CHAPTER ONE: THE ASLYUM WITH THE BILLION-DOLLAR VIEW

Bruce Wayne reclined lazily in his chair, contemplating the juggling of responsibilities. The warm mist of sunshine traveled through the window panes and filled the expanse of his office, casting early-morning shadows. Such an obvious contrast of light and dark. His life was divided between cumbersome work as the head of a billion-dollar company, the recreation of a playboy with too much money, and the crusades of a nocturnal symbol of justice - the Batman. He was sleep deprived and scarred, and as he stared vengefully at the business proposal the board would be discussing in the weekly meeting that afternoon, he longed for retreat. Sometimes he found that confronting potentially fatal danger and psychopathic villains was less intimidating to him than towers of paperwork and numbers that were either too big or too small (never just right).

Bruce found it difficult to separate his night and day, and at present was especially consumed with thoughts of the Joker. He had had an altercation with his clowns only a week ago, and he had not had the opportunity to follow up on the case. His mind had the events on repeat, and he picked them apart with hunger, trying to make sense of them. In pursuit of a dark-haired teenager, the clowns had gotten more than they had bargained for when the girl turned a makeshift flamethrower on them in self-defense. Even after such a dramatic display of bravery and craft, she was immediately frightened unconscious by Batman's sudden arrival to rescue her. He had not understood then (and still did not) how he might terrify her more than a gang of gun-wielding clowns, but he had turned her over safely to the police before she had come to. He could not interrogate her as to the Joker's interest in her, but instead was left to analyze only what he saw and make inferences.

Two purses had been lying on the ground, the contents of both scattered about the asphalt. He had not checked either for wallets, but he could assume that only one belonged to the girl he had met, and the other to someone else. The girl had a companion, but where had she disappeared to? The clowns must have had a reason to attack the girls, but that reason was unknown. They were never going to confess to the police; the Joker's reign of terror had the strength necessary to reach them even in prison. The missing girl had been in flight, and had been terrified enough to leave behind not only her possessions but her friend. It did not appear that anyone had separated from the group to pursue her, so it was logical to conclude that the girl remaining was the clowns' sole target. But what did they want from her?

A light knock propelled Bruce out of his reclining position and onto his feet, roughly startled from his thoughts. He snatched up the proposal with one hand and began thumbing through it with mild interest. In truth, he did not have to so forcefully appear occupied, but he was trying not to give away his obvious distraction from work.

"Come in," he called, scratching behind his ear. He paced the floor near his desk, not traveling far, and did not look up as the door noiselessly opened.

"Excuse me," a soft voice interrupted. Bruce's eyes slowly lifted off of the page to meet the face of the young woman come to visit him. She had only peeked her head through the doorway, her body concealed, but Gotham's prince immediately recognized her. What a unique coincidence that the girl he had rescued seven days prior had come to Wayne Tower to see him. With his experience as the Batman, Bruce had learned to severely doubt even the most innocent of coincidences, and this one was no exception. However, had no issue pretending he had never seen this girl before.

Eyebrow raised in mild curiosity, he asked, "How can I help you?" The girl stood up straight and stepped through the doorway, revealing her slender but womanly frame in a black pencil skirt and blazer. She was wearing high heels now, but he distinctly remembered her being short, 5'3" at the most. The contrast between the unconscious teenager in her school uniform and the young adult before him was stark enough to draw anyone's attention. Her innocent face gave away her youth but she was dressed very maturely now - attractively, even. Obviously she was desirous of something. Bruce cleared his throat impatiently, and the girl's brown eyes flicked up and met his boldly.

"I'm Violette, the daughter of Victor Larson," she introduced herself. "You recently hired my father to the board." Bruce did recognize the name and nodded.

"And how can I help Miss Violette?" he asked again, taking his seat. "You know, if you're looking for your father-"

"No sir, I'm here to see you," Violette insisted. "My father suggested I petition for an internship at Wayne Enterprises." Bruce sighed, somewhat perturbed. It was most irregular for anyone to approach a CEO directly for something so ordinary as an internship. Who let her through?

"I have no problem, but I'll have to refer you to Mr. Lucius Fox," he told her. "He can find a place for you."

"Actually Mr. Wayne, I've already spoken with Mr. Fox," Violette explained. "He sent me to you because I told him it was a bad idea... which it is. A bad idea, I mean." Bruce frowned, but then found himself unable to withhold his smile. Soon, he was chuckling.

"Why don't you have a seat, Miss Violette," he suggested, gesturing to the chair across from him. The young woman again complied, at last stepping away from the door to cross the spacious office and sit down.

Her body stiffened as she mumbled, "I prefer Vi, actually."

"Fair. Vi, do you want this internship or not?" Bruce asked bluntly. Never before had an applicant approached him for a job while simultaneously discouraging his being hired. He was openly amused.

"I..." Vi hesitated, calculating her response. "I think it would be a wonderful opportunity, Mr. Wayne. At the moment though, I'm having a very difficult time in my personal life and am overwhelmed by many things."

"Many things?" Bruce pressed. "Such as school, perhaps?"

"Yes, I'm finishing up high school now. Plus I'm applying to universities-"

"In state?"

"That is my personal preference, yes, but I've applied to many schools all over the country."

"How are your grades?" Vi opened her mouth immediately to reply, but hesitated and averted her gaze.

"They are good," she muttered.

"Are you being modest, or...?"

"Yes, sir." Bruce nodded. He was impressed enough. "I was going to bring you my references but Mr. Fox-"

"I'm not particularly interested," Bruce interrupted. Vi pushed her glasses back up her nose bridge and sighed. Her eyes - even behind her glasses Bruce could see she was almost embarrassed by some invisible malady or limitation. "What is 'many things'?"

"I'm not... really at liberty to talk about it, Mr. Wayne," Vi told him politely. "I just don't think I can commit to another responsibility with how distracted I've been. And my father is making it worse."

"Why bother coming here then?"

"If I didn't try here, my father would just put me someplace else. He wants to keep me busy, and he wants me under constant supervision."

"Are you... afraid of something?" He was trying to ask the right questions without at all alluding to any foreknowledge of the attack. Vi calmly shook her head.

"Not at all."

"What is Mr. Larson afraid of then?" Bruce propped his elbows up on his desk and his expression softened. "Our conversation will be strictly confidential. I'm only interested in helping you, so at least give me a general synopsis. I won't push." Vi bit her lip nervously.

"Promise?"

"Of course."

After more trepidation, Vi began, "Everyone is talking about the Batman and all the good he's doing for Gotham. I can't say I know what to believe, but... I saw him. A week ago." She removed her glasses and sighed, relaxing in her chair somewhat. She appeared terribly embarrassed to admit this.

"Since I've seen him, I can't stop drawing bats... on everything. My father thinks that the Batman must have hurt me somehow and made me this way but I... I don't think that he did." Bruce adopted the cynical attitude he reserved for conversations about his alter-ego, and he smoothed his hair with his hand.

"Well, he is a lawless vigilante," he offered sympathetically. "Do you think that your father's concerns are totally baseless?"

"I don't know," Vi admitted. "I'm not even sure I care. The police have told my father a hundred times that they are already required to arrest him on sight, that until they find him they can't possibly do anything about it."

"Violette-"

"What do you think about the Batman?" Bruce shrugged.

"It seems to me like your health ought to be more important than whether or not the police apprehend the Batman," he told her.

The two remained silent for a long time, Vi relaxing more and more in her chair with the exception of one nervous tick, the wringing of her hands. Bruce followed Vi's gaze to the pen and legal pad sitting on his desk, and he instantly understood. The bats. Vi's desire to draw them was affecting her even now as she sat in an interview with one of the most influential figures in Gotham. He absently pushed the pen and paper in her direction and continued pondering her case as she snatched up the writing instrument and began doodling. Her response was very much like an addict's response to his drug of choice; the need was subconscious and insatiable. Occasionally, Vi glanced up at him as he blatantly observed her, but her focus lay primarily with her bats.

Bruce's fascination with Violette Larson was so undeniable he did not bother attempting to conceal it. He already knew quite plainly that he liked this girl. Even consumed with nervousness and embarrassment, she forced herself to be straightforward; the embodiment of true courage. On the other hand, Bruce was concerned about the actions Victor Larson might take against Batman for victimizing his daughter with such a distinct obsession. And he could not forget the fact that the clowns had attacked her and may very well be planning another attempt as the two of them sat together in his office. He wanted Vi safe, but he also wanted to know what her appeal might be to the Joker.

"Well, Miss Violette, you will report here every afternoon immediately following school hours, and on Saturdays I shall see you at 8am," he announced at last. Vi dropped her pen and sat up, her stare wide with incredulity.

"What? I... I thought- What will I be doing?" she demanded, her voice at last fluctuating with emotion. She was obviously flustered.

"You have been granted asylum," Bruce told her with a devilish grin. The teenager's eyes softened, and soon a smile shined through them though her lips never parted. "Draw as many bats as you'd like, just keep them off the walls and furniture, okay?" The teenager looked down into her lap where she hid her bats from view. She stared at them longingly until her eyes narrowed at the realization of something.

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne, but you called me-"

"I know, you prefer Vi. In that case, you'll have to call me Bruce."

"I can't possibly-" Vi protested.

"You're in a safe place," Bruce encouraged. "That's what an asylum is, isn't it? In this office, call me Bruce." The girl nodded. She appeared relieved and much less intimidated. She tucked some of her hair behind her ear, revealing more of her face to him, and her eyes met his with growing confidence.

"So I'm your assistant?"

"Whatever." Bruce shrugged nonchalantly. He picked a lint fiber off of his suit and checked the time. The meeting was scheduled to begin in just a half-hour, and he wanted to meet with Lucius beforehand.

He stood, and in doing so got a better look at Vi's bats. They were drawn with talent, some incredibly realistic, and others were simple silhouettes identical to Batman's symbol. Vi blushed red and clutched the legal pad to her chest, returning her glasses to her face. Bruce smiled at her.

"Have fun with those," he joked. "And uh, don't... mess with anything." Vi frowned at the mischief in his eyes. Was he... flirting with her?

"You sound like you want me to go through your things." Bruce only winked and closed the door behind him on his way out.

A/N: I didn't think I would have to address this right away (but apparently it's necessary?): This isn't a love story.