would pop up for a board meeting or two throughout the year, but no one was able to really get in touch with the man. At least, that was until Vicki had struck gold on Halloween. But just because the public hadn't been able to see Bruce Wayne.. That didn't mean that his company wasn't the same way. Vicki was proud to say that an idea popped into her head. It was going to take some work. But first? She had to take an extended lunch break. Monroe owed her that much at least.

She had to admit, while most of Gotham City was dirty in a way that Vicki felt she had to shower every time she stepped outside, the buildings that Wayne owned were damn near spotless. They were sleek. More modern in comparison to Gotham's dark, uncanny architecture. Even the smog that was cascading above couldn't be smelt the moment she stepped into one of them.

Vicki was sitting in a café, munching on an overpriced muffin and sipping on an equally overpriced cup of coffee. This building in particular was one of the headquarters, thankfully only a twenty-minute walk from the Gazette. And while she was certainly taking the perks of getting a snack, her real reason for visiting?

WayneTech was certainly in the spirit for hosting things, because it seemed that a tech demo was opening up. All for the public to catch the latest in what the company had planned out. And while Vicki certainly wasn't the most technologically savvy person around, there was one thing that she had noticed in all her research.

The Wayne name had its fingers in almost all the pies that were in Gotham. Infrastructure, charity fundraising and homeless shelters, even advancing medical research. But the area that had really started booming once Bruce Wayne had returned to Gotham? The tech industry. Technology was slowly becoming more important in this day and age. Scratch that, it was important. And for some reason, Wayne wanted it to keep going.

So yeah, Vicki was curious. Hell, maybe if she was lucky she could snag a sample or two. Anything was better than nothing at this rate. Soon enough, she was walking through the building, following the crowds once more. For the moment she wasn't here as a reporter, because that would lead to a few questions she didn't want to answer. No, for now, she was just another face in the crowd, gawking at all the fancy gadgets that WayneTech was ready to throw out.

To be honest? It was sorta impressive. Vicki, more often than not, caught herself staring at the phones that were on display. Leagues above anything she had seen at Metropolis, and given the sort of tech that LexCorp had been throwing out when she was still able to get into those events, that was saying something.

"Geez. Wonder how much it'll cost to get my hands on some of this."

"You kidding? It's WayneTech. It'll probably cost an arm and a leg if we're lucky."

While Vicki was certainly impressed with what she was seeing, it was clear that some people were not. She kept walking around, trying to spot something, anything really that would have stood out. A story to tell, a piece of technology to check through. And then she passed by a monitor, showing several images. A woman's voice echoed across the now playing video.

"Welcome to the WayneTech Expo. To the left, you can take a look at some of the newest prototypes submitted by our hardworking scientists. From cell phones to laptops, to our new and top of the line medical technology."

Vicki found herself staring at one of the new smartwatches. It was honestly a nice design. Eye catching but simple. And judging by what they could do? She would have killed to have one of these on hand, but at this rate that wouldn't be likely.

"Here at WayneTech, we make it our mission to bridge the gap between a hopeful today and a better tomorrow. We're doing our part to make the city a safer, brighter place."

That would certainly be the day. A 'safer, brighter place'? Vicki certainly tried to hold back the scoff she felt as she poked around at some of the phones, trying to compare what made them all different.

Gotham was just… dirty. There was no other way to describe it. The air, the city, none of it felt safe, not even her crappy, rundown apartment. Compared to Metropolis, compared to anyone. And that wasn't even counting what the people did to one another. All the murders, the attacks, anything that might have convinced a person to just up and ditch the city.

Vicki was so caught up in her head that she hadn't realized she had wandered away from the technological show, and towards the pharmaceutical section. At least that's where she would have gone, had she not almost collided with an older woman. Quickly catching herself, Vicki silently cursed and stepped back.

"Christ, sorry about that, just stuck in my own thoughts a lot I swear…" she quickly said, her focus on the older woman, hoping that she hadn't fallen or tripped. Thankfully she hadn't, and had taken Vicki stumbling into her with relative stride.

"Oh please, it's alright. I know for a fact these things used to get a bit hectic. Granted, I haven't been to one of these in some time," the woman replied with a brief chuckle. Vicki, always the curious mind, glanced at her. The woman wore a fairly nice matching green shirt and skirt. Casual, but professional. She had a few wrinkles on her face, with salt and pepper grey. But something she had mentioned caught Vicki's ear. Familiarity. Maybe it was a thread to follow up on?

"Oh, you've used to come to these expos? When was the last time you showed up to one of those?"

The older woman let out a tired sigh, the look on her face showing… regret? Or maybe melancholy.

"God, the last time I was at one of these conventions… I think Thomas was running the company." She muttered, eyes wandering over towards the medical tech on display.

Thomas? Vicki's brain was running overtime now. Surely she didn't mean…

"Thomas Wayne? You knew him?"

"You could say that. His work with the Wayne Foundation helped fund my clinic. God… it really helped." The woman replied, trailing off for a moment before shaking her head. "Here I am reminiscing about a good man with a stranger. I'm sorry, I never caught your name."

"That's because I never gave it. I'm Vicki, and uh, sorry about running into you. Literally." She said, offering out a hand. The older woman took it, chuckling once more.

"Believe me, that's honestly the most polite greeting I've had in this city. A pleasure to meet you Vicki. I'm Leslie. I hope you don't mind my rambling, but these trips to Wayne buildings always bring up memories." Leslie said, glancing towards a podium.

"Oh please, it's no trouble at all. I'm actually new to the city, and I always just hear about anything that Wayne Enterprise offers." Vicki said, waving off Leslie's concerns. "Honestly this city is just…"

"Hell?" Leslie blandly asked, smirking at Vicki's own sheepish look.

"I wouldn't exactly go… that far."

"Dear, I was born and raised here. There's no need to sugar coat it. But I suppose if you are curious about the better parts of this city… well this is certainly the best place to start." Leslie said, gesturing off to the side. Her face faltered for a moment, as a picture of… Bruce Wayne appeared on a nearby monitor. He was all smiles and charms, clearly reading out some prepared speech for investors and interested people alive.

"... Goodness. He looks just like Thomas," she quietly muttered, one of her hands moving over her mouth. Vicki wasn't sure whether her joy or pity was winning out now. Joy because she had clearly found someone who would be a good source of info on Wayne. Pity because the poor woman looked absolutely devastated upon seeing him. Even if they had just met, the look certainly had elicited something from Vicki.

"I'm sorry um. Leslie, right? Are you alright?" Vicki gently asked.

Leslie was shaken from her stupor, and she sighed.

"Oh it's nothing. Just an old woman's regrets is all. But there's no place for that here," Leslie said, clearing her throat. Trying to move past what had just happened. Not that Vicki blamed her. "But you mentioned you were new to the city, right? Well. If you ever need any help, please don't hesitate to stop by. My clinic is open most days and nights, and you never know when it might come in handy," Leslie told her, offering Vicki a card. One that she definitely took, trying to not look desperate as she did so.

"Oh, really? Thanks. Here's to hoping I won't, but I do appreciate the offer," Vicki said, giving Leslie a weak chuckle.

"Here's to hoping. I'm going to grab some refreshments. It was nice meeting you, Vicki. Please, take care," Leslie said, before turning and walking off in another direction. It took a bit for Vicki to pointedly not notice the tears forming in one eye. Instead, her focus went down to the card, reading over

Doctor Leslie Thompkins, M.D

Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic

Park Row

Shaking her head, she quickly checked the time and cursed. Her lunch was almost up, and it was a decent walk away. As Vicki quickly marched out of the WayneTech building, she pocketed the card, already making notes about it and Leslie herself.

It was something. Better than something. But was Vicki really prepared to find out more about Wayne from a woman grieving? Vicki had always prided herself on sticking to her guns, maintaining morals in the face of everything thrown at her. Most of her was so sure of it, but a tiny part nagged at her. The angry, bitter portion that wanted to get something back from the world.

That part scared her.

Next Chapter: 6th February

Chapter Text

James didn't like taking days off. In fact, he often despised them. Yes, it meant that he could spend time with his family. But not working? Not being able to move around and get things done? In all honesty, James had always been like this, growing up. His time in the service had probably cemented that mindset, and it had always been something that he could rely on. Then Chicago happened. Years of work, credibility, informants. The kind of stuff any detective would kill for. All of it gone, in an instant.

Maybe that's why he was already up at 5 A.M., long before Barb and the kids were due to wake up. Even if it was his day off, it was better to be safe than sorry. So the first thing that James did wasn't to make himself a cup of coffee, nor was it to check on the morning paper. Instead, the first thing that James did was to disassemble and clean both his service pistol and his backup piece.

Barb had warned him, though. How the long nights weren't worth it. How they were making ends meet just fine. James knew it, she did too. But that wasn't why he would always be coming home late, to a quiet house and cold dinner waiting for him on the stove.

It was almost pathetic, how he used the excuse of 'overtime' to make up for the fact that he could just never sleep. Nor could he relax. James had tried to work on it, near the end. But Chicago had gotten to him when his guard was down, and now it was as if his senses were in overdrive. He couldn't take a break, not now. Not again.

Especially since it was clear that in Gotham, letting your guard down meant either getting killed, or getting discredited. James couldn't afford to do either. Not with his kids' lives at stake.

Gotham PD wasn't exactly one for 'regulations', James had come to learn. They didn't care if cops went home with their guns, nor did they bother about paperwork for the 'off duty incidents' as James kept hearing about, at least the ones that people actually reported. That was the scary part.

There were always small 'incidents' that some cops liked to brag about. Whether it be the common beat cop, or the detectives that James hadn't gotten a chance to formally introduce himself to, someone always had a story to share.

They were nearly mugged, or they just so happened to come across a drug dealer making a score, and had managed to put the criminal away before things got worse. Always with a wink and a smile. Seems anyone could get away with it, especially when they were probably lining their pockets with ill-gotten gains, or making connections to keep themselves afloat when push came to shove.

James couldn't really name names, not when his job was barely hanging on by threads themselves. Between Loeb keeping a close eye on him, and the team's own misses when it came to this 'Bat' person, things were starting to wear a little thin.

Christ, the sun barely starting to rise and James was already wanting to just fall back into bed. But needs came before wants, sometimes. James would reassemble his guns, put one of them back in his safe, and go into the kitchen.

He didn't exactly need coffee to function. Sometimes the nerves kept him up more than anything. But considering Barb was the one corralling a scarily intelligent thirteen-year-old, and a very needy one-year-old, James was sure that she would appreciate a fresh pot. It wasn't long until the smell of cheap coffee was in the air.

He let out a short grunt, realizing that now was as good a time as any to get that paper.

Putting on his robe, he quickly stashed his backup piece just in case, and moved over towards the front door. Their home wasn't as big as their old property, but selling that place, and a bit of help from his brother, had made things a tad easier on his family. Even with all the bad, there was maybe a bit of good to come out of coming back to this hellhole of a city.

James slowly took a step outside, coffee mug in hand, as he looked around. The sun was barely peeking out over the skyscrapers that towered over their home. James let out a quiet sigh, basking in the morning for a moment.

He was still getting used to the city, and it probably showed. Compared to other places, Gotham was just… different. More back alleys than people could count, dark and foreboding structures that had withstood the test of time. Even in newer regions like the one they lived in, James was always aware that there was a chance of things going south. Maybe that was his pessimism speaking, or just his overall experience. Either or, it didn't really matter.

Picking up the paper, something caught James' eye. A magazine, one probably from the other day, had found itself stashed to the side. The kind of tabloid that Barb liked to read and gush about sometimes, even if James didn't care for it. Deciding it would be a good addition to breakfast, he quickly picked up the magazine and went back inside, locking the door behind him.

Tossing the papers onto the table, James checked his watch. Breakfast time. The girls were going to be up soon, and it wouldn't hurt to give them a treat. James quickly got to work, cracking open a few eggs and setting some bacon on a pan. Soon enough, the smell of coffee was replaced with a more enticing bacon and eggs, with a few waffles for Babs to enjoy on the side.

His wife was the first one to stumble into the kitchen, hair frazzled and eyes half open. Not that James blamed her. His son was more of a night owl than her, and even when he could help, he only wanted to be with her. She leaned against James, planting a small kiss on his cheek.

"Morning. Thought today was your day off. Wasn't I supposed to make breakfast?"

"Wanted to get an early start. Pot's fresh." James replied, grinning back at her. She laughed, a quiet rumble, as she leaned against him for another moment. Barb sighed in relief and slowly moved towards said pot.

Babs soon followed her mother, loudly yawning as she stomped into the kitchen. Her own bed hair was probably worse than her mothers, and what looked like the parietal imprint of a book on her cheek. James could only chuckle, quickly pouring Babs a glass of orange juice. He had no real clue where she got her reading and knowledge from, but it certainly wasn't him.

He and Barb certainly weren't stupid, by any means, but Babs was on a whole other level sometimes. The girl could go on and on about one thing or another, be it her homework, that laptop that they had gotten her, or the law books that she was just breezing through. Anything that she could name, she could talk about. Already, James could see she had a bright future ahead of her. Far brighter than where James was heading, at the very least.

But for the moment, he wouldn't bring his own mood down. Placing the glass of orange juice in front of Babs, James playfully ruffled her hair and laid a quick kiss on her forehead.

"Hey kiddo. Got some rest, I hope. Didn't spend all night reading your books again, did ya?"

"Course I didn't. I fell asleep while reading one." She muttered, half lidded eyes looking up at him behind smeared glasses. James chuckled, fishing out his own cloth and placing it in front of Babs.

"Wipe your glasses off and drink your juice. I'll bring you breakfast right now." He told her, getting a short grunt in response. Morning people, the Gordon women were not. But breakfast certainly gave the two more life, even as James set the three of them up with plates.

He was halfway through some eggs and toast when he was about to spot the magazine that he had snagged, Barb already flicking through some of the pages. There was at least one headline that caught his eye, even if James preferred the Gotham Gazette over 'Picture News Magazine'.

Bruce Wayne: The Man Behind the Money

By Vicki Vale

On the cover was Gotham's prodigal son himself. He was waving to a camera, all smiles, charm, and a suit that would have made Loeb jealous. The man prided himself in his appearance, and Wayne, getting caught after hours at some gala, looked more put together than the portly commissioner. A part of James was actually impressed that someone had actually managed to snag an interview with Wayne.

The man was just as of a ghost as he had been, traveling the world, from what James was able to put together. It was impressive, but also surprising. Only a few people had been able to get good pictures of him over the years, rarer so when he had returned home. But the whims of rich people weren't really all that much of a concern to James, not when he had other, real problems to worry about.

However, just as James was about to take another sip of his coffee, he froze. Eyes wide, and he was very thankful that all he could do was curse internally. As Barb was still flipping through the magazine still, a single picture caught his eye. The headline? The same thing.

Giant Bat spotted in Gotham! What You Need to Know

They had done so well in keeping things under wraps, the squad. And now some tabloid magazine had gotten a hold of information that should have just been kept in the squad. James cleared his throat, setting his mug down.

"Barb, can I see that, really quick?" He asked, gesturing towards the magazine. She glanced at him, more awake now, at least.

"Oh, this? I thought this was just 'flashy garbage', as I seem to recall you saying." She shot back, grinning as she offered it to James.

"Maybe. But if they got to talk to Bruce Wayne, it probably has to be worth something, doesn't it?" James told her, chuckling as he rolled his eyes. She wasn't wrong by any means, but that wasn't a concern to him.

He did quickly glance through the article about Wayne. The name Vale rang some bells, but only barely. He knew she was a reporter of some kind, and to have her being stuck with some trashy magazine was a surprise to be sure. Just not the one that he had to be worried about.

The 'Giant Bat' was speculated to be making a nest somewhere in the city, having been spotted by both homeless people and normal folks alike, mostly by Cathedral Square.

"Uh huh. Maybe you should talk to that Jack Ryder fellow. Since it seems that's the article you're reading through." Babs told him, giggling as she took a sip of her drink.

James wasn't sure if now was as good a time as any to sigh and drop his head into his hands. But no, it wasn't. Not with Barb and Babs there to see his reaction. That and, honestly, he was supposed to not be working today. Rumors were just that. Rumors.

But damn it, he knew Cathedral Square. A place where anyone could go and try and find themselves. Either through seeking refuge, or through other means. A good place for anyone to work things out, or to hide. Granted, they hadn't actually confirmed any sightings in the area so they hadn't investigated it, but damn it if a magazine had gotten a lead while they hadn't… James could already hear folks laughing at his team.

Even when he was on a day off, work still found a way to get to James.

James hadn't spent a lot of time around his son, not at least when he started working. He knew it. Barb did too. That wouldn't do, not at this point in Junior's life. So James had decided, after much hesitation, to take his family on a walk.

All they had to do was drop Babs off at school, and then they could explore the city. As much of a hellhole that it could be at times, James was sure that with him to keep an eye on things it would be manageable. Would be. That and Barb wanted to get a look at his old stomping grounds, so of course they had to go.

The skyscrapers had seemingly gotten taller in the years gone by, the people they housed probably getting richer every month. The slums had somehow gotten worse, and James had made a great effort to get out of that area as quickly as he could manage. Not that he wanted to ignore it, but he couldn't take a chance with Barb and Junior.

Eventually, however, they did have to stop. Their car was starting to get low on gas, and James needed to stretch his legs. Eventually they found a good enough spot, and James pulled into one of the pumps.

"I'll be right back." He told Barb, exiting the car and heading towards the station.

As soon as he walked in, however, his gut was screaming at him that something was wrong, even as a dingy little bell indicated his entry.

The store was quiet. Maybe a bit too quiet. No generic music playing in the background, no people eating lunch, and a single cashier at the register, even though it was clear that they had two that were open. He slowly marched up, and another thought came in, one that he shouldn't have brushed off.

There wasn't a gas attendant outside.

By the time he had approached the register, James was already fishing out his wallet, counting out a few bills.

"Could I get twenty on pump five? Oh, and a pack of cigarettes, if you got 'em." James said, already ready to pay what he needed.

"Sorry-uh, sorry sir. The gas pumps aren't working. And the register's out. But you can take the smokes. They're on the house." The woman told him, even as he was ready to set a few bills on the counter.

He raised a single eyebrow, even as the young woman before him quickly fished out a pack and put it on the counter. Giving her a once over told James everything he needed to know. Eyes red and puffy, as if she had just finished crying. Her hands trembled, almost worryingly so. But the biggest thing? Even if her hair did a lot to hide it, a bruise was forming on the side of her head, with her eyes darting down every other moment. But he couldn't do anything, not without risking her, or god forbid Barb and Junior.

"Huh. Thanks, appreciate it." James told her, offering the woman a short nod. He snagged the cigarettes and pocketed them, and turned around. Just as he reached for the door, James turned around, opening his jacket pocket to reveal his badge.

Silently he raised one hand, and pointed down, beneath the counter. Slowly, he raised one finger to his eyes, and then pointed at himself. The woman had clearly understood what he was asking, and barely shook her head, glancing down again. James nodded, and turned around.

Without another word, James pushed the door open, letting the bell ring again, and moved towards a nearby shelf. Moving so that he was kneeling behind it, he quickly knelt down, bringing out his service pistol.

The sound of feet shuffling and scrambling filled the empty store. The woman whimpered, and a man's voice snarled out.

"Damn it, bitch, what took you so long? And why'd you let him walk without payin'? Coulda made this score better."

James peeked out from behind the counter, finally able to get a good look at the offender in question.

Messy clothes, ratty hair. Face pockmarked from what was probably lots of drug use. Most importantly? He had a gun, and he was waving it in the woman's face. The only saving grace was that his back was to him. That made this next part a bit easier.

"Now, get that damn lockbox open. I want everything, and maybe you and that dumbass who tried to be a hero can get out of this alive."

So there had been a gas attendant. Hopefully they were still alive, but James didn't have time to check if they were alright, not now. Slowly he moved out from behind the shelf. The man hadn't heard him, his attention focused on the woman as she fumbled and tried to open up a lockbox, hidden behind the counter, fresh tears on her face.

The two of them so focused on one another, that it took only a moment to bridge the gap between James and the man. He raised his pistol, jamming the barrel into the back of the robber's head. The man froze, his addled and frenzied speech cut off as cool metal was pressed against his skull.

"GCPD. Don't even think about it, pal. Drop the gun, and put your hands on your head."

James didn't want to think about what his tone was like, but threatening was probably the best way to deescalate the situation. The man began to stumble over his own words, throwing the gun he had to the side.

"Hey-hey man. It's cool. We're cool. I'm giving up. I am, I am." The man said, raising his hands to his head.

"On your knees. Now."

Luckily this man wasn't a fool. He had known when he was beaten, and had at least decided to keep things easy. As he went to his knees, James quickly brought out his handcuffs and began to read the man his rights.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you-"

James could only internally sigh, realizing that he would have to call this in, even as the woman had scurried over to a nearby phone. He could feel Barb's eyes on him, and glancing over to her direction showed that she had seen the whole thing.

So much for his day off.

Next Chapter: 20th February

Chapter Text

There were often times when Alfred would consider just how he had gotten to this point. A part of him knew it was out of loyalty to Thomas and Martha, yes. But now things were starting to get ridiculous.

Bruce had finally returned home from another of his 'evening ventures', wearing that dreadful armor. Instead of immediately moving over to tend to his injuries, like a sane individual, he marched towards where he had countless digital and physical files alike. At the very least, he wasn't covered in blood like some of his other nights. A small mercy, if Alfred could believe it.

"Eventful night, sir?" Alfred called out, marching over with a bottle of water in one hand, and a mug of freshly brewed coffee in the other. Bruce let out a short grunt in the affirmative, taking a moment to tear off his cowl.

"You could say that. Something just occurred to me that I should have planned out before." He responded, frowning as he looked over a few schematics. His eyes darted towards both items that Alfred had offered him, and he quickly snatched the mug, giving Alfred a short nod of thanks as he did so.

Glancing over at one of the sheets of paper that Bruce had been able to dig up, Alfred frowned and tilted his head.

"The old clocktower, sir?" Alfred asked, glancing back over at Bruce. He was scribbling in one of his journals, countless ideas that often came to him upon his return home. Alfred had seen it a number of times, in his prior service. Right after a mission, some of the people he had worked with would often find themselves imagining so many other scenarios, of how they could have done things differently.

It wasn't healthy in the slightest, none of this truly was. But perhaps any self reflection was better than none.

Bruce mumbled something intelligible, scribbling another note down, before looking back over at Alfred.

"Just an idea, Alfred. I can always make it back here in one piece, but things are changing out there. The clocktower could give me an advantage. Better to coordinate longer term stings or stakeouts. Because if I can sort these out…"

Alfred let out a quiet sigh, unheard by Bruce, who was in the midst of pointing to the old schematics. Once more, something that Thomas had taken care of had been left to ruin, and once more his stubborn son was about to use it in his crusade.

If it wasn't an old car of Thomas' that Bruce had taken, or one of the old homeless shelters that had been turned into a makeshift garage. Alfred grimaced, realizing that he could at least see how the Clocktower could have its uses.

"If you want to make this into a good hideaway, you would have to consider a few other factors. Medical supplies for one. And there are the exits. Such as…"

God help him, Alfred was enabling this. He shouldn't be, but he was.

Thankfully, Bruce was only up for another hour, trying to find ways to better push his crusade. The clocktower would be turned into a makeshift vantage point, a place where Bruce could retreat if things had gotten too dangerous. Alfred did not approve of it whatsoever, but at least Bruce was trying to plan ahead. He was thinking of long term issues… even if his short term success felt like it was merely adding more fuel to the fire.

Bruce had his limits, and soon enough he retired to bed. Alfred quickly followed suit, and while it was more restless than he would care to admit, morning would soon come around.

He was in the process of putting the final touches on a nice, hearty breakfast for Bruce to enjoy when the phone rang. Not his cellular phone, but one of the countless landlines that the manor had under its name still. That was curious. Hardly anyone Alfred knew would have used the landline, so that made him pause his meal preparations. Quickly marching over, Alfred reached for the phone.

"Wayne Manor, Mister Pennyworth speaking."

"... Alfred?"

It took most of his composure to not drop the phone. It was a woman's voice. Alfred knew it well. It had been so long, but she was hard to forget.

"Leslie."

"My, it's good to hear your voice again. It's been so long, I wasn't sure if this number still worked."

"I made sure it did. Goodness, is everything alright?"

Leslie Thompkins. Alfred remembered her well. She and Thomas often spoke, at length, about ways to better Gotham. Her clinic, his works with the Wayne Foundation. The two of them had accomplished great things together, including advancements in medicine that had pushed Gotham ahead by years. In fact, she had turned into something of a regular at the Manor, enough that she had been trusted as Bruce's own doctor when Thomas couldn't be dragged away from meetings.

But then Thomas was killed, leaving Leslie to manage her clinics as best she could on her own. Alfred quickly shook himself out of his slump. Leslie hadn't spoken, and the silence was almost unbearable.

Finally, she spoke up. "Everything's fine. It's just… I'm back. In Gotham. I was hoping we could meet up, if that's possible."

Alfred mentally went over the plans for today. Bruce had decided to stay home and recover from his latest patrol. He wouldn't be leaving the house, and it could give him time to prepare some lunch.

"Of course we can. Are you still at the clinic? I could send a car over when you're free."

Leslie let out a quiet chuckle, and Alfred found a rare smile gracing his face.

"No need. I still have my car. I remember my way to the manor. Would noon be a good time?"

"That would be perfect. I look forward to seeing you, Leslie."

"Same to you, Alfred. Until then."

As she hung up the phone, Alfred found himself hurrying to finish Bruce's own breakfast. Noon would come up rather quickly, and it would be rude to leave Leslie waiting.

Bruce stumbled out of his bedroom, having taken another mug of coffee with him into one of the other studies. It seemed that his idea of actually reinforcing the Clocktower was something he wanted to consider.

It gave Alfred enough time to at least put together a nice array of sandwiches, pastries that he had on hand, an assortment of salad options to chose from, and some tea that he was able to scrounge up. Nor did it take him long to fix up one of the smaller unused dining rooms, given that hardly anyone ever visited the manor. There was no need to actually settle the main area for now, and for that he was grateful.

The doorbell rang, echoing across the manor. Alfred hurried on over to the front, tidying himself up for a moment before taking a deep breath. Opening the door, he found Leslie waiting. Clad in a respectable green shirt and blue skirt. A few more wrinkles graced her face, and her hair had just a small bit of grey, but it was still the same Leslie he had known so long ago. She smiled back at him, looking relieved.

"Good afternoon, Alfred."

He offered her a short bow, a small grin on his face.

"Good afternoon, Miss Thompkins. I must say, you look-"

"Older?" She blandly asked, crossing her arms. He could only chuckle, opening the door fully.

"I was going to say well. But I assure you, if anyone looks older it's myself."

"I know. And please, it's just Leslie. Even if it has been a while." She told him, taking a step inside. As Alfred shut the door and turned to face her, she put a hand on his shoulder. Leslie was frowning, almost studying his face.

"Something the matter, Leslie?"

"You seem tired, Alfred. Is everything okay?"

Alfred almost wanted to laugh. Leslie, ever the doctor. He shook his head, letting out a short sigh.

"Oh, nothing too important. At least, nothing that we can't discuss later. For now please. Follow me. I had the chance to set up a small area for us to have lunch." Alfred told her, gesturing for Leslie to follow as he marched towards said dining room.

They walked in silence for a bit, and while it was awkward, Alfred was able to tell Leslie was deep in thought. Until she broke the silence at least.

"The manor… it looks like nothing's changed."

"That would be my doing, admittedly. I didn't quite have the heart to change some of the furnishings." Alfred noted, eyes going to a particular set of drapes right in front of where Thomas' old study was. Martha had chosen them at one point, so that whenever he was done working late nights, he could remember she was right there with him. Alfred shook his head, taking a sharp right.

"Oh, I can understand why. I like it, makes things feel familiar. Even if…" Leslie trailed off, and Alfred paused for a moment.

"Even if things are still different, yes." Alfred told her, thankful that she couldn't see his face right now, due to the grim expression that he wore. Thankfully they reached the dining room, so they could at least sit down and relax now. Even as Alfred pulled out a chair for her, he spoke up once more.

"I wasn't quite sure what you would be in the mood for, so I made a few things. Please, feel free to eat what you want, and I can have what you don't eat be taken for later. Perhaps your clinic staff could take some." He told her, trying to at least regain some of the lost joviality.

"Oh that sounds wonderful, Alfred. And please don't worry, it smells divine, but I might take you up on that offer. My staff's been getting a bit overworked, and a home cooked meal could go a long way." She told him, already looking through the array of sandwiches and baked goods set out before her.

"Then I'll prepare you some bags to go later. Tea or water today?" Alfred asked her, already ready to reach for either glass.

"Tea's fine. I haven't had a good cup in a while." Leslie admitted, smiling as Alfred quickly poured her a glass. Once she was settled in, Alfred was able to take a seat across from her, and set up his own plate. Leslie let the tea cool for a moment, before taking a sip. Her eyes widened, and Alfred was proud to see that there was joy on her face.

"Darjeeling tea? It's been ages since I've had this. When on Earth did you…?"

"I have to admit, after the first few times you brought it around for Thomas to try, I took a liking to it. I did of course modify the flavors a few times, but I found this to be a favorite now." Alfred told her, taking a sip of his own drink. He internally winced, seeing the small glimpse of pain on Leslie's face at the mention of Thomas. Alfred could, however, try and recover.

"So, you've been quite busy, opening clinics all over. The last I heard you were in Africa. What brought you back?" He asked her. Leslie took another sip of tea for a moment, clutching the glass in her hands as she stayed in thought.

"Nigeria specifically. The food there's wonderful. As for why I'm here... I heard Bruce was back." She finally told him. Alfred's own demeanor changed, even as he reached for one of the small sandwiches he had prepared. Setting his own cup down, he could only nod.

"You're correct. Master Bruce did indeed return, at the beginning of the year, actually. I'm surprised you hadn't heard beforehand." Alfred said, taking the moment to snag a small scone.

"Honestly I was so swamped in work that I did hear about it, but just brushed it off. I didn't keep up much with Gotham headlines, I haven't for some time." Leslie told him, sighing as she took one of the offered sandwiches.

"... I saw him, you know. At least, I went to one of those expositions at a Wayne building. The kind Thomas used to throw. There was a recording of him. And…" Leslie sighed, pulling off her glasses. Alfred quickly brought out a handkerchief, offering it to her. She took it with a grateful nod, dabbing the corners of her eyes. "Thank you, Alfred. I saw him and he just… looks so much like Thomas. But also-"

"Different." Alfred finished for Leslie, getting a nod at his own statement. She wasn't wrong. In some ways, Bruce was the spitting image of his father. Confidence, charm, intelligence. Even if the latter wasn't something he quite advertised, people could still see it. The same sort of spark that Thomas Wayne had, just not being used to it's fullest potential.

But the similarities could only do so much. He was not Thomas Wayne. Alfred was sure that there would likely not be anyone like Thomas, even if some people had tried to emulate him.

"I assure you, Leslie. While Master Bruce may not look it now, he's trying. It just… takes time. He's still figuring himself out." Alfred told her, offering the briefest of shrugs.

"How is he, by the way? He hardly appears in public, and the only real thing I've seen of him was from one of those magazines that my clinic has in the waiting area. Is he eating enough? Is he taking care of himself?" Leslie asked, setting the handkerchief aside and taking a sip of her tea after he questions.

"He's…" Killing himself. Going to get himself crippled. Throwing himself into a meat grinder of hell and not wanting to stop. There were so many things that he wanted to say, that he wanted to tell her. But he couldn't. He promised Bruce. He wouldn't break that trust. Never. "He's taking care of himself. Though he does tend to get a bit reckless nowadays.

"Actually, I'm glad you were able to stop by." Alfred said, leaning forward. "I might be so bold as to ask a favor of you. Master Bruce has taken up… a number of activities to keep himself occupied, while trying to figure out Wayne Enterprises. But a few of those activities can be… quite dangerous." He continued, trying and failing to hold back a frown. Leslie clearly noticed that, and raised an eyebrow.

"And what sort of activities are we talking about here, Alfred?"

"Well for starters…" Getting into fights with armed individuals. Laughing in the face of danger. Trying to get himself shot. The list could have gone on. "He's taken to rock climbing, for one. And he's also become quite the fit man. I almost couldn't keep up with him in my prime. Sometimes he tends to push himself, a bit too harshly. I can manage smaller things, but I fear-"

"That even you have your limits, right?" Leslie asked, a ghost of a grin on her face now. "I remember how adventurous Bruce was when he was younger. I even remember the time Thomas mentioned how he fell through that old well outside, scraped himself up badly. If something does happen, you're both welcome at my clinic. Always."

Alfred wanted to let out a sigh of relief. Bruce had been taking more risks, and while he was trained, it did have its limitations. Perhaps now there could be a chance that Bruce wouldn't end up dead if he came home badly injured.

"Leslie, thank you. You don't know how much that means to me. But I only ask if this could be kept… under the table, so to speak. Given Master Bruce's reputation, I have no doubt many would flock to figure out just what he does in his spare time. The man deserves his privacy, after all."

"He does, I can't deny that. Of course, I'll keep it under wraps. I'll have to keep medical records, but those are confidential. You have my word." She said, fully offering a smile now. "Well, now that we've got that dreary business out of the way, maybe we can-" Leslie paused, glancing to the side. Alfred turned to follow her gaze, and noticed Bruce stumbling out of a nearby study. That was odd, Alfred was sure he was in another area of the manor.

Even as Leslie gave a quiet gasp, Alfred stood up to face him. There were a few marks on his face, cuts and bruises that were still healing, despite Alfred's best efforts.

"Good afternoon, Master Bruce. Was there anything you needed?" He asked, crossing his arms behind his back. Bruce opened his mouth to speak, only to glance over at Leslie, who by now had stood up as well, taking a spot beside Alfred.

"... Alfred. Uh. Hi. I wasn't aware we had a guest coming over."

"My apologies Master Bruce, you were asleep when Miss Thompkins called. She recently came back to the area and wanted to catch up." Alfred said, raising an eyebrow as he subtly nodded towards Leslie. Thomas and Martha hadn't raised a brute after all, not matter how much Bruce tended to act like one nowadays. Thankfully he took the hint, and walked over to Leslie, offering a hand.

"God, I'm sorry, where are my manners? Miss Thompkins. It's been a while, but it's still good to- Whatever Bruce was going to say was cut off by Leslie marching forward, pulling Bruce into a fierce hug. Alfred would have given money to keep the image of Bruce's confused face, but for now he would settle with instead smiling at the pair.

"Oh, it's Leslie, Bruce. None of that 'Miss' nonsense. It's always been Leslie." She told him, still keeping Bruce in a hug. Bruce looked over at Alfred, he could only shrug in response. Almost hesitantly, the poor man wrapped his own arms around Leslie, finally returning the hug. After a moment, the two separated. Leslie took a step back, clearing her throat and looking sheepish.

"I'm… I'm sorry you both had to see that. It's just been so long and-"

"... Leslie. You don't have to apologize. We um… we didn't part on the best of terms, the last time we spoke. I'm glad to see you though." Bruce admittedly, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. And what an understatement that was. Alfred could hear the argument from the other side of the manor, and it had ended with Bruce stomping out. That was the last time the pair had spoken before Bruce had taken off, across the world.

"He's right, Leslie. There's nothing to apologize for. Master Bruce? I took the liberty of making a small array of snacks for myself and Leslie, but it is lunchtime. I could head over to the kitchen and prepare a better meal, if you wish. And if she's willing to stay." Alfred said, glancing between the pair. The two of them glanced back at Alfred, then at each other.

"Oh I'm sure she's busy-"

"I wouldn't want to impose-"

The two of them had tried talking over one another, and Alfred could only grin.

"Nonsense. Leslie, your clinic can handle itself for a bit while you take a lunch, can't it?" Alfred asked, getting a nod from her. He turned over to Bruce, and did his best to not appear smug. "Master Bruce, if I remember correctly there was nothing important on today's agenda, was there?" As the younger man shook his head in the negative, Alfred could only nod.

"Then it's not an issue at all. Allow me to move these over to the other dining room. I'll get sorted on lunch, and the two of you can catch up properly." Alfred said, gesturing for the two of them to move on ahead. Bruce opened his mouth to speak, only to nod and offer his arm to Leslie.

"He's not wrong, it has been a while, Bruce. Goodness, you look exhausted. How are you doing?" He couldn't hear Bruce's own response, but chuckled. When Alfred moved over to pick up the arrangements, he couldn't help but smile.

Perhaps there was still some good left in this city. Leslie was back, and she could help him keep Bruce alive. Hopefully.

Next Chapter: 6th March

Chapter Text

It had only been a week after Vicki had encountered Doctor Leslie Thompkins that she had finally a chance to up her career, as dismal as it was. The good doctor was already a great source of insight into the Waynes as a whole, but Vicki wasn't about to just sit down and interview her about everything. Not yet at least, but meeting the woman for coffee every once in a while wouldn't hurt. Not that meant it could build up a nice rapport.

Monroe had received an invitation, and it was either her or that hack Jack Ryder that could have been used. Vicki was lucky that her 'status', that being the woman who got a story from Bruce Wayne, had gotten her chosen for this particular gig.

That's what got her into a cheap town car, riding down a dusty, run down road and heading right towards a formerly run down asylum that, by all accounts, should have stayed closed. But nope. Someone had the bright idea to reopen the damn place.

She stepped out of the car, seeing that a few other people had arrived at the same time as her. Reporters in all sorts of attire, from the fancy suits, to the more respectable, practical clothing like Vicki had gone with. A larger crowd was already moving ahead, while a few reporters lingered behind. One of them being a woman with red hair, wearing matching grey suit jacket and skirt. Brown eyes met Vicki's, and she was surprised that she recognized the woman.

"Vale? That you?"

And the other woman had recognized her. Vicki mentally sighed, before walking over and offering one hand.

"Summer Gleeson. Been a while. Seems you got the call too. You know what this is about?" She asked, raising one eyebrow. Summer, despite hesitating for a moment, shook Vicki's hand and gestured for her to follow.

"Honestly? Don't have a clue. But you're looking good at least. Haven't seen you since that Luthor conference a few months back." She told Vicki. "Good seeing you though. Come on. We'll walk and talk. Whatever this is, it's starting soon." That was probably the smart bet, and the duo followed the group of reporters that had walked ahead of them.

"So you don't know what this is. Does anyone? And why…. here of all places?" Vicki asked, glancing up at one of the almost rundown buildings that the pair passed. Summer could only let out a snort, shaking her head.

"No one knows. All I wanna do is get this over with and out of here, this place always gives me the creeps. I read about it growing up. Didn't think I'd ever step foot in here." Summer shot back, eyeing the same building Vicki had.

It made sense that Summer knew about this place. She was a Gotham native. Vicki just had to dig up old articles to even know what the hell was going on here. It was good to know that everyone considered this hellhole 'bad news'. An insane owner, abused and terrified patients, all of it was almost the textbook definition of 'bad horror movie'. Nothing screamed 'good' about this place, and Gotham itself felt safe by comparison. Even the name just sounded… off.

Arkham Asylum.

To top it all off, the whole damn place was on an island that had a barely standing bridge connecting it to the rest of Gotham! But now she was getting lost in her thoughts, and had almost missed the question that Gleeson had given her.

"Heard you were still in Metropolis. What changed?"

"Let's just say a change of scenery was needed. Gotham was hiring, and I got desperate. We can leave it at that." Vicki said, almost waving off the question as she glanced towards the building that had been labeled as 'Visitor's Center', with another half a dozen other structures surrounding them. Each had a label. 'Penitentiary' and 'Intensive Care' being among them.

"That's it. Come on, we can catch up after this. Maybe we can finally figure out what's going on in here." Summer told her, and Vicki could only nod as the pair stepped inside, following the group ahead of them still.

Arkham Asylum was certainly an interesting complex, it really was. Interesting, because it seemed that some lunatic could pop up from any of the surrounding buildings at a moment's notice. That had actually happened, according to one of the papers that she had dug up. Which was probably why she had her taser on standby. Vicki was almost half worried that she would have to get a tetanus shot of some kind, judging by the rusted pipelines and decrepit looking floor that she and the other dozen or so reporters were standing on.

There was a bit more small talk with Summer, but that quieted down as one of the nearby doors opened up. Vicki tried her damndest to see just where it was coming from, but that was almost impossible to tell considering that two people exited from said door.

The first was… an extremely pale man, almost ghostly pale. He had white hair, but none of the wrinkles, or the fragility that should have matched hair that white, with an almost friendly smile was he gave a short wave to the gathered crowd. His attire however, could have certainly screamed 'doctor'. A white labcoat, green shirt and brown pants. The only other thing that really stood out was the sunglasses he wore, which really added to the strangeness considering that they were indoors, and it was nighttime. No one would be sane enough to wear sunglasses at night.

The other was a woman, and to say she looked intense was an understatement. She was almost the exact opposite of the doctor, with brown… everything really. Skin that looked well cared for, dark hair tied into a ponytail over her shoulder, and eyes that looked like they were glaring at just about everyone in the room. A stern expression that felt like it was just staring through Vicki more than anything.

Unlike the white haired doctor, this woman looked like she was prepared for war. A bulletproof vest, a pistol with spare magazines, a taser, and those were just the things Vicki could actually name.

This was a mental hospital. Just what the hell was going on here that this woman needed all of that?

All conversation in the room stopped as the doctor stepped forward, clearing his throat as he adjusted the microphone. A sudden hush swept over the room. Everyone fell silent, clear anticipation in the air. The doctor looked around for a moment before leaning forward. Vicki hastily set up a recorder in one hand, and her phone in the other, prepped for video. A third recorder was hidden in her jacket, just in case things went south. Not that it would happen, but Vicki had already lost one of these to a pickpocket recently. It was just always good to have two copies for times like this.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Doctor Dusan Kincaid, and I want to formally welcome you all to Arkham Asylum." The doctor said, the smallest hint of an accent sounding when he spoke. It was hard to tell what it was, but it was at least distinct enough for her to review later. The man kept speaking, even as more murmurs came out.

"I can tell that a number of you are confused as to why I've brought you here today. Allow me to bring you answers. This facility was once a chance for those suffering to get better. To be better for themselves, to do better. It was shut down due to tragedy, that is true. However, it is my hope that, with the funding we've been granted, that we can continue that mission. Arkham Asylum will once more be a place that all who are suffering can have a chance to heal, and be brought back to society. Please if you have any questions, I'll be happy to answer them." Kincaid called out, gesturing for the reporters to take the lead.

And so the back and forth began. It was as if the metaphorical dam had burst. Just as Gleeson's question was answered, a dozen more came streaming out. Each of the other reporters and writers tried to get their own desperate question answered. The woman in the security uniform tensed, and Vicki could feel the mood shifting, ever so slightly. But Kincaid looked unphased, raising his hand to attempt to silence the crowd, pointing to Summer first. She didn't hesitate, aiming her recorder at the man.

"Summer Gleeson, Gotham Times. Tell me Doctor, why now? What prompted you to reopen the Asylum?"

"Of course, Miss Gleeson. I can happily answer that. Simply put, it seemed like the right time. This city is suffering. The people especially. If I could have done so sooner, I would have. I want to help out, as best as I can. Now was just the most convenient. Because if I hadn't stepped up, no one would have. Next question, please."

Once more, the reporters continued to try and catch his attention.

"Please, please. One at a time. I will happily answer any questions, but I am only one man." The doctor said with a quick grin, looking towards them. Vicki realized now was as good a time as any, and but before she could move to speak, another man stepped forward. If Vicki wasn't so sure her boss was likely eating a nice steak dinner somewhere else, the man could have been mistaken for Monroe.

"You, sir. You are?"

"Jack Dunning, Gotham Gazette." He stated, ignoring how one or two people quickly turned in the man's direction. His ID was already on his jacket, clear as day so it was hard to contest the claims. "You said you wanted to give people suffering a chance to heal, to be better for themselves. But there's a giant elephant in the room that I'm sure all of us can't help but wonder." Dunning stated, pointing his phone right at Dusan and the security woman, who's stern gaze seemed to get even colder. The man's smile could be compared to that of a shark, smelling blood in the water.

"Considering that the main reason why the asylum was shut down was because the previous owner murdered a patient through electroshock therapy, a patient that he had clear connections to, what sort of guarantees can we as the public have that Arkham Asylum is going to do better for its patients now? Can we expect full transparency?"

If that wasn't hook, line and sinker, then Vicki couldn't be sure just what was. The reporters had gone quiet at the first question he had asked, but many had turned their attention back towards Dusan, either directing recorders or notepads towards him. The doctor in question remained cool, even under all the pressure, which Vicki had to give him credit for. He was nodding along, listening to everything that Dunning had asked him.

"Of course, Mister Dunning. You bring up an excellent point. But there are a few things co consider. Amadeus Arkham was a man pushed to his limits, and it ended horribly for all parties involved. However, in this modern world, the goal is to be better. We're striving to do things differently, to have countless sorts of checks and balances in place to ensure that nothing of that nature happens here. The times have changed, in comparison to what Arkham Asylum used to be. Now, the health of all patients are going to be taken into account, and safety for both themselves and the rest of Gotham will be our top priority. Of course, we'll have transparency, we want people to come to our facility. That's why we have guards here, ready to defend-"

The rest of Kincaid's speech, and one sounded oh so 'smart' but didn't actually answer the question in her opinion, was cut off as something echoed in the distance. Kincaid turned, his already pale features seeming to grow paler. The woman next to him put a hand to her earpiece, her own expression now showing concern.

Another loud sound came, this one sounding for closer than before. To Vicki's slowly growing horror, it had gotten closer. It wasn't just her hearing things considering other people turned their head towards the noise, and it certainly wasn't the rusted down pipes finally collapsing after years of neglect.

CLANG!

Another door, one that Kincaid and the woman hadn't entered from, seemed to almost bend begged the question. What the hell was strong enough to leave a dent in a metal door?

CLANG!

A second sound followed, and she could see another dent formed. Kincaid was already turning towards his security woman, about to speak up when the very metal door broke, flying off of its hinges. A figure stumbled through the door, looking around frantically. Vicki turned just as quickly, focusing her phone on the new arrival.

At first, Vicki was confused at what she was seeing. It certainly looked like a man, but his appearance screamed anything but normal. On the one hand, he was emaciated, from the portions that Vicki could see that weren't covered by a straightjacket. As if his body had shriveled up, taken any good nutrients he had, and left him looking like a skeleton. But on the other hand, Vicki could actively see the muscles on his person shifting and forming. With how his head was moving, he was more comparable to a rabid animal, glaring at the reporters before focusing his eyes on Kincaid.

The man let out a wordless shout, and sprinted forward. Kincaid didn't hesitate however, shouting a single name.

"Talia!"

The security woman glanced back at Kincaid, an almost unimpressed look in her eyes as she charged forward to meet the clearly insane man head on. Vicki was already moving back, mentally rolling her eyes as the other reporters stood there, almost in a trance as they witnessed the spectacle, even as Dusan continued to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen if you can please proceed back towards the exit, we have this under control. For your safety, I would suggest you move on, quickly please!"

Talia, if that was her name, reached up, a taser in one hand.

The man charging towards her had his hands extended, almost in a grasping motion as he reached for her face. Vicki hadn't been sure if she saw either of them move, and it felt like the two were more a blur than anything else.

Electricity sparked as Talia weaved under the insane man's grasp, jamming the taser into his side. But that seemed, if nothing else, to anger the man. He snarled, rearing one hand back in a sloppy punch towards Talia.

At the last second, she moved out of the way, the punch going wide, and right into the concrete wall behind her. Vicki was almost prepared to hear the crunch, but that never happened.

If she hadn't caught it on video, she wouldn't have believed it herself. But when flesh and wall met up, the flesh didn't break. The wall had. Shattered bits of concrete exploded out around them, covering the area that Talia and the man were in dust.

Vicki, still trying to step back and away from the skirmish, could only focus her phone in so much. Her hands were shaking, but she didn't worry about that for now. It was clear that the story was here, and she couldn't look away. Another blur caught her eye, once more coming from the security woman.

The man had tried to throw another punch, and again she had moved out of the way. Talia moved, slamming her elbow hard on the man's shoulder, and ducked under another hasty grab.

He stumbled back, shaking his head out of a daze. Letting out another roar, the man charged forward, more comparable to a rabid beast than a person. It looked like Talia was about to get grabbed when she shifted, ever so slightly to the right.

The other reporters had finally decided that enough was enough, and began to quickly run towards the exit. Vicki's only saving grace was that she was out of the way, and that saved her from the rapid stampede that she might have gotten caught up in had she not moved out of the way.

The man went flying, back towards the cracked wall. His shoulder practically tore through the wall, showering him in more dust and broken bits. Even as the man stood up, Talia moved once more.

A flash of metal could be seen in the chaos, and Vicki realized what it was.

BANG!

BANG!

Gunfire erupted, echoing in the chamber. Vicki could spot the pair, even as the crowd's desperate surge seemed to increase from the sudden noise, Two sharp flashes came, highlighting Talia, and the man that she had just shot. He was still alive, but barely if Vicki's eyes were right. Now he was on the ground, grasping up, even with two new bullet holes in him. One of his knees was now bleeding, and a wound to the side had almost certainly stopped the man.

Talia, taking no chances, reached for her taser once more and rammed it into the man's throat. The patient convulsed for a moment, before letting out a short gasp as he finally fell, unconscious.

Vicki quickly moved both her camera and recorder in the direction of Kincaid. If the man was preoccupied, maybe she could get something more out of this all. Even if her hands weren't shaking, it was hard to get the picture to focus, and the adrenaline she had been feeling was finally wearing off. She had to get something else out of this night.

"Doctor, could you tell me what on earth just happened here? Who was that man? Is this what the new Arkham Asylum is going to be?"

Vicki was so sure that if looks could kill, she'd be a dead woman right then and there. Dusan glared at her, looking so much like Talia had earlier.

"Miss Vale, for your safety, please move with the others. This press conference is over, now get going."

Talia, having summoned three more guards to ensure the insane man was subdued, quickly marched over, tearing the recorder and phone out of Vicki's hands, despite her protests.

"You'll get this back once we ensure nothing about our patients was recorded on this." Talia said, her accent admittedly a bit thicker than Dusan's. It was the same dialect, if her ears weren't deceiving her, but Vicki couldn't say anything as she was pushed out of the Visitor's Center, along with the other reporters.

After practically being shoved into her town car, Vicki was ready to make a call to Monroe. He had to know. Even if she couldn't do anything, may—oh, who was she kidding? If her boss was anything, he was an opportunist.

This was the exact sort of thing he would sell. Sensation. The sort of stuff that the public would have eaten up. So Vicki did what she did best, and got to work. Sure the video was gone now, and she wasn't able to pick up the best audio from the one hidden in her jacket, but if Monroe wanted sensational? She'd damn well deliver it. Maybe there was a chance that she could really break ground with this story.

Even if that was a really big maybe.

Next Chapter: 20th March

Chapter Text

James couldn't help but sigh as he drove forward, following the old dirt road that lead towards Arkham Asylum, the muffled sounds of voices echoing in his car. He hated going off on confidential tips sometimes. More often than not, the informants that gave him something to work off of was usually nothing at all, or just a way to go after a rival of some kind. Rarely were they as good as they had promised.

But this time he hadn't been approached by some random junkie looking for his next fix, nor a shifty gang member looking to score against their boss. Vicki Vale was neither of those. She approached him, something about her boss not wanting to 'cause a panic, half-cocked' in his words. James wanted to trust what the woman had told him, there was only one issue. She was a reporter for Picture News Magazine, the same damn rag that Barb read. It was hard to take her words seriously, especially considering the kind of things that her magazine had published.

James was ready to brush off what Vale said, until she had shown him the recording. James listened in, and while a lot of it was scuffed audio, he had to admit that there were some parts that concerned him.

It was also that very rag that had found out the exact same theories that his team had dug up; information like that should have been confidential. That was enough to give James pause. He had to know what Vale, or even that that reporter, Ryder, might know. Just to be safe.

That was when the rain started.

He glared up at the sky for a moment, hoping that the rough terrain wasn't about to get rougher, but beggars couldn't be choosers. So he tightened his grip on his steering wheel and kept on driving.

The thing that irked him the most was the fact that Arkham was opening up again. He had been here once, on a dare. It was back when he was a teenager, right before he was meant to ship off to basic training. His friends had often told him, if he couldn't face an abandoned mental hospital, what hope could he have as a Marine?

It had been a stupid dare done by equally stupid teenagers, sure, but it had given him the perfect excuse to finally cut ties with this hellscape of a city. The fact that he was coming back now could have said something about his luck, or the luck of his source.

Pulling off to the side for a moment, because James didn't want to lose focus while driving in this weather, he glanced at the files that he had received. It had taken a few days, and James had to reach out to some old contacts of his, but they had managed. Dusan Kincaid had passed all of their checks. The man looked a tad odd, but, at least on the surface, all his paperwork seemed legitimate.

But the paperwork wasn't why he was here. It was the audio Vale had shown him, when they first met. James listened in, and while a lot of it was scuffed, he had to admit that there were some parts that concerned him.

He could recognize gunfire easily. That much was a given considering his life. And it wasn't like the security officer, who Vale had identified only as 'Talia', was trying to hide the gunshots. Given that there was no report about shots fired at the location, that was troubling.

Playing the copy of the recording Vale had given him once more, James frowned again as he slowly drove up towards the entryway to Arkham. The reporter had asked a good question. What the hell did an asylum security guard need with guns? Even by Gotham's standards, that was pushing things. James had taken down enough people unarmed to know a gun was a last resort. You pointed that at someone, you weren't supposed to be playing around. So of course he had to investigate.

Essen and the others could follow more leads on their 'Bat' figure. Nothing else concrete had shown up, not after that incident with Grogan. Nothing of that scale, anyway. He'd do his own checking when he returned, but this was far more important.

After parking, James stepped out of his car, putting on some gloves. Cold and rain were a terrible combination really, and in Gotham it was a common one. The rain, thankfully, hadn't gotten worse, so all he had to contend with was a light drizzle. Or at least light enough that he wouldn't be stumbling around blind.

While he couldn't secure a warrant to search the entire property, there was still at least some cause for concern. Nothing said that he couldn't just look around, after all. It was technically open to the public.

Even the gate that should have cordoned off the asylum from the rest of Gotham was open. James paused. Quickly bringing out his flashlight, he clicked it on to look down. The frown on his face grew as the shattered remains of a lock became visible, bouncing off the broken shards of metal in the mud.

Someone was already here. That wasn't a good sign. Had Vale told someone else about this place? No, she would have mentioned if she had in their previous meeting.

Lightning lit up the courtyard ahead of him, and James was able to spot a cloaked figure marching off into one of the buildings, amidst the crack of thunder. That figure certainly didn't look like a doctor, and it definitely wasn't a security guard.

James found himself slowly marching forward, flinching every time his boots stepped over a particularly wet patch of ground. Each squelch made a noise, barely audible above the rain and wind that was slowly starting to pick up. He kept his flashlight aimed low, trying to spot a footpath, if any that could have been left by the figure he had eyed.

Finally, James was happy to see that he had found it. The steps almost appeared out of thin air, nothing leading from the gate he had come from, as if the person that made them had just… landed here. James slowly followed the prints, moving his flashlight up to see which building that they had walked into. His eyes widened beneath his glasses, even as he read the words before him.

'Intensive Care'

The footsteps lead in there alright. His blood ran cold for a moment, but before he could do anything else, a scream echoed out. In a second, James had reacted, his gun drawn and his flashlight aiming around him. The heat of the moment made it almost impossible to determine if it was a man or a woman. The only thing James could tell was the pain. You couldn't fake that sort of thing.

Well, if that wasn't probable cause…

None of the other buildings seemed to show any signs of life, and the scream repeated itself. A hair-raising wail across the empty courtyard. This time, it was clear where it was coming from. The very same building that he had been facing.

Pausing for a moment to gather his bearings, James reached for the door handle, slowly opening it up and entered the building. He was already having a terrible feeling about this place, and James had just gotten here.

James wasn't afraid to admit that buildings like this had made him nervous. There was something about being stuck in a close quarters environment, and an unknown one at that, that made his skin crawl. Anything could have happened here, so James had to keep his eyes open.

Already, Intensive Care was living up to its name. Abandoned gurneys were lined up in the corridor in front of him, the rust on them looking to be years old, at least. The rough, patchy tile-work beneath his feet betrayed whoever had walked in here before him, a wet trail of footprints leading off down the corridor. But the worst thing of all was the smell.

The area reeked, a musty and worn out smell. It hadn't been cleaned in decades, and the stench almost lingered back from a time when people actually tried to make an effort with the building. It didn't bother James, but he could tell that Barb wasn't going to be pleased when washing these clothes.

James marched forward, eyes scanning everything around him. His flashlight was only going to do so much, so it didn't hurt to look for a light switch. At least, that would have been the plan, then James realized that the lights were already on. Just dimly lit, with bulbs that looked like they were about to burst any second now. The designs looked ancient, even by the low standards that Arkham had, and that was saying something.

He didn't like this. Not one bit. Even as he took a few steps forward, glancing at some of the abandoned rooms before him. Massive, iron doors hung open, revealing the filthy and abandoned rooms where more gurneys could be found. This place was in worse shape than before, but for supposedly being 'back in business', James wasn't seeing a lot of there here—

Another scream cut off his thoughts. It cascaded, bouncing off the hallway. Now that he was closer, James realized that it was a woman, further into the building. James' pace quickened, realizing the trail was leading in that direction.

Stupid. He was stupid for not just following the trail. If there were more people with him, James could have afforded to investigate each and every room. But someone's life was in danger, and based on that scream, he didn't have long. As he followed the footsteps, the water had slowly ebbed away, leaving instead marks on a dirty floor, matching various other footprints. The only saving grace was that the trail that James had been following had a distinct look, one that stuck out against the other, more uniform tracks.

They finally led down a staircase. He shined his flashlight around, making sure that nothing, or no one could leap out at him. The hallway ended in another area, a far larger place that seemed almost… familiar to James. It was only once he noticed the tables, the various instruments and tools that it finally clicked.

This was a triage center. Nasty things really, the place that they'd get the wounded and determine who had the best chance of surviving. Something ripped right out of his service. As he marched down the stairs, the scents slowly began to shift. Gone was the dust, the dampness that all old buildings had. A more pungent, sharper smell hit his nose. Cleaning alcohol, and the like. More sterile than anything else.

A closer inspection showed that everything here however was brand new. In comparison to the things in the floor above, the room was almost spotless. Gurneys so clean that they sparkled. Floors white enough that James didn't need the flashlight to see where he was going. IV drips, filled with… something, hanging everywhere

Something clattered ahead of him, but no scream this time. James ran, praying that whoever had done the screaming was still alive.

It was more of those massive, almost impractical iron doors. The same ones he had seen above, but as with the rest of the room, they were cleaner. Better, in some ways. Most of the cells were locked tight, but one had almost been swung open. James moved, stepping up to the doorway. The sight before him was almost enough to make him drop his flashlight. Almost.

There was two figures in the room. The first was a woman. Emaciated, among other things. Tattered brown hair, pale skin and bulging veins all around her body. She was clad in a hospital gown, the same kind of IV he had spotted earlier attached to her arm. All four of her limbs were chained down, held in place against a table, with iron chains. Her mouth was open, harsh wheezes leaving her lips. She was still screaming, her voice had just given out.

The worst part? The eyes.

At first James thought she had been crying, but that changed as the light finally hit her, and he could see that the liquid streaming down her cheeks was red. She was bleeding from the eyes.

The second figure was something else entirely.

James had been so sure that Grogan was exaggerating when he mentioned their 'giant bat'. But the thing that stood before him could almost have been considered more monster than man.

He was in all black, something so dark that when the light shined on him, it almost seemed like it was just… dissolving into him. Armor, all across his body, the sort that James was sure he hadn't seen in all his years, with a single bat in the center of his chest. A massive black cape wrapped around the shoulders, and he was sure he could spot the 'claws' that Grogan had described earlier. That hadn't been an exaggeration. Along the forearms were jagged edges, looking exactly like claws. But it was the face that was the worst part. An expressionless, cold and unfeeling mask that covered the man's face. White pinpricks, hiding the eyes of whoever this was. They had been occupied with the woman, but the instant that James had walked into the room, the figure looked up towards him.

James was just thankful that he had already drawn his gun.

"Freeze! GCPD!"

The figure said nothing, before turning back to the woman. He didn't want to talk? That was fine. The woman was his main concern. But he just had to ask, even if he knew the question wouldn't get him anywhere.

"Who the hell are you?"

The figure glared at him, unflinching even as a gun was pointed at him.

Silence once more.

James scowled, taking another step forward.

"Fine. I'll figure it out later. Put your hands over your head, and step away from that woman. Now!" He ordered, pistol still aimed at the man.

The figure didn't move at first. James had been about to repeat himself when the man took a single step back, glancing back down at the woman. James inched closer, trying to see if she was still alive.

She was. But now that he could get a better glimpse at her, James wasn't sure what he was looking at. Despite her emaciated look, the woman looked… unnaturally fit. Muscles twitched and moved at angles that looked just plain wrong. The figure raised his hand, and looked like he was about to speak.

"I said hold it right there. If you're not gonna put your hands up, then stay there." James said, still aiming his gun at… the Bat. It was probably the best way to identify him now, considering what James could see of the man. But he glanced down at the restraints the woman was in, thankful that they seemed to be holding. "Did you do this to her?" He asked, glaring at the man.

He was expecting silence once more, until the Bat spoke. "No. I didn't. I followed the screams, found her here. I wanted to take a sample, but—"

Whatever the Bat had been about to say was cut off by the sound of metal groaning and bending. James barely had a second to look down, to see that the woman's expression had changed from one of pain to a look of utter fury.

The Bat had responded far quicker than James had, moving forward and dragging James out of the way. The room filled with the sounds of metal bending and screaming as the woman began jerking back and forth, teeth gnashing as she tore through restraints that looked like they could have held a gorilla.

James and the Bat tumbled out of the room, his flashlight clattering off to the side. The light still worked, and shined back in on the very place that the duo had previously been in. If James hadn't been so sure his eyes were working just fine, he wouldn't have believed his sight.

The woman had broken free. She was breathing heavily, some of the chains still wrapped around her arms as she sat, hunched over the table she had been lying on.

James was about to take a step forward, and then he saw it. The woman's head shifted, ever so slightly, and turned to look at the two. She slowly rose to her feet, the movement awkward and wrong in some ways. Her eyes looked as if they were about to bulge out of their sockets, the stream of blood still coming. She kept panting, staring at the two of them.

"Ma'am. Please. Stay there. I don't want to hurt you—"

James could only give the first part of his warning out before the woman charged at them, screaming. James fired off two shots, the sound overpowering her screams and echoing across the room.

BANG!

BANG!

As soon as the shots roared, James rolled to one side, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted the Bat doing the same. Getting to one knee, he raised his gun once again. Center mass, that should have been enough. But he didn't hear a body tumbling. Looking back, he could only gape as the woman stood tall, even with two bullets in her. She looked unfazed. She grabbed a nearby gurney, and, with impossible strength, raised it over her head.

But just as she moved to throw the gurney, it was as if darkness had enveloped her. The Bat had struck, landing an impressive blow on the woman's shoulder. The metal clattered to the side as she turned to face him.

Her response was sloppy and uncoordinated. Even then, her speed was something that James had only seen in the best of fighters, and the Bat responded in kind. Despite his armor, he was more akin to a blur than an actual person.

He ducked under another rapid blow, the woman seemed almost unfazed by hits that should have knocked any other grown man down. James could see the blows were making contact. Skin and muscle shifted, and even with the gunshots she had taken it was as if nothing was actually hurting her.

The Bat clearly had the upper hand when it came to actual combat experience. He moved forward, slamming one fist into the side of the woman's head. It managed to daze her, and he took full advantage. Blow after blow impacted her body, some hitting her wounds, others aimed at other sections. He was targeting weak points, exactly as James' own instructors had taught him.

James had raised his gun for a moment, but there was never a clear shot. Even then, the woman hadn't seemed to care about a gunshot. And the Bat… he had saved James' life.

But now wasn't the time for something like a moral question, not when there was a woman stronger than ten men trying to tear their heads off. James continued to watch the spectacle, almost hoping the Bat would gain the upper hand. He moved around frenzied blows, using the gurneys and other items around him like makeshift shields, even as each metal object gained dents from the attacks.

Then the woman had gotten a lucky blow. A single punch sent the other man flying back.

The sound of metal denting once more came as the Bat went through the air, slamming into a wall. Now was as good a time as any, considering that both were distracted. James sprinted forward, bringing out his taser. He slammed it into the side of the woman's neck. But once again, it was as if she hadn't felt anything the pair had thrown at her.

She reached back with one hand, and grabbed James by the throat. He choked for a moment, dropping the taser as he tried to claw at the hand wringing his neck. The woman turned around, glaring at him once more. Her bloody tears were more akin to the battle paint of an angry Viking warrior.

Even with his vision starting to get cloudy, James could spot a blur coming from behind the woman.

The Bat slammed a fist into the back of her head and pulled her away. Even as she dropped James, and as the Bat put her into a chokehold, she continued to fight like a woman possessed, ramming her elbow into the Bat's sides.

But blood loss, the fighting, and the tasers had finally done their job. The blows were much weaker than before, and her strength continued to fade. The woman choked out one last breath, and finally fell limp in the Bat's grasp.

The Bat let her go, gently placing the woman down on the ground. James stumbled to his feet, rubbing his neck as he gasped for air. The Bat looked far worse for wear. That blackened armor, that Grogan had reported being able to shrug off gunshots, was dented, his arm bent at an odd angle.

The pair stood there, trying to catch their breath. James broke the silence first.

"Thank you. For saving my life." James grunted, realizing what he had to do next. "But I'm sorry. You're under arrest."

The Bat glanced back at him, his helmet cracked. James couldn't see it, but he could feel the glare from beneath the mask.

"Look. There's clearly something bigger going on here. But you've broken the law. If you come peacefully, maybe we can sort this out toge—"

That was as far as James had gotten before the Bat had moved. Faster than a man as injured as him should have been able to, he reached for something on his belt. A bright flash erupted around them, with a massive cloud of smoke to follow it.

James brought out his flashlight, trying to cut through the sudden smokescreen. But his efforts were for nothing. By the time it had dissipated, the Bat was already gone, leaving him with the still unconscious woman. James let out a tired sigh, looking around.

"This is gonna be a lot of paperwork. Man, Essen's gonna kill me."

Next Chapter: 12th July

Chapter Text

"Arkham, sir? What brought this on?"

Bruce grunted, almost jolting at the question. Here he was, in another one of those dreadful states of focus. Rubbing his eyes, Bruce sat back in his own chair, letting the question stew.

"Something's wrong there. I didn't think it was much of a concern, but when I was double-checking some records, a few inconsistencies came up." He told Alfred, pointing at one paper in particular. Leaning forward, Alfred found himself staring at the top of the sheet, which highlighted a company's name.

"Alzali Defense? Why on Earth does that name sound familiar?"

"It's a privately owned company. They tried to contract some work with Wayne Tech, which put me on their radar. Recently they've been moving large amounts of funds, the same with their sister company." Bruce told him, bringing up another sheet of paper and tapping the top of it.

"Alzali Mediprox? Dear me, they know how to branch out don't they?" Alfred blandly stated, raising an eyebrow. The numbers being moved seemed a tad excessive, all things considered.

"It's a part of their operation methods, from what I've gathered. Medical research and care. They've bought some items from Wayne Biotech. Nothing major, but still enough to cause some interest, with some of the patterns I've begun to notice. Two years ago, Defense went public. They operate in the US mainly, but they've started moving into other countries. Same with Mediprox. Wherever Defense goes, their sister company follows. Now they're here in Gotham." Bruce continued, and Alfred frowned upon seeing just how much money had been moved in this direction.

"And they're using Arkham Asylum. You truly think it's something to investigate?" He asked the younger man. Bruce could only nod, still leaning back in his seat.

"Especially since one of Mediprox's doctors moved here. Dusan Kincaid. Someone else has been investigating him, from what I've been able to find. Feelers in Metropolis. Washington. I have nothing else planned for tonight. Might as well check it out." Bruce said, standing up. He reached for his helmet, which had been set aside for the most part.

"Sir, I would at least advise caution. Tonight's weather is said to be particularly hectic, and the road to Arkham isn't exactly an easy one." Alfred told him. It had been true. He had only heard about the facility, but Thomas had told him stories. There had been a few attempts, to help out the people of Gotham.

Thomas had taken it upon himself to investigate Arkham, if only to know what he could avoid doing with his own potential psychiatric hospital. Another dream that had gotten crushed by the weight of this city.

Bruce grunted, shaking Alfred from his thoughts as he put his helmet.

"I'll be fine, Alfred. The car should be enough. Just let me know if something changes. But I have to go out, while the leads are still fresh. If I wait, whatever's happening at Arkham might not be there for long." With that said, Bruce turned around, marching off to the car he had spent countless hours working on.

"... Please be careful, sir." Alfred quietly said. He didn't have to, but it was for his own peace of mind. Bruce had pushed his luck, but so far it had been holding out.

There were times when Alfred regretted how much he humored Bruce. Allowing him to venture off into Arkham was one of those times, especially upon his return to the Manor. Now he was marching forward, a vegetable smoothie in one hand. Bruce had taken quite the risk in venturing into that decrepit hellscape, and it had nearly cost him his life. Not to mention that it actually managed to ruin portions of his armor. Now Alfred was here, watching over Bruce to make sure that he didn't push himself too far.

Now his fears were proven correct. And instead of resting, like a reasonable man would have, he was instead hunched over his computer. There were multiple casts on his person, he was wrapped in bandages, and looking more bruised than ever.

"Sir, I thought Leslie told you to not strain yourself." Alfred said, trying to keep the disapproval out of his voice as he set the smoothie next to Bruce. In response however, the younger man only grunted once, stopping his typing to at least take a sip of the drink. It was better than nothing, at the very least.

Trying to give Bruce's injuries a mundane origin was a challenge, but it had not been the first time Alfred had to be discreet about something in his life, and it certainly would not be the last. Thankfully, in a city like Gotham, there were a number of options. However, the simplest ideas came and offered the best solutions.

A motorcycle crash. It was quite easy to fabricate one, if a person had the right methods to do so. In any case, it didn't take long for Alfred to find a proper motorcycle to use, something that a man with Bruce's access could easily replace. Nor did it take him long to actually find a proper road with little to no surveillance, where one would usually suffer an 'unfortunate' accident.

All of this was simply a means to get a paper trail established, and to have Bruce be 'seen' as it were, until he could be spirited away to Leslie's clinic. Simple, but hopefully effective in many regards.

"I am. No training, and I haven't even worn the suit at all. But being idle isn't going to help anyone at all." Bruce quietly stated, staring up at the large screen, several old news articles popping up and lighting the cave entirely. "It's already starting. Things are just going to get worse the longer I'm not out there. I can't just sit here. That woman… she was only the start of whatever this was."

Alfred let out a short hum in the affirmative, even as he glanced to one file. The woman that Bruce and Detective Gordon had encountered in Arkham had certainly been a fright. She fought like she had been possessed, and the strength that she had shown was certainly unprecedented, to put it lightly.

"You do raise a fair point, sir. But what does Detective Gordon had to do with this? Considering you're glaring at a file on the man." Alfred asked, glancing towards the file in question. A scoff came that certainly answered how the younger man was feeling about the detective right now.

"I gave him the perfect opportunity to help out, but instead he chose to try and come after me. Figured he would have been better than that. But I've been wrong before about people." Bruce muttered, glancing down at some old paper files on his desk. Alfred raised a single eyebrow, hearing those words. He was so sure that he had taught Bruce to be a rather good judge of character, all things considered.

"You do have to consider things from his perspective, sir. While some of your nightly ventures tend to have a positive effect in some regards, they do tend to leave a rather… ghastly aftermath, don't they? I understand the need to have criminals and ne'er-do-wells fearing you, but that fear comes at a cost. I once told you escalation was only a matter of time. You've noticed it, and so have I. Criminals are meeting up in larger groups. They're bringing out stronger weapons. And now this? Sir, there has to be a point where you can sit back and understand the gravity of the situation. That's not to mention your handling of the police force."

It had been true, in many regards. After their encounter in Arkham, it seemed that Gordon's own task force had been given quite the increase in funding. Eyewitness accounts from the regular populace were one thing, but hearing a testimony from one of their own, especially an up close account with no injuries on his end, had driven the Gotham Police Department into a veritable frenzy.

More officers had been assigned to the task force hunting down 'The Bat', while the woman that Gordon had brought in was brushed off as an 'overdose'. That part had been the most displeasing for Alfred to hear. She should have been taken care of. Instead, as Gordon tried to get her to a hospital, her heart gave out. The poor girl was simply put aside in the morgue, with nobody any the wiser as to why she was in Arkham in the first place.

"The police have to work in the confines of the law. That's part of the problem, Alfred. Whatever this is? It's above them. It shouldn't be. No one should be. I have to be outside of the law, to make sure that people don't suffer more because of this. It's already happened, and it's going to get worse, before it gets better. This is the kind of thing I've been training for. It's a sacrifice that I have to make, one that I can't be sure that Gordon is willing to follow up on." Bruce countered, matching a glare to Alfred's own unimpressed look.

A part of Alfred could understand Bruce's frustration. The younger man had been at this crusade of his for quite some time, and to see it being labeled as the very thing that he was trying to fight against was very frustrating. But here and now, Alfred could see that Bruce's focus was tunneling.

It was causing him to look at only one small thing in the veritable storm that they had managed to uncover in Arkham.

"So you're willing to condemn a man, who by all accounts is a solid officer, for simply doing his job? Sir, in case you forgot, Detective Gordon has a family. I doubt the last thing he has on his mind is trying to unravel some greater mystery when he's meant to be doing one job, and only one job. Pushing him into your crusade wouldn't only jeopardize him, but it would also likely impact his family. You just said it yourself. This thing is above the law. Both of you are committed to taking care of this city, that much is clear. You're just taking vastly different approaches, but you do want the same thing." Alfred quietly responded, his words causing Bruce to briefly flinch.

"I—"

"Hadn't considered that, no sir. Besides, he's a police officer. He's meant to follow the law. While the institute, and those who stand with it might be corrupt, there's still the matter of fact that you are, by all manners of the word, a criminal. Detective Gordon's been tasked with bringing you in. Not to mention your methods. You have to see things from his perspective. While they might bring results, no one can downplay how extreme they have gotten."

Bruce glared back at Alfred, shifting in his seat.

"My methods—"

"Might be effective in the short term, sir. 'Might' being the keyword there. Criminals are scared of you, yes. But so are the people you're trying to protect! To my great shame I have sat back and said nothing. But now-" Alfred took a moment to collect himself, internally sighing. "I don't like what this is doing to you. You're a good man, Master Bruce. But you're letting your rage blind you, especially in this matter. I simply don't want you to do something you might regret."

Alfred's words hung in the air, an almost tense silence between the two. He cursed himself for speaking so freely, but in times like this, Bruce had turned into a frustrating man to be around. Especially now that he turned around in his chair, glaring at Alfred. It wasn't the glare of a frustrated boy, but the same look that Alfred had seen in Bruce's eyes when he spoke of the people that he went after almost every night.

The two stared at one another, for what almost seemed like an eternity. Bruce's good hand was clenched in a fist, the intensity in his eyes said everything. But Alfred remained unfazed as he stared back, only hoping that his words would cut through.

Perhaps something else to focus on, aside from Detective Gordon would do him some good.

"Simply a word of caution for you in the future, sir. What about the young woman? Was there anything on her?" Alfred asked, glancing up to yet another file on screen. What had been done to her was nothing short of monstrous. Alfred could find no other words, despite what had become of her afterwards.

"Jane Doe. No records listed for her just yet. Her prints and DNA were taken, but nothing conclusive. She might have been homeless, all things considered. But I did find something else on the flash drive I recovered." Bruce said, typing another thing into the computer.

New images took up the screen, replacing the previous files that had been there. The first of these images was of an emaciated woman, with missing teeth, clumps of patchy hair, and pockmarked skin. It took a moment, and only then did Alfred realize something.

It was their Jane Doe.

But she had looked almost unrecognizable, in comparison to her appearance back in Arkham. The images that followed would certainly have given Alfred nightmares, considering their contents.

The next few images had been taken over a number of hours. The first was showing her strapped to a table, her form still emaciated and weak. The next showed the IV bags that Bruce had discovered, all of them feeding her that horrid golden liquid. Most of the bags were empty, and the Jane Doe?

Muscles had formed on her body, making it seem like she had a lifetime of hard exercise and proper maintenance. The deformities and previous issues that had been all over here had seemingly vanished. The still image was of her, screaming as her body looked as if it was tearing itself apart for a moment.

The next image had been taken an hour later. Jane Doe had looked like someone had taken the air out of her. Where tense muscles and corded tension was previously, there was now skin and bones. Excess, wasted, more akin to the emaciated figure they had both first seen. Some changes appeared to have been permanent, but everything else about her had shifted.

The images continued like this for several hours at a time, and became a shifting album of the woman being brought back up, screaming at the camera, and then reverting. By the third hour, the tears of blood had formed, and continued to stay there it seemed.

Every time, it was clear someone had continued to refill the IV bags, which was clearly the source of… whatever it was that was changing the Jane Doe.

"My god. How long did they do this to her? Was she the only one?"

"No, I don't think so. There were other rooms in that triage center. I think she was just one of the latest." Bruce said, leaning back with a sigh. "I don't know what this is, or who's behind it. But it's turning normal people into enhanced. And if there's any of them running around Gotham…"

As Bruce trailed off, Alfred could only nod in agreement. There had been a number of stories, especially when he had served in MI6, about superpowered people. World War II had only been the beginning, with the Japanese. Horror stories of soldiers, capable of ignoring what should have been fatal wounds. Or in some cases, a single man responsible for slaughtering entire squads with his bare hands. A small number of enhanced had then arisen during the Cold War to follow, before slowly becoming nothing more than ghost stories. For something like that to appear, now, was concerning.

"I can understand that, sir. Were you able to find anything similar to her?"

"Maybe. The closest thing I could find was this." Bruce said, pulling up yet another image.

An old newspaper article, dated from back in the 50s. While the image was hard to make out, in many regards, one thing certainly stood out. A figure, clad in an outfit eerily reminiscent of Bruce's own, lifting a car over his head as men armed with guns were aiming at him.

"Capes On Our Doorstep? Is the Red Menace Here?"

"Are you sure that's not just an advertisement for an old film, sir?"

Bruce let out a quiet snort at that, and shook his head.

"Yes, I'm sure. There's more of these, actually. No other papers published a picture, much less a sighting like this, but they're all consistent." He told Alfred, clearing the screen to show his new research. The paper had certainly just been the start. Old police sketches that had now been digitized. Eyewitness accounts, from the more urban sections of New York. Even testimonials, from people wanting to remain anonymous. Bruce continued, even as the trail made itself clear.

"It took me a few hours to compile them all, and I had to actually hack into a few databases to get what I was looking for, but this is it. All of them tell the same thing. A figure, in a black and gold suit, fighting off the criminal underworld up in New York. He operated sometime in the 1950s, and most of his records were kept under wraps. Besides the costume, the only consistent things were enhanced strength, and the figure appearing for an hour, only to vanish just as quickly."

Perhaps Bruce had not been spending all of his time brooding then. Certainly, Alfred could take that more than anything. The man was actually taking time to research things.

"My, my. A being with powers in New York? I'm shocked that only a single paper was found. Surely there might have been more, but perhaps not finding more was for the best. It might have started a riot. Did you find out what happened to them?"

Bruce shook his head, letting out a sigh.

"No. I couldn't. No deaths, nothing groundbreaking. The only real pattern I was able to discover was that he stopped appearing, sometime in the 60s. Sightings teetered off, and eventually stopped altogether. There was one more possible sighting after that, but nothing concrete that I could put down." Bruce told him, sitting back in his chair, the smoothie Alfred brought him nearly done by this point.

Of course, it begged a question. One Alfred was almost afraid to ask.

"Sir, if that's the case… then what does this all mean? How does it connect to our Jane Doe, and Arkham as a whole?"

Bruce was silent for a moment, simply staring at the large screen before them. Images, of both the masked figure, and the woman from before popped up.

"I don't know, Alfred. But whatever this is? It's just beginning."

Next Chapter: 9th August

Chapter Text

Something in the universe was out to get Vicki. It had been weeks, weeks, but the only thing that she had gotten back from Gordon had been some drivel about an 'ongoing investigation' and that he wasn't 'able to give details at the moment'. Nothing else occurred. No mentions from the police, no other mentions of what might have been going down at Arkham Asylum.

Once again, a lead of hers had died off, for some reason outside of control.

Vicki wanted to scream. Shout. Break something, anything that was around her. But her office was probably the only real good thing that she had in this damned city, and yes she was including her crappy apartment in that list.

So here she was, once again stewing in her office. Yes, logically Gordon couldn't tell her anything about an ongoing investigation, but Vicki didn't have to like that!

Outside however, there were hurried whispers of something going on. The sort of things that would get a tabloid magazine excited didn't mean much to Vicki, if she was being perfectly honest, but it was something.

There was one loud, almost obnoxious voice she could hear through the thin walls of her office however.

Jack Ryder. She had met the man only twice, and honestly? She wasn't impressed. Not in the same way that Bruce Wayne had left her unimpressed however. Ryder was all ego, nothing else. The man was sure of just about everything he was doing, and it somehow worked. Enough even, to Vicki's disbelief, that he was allowed to run a story about a 'giant bat' living in Gotham.

A giant bat. It was ridiculous to even think about.

However, she had spent enough time moping about her work, and her 'coworkers'. Vicki realized that she did have a story to run through, one that could hopefully lead somewhere. Leslie Thompkins. A woman who had a connection to Thomas Wayne. One she had done her homework on, previously.

Thomas Wayne hadn't just been a damn good surgeon, from what Vicki could tell. He revolutionized surgery in Gotham, and his work was still making an impact today.

Incidentally, she recognized one of the devices that he was responsible for patenting. A pacemaker that her college boyfriend Tom needed for a while.

Nothing, however, prepared her for the sight before her.

Images popped up, and not just of the man smiling at charity galas, or doing something with his company. No, instead Vicki found herself engrossed in what almost looked like something out of a movie. Thomas Wayne, kneeling over an injured man and pointing off in another direction, clearly directing someone's attention over. Leslie was by his side, a first aid kit in hand as she kept the patient the pair were treating stable.

This was just one of several dozen pictures that Vicki had found, and one of them had an article attached.

Head of Wayne Enterprises Helping Hand: Thomas Wayne takes a stand amidst Gang War!

The Sullivan and Bertinelli crime families were in the bloodiest gang war Gotham had to date. Everyone was getting caught in the crossfire, and that meant everyone. Cops, civilians, judges, no one was safe. That is, no one except the rich and powerful, who could afford to stay in their ivory towers or fly out of the country.

But Thomas Wayne? He refused to stand by while Gotham had torn itself apart. Instead, judging by the article, he had instead thrown everything that the Waynes had at their disposal, both as a company and personally, to helping anyone caught up in the violence. He was flooding hospitals with the proper supplies, giving authorities the best protection possible in terms of armor. Supply clinics where he could.

At one point, he had even convinced many of Gotham's rich and powerful to put together a fund, something that could stand up against the stalemate that the city found itself in. Something that Thomas, unknowingly at least, used to cement Wayne Enterprises as the source for much of Gotham's needs.

This was the only part of the story that Vicki actually knew, considering that the details made nationwide headlines.

If Vicki were any more bitter, she would have assumed Thomas Wayne had almost planned for this sort of thing. No person at Thomas Wayne's level just did the things that he had done. But all of her research however had shown the same thing.

He was a good man. It was hard to see the differences he shared with his son, but that much was obvious.

The real selling point however, was when Thomas had elected to risk his own life to save people who had stumbled to the Thompkins Clinic, and help Leslie in giving people medical attention where he could.

This stunt had caused Thomas to sustain a gunshot wound to the shoulder, and truly put an end to the war before it could get worse. As the article had put it, Thomas Wayne was not a vengeful man, but even Gotham's own organized crime had standards. Rumors had popped up about just what had spurred the Sullivans into more precise actions, but nothing could be concluded.

One by one, people from both families were brought on charges, and soon enough the Bertinelli family was effectively wiped off the face of the earth. While many of the Sullivans were behind bars, there were still a few remaining that had holdings in legitimate businesses. It was, to put it lightly, a success on all fronts. At least, that's how it started.

The final note of the article revealed that not even six months later, Thomas Wayne had been gunned down, along with his wife, leaving Bruce as the sole successor of the legacy that had become the Wayne empire.

With everything she had on hand, it didn't take her long to bring out her phone and call the number Leslie had given her.

As she let it ring, Vicki was going over what exactly she would tell Leslie. It wasn't as if she was sick, or injured. She was still shaken over the events back at Arkham but-

"Hi, you've reached the Park Row Free Clinic. This is Nurse Brown, how can we help you today?

At least she got an answer quickly.

"Hi, I was wondering if Doctor Thompkins was in today? She gave me a card a while back and some help a while back, figured I could finally call in."

"I can patch you through to her, sure. Can I ask who's calling?"

"Can you tell her it's Vicki?"

"I'll see what I can do. Please hold."

Suddenly, Vicki was hit by the tacky hold music that seemed to be just about everywhere. It felt like an eternity, but really it was only a few minutes. Soon enough however, the music was cut short.

"Hello, this is Doctor Thompkins. Vicki? We spoke at the Wayne Expo, last I recall. Are you alright? Do you need to stop by the clinic for something?"

At least the doctor remembered her.

"No, thankfully. But I was going to be in the area—thought it would be nice to see a familiar face. Would you be against meeting me for a coffee in about…" Vicki took a moment to check the time, and nodded. That could work. "An hour? My treat."

Leslie let out a quiet chuckle.

"That can work. I have to take care of a few patients first. Afterwards, I was planning on getting my staff something for the break room. I wouldn't be against having an extra set of hands, if you're willing to help out."

"Sure, happy to. Where should we meet?"

As Leslie rattled off the address to a coffee shop near Park Row, Vicki found herself already going through her other plans. It wasn't as if Monroe had given her anything solid to work on since the 'Arkham Incident', so this probably wouldn't hurt her in the long run.

"Right. I got the location. Thanks, Leslie. I needed this. Catch you in an hour." Vicki said, waiting for Leslie's own acknowledgement before hanging up.

Vicki still had it, she was proud to say. Monroe was still likely eating up the attention that 'his Bruce Wayne article' was getting (Vicki knew damn well it was hers but she had let that battle go), despite the fact that it had been a long time since that damn article, but he was perfectly fine with her leaving the office. All she had to do was say something about 'checking out a source' and he just brushed her off.

While it might have been a bit degrading to be pushed to the side, Vicki knew better than anyone that she still had to fix whatever was left of her reputation after Metropolis. The only real saving grace was that she was making… enough money to scrape by that she could take a cab and get to the cafe Leslie had told her about.

In no time at all however, Vicki found herself dropped off at the cafe, and thankfully it seemed like she had beaten Leslie here. Entering it, Vicki found herself hit with a barrage of scents. Freshly ground up coffee being chief among them. But not the cheap, almost tar-like gruel that Picture News Magazine was so 'gracious' to provide. The good stuff. Then there were the other things. It was the aroma of sweet, freshly baked goods. Honey. Vanilla. So many more. The welcoming, almost fresh atmosphere in a city where none of that seemingly existed.

Placing herself in a comfortable seat, Vicki found her attention going towards a paper someone had left on a nearby table. It wasn't the Gotham Gazette, but the name on the paper caught her eye. Summer Gleeson.

Wayne Heir injured in motorcycle crash!

She could practically feel her eye twitching at the title. Wayne had only hit her as somewhat of an oath, but getting into an accident like that? If that didn't scream 'reckless', she didn't know what would.

"Hmph. That boy knows how to get into trouble."

Vicki did not jump at the voice speaking up. Nor did she almost on instinct reach for her taser. Especially not once she noticed that it was Leslie who had snuck up on her, a bemused expression on the older woman's face.

"Oh, Leslie. Sorry I didn't see you there. Just saw this story, and I got curious—"

"About Bruce? I don't blame you. You said you just moved here recently, right? " She asked, and Vicki nodded. Putting the discarded paper back where it had been, she offered Leslie a hand.

"Yes. I moved here from Metropolis. Sort of a sudden thing, so I'm still learning what I can about Gotham," she said, doing her best to look sheepish, especially as Leslie shook her hand.

"I can understand that. Gotham's surprisingly tight lipped about most of the going ons we have to handle, and not everyone's going to pay attention to them. But enough about that for now," Leslie said, gesturing for Vicki to follow her along. "I'm glad you decided to call. How are you holding up? I imagine it's been quite the experience, getting used to this place."

"That's something of an understatement. I've never really been somewhere so…"

"Dangerous?" Leslie blandly asked, a tired grin on her face. Vicki was reminded of their first meeting, and chuckled.

"I was going to say lively, but your words, not mine," she shot back, chuckling quietly. "So I've never been here before. Any recommendations?"

"I'm partial to some of the teas here myself. But if you're really looking for something sweet? The hot cocoa here was always good," Leslie idly told her, and that was that. For the next few minutes, it was them deciding on what to get, what to buy for the other people working at Leslie's clinic, and finally trying to pay for all of their goods. Vicki had tried to pay for her stuff, but Leslie had insisted on handling it.

That was probably the first nice thing that someone had done for her in this city.

Vicki decided to not dwell on that, not right now anyways. Especially not while she was handling what was essentially two boxes of baked goods, while Leslie was holding onto a number of drinks, caffeinated or otherwise.

Luckily, the clinic wasn't that far away, so they could walk and talk.

"By the way dear, I do hope that everything I'm saying here could be counted off the record. I understand you're a reporter, but we are just here to hang out for the time being," Leslie chimed in as the two of them exited the cafe. Vicki gave a quiet snort at the statement.

"Ouch. Am I that obvious, Leslie?" she asked, and the older woman smirked back at her.

"No, you're not. But I figured that if this was just us hanging out, I would rather be safe than sorry. You learn a few tricks, growing up here."

"So, you've lived here your whole life then?" Vicki asked, balancing the two boxes she had on her.

"Yes, I have. Though I only recently came back. I've been spending the few years aboard." Leslie told her, idly sipping her own drink.

"Really? Doing what?"

"Oh, I decided to do some work with Doctors Without Borders. I had a few people I knew running the clinic while I was away, but I was able to do a lot of good," she continued, offering a shrug. "It allowed me to travel around the world, even if it was to regions where people were hurting. Still let me do the right thing, no matter where I ended up. It was… fun isn't the right word, if I'm being perfectly honest. Fulfilling, perhaps."

"So what brought you back?" Vicki asked, already getting a small idea as to why Leslie had returned. She just wanted to be sure. The conversation stopped for a moment, as the pair continued to walk along. Leslie had a look on her face. A mix of conflict and shame.

It was a nerve that Vicki had almost unapologetically struck, but it was the right call.

However, Leslie had taken a deep breath, almost preparing herself before speaking up. Not that Vicki could blame her, especially with how she reacted the last time the two of them spoke.

"Bruce. I came back because Bruce came back," Leslie admitted, shaking her head. Were there tears forming in her eyes? Vicki tried to reach for her purse, but Leslie waved her off. "No no, it's fine really. I will admit, after Thomas… passed, I only elected to stay in the city because of Bruce. Then he decided to go out on his own. I couldn't really stop him, so I decided to take a chance, do some good elsewhere," Leslie continued, giving an almost mournful look. "And now that he's back, I decided it was high time to come home."

"I've met him, actually," Vicki found herself adding on. "Back during Halloween. I uh… I went to the Wayne Manor haunted house. Accidentally stumbled into an area I wasn't allowed into, and I got a chance to meet Bruce. He's… not what I was expecting." Vicki admitted, looking admittedly sheepish.

"I recall reading your article, now that you mention it. Heh. No, I imagine he wasn't. From what I've heard, people don't think Bruce is the sharpest tool in the shed. But if he's anything like Thomas, he'll have his chance to shine. He's a bright young man. He just needs the right motivation," Leslie said, giving a short chuckle at Vicki's own expression.

"Sorry, but the first time we met didn't really inspire confidence. Took a second time to really see him," she blandly shot back.

"I will admit that he's different, from what I've seen of him. But anyone would be, after all these years. I just want to make sure he's taking care of himself," Leslie continued, only to stop. Glancing forward, Vicki could see what was obviously the clinic, given both the sign and the plaque that was by the door. "Seems we're here. Ready to meet some of the staff? Just in case you ever need to come by."

"I'd be delighted to. Never hurts to know who might be treating my wounds if I ever get injured," Vicki said, her tone almost bland at the prospect of being injured. Both women giggled at the interaction for a moment, before heading on forward.

Leslie was kind enough to hold the door open, so Vicki didn't look like a chicken without its head trying to get through. As she entered, Vicki felt a blast of air conditioning hit her face, the scent of a sterile room stinging her nostrils slightly.

There were only one or two people in the waiting area, and a woman at the front desk. Pristine chairs lined up, with a television blaring a talk show of some kind in one corner. Everything looked so… clean, certainly different than what the outside of the clinic had shown. Leslie followed her in, already grabbing another drink to hand out.

The nurse at the front desk was hard at work, typing in one thing or another. Green eyes were darting back and forth, practically glued to the screen she was focusing on. The only reason that Vicki could tell that she was actually doing work, instead of slacking off was because her glasses reflected slightly on the screen, showing a form or two that she was typing in. Her ID tag had the name 'Brown' stenciled on. She only looked up once Leslie approached.

"Crystal, dear. I got your favorite. Coffee with three milks and six sugars. You should really cut back, you know," Leslie said, offering the cup with a small grin. Crystal snorted, taking the cup with slightly shaking hands. Vicki couldn't help but notice that even with the excellent air conditioning, she still had the slightest bit of sweat on her brow. That was curious.

"You sound just like my husband, doc. He always loves his coffee black," Crystal said, quickly glancing over to Vicki's direction. "New patient? Someone I should set up?"

"Oh no. Vicki, here, is just an acquaintance stopping by. She offered to help bring some snacks to the break room. When you get the chance, feel free to stop by. I'll be around for the next hour, then it's back to business as usual," Leslie offered. Crystal gave a nod to her, and a short nod of acknowledgement to Vicki, one that she returned.

Leslie gestured for Vicki to follow along, bringing out a keycard to swipe. As the door opened up, Vicki couldn't help but take a glance at the clinic as a whole.

Everything, from the waiting room she had just been in, to the hallway that Leslie was marching down, looked brand new. IV drips, machines for vitals. Even the wheelchairs looked as good as new. The sort of thing that some clinics didn't really have the money for, in Vicki's experience. Leslie noticed her glances as the two marched along, and smiled.

"One of Thomas' own clauses in his will. He left me a considerable amount to make sure our clinic never closed, regardless of what hit us. I've always considered it a blessing. He just thought it was right," she told Vicki, moving into another area. Vicki found herself staring at a wonderful little break room, with some tables, chairs, and even a couch to rest on. Not bad, all things considered. It actually looked bigger than her office, if she was feeling pessimistic enough.

"I guess that makes sense. Wait, but if you were traveling around the world, who was keeping your clinic in top shape then?" Vicki asked. She couldn't help herself. Curiosity about her surroundings had been a given, even as Leslie grinned back. The pair sat down on one of the nearby tables, and Vicki was thankful that she could finally put the two boxes of pastries down.

"That's a fair question. Just before I took off, I was able to find a promising young woman from Central City. Fast tracked her way through med school, and she was ready for the experience that a place like this could offer," Leslie explained, glancing back towards the doorway the two had entered from. "Speaking of which, here she is now."

Vicki turned to face the newcomer. She was a short, mousy woman. Clad in a white labcoat, she had light brown hair, tied up in a messy ponytail. Brown eyes widened in slight shock as she saw Vicki and Leslie sitting down, speaking to one another. Just like Crystal, she also had an ID tag.

Dr. Snow

"Oh, Doctor Thompkins! I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" Snow asked, only to get a short wave from Leslie.

"Not at all Caitlin. I was just about to deliver this to you actually. This is Vicki Vale, she's a friend. One that offered me some help to bring some snacks in. Gave me an opportunity to get you this," Leslie continued, holding up a cold drink of some kind.

"That peanut butter monstrosity that you were such a fan of last time. I don't know how on earth you can drink that," Leslie said, giving a good natured, but stern look as she handed Caitlin her drink. Caitlin offered up a sheepish shrug in response.

"I just…sort of do?"

Leslie snorted at that statement.

"To each their own. Is that a report I need to read?" she asked, glancing at the folder in Caitlin's hand.

"Oh, no. You're still on break I couldn't ask you to—"

"Nonsene, Caitlin. My break's over in half an hour, and honestly? I was never planning on taking the full thing. Please," Leslie told her, holding out a hand. "I don't mind, besides I can talk and read at the same time."

Caitlin, still looking sheepish, gave Leslie the folder she had been clutching. Drink in hand, she turned to leave, only offering Vicki a short wave.

"Nice meeting you by the way. Sorry, but I have to get back to work."

"Oh, likewise. Take care," Vicki called out, relaxing back into her chair. Turning over, she gave Leslie a grin. "She seems nice."

"The poor dear's been working so hard. I swear, I heard her talking about trying to take up another doctorate while I was away. Part of the reason why I'm glad I came back," Leslie said, grinning back as she snagged a pastry from one of the boxes in front of her. "Now, I fear I've bored you enough with my talking. So Vicki. Tell me about yourself. Don't worry, I have time," she said, tapping on the folder.

Vicki chuckled, and for the first time, in a long time, she was feeling relaxed. Far more relaxed than she had been earlier, at the very least.

She wasn't sure just how she had gotten herself here… but here was better than nowhere, at least.

Chapter Text

James knew that going to Arkham on his own was going to be a bad call. Suspended for a few weeks meant that he could spend more time with Junior, but that didn't take away from the dressing down that his Captain was giving him.

Normally, he would have been given the night shift. With how many times the… 'Bat' operated, it was a given. Their squad had been dealt the same hand. However, with his suspension, James had been called in during the day shift, to sort out the rest of his mess. The day had dragged on, sadly.

Harvey Bullock was something of an enigma, compared to the other officers the GCPD had in their ranks. James had heard the whispers surrounding the man. Rumors of bribes, hints of brutality. But the whispers meant nothing. James believed in facts, and evidence. So he waited to pass judgement.

Bollock was heavyset, like Loeb. But unlike their esteemed commissioner, Bullock looked like he could handle himself in a fight. A crooked nose that looked like it had been broken, more than once. Salt and pepper hair, and an unkept, scruffy beard. But his eyes, posture, James had seen it all before.

Loeb was a politician. Bullock was a fighter.

It was something that James could respect.

"Dunno how things operated back in Chicago, Gordon. But you're really cutting it here. Going into a situation without backup like that?"

"Yes sir. I understand that. However—"

Bullock raised one hand, cutting off James' explanation.

"The only reason you're back from suspension so soon is because you walked away from an encounter with the Bat unscathed. That says something. About you or him, I couldn't care less. All I do care about is catching this bastard. You've updated your team then?"

James nodded, not trusting his words for the moment. Bullock looked back at him, his desk covered in various reports.

"The hell were you thinking anyways, going into that place without backup? Didn't think to call it in?"

"I received a tip, sir. Wasn't so sure about the source, so I wanted to verify things before committing resources. Wasn't expecting to run into a situation like that, but I jumped the gun." James admitted,

"Hmph. Well, I'm hoping your suspension helped you realize that sort of thing doesn't work around here. Right?" Bullock asked, and James could only nod.

"Crystal, sir. Won't happen again."

"Good. You're dismissed. If you got anything else that can get this case solved, you report it. No more of this 'lone wolf' crap. Do that, and we won't have any problems."

James nodded, still standing at attention. There was something nagging at his mind though.

"Sir, one more thing. That Jane Doe I brought in." He trailed off, trying to figure out how to word his question.

Bullock raised an eyebrow, glancing towards the report that James had filed, before his suspension.

"You mean the woman you claimed was 'superhuman'? What about her?"

James balked at the tone, not that he blamed the other man's disbelief. He had tried to be as reasonable in his report as he could, but it sounded more like fantasy than reality.

"Sir, if I can be blunt? Someone killed her. Whoever pumped that poison in her veins? Whatever happened to her, the…" Gordon trailed off, not wanting to use the name that was now circulating around the station. "Bat was at Arkham Asylum for a reason. That woman was murdered. Someone did… whatever that was to her."

"I know Gordon. I read the reports." Bullock's eyes narrowed. "Haven't heard anything about other incidents at Arkham. But we can investigate the place, at the very least. The Jane Doe's a start, but I'm getting pushback here. Way more than I was expecting from a dead junkie. Warrant's already in place, but you're bringing back up to see what we can dig up. If you find evidence, concrete evidence, we'll get this story straight.. Dismissed. Don't press your luck."

Bullock waved James away, and that was that.

He left the office, feeling the stares of the other cops on him. Everyone was giving him a wide berth, not wanting to risk getting caught up with whatever James had found himself stuck in. It was a familiar feeling, sadly. It almost reminded him of Chicago, but at least his career wasn't screwed over yet.

He needed a smoke.

It was something of an ugly habit, his smoking. James had never touched the things before he enlisted. But sometimes, out in the desert, it was hard to keep nerves calm. There was a saying about idle hands, and frayed nerves. One of his squadmates offered him a smoke to ease the edge, and the rest was history.

Barb hadn't been all too happy to find that he had gained such a nasty habit, but as long as James didn't smoke in the house—or god forbid near their children—then it was an acceptable one.

Sadly, he was starting to go through more each day.

James took a moment, letting the tobacco burn in his lungs for a moment as he stared at the countless towering buildings that surrounded the station. He had spent most of the day dealing with reports and debriefings, and now his moment of silence was helped by the sun barely starting to set. His shift would be over soon, but he still needed the smoke.

The door behind him slammed open. James didn't need to have eyes on the back of his head to know who was marching over to him.

"What the hell, Jim?"

Those words hissed, in a tone that James knew all too well. Idly tapping off some of the ash that had formed over his cigarette, he turned around, coming face to face with an enraged Essen.

They hadn't spoken a word to one another, during his suspension. The brass made it clear, they wanted James away from everything. Off the record or not. James had been doing his best to hide away, because he knew damn well what Essen was like when she was mad. Didn't mean he wasn't looking forward to this moment.

Internally, James shivered. The amount of times he had seen her this angry could be counted on one hand. Once had been after a mission of theirs, because of terrible intel. Another had been when some genius had decided to swap out her favorite MRE for the dreaded veggie omelet.

Right now? James felt like Essen was planning on castrating him with a rusty spoon.

"Look, Sarah, I already—"

"Save it. I'm not done with you yet." She cut him off, holding up a single finger. "Three weeks. You've been ghosting me, and the rest of the squad for three weeks. All we heard at first was you getting suspended. Now you're just telling me to 'look'?!"

"You're right. I just—"

If it was possible, her glare intensified. James shut his mouth.

"I'll say it again. What the hell? What were you thinking, going off on your own? No backup? No checking no? I'm your partner on this, the least you could do was give me a heads up!"

James opened his mouth, already prepared to give his response. Essen was quick to cut him off however.

"No. Of course you couldn't. You couldn't trust your partner to have your back?"

Just because Sarah knew him didn't mean the accusation stung any less.

"You're right. Not about trusting you. I do. But I wasn't thinking. I had a shitty source. It might have been bad intel, and I know you hate that. I wanted to make sure this was solid before dragging anyone else in."

Essen gave a sharp inhale, and James was worried she was about to spew more hellfire. Not that he blamed her. His suspension had given him a lot of time to to think things over. He should have called someone. Anyone. But he didn't. It hurt her, he came to see. It shouldn't have come to this. And it had.

James frowned. How could he explain it? A superhuman woman, capable of tearing through metal like it was tissue paper? A man dressing up as a giant bat actually saving him?

The world had gone mad, and James was stuck trying to pick up the pieces. He sighed, tapping out his cigarette. It burned out while Essen had been chewing him out. Lighting another one up, Jim took a moment to inhale the smoke, turning back out towards the city.

"Sarah we've known each other for years. I screwed up. But want to fix this. Just hear me out. I promise, I'll answer whatever questions you have after. Deal?."

Essen looked conflicted, the expression on her face shifting between the anger she had, and confusion from James' words. He wordlessly offered her a smoke of her own, which she took. As she lit her own cigarette. James began his tale.

He knew it sounded like something akin to those science fiction shows Babs liked to watch, or even a horror movie. But it was the truth.

So he started with Vale. Her audio recording, and the research he had done on his own time. The rest followed shortly.

Arkham was easy enough to explain. His encounter with the Bat, and that Jane Doe? Not so much. James could see it in Essen's eyes. She wanted to believe him. He wasn't really one for telling tall tales. But his words were likely going to be taken with a grain of salt. James didn't blame her for that.

His tone never wavered, not when he mentioned how easily the Jane Doe had broken out of her restraints, nor during that final confrontation with the Bat. James spared no details, not even as the sun finally set behind them, the only thing lighting up the area around them being their waning cigarettes.

By the time his tale had finished, Gotham had lit up behind them, giving the bare minimum of light that they weren't blind.

Essen looked back at James, and he could see she was still processing it all. At least she hadn't dismissed him outright. It was better than nothing.

"I wanna hear the audio."

"Of course. I don't have it on me. But I'll bring it so you can." James shot back, crossing his arms.

Essen didn't spook easily. James knew that. He had seen her in combat, in the cases they had been working on recently. She was cool as could be. But now? For the first time, he could see that she was worried.

He could only grunt, still bemoaning his own misguided pride. What sort of partner would he have been if he couldn't trust her?

"As long as we got that sorted out. The hell's this city coming to, Jim?"

"Keep asking myself that question every time I think through it. Dunno what I found myself stumbling into, but it's just starting. Figured I could use some backup with this. Learned my lesson there, I promise you." James said, almost sighing as Essen gave a bitter chuckle.

"Guess I always did get lucky, dragging your ass out of the fire." She told him, shaking her head. "So what's the game plan?"

"Don't have one. Not yet. But maybe try and reach out. See if we got anyone else on our side. Whatever I found? Seems the higher ups don't really like me looking through it. Already had more than the Captain chew me out as it stands." James told her, sighing.

It had been true. Loeb had been rather… adamant about his methods, especially since it seemed the report had hit his desk. Essen rolled her eyes, stomping down on her own cigarette.

"At least I can be here to give you a smack to the head if you pull that shit again. I'm warning you Jim. Next time you do this?"

"I know, I know. You'll kill me." James told her, grinning. That grin vanished at Essen's response.

"No. I'll tell Barb. She'll handle you."

She really knew how to get to him. James had to give her credit.

There hadn't been any Bat sightings for a few weeks, now that he realized it. Based on how he had been tossed around, it was possible that he had been injured. James was honestly surprised that there might have actually been a man under all that armor.

But that wasn't for him to worry about, not while he was about to head home. Sadly there was an unexpected guest waiting for James as he entered the station's parking garage.

"Hey Jimbo. Heard you got caught in something interesting!" Flass called out, a grin on his face. James couldn't help rolling his eyes at the nickname. This wasn't the first time the other detective had tried to make buddy-buddy, but James had done his best to keep the man at arm's length. His files at home were growing, slowly but surely. But there was nothing concrete that he could connect to the man in front of him. While Flass hadn't done anything wrong to him per say, James' gut was telling him to stay away.

"Detective Flass. Something I can help you with?" James asked, giving the other man a brief nod as he moved towards his car. Flass' smile never seemed to fade, even if it didn't seem to reach his eyes.

That had been the reason alright. Flass reminded him too much of a spook. CIA, whatever they were. Back in the desert, they meant trouble. James was reminded of that same mindset here.

"Listen, I'm just concerned about you. Me and the rest of the guys are. Kinda thing you went through? Seems you might have hit your head real bad." He told James, matching pace rather easily.

His gut was screaming at him still. Not just about Flass' own actions though. Out of the corner of his eyes, James was sure that he had spotted something, maybe someone shadowing him. A more naive man would have brushed it off as their imagination.

Thankfully James was a paranoid man.

"Lotta things happened Flass. I didn't hit my head though. That much I'm sure of." James told him, giving a brief grunt as he found his own car. He could see Flass' grin shift, ever so slightly. The smallest twitch, but still something that caught his eyes. One hand went to James' pocket, reaching for his keys. "Something on your mind?"

"Jimbo, I'll be perfectly frank. You're worrying a lot of the other guys." Flass told him, seemingly ignoring how James rolled his eyes. "You never do anyone else favors, ya never hang out with the rest of us. Just want you to consider your future in the department. That's all."

James gave the briefest of hums in acknowledgement, moving to unlock his door. Was he about to get the same kind of 'offer' that folks in Chicago had given him? Maybe. The whole situation stank though, because James was so sure that Flass wasn't in this thing alone.

"I already know my future in the department Flass. Just gonna keep my head down, figure things out. Besides, I got some other things to worry about." He continued, opening his door. It wouldn't take him much to shove Flass aside and dive in, but James didn't want to burn this bridge just yet.

"This has been a good talk, trust me. But if it's all the same to you? I should probably be heading home now. Take it easy, would you?" James asked, moving to open his car door.

Flass however, had other ideas. He slammed the door shut, looking directly at James.

"Jimbo, we ain't done talking," the other man said, his eyes narrowing.

"Thought we were. You just said you were worried about me. I told you I'm fine. Seems we're all said and done here." James told him.

Just something else I wanted to talk to you about. Your little go around at Arkham. Dunno what you found yourself stuck in, but it sounds rough. Me and the guys just wanted to give you a bit of something to help out. Call it a 'get well soon' fund, for you and the family." Flass offered James one of his hands, trying to pull out the charm and smiles.

It was the same kind of offer James had seen a dozen other times, when the others were sure no one was watching. It was the same diseased hand that had likely been the work behind so much of the rot that Gotham, and the department he worked for, had suffered through. James had stuck by his principles before.

In Chicago, they had offered him everything. Money. Power. Any kind of assignment at his leisure. But it didn't matter. None of it could. James believed in the law, the idea of right and wrong. The military had given him pride at doing the right thing. If he took a deal now? How could he ever look Barb in the eye again? How could he hold his children, raise them right, if he was no better than the scum he put away?

It would be a cold day in hell before he took an offer like Flass'.

He shook his head, seeing the grin on the other man's face slowly fade away.

"Thanks, but we'll be fine. If you'll excuse me, I have to get going. I have off tonight." James told him, moving forward. Flass took a step back, allowing James to get into his car.

Flass remained standing there, even as James pulled out of the parking lot. Maybe it was a mistake. But damn if it didn't feel good to turn that kind of offer down again.

Chapter Text

Anniversary Variant Cover, Batman Vol. I

If there was one thing that Alfred could count as a blessing in the weeks that Bruce was recovering from his injuries, it was that the boy was finally getting around to running his company. Lucius had done wonders with what he had, but at some point Bruce had to step in. His name carried weight that Lucius' credentials simply lacked.

Now was one of those times, even if it left Bruce dealing with a rather… unpleasant individual.

"I knew this whole thing was a goddamn mistake! Do you know what the hell you're doing to me Wayne?!" Roman Sionis asked, the question enhanced by fists slamming on his desk.

"Roman, come on. It's been a while I know, but it's Bruce. You know that. I'm just trying to help you out here."

Alfred had chosen to wait outside of Bruce's office, giving the younger man a chance to shine with his own negotiation tactics. Unfortunately, even with a thick oak door, it did little to hide the furious rants of the new head of Janus Cosmetics. Both of them had done some research, seeing that the company could do with a bit of an expansion, but Sionis had truly done it this time.

Both of them had hear horror stories about what the man had become. Quick to burn through money. The sort of man that Bruce could have ended up as, under different circumstances. Whatever issues that Alfred had with his ward's 'night life', at the very least he wasn't ending up like Roman. The same man who was once again yelling his head off.

"You realize what you're doing to me Wayne?! My family built this company! You can't just kick me out!"

"Roman, I read the reports, the lawsuits. Anyone could see that stuff was in the experimental stages. How the heck could you put that in makeup?"

That was true. When they were doing their research, Alfred and Bruce found just how badly Roman had elected to run his family's company. Using an experimental formula as a last ditch effort to make a quick dollar? That fact that disfigurements were the only consequence of that rash action and not people dying was the only reason Roman hadn't been dragged into more serious affairs. It certainly wasn't something his father would have done.

Alfred had met Charles Sionis a number of occasions before Thomas and Martha had been murdered. The man was a shrewd, tense individual who could sell a fish water on a terrible day. His wife? An acquaintance of Martha's. Not one that came by on occasion, but there was pleasantry involved.

They had passed only two years before, long before Bruce had come home. There had been terrible rumors, implicating Roman in something involving their deaths. It didn't stop Alfred from being tempted to bring out his old weapons when Bruce agreed to a meet up with the man, or even phone the police because his temper was only flaring with each passing moment. Now, especially.

"I was desperate, okay? I saw the first reports. That shouldn't have happened!"

"You messed up. That's perfectly fine, Roman. But you have to look at it from our perspective. If we're going to acquire Janus Cosmetics, you can't be it's face anymore."

"Christ, you're really doing this, aren't you? Greedy bastard, you're just snatching everything you can get your hands on. I've seen it, anyone who's anyone can see it. There was that coal plant Cobblepot owned, that goddamn hospital that was supposed to be torn down. You're just grabbing everything that's dying and making it you're own."

Gone was the frothing rage and bluster that Roman had when he first marched into the office. Gone was the pleasantries that Bruce tried to uphold. It was just clear and utter defeat. Alfred held back a hum, hearing the furious scribbling of a signature from his section outside the office.

"No, Roman. I just saw a company that could do some good, and you needed the out. Look, you can come back after the scandal's died down. Maybe as a benefactor, but your name can't be on the company anymore. This is a good payout. It's enough to live comfortably. We just have to let the heat die down, and maybe we can talk."

Bruce, ever the mediator, tried to bridge at least some ground with Roman. But anyone could see it was a futile effort.

The office doors slammed open, and out marched Roman. Eyes wide, neck veins bulging. Fists clenched as he elected to leave one last caustic remark.

"Screw you, Wayne! You and all you fakes! All those damn masks you fucks hide behind! I'm out, don't bother looking for me! The way I see it? You and your worm food parents can go to hell!"

He stomped towards the elevator, and Alfred immediately made his way into Bruce's office. It had been Thomas' before everything, and there was no changes to it. Alfred didn't have the heart to do anything about it, and Lucius felt best to leave it for Bruce to decide.

Bruce was sat behind a beautiful maple desk that Thomas had acquired almost three decades before. When Martha found out she was pregnant, the desk had been made with the idea that Thomas could watch over the company that he loved, and dote over the child that would inherit it all. It was large enough for two people to comfortably sit at, however Bruce's lonely visage caused Alfred to privately mourn at what could have been.

Shutting the door behind him, Alfred cleared his throat. Bruce's face shifted, from the smiles and charms that he struggled to put on, back to the dour expression that seemed to overtake every other emotion. It was almost haunting, seeing how quickly the boy could change faces.

"Master Bruce. Despite his rather…" Alfred trailed off, trying to find the proper words. "Incenseant demeanor, I can only assume that the acquisition successful?"

"That's one word for it, Alfred." Bruce told him, wiping his eyes. That rubbed off some concealer, used to cover up the bags that were still around his eyes. Alfred wordlessly offered a handkerchief. Bruce took it, wiping away the smudges on his face.

"He's not happy, but we've acquired the company with board approval. Lucius could have done this, but I remember Roman. We didn't speak much as children, but our parents interacted. He was pleasant enough. I owed him that much at least. He's… changed. Far angrier than I remember him to be." Bruce continued, a grim look on his face.

"We've all changed, sir. Some more than others. I can't say enough about Roman to understand what's happened to him, only that he's clearly let his money get to his head."

"That much is a given. The only upside to this whole thing was that he actually signed the documents. We can get them notarized, and maybe he'll leave the city. Clear his head. Hopefully it won't be a problem in the future." Bruce noted, leaning back in his chair.

"Sir, was it wise to not phone the police? Mister Sionis was rather temperamental, and heaven only knows what he might end up doing in his rage." He warned. Bruce grunted, staring ahead.

"Police would only make him act unstable. His ego wouldn't allow anyone else to dictate what he might want to do. He's angry, but not to the point of doing something he might regret. It might be smart to keep an eye on him, but nothing major. Just precaution." The younger man told him, his voice low. Compared to Roman's yelling, it would be impossible for anyone to hear them speaking.

"If you say so, sir."

"That's the idea. Besides, there's something else I'm worried about. Maybe we should head back to the manor. I need to clear my head." Bruce told him. Alfred held back a sigh. Clearing his head, yes. That was obviously what he had planned.

The Janus Cosmetics acquisition wasn't exactly important, in the long run. But with how much Bruce had chosen to seclude himself, Alfred had voiced some ideas to change that. Bruce had public appearances to keep up, and had done quite a lot of them in his time of rest and recovery. However, that could only go so far. The boy was growing restless. As much as Alfred shuddered to use the word, his 'mission' needed to continue.

Hours later found the pair back in the cave, with Bruce gingerly putting on his armor, and Alfred standing at attention beside him.

"I can't go back to Arkham. They'll have already covered their tracks. Hidden or moved whoever else they might have had strapped down there. That just means I have to open my investigation to other places." Bruce told him, grunting as he downed a pair of painkillers Leslie had assigned him. Something that would dull the pain, but not his senses thankfully. She didn't know the full story, only that Alfred had insisted that Bruce sometimes worked nights. Perhaps that was for the best.

"What do you have in mind, sir?" Alfred asked, offering Bruce a glass of water. The younger man snatched it quickly, taking a few brief sips before continuing his preparation.

"The GCPD. Gordon might have something I can work off of. If I can sneak in, there's a chance I can open up a back door into their servers. Gives me eyes on the case without having to go through Gordon and the rest of them."

Alfred found his eyes widening at the admission. Bruce had taken serious risks before, but this?

"Sir, I do hope you are aware of what you're going to attempt. While this investigation is quite important, breaking into a police station crosses a certain line. You're risking getting yourself caught, or heavens forbid, killed. This would surely burn any goodwill you might have gained before now, if any." He warned, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

Bruce gave a grunt.

"Obviously I'm going to scout out the location. Figure out shifts, patrol patterns. It's a last resort. But one that'll probably be needed if I want to get anything done." Bruce said, putting on another piece of armor. However, something clearly came to his mind. He stood up, quickly moving over towards the computer.

Alfred found his heart slowing down, the prospect of Bruce charging headfirst into what very well could have been a suicide mission shoved to the back of his mind. The boy hadn't completely lost his senses at least. That was good. But perhaps he could be persuaded to avoid going after the people that had an active warrant out for his arrest in the future. Bruce, ignorant of Alfred's own internal struggles, kept speaking.

"However, there might be another avenue I can explore in the meantime." He told Alfred, pulling up some of their older files. The woman that had attacked him in Arkham, all those weeks ago. She still hadn't come up, in either obituaries or newspapers of any kind. It was… almost tragic, in a sense. Bruce still had her files open on the computer, and every time he came down here her face was the first thing he or Alfred would see.

"Whoever this is, they'll need more bodies.. They have to be poaching the homeless. They're perfect test subjects. No one to note if they're missing, no one to care if they turn up dead. If my theory is correct, if they took more like our Jane Doe, only so many can go missing before news pops up among the camps. If I'm not successful there.." Bruce trailed off, a glare forming in his eyes.

There it was. The look that Bruce gained when talking about the criminals he hunted down, the people that he had likely put the fear of God into. Alfred could see it, every time Bruce's movements were slowed by his injuries. Every time a new report came out about how crime was slowly on the rise. His work was being undone, and Bruce could not, and would not allow that to pass.

Something however, was left in the air. Bruce hadn't said it, and Alfred elected to speak up.

"Sir, in regards to Detective Gordon, perhaps it would be smart to keep an eye on him? Make another attempt to reach out to him?"

Bruce glanced at Alfred out of the corner of his eye.

"He's made his position clear Alfred. He can't help us, and anything I do is outside of the law. There's nothing to discuss."

"I believe there is. Just because he's denied helping you doesn't mean he won't look into this matter on his own accord." Alfred noted, raising an eyebrow. "You and I have both read the man's record. He can't abide by corruption, and certainly has a higher standard in comparison to the rest of the GCPD. It's only a matter of time before someone might find him digging into places that would best be left undisturbed."

Bruce said nothing as he stood up, instead walking back towards where pieces of his armor remained. He was clutching the chest plate. Some sections were missing, damaged beyond repair. They could have likely have asked Lucius to get more sections, but it would have to be done slowly.

There was an unspoken question, something that made him pause. Alfred wanted to say something, but the words escaped him.

Bruce had been so sure of this crusade. So ready to die. Here, now, was he actually starting to hesitate? Now, maybe Alfred could turn him away from this dangerous path. Maybe there was a chance…

His thoughts were interrupted as Bruce tossed the broken chest plate aside. Damn it, he had been too slow to respond. That same glare had returned. The dimming fire that reignited every time Bruce gazed upon his armor.

Alfred was reminded of the first night Bruce had decided this was how he would spend his nights. He asked the younger man why on earth he wanted to do this. To risk his life, his family's legacy in pursuit of this violent path.

'This is my mission. If I won't do it, who else would?'

Bruce said nothing else as he put his helmet back on. The face vanished beneath the cool, unblinking visage of the vigilante that was back to haunting the streets of Gotham.

"I suppose you have your plans then, sir. Please, do be careful. I'll have a hot meal ready for when you return." Alfred called out, not wincing once Bruce leapt into that ghastly car of his.

The engine roared to life, having been idle for weeks. The black painted vehicle tore outwards, like a beast reawakening from hibernation. It left Alfred alone in the cave, with just his thoughts.

The older man gave a tired sigh, head hanging.

"Pennyworth, you damnable coward."

So it's been a year since DCAFF started posting. That's wild. This whole thing just started as a simple premise, a few of us thinking "Hey, what can we do with this property?" We've gone through ups and downs as a group, and personally I just want to say thank you.

Thanks to all of you readers, and anyone who's giving this story a read through. Your support really helps, and we're trying our best to make DCAFF an enjoyable read through. Here's to more stories to come.

-Orion

Next Chapter: 29th November

P.S. (From Pincoat): In celebration for our anniversary, we're taking a cue from comic books and releasing a sneak peak to an upcoming story. Without further ado...

DCAFF's Superman: Subtitle TBD

The Death of Krypton was a respectable affair.

Not that such was uncharacteristic for Rao's chosen people. They queued in fractals. A funerary dirge played from crystal pylons, set in place according to strict, acoustic perfection. They wore reflective robes—creased precisely and starched over the shoulders—with the crests of each respective family displayed proudly across the front.

The apocalypse was upon them, but such would never distract good Kryptonians from their procedures and pomp.

Jor-El thanked the gods that he could never be mistaken for a good Kryptonian.

Far from the Sun Hall, on the opposite side of the Starstruck Plains, deep beneath miles of ice and crystal, was a small lab. It was the best that Jor-El could afford—with its scratched walls and fuzzy terminals—and just barely fit himself, his wife, their son, and a single-seater rocket.

"Jor…" Lara started, her arms instinctively holding their son tighter against her chest.

Jor-El thinned his lips and sighed. "Lara, please. The time for discussion is over."

"Your time, perhaps," Lara spat back, glaring. "It's not yet too late. My father is saving our spot in line. My sister doesn't understand why we aren't with them."

"What would you have me do? Doom our son to his 'righteous death?'"

"Better a righteous death than ignoble squalor! You'll deliver him to this primitive bog, alone. What assurances do you have that he'd even survive to his second Name Day? And even if—by Rao's rays—he does reach his maturity, what does he have to look forward to?" Lara's voice broke at the end of her question. She swallowed, and continued, "This planet doesn't even have guilds!"

"No, but they have their star," Jor-El said.

"This again? You have no evidence it'll do as you say!"

"The Books of Rao—"

"—are etchings in a crystal!" Lara cried. "This is our son, Jor."

Jor-El lowered his gaze back to his terminal. "I know, Lara. But it's a chance. That's all. A chance at a life stolen from him by foppish fools who care only for the dress of their authority."

The heat draped over their shoulders like a mantle, and the acrid scent of brimstone lapped at their noses.

Jor-El held out his arms. "Please."

The strongest woman Jor-El knew broke. She folded in on herself as if to hide from the gods. "He won't know us. We won't know him."

Jor-El didn't hide his own tears as he said, "He'll know our love for him. He'll know enough."

The ground beneath their feet began to shake. Dust rained from the ceiling in thick, shimmering clouds, and the scratches in the walls deepened to cracks, which began to spread.

Jor-El closed his eyes, whispering a prayer.

Tears streamed freely down Lara's cheeks, but she followed his cues as they completed the Rite of Journeys.

As the final verse left their lips, the two lowered their son into the rocket. They each took one of his balled fists in their hands, and spent as long as they could afford just holding onto him. Despite his words, Jor-El nearly didn't let go. It was only when Lara buried her nose in his chest that he did, freeing his arms to embrace her.

They swaddled him in his favourite blanket, and ensured he had a firm grip on his stuffed drang, Qual. Until finally, Jor-El slid the newly-programmed crystal into the rocket's nav-port.

Standing in the middle of that crumbling room—staring at his son's face for what would surely be the last time—Jor-El felt the weight of his life. If only he'd tried harder. Shouted louder. If only he'd been a touch more defiant. Perhaps this was to be his penance. A small price to pay for the billions he couldn't save. "Goodbye, Kal."

Fresh sobs burst from Lara's chest, but she managed to say the same.

"And I'm sorry."

The rocket's main engine ignited, and the collapsing ceiling brought them sweet oblivion.

Clark woke up to a white ceiling and the hum of fluorescents, as a box television delivered the news in a language he couldn't understand.

The dream was new, but familiar. The same beats had been present in Clark's thoughts ever since he'd learned the truth about his birth family—and sometimes those thoughts liked to interrupt his sleep—but never quite so sad. Or desperate.

He rubbed at his eyes and peered at the screen, trying to decipher the graphics. German, maybe?

That was odd. Bialyan news was broadcast in Arabic. Why would it—?

The final wisps of fog lifted from Clark's mind, and the past two weeks hit him like a freight truck. The article. Scoop's abduction. Clark's decision.

Pain.

Oh God, Scoop!

Practically by instinct, Clark turned his head to the side and listened.

In an instant, he was drowning in an ocean of noise. Hissing and beeping. Mechanical clicks. Whirring motors. Wheels. An army of footsteps. An uproar of keystrokes. Repressed pain. Open grief. Prayer.

Clark shut his eyes. It wasn't needed, but it helped him focus.

More German. Scattered words in Dutch. A few conversations in accented English. Wherever he was, he wasn't in Bialya anymore. Clark skipped past them all.

He'd take anything. The watered gravel of his cough. The dry whistle under his snoring.

Click.

Even those damned pens!

"—have you been?"

"What do you mean?"

He was okay! And obviously angry about something, based on the speed of his clicking. Clark loathed Scoop's pens—with their physics-defying acoustics and tungsten-whatever springs—but in that moment, he was so overjoyed that Scoop was alright he was prepared to buy him a lifetime supply.

"Really?" That was a woman with him. And considering Scoop's entire… thing… that could only be his infamous wife, Bea.

There was a pause, as Scoop presumably registered Bea's skepticism and pointedly ignored it.

"I've been here," he said.

Bea let out a frustrated exhale, almost certainly heard by Scoop (though, Clark couldn't reliably tell what was and wasn't reasonable for a person to hear). "Come home."

"Yeah," Scoop said, not quite questioning, but definitely doing more than just confirming Bea's plea. "Job's over, anyway. Perry's pulling us out."

"No, Rob, I mean for real. Properly."

Scoop didn't say anything for a while, and all Clark could hear were the metronomic clicks. Every other second. Click. Click. Click.

"Rob, we have to discuss this."

Click.

"No, Bea, we really don't."

Clark flinched back, shame crawling up his collar. That conversation was the farthest thing from Clark's business. He found what he was looking for—Scoop was fine—he didn't need to hear the rest.

He pushed the noise back out of focus and turned his attention back to his room.

As hospital rooms went, it wasn't awful. The walls were a pleasant cream, with false wood panels tacked on to disguise the sterility. There was a drawer that probably opened and a window that probably didn't, and a chair plush enough that it had lulled his mother to sleep. All the fixings of a place trying hard not to feel like what it was.

And he had cards, too. Lana's was long and tidy, written in deep red ink. The angle blocked most of it, but what the sections Clark could see were heartfelt and earnest. Pete's, by comparison, was constructed entirely from irony and innuendo, with its margins crowded with similarly crude cartoons. Clark was honestly surprised—and more than a little impressed—that his mother hadn't thrown it out. (His father's doing, no doubt.) There was one from Perry, one from Mr. Blake, and a baby-blue one trimmed with lace, from Simone.

With Clark's senses, he still caught traces of Simone's perfume still clinging to hers. Rosewater and vanilla, spiced with cinnamon. She must have delivered it herself, less than three days ago.

His mind slid back to those months in Paris—huddled in that shabby, roach-run apartment—watching the sun sink behind the skyline as he and Simone shared a crumpled cigarette. He could almost smell the smoke. A wave of heat rose in Clark's cheeks. Maybe he should reach out…

And then Simone's card burst into flames.

Coming soon...