1. New Friends, Old Lovers

[November 20, 2014, Gotham City]

Two years had passed since Bruce Wayne's return to Gotham City. Two years come and gone, and yet Bruce still felt like a stranger in his own land. It was neither the first nor the worst time Gotham City had surprised him, and he knew it would not be the last. Still, it felt surreal to be standing here in the grand ballroom of the Gotham Regal Hotel enjoying the glitzy party while he knew the city outside was busy driving itself mad.

Bruce sipped the sparkling cider that he passed for champagne, and gazed wistfully out the window. Most of the police force was here at the annual Wayne Foundation-hosted Ball in Blue, dedicated to honoring local law enforcement. How many criminals would be taking advantage of tonight's distraction? How many plots were going down? He itched to be away and immersed in the night. If Batman did not make an appearance soon, the city would pay a high price, but Bruce Wayne was obligated to spend at least an hour at the Ball in Blue. Once Commissioner James Gordon made his speech, he would go. He knew that Gordon must be as eager as he was to get back to protecting the city, and owed him at least that much.

Nonetheless, Bruce needed a moment away from the idle gossip and callous laughter. The ballroom was on the third-highest floor of the Regal, and Bruce headed through the glamorous crowd towards a balcony. It was a frigid November night, and he knew it would be empty. He passed Gordon in the crowd, and happened to pick up on a conversation he was having with Harvey Dent, the newly elected District Attorney.

"Smile, Harvey."

"I been smilin' so long my face hurts."

"It's good exercise, Mr. District Attorney."

Harvey Dent used the excuse of a drink to alleviate his aching face. His forehead wrinkled into a frown then, and he rubbed his cheek. Bruce paused a few feet from the two men, taking notice of Harvey Dent for the first time. He was tall, though not so tall as Bruce, and none of the hundreds of photos the press bombarded the city with during his campaign did him justice: Dent's finely carved features looked sculpted by a Renaissance artist, the lines of his face straight and strong despite a sensuous curve of the mouth and long, dark lashes framing deep, dark eyes. It was no wonder that the press had dubbed him an Apollo, and the White Knight of Gotham: he was moral, beautiful, and devoted. Now he saw how Harvey had inspired the city to believe in him.

Bruce's impression was slightly offset by a scowl that overtook Dent's handsome face. He was making small talk with some of the guests, but there was a sharp, cynical tone to his remarks. Fortunately, he was charming enough that no one but Bruce and Gordon noticed.

"Okay, okay," Jim said, interrupting the conversation before Harvey's tongue got him in trouble. "I think we should get some air."

With a hand on Dent's shoulder, Gordon led him out to the balcony. Grumbling and taking another drink, Harvey followed. Bruce went after them, though he kept at a distance. The air was freezing outside, but at least it was relatively quiet. Harvey set his drink on the balcony ledge and exhaled wearily, breath frosting the air white.

Gordon eyed Harvey warily. The stress of a harrowing campaign had not worn off yet, though Harvey had won the election two weeks ago. Though he looked like a million dollars in that tuxedo, Gordon knew Harvey was far more comfortable with his sleeves rolled up while he stalked the police station, trying to gather enough evidence to convict the high-profile criminals that haunted Gotham City. He was neither one of the police being honored tonight nor a rich benefactor of the ball, and had no interest in these functions. With the campaign over, his polished political facade was wearing very thin.

"Where is Gilda tonight?" Gordon asked. "She isn't still in hiding, is she?"

"She is," Harvey said quietly, staring out at the city. "It's the death threats, you know she was never good at handling them. I tell her they don't mean anything, but she knows they very well could. All it takes is that one, you know?"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, we … " Harvey's brow furrowed. "We could use the time apart."

Gordon knew better than to comment.

"It's no one's fault, it's just that she didn't sign up for this," Harvey explained. "Mob bosses coming up to us in public with veiled threats, letters from psychos coming to our house. Every time she even starts to think of having a kid, she realizes the kid would just be another … " He swallowed hard. "That the kid would be another target."

"Christ, Harvey-"

"And who am I kidding? We both know she's right," Harvey said. "Thing is, I don't care. I won't let myself be afraid. But where does that leave her?"

Gordon nodded understandingly.

"It's toughest on the families. Always has been, always will be." He lit a cigarette, inhaled smoke. "She'll either get used to it … or not."

"Yeah, I know," Harvey said. He reached for his glass again. "The worst part is the waiting, waiting for it to go one way … or the other."

Gordon nodded.

"Like the election," Harvey said, changing the subject. "God, I thought the suspense was going to kill me. Then I win, I get into office, and what? For what? To waste my nights going to parties?"

"Harvey," Gordon warned. "Don't start."

Harvey grinned, a mirthless and hard expression.

"Still having to remind the politician to be polite, Jim?" He downed the rest of his drink. "Be polite. Yeah, I'll be polite. Smile and tell all these generous patrons how happy I'll be to kiss their—"

"Harvey." Gordon took the empty glass from him, set it back down on the balcony. "I think that's enough for one night."

"Oh you think so, huh?"

Gordon removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Harvey was eloquent and passionate, but when his temper surfaced, it was as hot as hell. Some of the polish fell off his speech, lending it the harsh bite of a deep urban accent. He had not come up from the entitlement the ball's hosts had, though hardly any of them knew it. He had arrived here through tireless work and devotion—nothing more.

Nothing less, either, and that's what makes him such a good prosecutor, Gordon thought. But that temper, jeez, that temper …

Meanwhile, Bruce decided that it was time to meet Mr. Harvey Dent. He casually strolled out onto the balcony, remarking, "Cold out here, isn't it?"

Harvey turned to him. Cold as the night was, the scorn in his smile was colder. Bruce was somewhat amused by the look. Gordon looked nervous. He had known Bruce for years, and was obviously anxious for Harvey to make a good impression on the man that primarily funded the Ball in Blue.

"Ah, good to see you, Bruce," Gordon said immediately, shaking the man's hand. "Have you two met?"

Bruce turned to Harvey, smiling amiably. "No, I don't think we have."

"Well. Bruce Wayne, this is Harvey Dent, our newest District Attorney," Gordon introduced them. "Harvey, this is Bruce Wayne, the—"

"The guy that throws this party, yeah." Harvey took Bruce's hand in his own and squeezed it, hard. "I know."

Bruce shook his hand. He was tempted to grip Dent's hand back with equal force, but restrained himself. This man seemed to be out for a fight.

"Pleasure."

"I appreciate your generosity, almost as much as Jim here does," Harvey said. His grip on Bruce's hand tightened. "Even if you didn't vote for me."

Gordon stiffened. "Harvey."

"Actually, I did. I also made a donation to your campaign, anonymously," Bruce said. He glanced at his hand, and squeezed back with more strength. "I try to keep my political leanings private. Especially to stay away from the slogans! I mean, 'I Believe in Harvey Dent'?"

Bruce gave Harvey's hand one last very tight grip, then released it. Dent curled it into a fist.

"It worked, didn't it? I'm in office. Which is why you're here, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?"

Gordon gripped Harvey's arm. "I think we should—"

Harvey shrugged him off, stepped closer to Bruce.

"You're here to make a point of my knowing you funded my campaign," he said. "Aren't you? Do you know how many people have revealed their anonymous generosity to me tonight? And you know, the funniest thing happens when people put their money into your power. You know what happens, Bruce?"

Bruce watched him with interest. It was strangely refreshing to hear such honesty from a politician. He watched those dark eyes sparkle with bitterness, and pondered the man.

"What?"

"They start thinking they've bought themselves a little piece of your office," Harvey said. He laughed, his face stormily beautiful despite the ugliness of his scorn. "Amazing how that happens, isn't it? They trust you to win, and then they trust you to use your power to further their agendas. So, why don't you just go ahead and ask me, Bruce. Go on. Ask me to go easy on your corporation, or to attack your competition, maybe? Ask me to get a friend off of charges. Ask me to sweep your least favorite demographic under the rug, to clean up an area you want to gentrify. What is it you want your donation to have bought you, Bruce? Hm?"

"Harvey!" Gordon snapped sternly.

Bruce Wayne was delighted with the contentious District Attorney. He had not seen such earnest virtue in a very long time, had thought it all but extinct in Gotham City. It was refreshing to meet someone besides himself and Gordon that actually believed in the fight for the city's soul. He only wished Harvey knew of his own intentions, instead of lumping him in with the rest of the upper crust.

"No, Commissioner, don't stop him," Bruce said, not taking his eyes off of Harvey. "I want to hear this, Dent. What if I did expect a favor, as you insinuate your other donors do?"

"If you expect a favor—" Harvey glanced at Gordon. He was a little uncertain, thrown off by Wayne's lack of offense. He slid his hands into his pockets, looking up at the taller man coolly. "Well, I'm not granting any. I thank you for your support, but the office of District Attorney is no longer for sale."

"I give up," sighed Gordon. He threw his cigarette to the floor and crushed it under his shoe. "Damn it, Harvey, you're on your own."

He left the two men staring at each other.

"That's a new and novel approach to political office in Gotham," Bruce remarked.

"It is, isn't it?" Harvey looked after Gordon. "Look, I'd better go before dad decides to spank me."

"He certainly was dedicated to getting you elected," Bruce said, watching Gordon. "Do you think you deserve it?"

"The office or the spanking?" Harvey grunted in amusement. "What do you think?"

"Probably both."

Harvey glanced at him sharply. Bruce cursed himself for the comment; it had come out much more flirtatious than he had intended. He cleared his throat, not meeting Harvey's eyes. Two years back in Gotham, and he had spent them alone. His life was complicated enough without romance.

"Anyway, I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Dent," Bruce said, walking to the ledge of the balcony and looking out at Gotham. A large stone gargoyle leered down at it beside him. "It's rare to meet anyone in Gotham that isn't afraid: afraid of stepping on the wrong toes, or afraid of being honest, afraid of doing the right thing. Everywhere you look in Gotham, everyone is so afraid."

Harvey came over beside him.

"Not without reason," he said softly, thinking of Gilda. "There are real nightmares out there in Gotham City."

"I would never blame anyone for their fear," Bruce said. "I only think the city does need more people that refuse to let themselves be scared. More people like you."

Harvey waved a hand.

"One ill-tempered speech and you're impressed? If only all the voters had been that easy." He drew in the cold winter air, hands shoved in his pockets again. "I meant every word I said, but I will apologize for the attitude. Justice should be blind. I don't usually judge anyone on sight. It's just been a long night … "

Bruce turned to him and stared at the man. He opened his mouth to assure Harvey that he had taken no offense, but then he saw it: a thin red laser line shining from the building across the street. Bruce followed the sight line into the ballroom, and saw it rest upon Jim Gordon's chest.

Bruce reacted in the split seconds before the shot went off. He threw Harvey to the floor of the balcony, crouched, and dashed into the ballroom.

"JIM, GET DOWN!"

The bullet whizzed into the crowd, but due to the confusion, missed Gordon. Bruce reached him in three bowed strides, and pulled him to the floor. There was a moment of stunned confusion, and then the screams started. The laser searched the crowd for Gordon, but Bruce had dragged him to the cover of the wall. There was not a second shot. This is a professional hit, Bruce thought. Sniper.

"We have to get you out of here," Bruce told Gordon. "This—"

The wall exploded, and Gordon was thrown to the floor. Blood sprayed everywhere. Bruce's blue eyes went wide with shock. The sniper had shot through the wall, using one of the newest miniature missile launchers just coming into the military. Bruce grabbed Gordon and pulled him towards the exit. Harvey joined them, helping Bruce with the wounded Commissioner's weight.

"What the hell is this?" Harvey asked, more angry than afraid. "Jesus God! Is Jim hurt? Is he shot?"

"Yes," Bruce said, his hand pressed hard to the wound in Gordon's shoulder. "Call an ambulance. Call it in to Gotham PD."

Harvey was already on his phone.

"Goddamn bastard," Gordon cursed, wincing in pain. "Arrgh. You were right, Harvey. We have better things to do than dance the night away at some party. No offense, Bruce."

"Believe me, this isn't the Wayne Foundation's idea of how to honor the police force," Bruce said dryly. "Harvey, here. Apply pressure right—Yes, just there, press hard. Take him to the back exit of the Regal's first floor, and do not exit the building until the ambulance has pulled up to the door."

"What?" Harvey asked. "Why? Where are you going?"

"I … brought a guest," Bruce lied. "I have to go back up and make sure she's safe."

"Oh. Uh, shouldn't you have done that first?"

"My guest wasn't the target, and this isn't a random shooting," Bruce said. "I had to make sure Gordon was safe. That's your job now. Do you understand, Harvey?"

"Sure, sure. I got him."

Bruce sent them down in one of the elevators, and then used his keycard on the second elevator to access the Wayne Suite: an entire floor his family had owned since the Gotham Regal was built. He had certainly brought a guest, and it was time for his personal companion to make an appearance.

Behind the bar there was a secret chamber, which Bruce accessed through a biometric lock. The steel chamber had the appearance of a bank vault, and was far more secure. Bright white lights snapped on. Bruce undressed, and then suited up in a very different costume than the tuxedo.

Not much time later, Batman stood on the balcony where Bruce Wayne had met Harvey Dent just minutes ago. He superimposed the laser line of sight on his vision through his mask's equipment, tracing it across the city. A three-dimensional map of the city showed him the building where the shot had come from, tracing it straight to the room. Batman shot his grappling hook to the nearest building, and swung his way towards the sniper's nest.

It was a business tower being renovated, the top floors empty. The building was three hundred yards from the Gotham Regal. Not only was the assassin a sniper, he or she was a damn good shot. Batman used thermal imaging to search the building, but the top floors were empty. Impossible to tell if the shooter was still in the building or had fled into the crowd. Impossible to identify them.

The shooter had been smart and taken whatever shell casings they had used. They had not left a single hair or fiber. The empty, half-finished room was devoid of any trace of the sniper. They had come and gone like a very precise ghost.

Bruce Wayne met Gordon's wife, Barbara, at the hospital. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. She held their infant son, James, Jr., cradled to her chest. Jim had been shot though the shoulder, but the high-tech round had exploded into the wall while the actual bullet had been the only thing to penetrate Gordon's flesh. The bullet had been removed without much effort, though Gordon had lost a lot of blood. He was stable by now, and would probably be fine. Regardless, Barbara was scared as hell. Bruce reassured her as best as he could.

"Hell of a thing," Harvey Dent said darkly, suddenly at Bruce's side. "Hey, was your guest all right?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, she's fine," Bruce said, recalling his previous lie. "I sent her home. Are you okay? Shouldn't you call your wife?"

"Gilda? Oh, yeah, I will," Harvey said distractedly. He was pacing, hand against his mouth, a deep frown on his face. "Hell of a damn thing."

"Harvey." Bruce took him by both shoulders to hold him still. "Are you okay?"

"I'm pissed is what I am," Harvey said. "We have our differences, but Jim Gordon is a friend- a good friend. More importantly, he's one of the last clean cops in the city. He's good police, good people. Which means, Mr. Wayne, that anyone in this goddamned city could have targeted him."

"Still, it was a pretty bold attempt, and an expensive endeavor," Bruce reasoned. "Did you two have any new cases involving the major players? Falcone? Maroni? Or anyone with military experience or connections?"

"What's it to you?" Harvey asked. "You're not a cop. Just go home to your mansion."

"Gordon is my friend, too, Harvey," Bruce said sternly. Harvey's scorn of his wealth was no longer novel or cute; he would not allow any more baseless disrespect. "Listen, when my parents were murdered when I was a child, Jim Gordon was the only cop in the city that offered me any sympathy, any comfort. I may not be the law, but I am just as invested in Gordon's survival as you are."

The temper glinted in Harvey's eyes momentarily, but then it faded. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I hadn't thought about your parents. Hell of a thing. I didn't mean to … Sorry."

Looking down at him in the bright white hospital fluorescent lights, Bruce realized that Harvey's eyes were actually inky blue, the color of an evening sky before a storm. He looked tired, like the harrowed hero of some crime film. Bruce could not help it, he reached out and put a hand on the man's shoulder. There was a slight twitch, as if Harvey would pull away instinctively, but then Bruce felt his muscles relax under the grip.

"Jesus, you must think I'm a bastard," Harvey said quietly. "You funded my campaign, and all I've done is bitch at you all night. You know, I always wondered why the men and women in office say such stupid things, make such stupid mistakes. I never thought that whatever their power, they stayed human. Hardest thing in the world … being human. Huh. Guess I'm just another two-faced politician."

"You're not. You seem like a good guy, Harvey."

Harvey blinked. He did not seem very used to being complimented by Bruce's type, and a faint flush lit his cheeks. It took every ounce of restraint for Bruce not to kiss him.

"Uh, thanks, Bruce," Harvey said awkwardly. "I appreciate it. I really do. It's … It's just been Gordon and I, working nonstop, going through this crucible no one understands. I guess you've been through your own, though, haven't you? When you were a kid?"

Harvey sat on one of the waiting chairs, and Bruce sat in the one beside his.

"I watched my parents get gunned down in cold blood, right there in the middle of Crime Alley," Bruce said quietly. Since returning to Gotham two years ago, he had not spoken of the murder. It still tightened his throat to speak of it. "The press loved it. The police couldn't care less about an orphaned billionaire. Gordon promised me justice. He … made as much sense of a senseless tragedy as anyone could. He was a friend to me then. He's a friend to me now. I continued funding the Ball in Blue to celebrate that friendship. I supported your campaign based solely on trusting Jim's opinion. I wish I could do the jobs you and Jim do, but I'm not that person. Still, I will do whatever I can to help Jim, and to help you."

"Yeah?" Harvey smiled sheepishly. "Can you start with a ride? I went to the Ball in Blue with Jim … "

"Sure, I'll call my driver around," Bruce said. "You going home?"

"No, I got to get to the Gotham PD," Harvey said, standing. He snorted in amusement. "Call your driver around, huh? How about that?"

Bruce ignored the comment. Harvey's disdain for the one percent was not a trait that would be defeated easily, he suspected. He couldn't really blame Harvey for that, as he shared his dislike for many of the people in his own tax bracket.

Case in point: the excitable young man who had broken away from the crowd of Ball-goers and was currently making his way to Bruce like a shark to blood. Boyishly handsome, impeccably groomed, normally at least half-drunk on expensive scotch, and perpetually useless, Robert 'Bobby' Halloran was the portrait of a male socialite. Bruce had once considered taking him as a lover. Every time he crossed paths with him, Bruce was grateful that he had never given in to that temptation. They had been friends before Bruce left Gotham, but Bruce really couldn't see much worth in him now.

"Oh my God, Bruce!" Bobby exclaimed, coming right up to the much taller man and putting a hand on his shoulder. "I heard you were out there when the shots went off! They said you actually pulled the Commish to safety! That you … That you staunched the bleeding with your bare hand. Are you kidding me?"

"I did," Bruce said. He stifled the urge to laugh at the disgusted scowl Harvey had turned on Halloran. "It was adrenaline. What can I say? Look, Bobby—"

"It was horrible. Who would do something like that? What the hell is wrong with people?" Bobby asked shrilly, his panic likely fueled by cocaine. "I can't believe it. This world is sick. It's just … It's sick! Killer clowns, men in bat costumes, and now assassins? It was just a party! Just a damn party! They can't just … just shoot up parties!"

"Pretty sure they can, kid," Harvey interjected.

Bobby turned his attention to him then, his large brown eyes wide.

"What? You're the damn District Attorney!" he said accusingly. "You're not supposed to let this stuff just happen! I voted for you! People believed in you!"

"Unfortunately, being the DA doesn't give me psychic powers," Harvey said, very dry. "The police will find this animal, though, and I will see them rot in prison. You can believe in that."

"Yeah, okay," Bobby said, a bit timid beneath Harvey's hard stare. He turned back to Bruce. "Look, have you seen my date? We were supposed to meet at the Ball but I only saw him for a few minutes before it started."

"I'll meet you outside, Bruce," Harvey said. He hurried away from Bobby and the rest of the crowd that had followed Gordon to the hospital to get their scrapes and nerves tended to.

"Who was your date?" Bruce asked, eager to tell Bobby that he had not seen them and be off. Bobby was chewing on his thumbnail, a habit he had been unable to defeat since childhood. Bruce felt a streak of pity, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Bobby, relax. It's okay. You're safe now. I'm sure your date is fine. What's his name? Him? Or her?"

"He's a guy, we met when I was with my dad in Washington, D.C.," Bobby rambled. "Not my usual type, I mean … He's different, you know? But he's really very—" He noticed Bruce's impatience and cleared his throat. "His name is Floyd Lawton. I think he was military or something."

The name hit Bruce like a slap in the face. He was suddenly taken back six years, to summer days spent in the Middle East. He could almost smell sand and blood and fear in the hot desert air, hear the crackle of gunfire in his ears. The image of a dashing dark-haired man flashed through his mind, face tanned and scratchy with stubble, a rifle rested neatly on his shoulder. He remembered the upward tilt of his face, and the flash of white teeth in a savage, wolfish smile.

"Bobby." Bruce licked his lips, preparing his words carefully. "How long has Floyd Lawton been in Gotham?"

"You know him?" Bobby asked. He was foolish, but not entirely stupid. "You look like you know him."

"Just tell me, Bobby."

Bobby flinched at the snap of his tone. Raised by a severe, cold father, he had always been sensitive to older men that treated him sternly. Bruce felt slightly guilty for using this trait against him, but he needed answers fast.

"Floyd flew in with me and dad, two weeks ago," Bobby said. He realized the psychology Bruce had used to get the answer from him, and flushed with humiliated anger. "Why do you care? You don't think he had something to do with this, do you? Floyd's pretty hard, but he's not, you know, some assassin!"

"Of course not, Bobby," Bruce said gently, forcing a smile. He put an arm around the younger man's shoulders and led him to the nurse's station. "You look dehydrated. Miss? This is Bobby Halloran. He could use fluids. Can you get someone? …. Thanks."

Leaving a stammering and confused Bobby at the station, Bruce hurried away. Floyd Lawton. He met Harvey outside and drove him to the GCPD station, but his mind was miles and years away.

[June 13, 2008, Afghanistan]

"I want to learn how to shoot."

Major General Walter Halloran looked up from the papers he had been rifling through, his navy blue eyes boring into Bruce's lighter ones. He squinted them, the permanent wrinkles at their corners deepening. His stern face was stoic as ever, but Bruce knew exactly what he was thinking: that it was impossible, ridiculous, that Bruce Wayne, who had once played on yachts with his own son Bobby, would want to be trained to shoot by the most elite squad the US Marines Corps had to offer. The suggestion was so ludicrous that it was an affront. Bruce decided to speak before Major General Halloran had time to contemplate just how insulting the suggestion was.

"You know what happened to my parents when I was a kid," Bruce said, hating himself for playing that card but knowing he had no choice. "Everyone assumes that I left Gotham to avoid those memories, and I did, but I don't plan to run forever. When I go back, well … I want to do so with the skills to defend myself. I don't want to have to be afraid of my home anymore, sir."

The temper that had been rising in Major General Halloran's eyes faded. With the sympathy softening his face slightly, Bruce realized that he looked somewhat like his son Bobby in his boyish handsomeness, but the resemblance was obscured by age, attitude, and cunning. It was no wonder that he viewed his only child as a hopeless failure.

"I can understand that, son, and I commend you for wanting to face your fears," Halloran told him. He stood, looking Bruce up and down. "I won't say you haven't changed from the last time I saw you. There's a grit to you now, steel in your eyes. You probably know better than anyone that guns aren't playthings."

"Yes, sir."

"But the kind of shooting my men do … is not for self-defense," Halloran said. "I won't turn a practical young man into a weapon, Bruce."

"I will never own a gun, sir," Bruce said. "I don't intend to. I refuse to. I … I do need to understand them, however. I need to confront them. I need to confront myself. The only way I can do that is from the other side of the barrel."

Major General Halloran looked at Bruce long and hard. Bruce met his gaze evenly. Halloran eventually shook his head, walking past Bruce to the window. He stared out at the blazing sun.

"My kingdom for a son like you, Bruce," he said reflectively. "Boys grow up cradled to the bosom of their mothers. Boyhood is careless and stupid, brash and brainless. Then the world turns one day, and boyhood ends. There are small signs, but one never can tell what kind of man a boy will grow into. A father that is happy with himself is the hardest to please, because he will always hope his son will be at least his equal, at best his superior. He hopes to take as much pride in his son's life as he does in his own, so that in turn his son will be able to have pride in himself."

Halloran turned from the window to face Bruce.

"Your father … would have been proud, Bruce."

Bruce was surprised and unexpectedly touched by the sentiment.

"Major General … Thank you, sir. That means a lot."

"Heh. You won't be thanking me when you meet the man to train you," Halloran said grimly. "He's young, about your age, but he's … difficult. He's going to hate the hell out of giving shooting lessons to a guy like you."

"I've been around hard men before," Bruce said. "I think I can handle him."

"That would be something," Halloran said as he led Bruce out of his office. "If you manage to handle Floyd Lawton, you'll have to tell me your secret, because I sure as hell haven't managed it yet."

They left the small building that was serving as an operations office, and walked through the town. They got into an All Terrain Vehicle (ATV) and were driven out into the desert. A squad of men were out training at a camp. Most of the men were gathered around a man holding a rifle. Bruce could only see him from the back, but it made for quite the view: the soldier was shirtless, his tee tied around his waist, and his uniform pants hung very low beneath a long, tightly-muscled back.

Bruce and Halloran got out of the vehicle. As they approached the group, the man in the center of the group took the rifle up in both hands. Some of the men were taking video with their phones. The man turned, sighting on something in the distance. Bruce saw him in profile: sharp straight nose, scruffy face, his skin deeply tanned by the desert sun, and a grin that promised both cruelty and playfulness. The rifle went off with a crack. The men cheered and laughed.

"LAWTON!" Major General Halloran snapped, his voice cracking on the air with the same whip-like sound as the gunshot. He hurried his pace. "DON'T YOU THINK WE HAVE ENOUGH HEAT COMING DOWN FROM THE HOMELAND WITHOUT YOU STUPID SHITHEADS POSTING STUPID SHIT VIDEOS OF SHOOTING RABBITS ON YOUTUBE? YOU THINK I WANT THE PETA AND EVERY OTHER SOFT-ASSED ACTIVIST COMING DOWN ON MY SQUAD FOR THIS DUMB SHIT, YOU DUMB SHIT?"

Floyd Lawton faced his commanding officer with no trace of abashment in his cocky smile.

"Well, SIR, it wasn't a rabbit, SIR!" he boomed. "It was a desert hedgehog, SIR!"

The Major General turned an unhealthy shade of red.

"ARE YOU SMARTMOUTHING ME, YOU STUPID SON-OF-A-BITCH?"

"Not at all, SIR!"

Halloran sentenced all the men to athletic punishment, and they took off to do laps. Floyd went to join them, but Halloran grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him around.

"Not you, Lawton," he said. "I've got a special kind of hell for you today. Put your damn shirt on! And how did your goddamn hair get so goddamn long? Cut it!"

Floyd untied the tee from his waist and slung it over himself. Reaching up through the sleeves caused his pants to fall dangerously low on his hips. Bruce did everything in his power to do no more than glimpse at the flat, hard planes of his lower body. He had left Gotham with his sexuality securely closeted, and he did not think this was the most appropriate place to expose it.

Floyd noticed Bruce for the first time. Major General Halloran explained what he wanted Floyd to do with him, taking a perverse glee in watching the horror dawn on Lawton's face.

"Permission to speak freely, SIR?"

"Rejected!" snapped Halloran. "You have your orders, you're going to follow them. This will be your sole purpose in life for the next few weeks! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"With all respect, SIR!" Floyd snapped. "This is a worse waste of ammunition than shooting desert animals, SIR!"

Major General Halloran slapped him then. It was a flat, hard blow to the side of the face. Bruce was shocked. Floyd was furious, but not surprised.

"I asked you," growled Halloran, "DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"

Bruce watched Lawton closely. He almost expected him to hit Halloran back. The tension corded his muscles tightly, and both fists were clenched so hard that the knuckles were white. Hatred blazed through every line of his sharply handsome face, pooled in the depths of his icy blue eyes.

"YES." Floyd said through gritted teeth, not removing his gaze from Halloran's. "SIR."

"At ease," Halloran said with the calmness of victory in his voice, "Lawton."

Major General Halloran stomped back to the vehicle, climbed in, and was driven off. Through the windshield, he gave Bruce a look that plainly said, "I warned you, now it's up to you to survive."

Floyd turned his attention on Bruce. They were of a height, and their eyes met easily. Bruce met his gaze, but could see his body tensing out of the corner of his eyes. He tensed, preparing himself to fight.

"You want to shoot?" Lawton shoved his rifle into Bruce's hands. "So shoot! Pull off a few rounds into the sand, pretty boy, play soldier. I don't give a fuck. Just leave me out of your bullshit."

Bruce took the rifle, examined it. Floyd turned and stormed towards the camp.

"I didn't come out here to play games," Bruce called to Lawton. "And I didn't get the Major General to give you that order so that you could ignore it."

Lawton waved a hand, not looking back. "Well that's just too bad, playboy! Have a nice little war game!"

Bruce had come to learn specialized shooting and to get real weapon-training. He also wanted to understand the mentality of a gun fanatic. He did not need to learn the basics of handling a gun, or how to shoot. He sighted through the rifle's scope, and let off a shot. A bullet whizzed past Lawton's ear, just close enough to graze it. Bruce saw a streak of blood redden the man's ear. He felt ill at drawing blood with a bullet, but he knew that there was no other way to get Lawton's attention. The rifle felt too hot in his hands, an ugly, heavy weight.

"ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?" Floyd shouted as he whipped around and stormed towards Bruce. "The hell is your problem? You could have killed me, you idiot!"

Floyd gave Bruce's chest a hard tap. Blood was trickling down his ear to his neck. He glared at Bruce for a long minute before his wolfish grin returned.

"Goddamn, playboy, you've got a pair on you. Where'd you learn how to handle a rifle, Bruce Wayne? Hunting with daddy?"

"My parents were gunned down in Crime Alley years ago," Bruce said, matter-of-fact. "I hate guns. I hate war. I hate violence."

Floyd crossed his arms. "So why are you here?"

"Because the world put me here," Bruce said. "Same as you. I don't have to like guns, you don't have to like me, but I have to do what I have to do, and you have your orders. Now are you going to give me what I came for, or are you going to fight to go back to shooting desert fauna?"

Lawton impatiently wiped blood from his ear, smearing his hands red. His hands were strong, and his fingers were long. Less roughened, they could be the elegant hands of a pianist or surgeon. Bruce tried not to think of how many lives had been severed by those lovely fingers squeezing a trigger.

"Well, give me my rifle, grab a gun, and let's go," Floyd said, his grin stretching. "We'll go see what you're made of, playboy."

[November 20, 2014, Gotham City]

"Bruce?"

Bruce blinked and slowly came back to reality. Harvey had hung up on a phone call and was looking at him. They were in the back of Bruce's car, being driven to the Gotham Police Department by Alfred.

"You all right?" Harvey asked. "You went somewhere else there for a minute."

Bruce considered telling Harvey about Floyd Lawton's presence in Gotham, but decided against it. He could not assume Lawton had been the sniper. He had never trusted Floyd, but he felt that he owed him more than that.

"I guess everything that's happened just fell on me," Bruce said, rubbing his eyes. "It really has been a long night."

"I thought for a moment there that you had shared whatever that friend of yours is on," Harvey chuckled. "That was Robert Halloran, right? Christ, he's been brought in for DUIs more times than I can count. I've thrown several books at him, but his father is a military and corporate big shot and no judge will do more than slap his wrist. With a feather."

"We grew up together," Bruce said pointlessly. He thought a minute, then said, "He isn't a bad kid, just misguided. I didn't have many friends. Kids avoid stigma, and after my parents were killed, I had a lot of that. Bobby Halloran and Tommy Elliot were the only ones that stuck by me."

"Bobby, Tommy, Brucey, huh?"

Bruce shot Harvey a cold look.

"You're bitching at me again."

"Sorry," Harvey said. He waved at the luxurious interior of the car, the small bar set into the door. "I guess I'm just a little jealous of how you rich boys roll. Roll right over the schmucks like me and get away with it, even."

"I don't have a criminal record, Harvey."

"Well, maybe not you or Thomas Elliot," Harvey allowed. "But Halloran? Kid could use a few good smacks, you know?"

"I don't," Bruce said. He studied Harvey's face curiously. "Was your father that strict?"

"Yeah. He was." There was a hint of pain in Harvey's eyes, and he turned his face to the car window. "My father kept me straight."

"How straight?"

Harvey grinned. His teeth were very white and the smile was lovely, but there was nothing but bitterness in it.

"Straight as the belt he cracked me with."

It sounded more like child abuse than discipline to Bruce, but he refrained from comment. Judging by the look in Harvey's eyes, he knew the difference all too well. Harvey stared out at the passing city, as if silently searching for the justice he had never known in childhood. He shook the mood off, shifted on the car seat, and gave Bruce a halfhearted smile.

"A few hard knocks never killed anyone," he said. "Don't let your heart bleed for me. Save it for the photo ops with the dying kids, all right?"

"I can't see anyone hosting a pity party for you, Harvey," Bruce said. "Whatever you were, you're no one's victim now."

"Damn right," Harvey said intensely. He turned to the window again, half his face reflected in the glass. " … Damn right."

They rode the last few minutes to the Gotham PD in silence. Harvey thanked Bruce for the ride and got out of the car. Bruce watched the fiery man barge into the station, and then he was gone.

The window dividing the car rolled down. Bruce could see his butler's eyes reflected in the driver's mirror, wry and wise as always.

"Well, he was quite the character," Alfred Pennyworth remarked. "I must say that it is nice seeing you entertain company in private for a change."

"It isn't like that, Alfred," Bruce said. "Harvey Dent is married. Not so happily right now, but … he's married. To a woman."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"So am I," chuckled Bruce.

"Home, sir?"

"To the Cave, Alfred."

"Yes, sir."