Title: Unmasked
Chapter 1: Outcast
Summary: Still hunted by the Gotham police force a year after Dent's death, Batman's luck takes a turn for the worst when one of MCU's best forensic scientists decides to make hunting him down a top priority.
Rating: Teen for violence and some language.
Disclaimer: Any and all flashes of brilliance that may have made it into this story are due entirely to the influence of my English teachers and the editing and suggestions of my best friend. Therefore if Christopher Nolan, DC Comics, or Christian Bale want to sue anyone for this, they should go after them. Just saying.
Author's Note: So, obviously, this is the newest attempt at creating a good Bruce/OC story as well as my first fanfic. I'll freely admit that one of the main reasons I've written this is so I can learn what my weak spots are in writing and how to fix them. So, while any and all reviewers are my heroes for making me feel like a million bucks, one who leaves me constructive criticism is the next best thing to Christopher Nolan himself stopping in to read this (Ha!). Also, I'm in the market for a beta reader, so if you know of any good ones (or are a good one yourself) who's not too busy, drop me a note!
Even from his perch on a roof several stories above, the sounds of shouting and breaking glass in the apartment still sounded clearly in Bruce's ears. "You've tipped off the police? How long until they get here?" he muttered into the small mouthpiece in his helmet. Nobody else in this neighborhood was going to risk their neck by calling the cops. They'd keep their heads down and pray they weren't next.
"Approximately five minutes, sir." Bruce was always amazed at how badly his butler's voice clashed with the drama of Batman. A break-in that could turn into a hostage crisis, hardened criminals, the jungle of looming skyscrapers, and the diction of a perfect English gentleman, speaking in the same measured tones as if he was offering to put on tea. "Don't you think you should leave them to it?"
The shouts broke off for several seconds, then were replaced by the unmistakable sounds of gunshots. Bruce shook his head even though he knew Alfred couldn't see the gesture. He hoped those shots had just been made in anger, to prove a point, not because the thieves had actually killed the person inside. "No time," he hissed, "They're getting worked up in there."
Alfred started to say something else but Bruce switched off the connection. This is the last time I'm keeping contact with Alfred during my night work, he promised himself for the thousandth time, no matter how worried he gets about my safety.
He really meant it this time too.
Bruce knew there were probably better ways to enter the building, but he just didn't have time for planning or finesse. If the police got here before he was clear… better to go in, do his job, and get out. Ever since he had taken the blame for Dent's and the other men's deaths, Batman had been on the top of Gotham's most wanted list.
He swooped from his rooftop, snapped a winged arm down as he approached the window. His shoulder smashed into the glass and then he was rolling smoothly from shoulder to feet, assessing the situation as he did.
Trashed living room apartment, filthy and tiny, barely more than a hole in the wall. Three men stood in a cluster, backs to him, just starting to turn to the sound. He threw himself onto them before they had time to react. His kick hooked around the back of the first one's knees, an armor coated elbow ramming into the base of his skull as he fell. He wrenched the weapon from a second, spun behind, shoved him into the last as he raised his weapon. His hand was thrown to the side, the gun fired harmlessly into the air as the two of them stumbled against the back of the sofa. Bruce swept the feet out from under them both before they could recover, seized the wrist with the weapon as the men went down. Bones twisted and broke under his grip, he snatched the weapon free, flung it aside, kicked its owner hard in the temple, sent him unconscious. A quick, sharp blow to the face to keep the other one from pulling any stunts, and the fight was over.
Two minutes. It could only have been two minutes, maximum, since he had talked to Alfred. Not a huge window of time; he still needed to hurry if he was going to get away cleanly before Gotham PD showed. Bruce swung his arms a bit and twisted his neck to loosen the muscles as best he could in his constricting suit, regulating his breathing and thoughts. The shoulder that had broken through the window protested painfully, adding to the chorus of sore muscles and minor wounds that was sounding from his aching body. It was the second robbery he had stopped tonight, along with three assaults, a drug bust, and a foiled gang initiation. Dawn was already closer than he liked; he had been making his way back to the Manor when he heard this one.
He had to check on the man he had come for in the first place before moving out, though. Bruce kicked aside piles of garbage and smashed up furniture and waded his way across to the figure slumped against the fair wall.
The man was lying still. Very still; he didn't even react to the giant bat who carefully tilted his body over to examine him. Bruce winced at what he saw. The thieves hadn't simply been showing off when they had fired those guns. The man was leaking blood in the shoulder, gut, and a much larger stream from the thigh, probably from a cut in the femoral artery. The broken nose and red streaking on his teeth looked to be compliments of several blows to the face, and the blood on his knuckles suggested that he had tried to put up a fight. Bruce was about to write him off as dead when the man drew a faint, pained breath.
The police were probably already pulling up to the building. He could just leave the man for them. But the way he was bleeding, Bruce wasn't sure if he'd make it that long. If he had gone unconscious from loss of blood already… he pulled a belt from the pile of clothes tossed against the wall and hastily tried to wrap it around the bloody thigh without jostling the man too badly.
He'd misjudged his time or Alfred had overestimated. Not thirty seconds later, he caught the sound of feet crashing up the stairs. Bruce yanked the tourniquet tight and ran for the window as the door burst open behind him.
"FREEZE!" a panicked voice yelped, but he was already dashing away, springing from the window into a—
The sound of a gun going off coincided perfectly with the red hot hole ripping into the joining of neck to shoulder. Suddenly his neat glide was spiraling out of control, there were two terrifying seconds of free falling, and he more crashed than landed on the street below. His head bounced hard on the pavement, the helmet rammed into his skull, and with the shock waves of landing everything felt broken. Worse, he could feel blood pouring out of him, the pain bursting through his body from white heat to red agony, as if the bullet was sending out a pulse. On the point of passing out, Bruce fumbled for the headpiece, praying that it hadn't broken in the fall, that he could connect to Alfred.
There was a burst of static in his ear, then he thought he heard a clipped British accent. It sounded worried, but Bruce couldn't separate the words, and everything was slipping strangely, turning dark at the edges. "Help—help me." The line went to fuzz again if it had even been clear in the first place. Maybe he was imagining things.
Somehow he dragged himself from the middle of the alley down a couple of stairs to a deepset doorway that looked to be the haunt of a couple of homeless from the cardboard and ragged castoffs it was crowded with. Deserted now, luckily. Bruce collapsed into the most shadowy corner trying to breathe without shifting his shoulder.
That policeman shot me, he thought vaguely. Even his own thoughts unraveled as soon as he formed them. It seemed as if he could hear laughter in his head, but it was hard to tell with the funny roaring in his ears.
The last words he heard before he blacked out were from quite another voice, one that was somehow perfectly clear.
To them, you're just a freak. Like me.
Darkness rolled over him, smothering his instinctive denial.