A/N: So here are a series of random drabbles I stumbled across. I figured I might as well post them for you to enjoy. They're fun little things that I wrote long ago.
As for this one, this was based off one of those GCN episodes in the extras of The Dark Knight. Specifically the Billionaire without a Cause episode. The thing's written word for word, the only difference was that I added what Bruce's thoughts and feelings might be if he ever got around to watching it.
Most of it I wrote entirely myself. Obviously some parts come straight from the episode and both Batman Begins and The Dark Knight. And I know there are some parts in here I took from the novelization of the movies by Dennis O'Neil. I would take them out, but I don't remember which parts they are. So I'm going to say this entire thing is a mixture of my writing, O'Neil's writing, and Nolan's brilliant ideas (aka Batman Begins and The Dark Knight). Bottom line: please don't sue me. You'd only get, like, a couple hundred dollars and then I'd be homeless.
"There are movie stars, there are rocks stars, and there are sports stars, but there is only one Bruce Wayne," Lydia Filangeri, one of GCN's prime news anchors, began as Bruce leaned back into the couch, propping his feet up on the table between him and the plasma TV in the large ballroom of the penthouse. Alfred had recorded this GCN segment nearly eight months ago mainly to arouse some amusement out of the billionaire as well as to allow Bruce to know just how much the press suspected he was up to. And now was as good of a time as any to finally sit down and watch the ten minute segment on himself. After all, since he couldn't sleep and Batman was on hiatus, watching this with a bag of Sun Chips to munch on at 3am was a great way to pass at least a small amount of time.
"The mega-billionaire playboy is Gotham City's most notable celebrity, whose name is synonymous with extravagance, mischief, and occasional recklessness. Despite his prominent place in the public eye, very little is known about the man who appears to have no causes, nor endeavors, other than acting as figurehead to his late father's company, Wayne Enterprises. But it's in this position that Wayne has great influence over the entire city. So much influence that stock analysts and business experts are worried that his party-boy antics could plunge Gotham into another depression." Bruce scoffed slightly as his photographic memory flashed back a conversation he had had over a year before…
"Tomorrow the world will watch in horror as its greatest city destroys itself. The movement back to harmony will be unstoppable this time," Ra's Al Ghul stated triumphantly as the mansion began to burn around them.
Bruce slightly cocked his head as he caught the subtle hint in Ra's wording, his attention both on his most obvious opponent before him as well as everything else around him, "You've attacked Gotham before?"
"Of course. Over the years, our weapons have grown more advanced. With Gotham we tried a new one: economics. But we underestimated certain of Gotham's citizens…such as your parents." The connection had already been made before Ra's stated it plainly. The depression had been his fault, and it had been Bruce's parents, and their deaths, that had saved the city. Bruce felt anger surge through him and he neither could control it nor did he want to. His jaws clenched, his muscles tightened. He knew that Ra's was aware of his reaction and that Ra's was playing him. He remembered how to relax and he did.
Ra's paused, enjoying the pained recognition that briefly crossed his greatest student's face, before continuing with slow pleasure; salt on the wound. "Gunned down by one of the very people they were trying to help. Create enough hunger and everyone becomes a criminal. Their deaths galvanized the city into saving itself and Gotham has limped on ever since. We're back to finish the job and this time no misguided idealists will stand in our way. Like your father, you lack the courage to do all that is necessary. If someone stands in the way of true justice, you simply walk up behind them and stab them in the heart…"
"Hi everyone, I'm Lydia Filangeri and tonight we explore a wild life that knows no boundaries, hoping to find a man that is ready to start taking some responsibilities." The amused gleam that had already been present seemed to shine even more in his dark eyes at the introduction. If only Gotham new the real Bruce Wayne…
Restaurant Owner, Pasquale Caliolo; Bruce remembered him well. "So he comes to my restaurant, and he's got six very pretty ladies with him. I says to him, 'Mr. Wayne, I know who you are, but I only got twenty tables here and I'm booked all night. There's nowhere to seat ya.' He puts a piece of paper in my hand and he tells me, 'You make the best risotto in town. It's time for a little expansion, right?' I open the piece of paper. It's the deed to the place next door. Mr. Wayne ate very well that night, let me tell you. And now I got a hundred tables to my name…"
Garfield Lynns, one of Maroni's eager 'lieutenants' pounded on the door of Café Terigo with a smug smirk on his young face. Two unnamed goons, probably new recruits, loomed behind the already large man as reinforcement. Carefully the door opened to shed a rectangle of light onto the three men and to reveal Caliolo as a smile slowly slipped away from his face. He had been interrupted from a small dinner with friends, the rest of whom still sat inside, chatting away while a radio played quietly in the background. "Can I help you gentlemen?" the owner asked in his Jersey accent.
"Well, Mr. Caliolo, we'd like to help you. Your deadline's up. Either accept our offer or risk your business," Lynns replied in his own Jersey sneer.
"I don't need no protection from you and your thugs—"
The two thugs stiffened. "If you're looking to expand, Mr. Caliolo, you do. More tables means more profit, and since Gotham's a dangerous town, it's best to receive the best security so your business suddenly goes belly up."
"Look, I don't need to be hearing any threats from you, so why don't you go bother someone else," Caliolo replied with finality before slamming the door shut.
As Lynns stiffened, rolling his neck side to side, the Batman's eyes narrowed as he watched from one of the ledges of the abandoned hotel next door. Caliolo not only made the best risotto in town, but he had the guts to back up the claim. If it was anyone else besides the Bat, it would've been hard to track down the con-artist in Maroni's outfit responsible for the business threats as well as arsons; but Batman had his own means of persuasion. And following Lynns to catch him in the act paid off. In an instant he was off the ledge, free falling until the last moment when he let the wind catch and stiffen his cape, softening his fall. Though he landed on his knees, he wasted no effort in quickly dispatching the two goons before catching Lynns before he had a chance to start his car. Needless to say, Lynns enjoyed the rest of the night in jail while Bruce Wayne investigated the details of the neighboring hotel…
Filangeri started again, "This is just one of many similar stories about the billionaire who will stop at nothing to get the best seat in the house, the fastest car on the streets, and the hottest gals in town." Once more that amused gleam shone bright as Bruce remembered Alfred's suggestion on how to keep Bruce Wayne in the paparazzi viewfinder…
"If those are the first of many injuries to come, it would be wise to find a suitable excuse," Alfred stated as he peered at the fresh bruises that littered Bruce's bare chest and arms from last night's crusade, as Bruce skimmed anxiously through the morning paper. "Polo, for instance."
"I'm not learning polo, Alfred," Bruce stated as he glanced up with a disgusted look. He had tried to ride a horse once and that hadn't ended well; polo would be more impossible than what he had just accomplished the night before. Besides, busying himself with learning some pointless sport was a waste of time, time that could be spent elsewhere.
"Strange injuries, a nonexistent social life… These things beg to question what exactly does Bruce Wayne do with his time and his money?"
Bruce sipped from the health shake, that was previously sitting on the silver tray next to his bed, as he stood. "What does someone like me do?" he questioned as he returned the now-empty glass to the tray. As Alfred thought it over, Bruce took a deep breath before letting himself fall face-forward towards the floor, his hands catching himself at the last minute and began doing push-ups, two per second.
"Drive sports cars, date movie stars, buy things that aren't for sale. Who knows, Master Wayne, if you start pretending to have fun, you might even have a little by accident…"
"Bruce Wayne lives life like it's a Monopoly board and he's playing all by himself. But it hasn't always been fun and games for the eternal playboy. A moment of unexpected tragedy ruptured his storybook life and set him off on a course that he never thought he would travel." Literally, Bruce thought with a small scoff. "That event was the tragic and violent loss of his parents as a young boy.
"Born to Thomas and Martha Wayne, young Bruce was born into a life of wealth and extravagance. It was Judge Solomon Wayne who commissioned architect Cyrus Pinckney in 1851 to construct Gotham's financial district. In the center of this district, a merchant house was opened under the name of Wayne Corp. Providing merchants with a variety of goods, the family business became a staple in the flourishing city, generating an endless stream of revenue. Despite the vast family fortune, though, his parents continued to work. His father operated the largest free clinic in the city and used Wayne Enterprises to launch public works projects, like the construction of the city's monorail system, while his mother became a community activist leader and part-time teacher in some of the city's most dangerous areas."
Community Activist Leader, Laraine Goldberg, a close friend of his mother's who often came over to help plan Wayne Foundation fundraisers and other charity events, appeared on the screen. Other than this image, Bruce hadn't seen her in years. "They were Gotham City's patron saints, for sure. The Waynes were not only two of my best friends, but they did so much for charity. And if I could nominate them for sainthood, I would."
"Their philanthropy inspired others into action," Filangeri continued, "but just before they could completely help those affected by the ongoing Depression, the unspeakable happened. Thomas and Martha Wayne were gunned down outside the Gotham Opera House in front of their 9-year-old son." As pictures of him sitting in the Gotham Police Department flashed on the screen, Bruce's mind flashed its own set of pictures…
Johan Straus's 'Die Fledermaus' echoed faintly into the alley as the three Waynes exited through the back entrance. As Thomas Wayne helped Bruce with his coat, Martha slipped her fur coat on as she questioned the situation, "What's wrong Bruce?"
Bruce glanced to his father, afraid to admit that he was scared. But while the young boy still couldn't get the images of the actors' bat-like actions out of his head, his father thankfully covered for him. "Oh it was me. I just needed a little air. A little opera goes a long way, right Bruce?" Thomas said with a wink as he slipped on his own coat. But instantly his eyes were drawn to the other side of the alley where a shadow loomed amidst the faint light of a distant streetlight. "Come on."
Then, in the shadow cast by Wayne Tower, Bruce saw something move and a moment later a man stepped from the darkness and approached them. He was tall and young, dressed in dirty clothes. His face was thin and scared, and he was pointing something at them that gleamed in the light of a nearby streetlamp. "Wallets, jewelry—fast!"
As Martha's arm carefully wrapped around Bruce's shoulders, while the young boy stood frozen between his parents, Thomas slowly reached for his wallet while he kept his left hand raised in the air. "That's fine. Just take it easy," the doctor soothed as he pulled out the Joe Chill's prize. But as he was handing the wallet off, it slipped from both of their grasps and hit the ground with a small thud. After their eyes followed the item to the ground, both men's gazes met again as the nervous criminal raised his shaky gun higher. Now both of Thomas's hands were in the air as Martha's grip around Bruce tightened, "It's fine. Everything's fine."
Carefully, Chill stooped, his hand groping for the wallet while his cold eyes remained on Thomas. And it was then that Bruce recognized the object Chill was pointing at his father with, from pictures he had seen in the newspaper: a gun. The gun was shaking. Once his fingers wrapped around his prize, he suddenly stood back up as he shoved the wallet into a pocket. "Just take it and go," Thomas said.
But suddenly both Chill's eyes and the gun in his hand darted towards Martha. "I said jewelry."
Out of the instinct to protect his family, Thomas stepped between the gun and his wife, but Chill misinterpreted the gesture as a form of an attack against him. Bruce saw the gun twitch and in the same instant he heard a sound like two boards being slapped together. Puzzled, he turned to his father for an explanation, but Thomas crumpled, as though all his bones had dissolved at once. Martha screamed as her hands went to her husband. But Chill curled his fingers around the pearl necklace around her neck and yanked, and the necklace broke. The gun twitched and there was the slapping board sound again. Pearls spilled past Bruce's face and clattered lightly on the pavement as Martha fell along side them.
Bruce stared up at the man's eyes, and he jerked as though he had been stung before spinning and running into the shadows. But something had begun to swell within Bruce, starting with the moment he had looked straight into his parents' murder's cold eyes. He had no idea what it was, just that it was somehow connected to his parents and that he had to keep it in check…had to.
"Bruce." Bruce's dark hues glanced away from the shadows Chill had disappeared into and towards his father, whose eyes were open and gazing up at him. "Don't be afraid…"
"As the last remaining member of the Wayne family, Bruce became the sole heir of the family's fortune as well as the head of Wayne Enterprises. Custody of the boy was granted to the family's butler, Alfred Pennyworth, who tried tirelessly to calm his young master as he began to act out in response to his parents' demise…"
10-year-old Bruce sat quietly across from a large door and a pretty, young secretary behind a desk with his hands under his legs and his dark hues focused on the tiles beneath his shiny loafers. He had read the little letters on the frosted glass that covered the upper half of the door nearly a hundred times the first time he was sitting in this same chair nearly three weeks before, week number six out of his total enrollment time at Excelsior Academy. 'Dr. James Worthington – Dean of Students – Excelsior Academy.' Though the Dean was losing patience with him, the secretary still occasionally cast young Bruce the occasionally pity glance after a phone call.
The door suddenly opened as Mr. and Mrs. Queen stepped out, their son Oliver in front as he sported an already bruising eye. While both parents cast an understanding glance towards Bruce, Oliver avoided eye contact as they strode through the lobby.
"Mr. Wayne," the Dean called from inside his office.
Carefully, Bruce slipped off the chair and headed inside the office as the secretary quietly closed the door behind him. But not having that door open was like being locked in this little office without an escape. As two pairs of eyes followed him to the chair he slipped into, the second of two in front of the Dean's desk, Bruce avoided both, particularly the worried blue pair that now gazed on from his right.
But Alfred quickly realized the tension their gazes were putting on him and he glanced to Dr. Worthington, whose hazel gaze did not move from Bruce. "Mr. Wayne…" When Bruce didn't answer, the Dean tried again. "Bruce." The young boy's only response was that he slipped his hands into his pockets as he leaned back into the chair, and Dr. Worthington took that as a sign of acknowledgement. "This is the third time this month you've been in my office, all for the same reasons. Now I know that it must be a rough time for you right now and this is a new environment, but we have zero tolerance for violence here at Excelsior."
Bruce didn't respond as his dark gaze remained on one of the designs the wood on the front of the Dean's desk created in front of him.
"I can't keep making excuses for you, Bruce. I'm afraid I'm going to have to suspend you." Still no answer. So instead, the Dean turned to Alfred. "Even with the suspension, he should be fine in his classes as his professors have told me that Mr. Wayne is ahead of his grade in academics. But if his behavior is still a problem after his suspension, I'm afraid, Mr. Pennyworth, that expulsion might be a future consequence."
Alfred nodded, keeping whatever emotion he truly was feeling hidden beneath the polite understanding of a butler. "Of course, Dr. Worthington. You are only doing what is right for both Master Wayne and the rest of your students, and we both would be glad to oblige." Quickly, he cast a sidelong glance towards his young charge, but received nothing in return. Whatever was going on inside of Bruce's head, Alfred hoped that being home would cure it since obviously being away from home didn't.
Dean Worthington escorted Alfred and Bruce out into the lobby. Neither of the adults said anything, so without looking, Bruce could tell that both of their gazes were on him. But, as he had in the office, he still made no recognition of their attention.
"Mr. Pennyworth, a pleasure, though I wish it was under better circumstances," Dr. Worthington concluded.
Alfred nodded in agreement. "Likewise, Dr. Worthington."
After one final nod, the Dean retreated back into his office to leave Bruce and his guardian in the lobby while the secretary pretended not to watch while she held the phone between her head and her shoulder. Without a single word, Bruce suddenly strode straight out of the office while Alfred obediently followed. Bruce knew exactly what his punishment was from the school, but now he had to hear Alfred's punishment for him in the car on the way to the airport.
"Master Bruce, this is the third fight within the month," the butler stated over his shoulder as his eyes remained on the road in front of him. "What did Mr. Queen do to rouse such an outburst?"
At least Alfred knew that Bruce didn't go around hitting people just for the hell of it. But the young orphan just shrugged in response as he examined his freshly cut knuckles, holding back the urge to run his tongue over his split lip. The Queens wouldn't press charges, which wasn't much of a surprise. Bruce still had the pity vote.
"Well, then, on top of your suspension, I want you to write Mr. Queen an apology." His blue eyes glanced in the review mirror. "A sincere apology."
A sincere apology to a bully, a bully who had called Bruce stupid because he had a butler as a parent instead of a real mother and father. That would be like pulling teeth…
"When his parents' murderer cut a deal to testify against a Gotham City mob boss, and was subsequently assassinated by an alleged mob hit man…"
"The depression hit working people like Mr. Chill hardest of all. His crime was appalling, yes, but it was motivated not by greed but by desperation. Given the exemplary prison record of Mr. Chill, the fourteen years already served, and his extraordinary level of cooperation with one of this office's most important investigations, we strongly endorse Mr. Chill's petition for an early release."
Judge Faden, a heavyset man with red hair, looked at Joe Chill, seated stiffly in one of the chairs at one of the front tables. "Mr. Chill?"
Chill rose. "Your Honor, not a day goes by when I don't wish I could take back what I did. Sure, I was desperate, like a lot of people back then. But that don't change what I did." Chill sat.
Faden glanced down at his papers before looking out to the witnesses. "I gather there is a member of the Wayne family here to say. Does he have anything to say?"
Slowly, Bruce, who had been sitting only a couple rows back, opposite side of Chill, aisle seat, stood, his dark glare boring into the back of Chill's head as the murderer continued to stare forward, too afraid to glance back. Ignoring the stares of everyone else in the room, he stalked from the room. Moving briskly, he went down the steps and out into the parking lot. He knelt by the front of Rachel's car, picked up the paper bag that contained his gun, and crammed it into the left sleeve of his coat. After returning to the courthouse, Bruce leaned against one of the farthest pillars down the hall from the courtroom. Glancing down at the gun in his hand, he checked the cylinder before pulling back the hammer to arm it. Fitting it carefully into his hand, he lifted his shoulder to let his sleeve hide his hand as much as it could.
"He's coming out the side." Several reporters suddenly began shouting as they rushed down the hall and towards the slowly opening doors. A red-haired cop emerged, followed by an officer in another kind of uniform—a security man, or a prison guard, Bruce guessed. Chill, surrounded by uniformed cops and men in overcoats, obviously detectives, followed the red-haired cop and the security guard out into the hall as the reporters and cameramen crowded around them.
"Mr. Chill," someone in the mob called, "any words for the Wayne family?" Chill bowed his head and ignored the question.
Bruce straightened and gulped down cold air as he began walking toward Chill. "Bruce Wayne!" another reporter yelled. A bright light mounted on a camera momentarily blinded Bruce and when he could again see clearly, a tall, blonde woman holding a tape recorder was approaching Chill.
"Joe, hey, Joe. Falcone says hi." She pulled a revolver from her shoulder bag, aimed it at Chill's chest, and fired: a sound like two boards being slapped together. Bruce saw Chill's eyes widen, and the corners of his lips curl upward, as though he had just experienced a wonderful surprise. Then, as he started to sag against the red-haired cop, his expression changed to one of disbelief, and he slipped from the cop's grasp and crumpled to the floor.
The other cops in Chill's escort had wrested the woman's gun away, shoved her down, and handcuffed her before she was dragged off. Bruce was fifteen feet away, his right fingers curled around the gun in his sleeve, staring.
"Come on, Bruce. We don't need to see this," he heard Rachel say as she put her hand on his arm, trying to lead him away.
But he shrugged out of her grip without taking his eyes off of Chill. "I do."
"Bruce Wayne disappeared without a trace for the better part of seven years. Various reports had him yachting around the Pacific while others had him living in Brazil, owning and operating a local modeling agency…"
With a grimace, Bruce set down the last of twenty eighty-pound crates that he and two other shipmates were assigned to move from storage to the engine room. Most crates were filled with coal and some held more of the metal machinery Bruce had seen, and even operated. But the combination of both the crates' size and weight left Bruce's back and calf muscles aching as he stood up straight. He'd only been on board this ship headed for Singapore for just over a week and he was only beginning to get used to the constant ache in his muscles, the growl in his stomach, and his lack of sleep.
Suddenly something caught his eye as he was headed back to the engine room to find more work. Even though he had been ignored the past week by the rest of the shipmates, it was best to keep busy to pass the time. A wiry man, a bosun's mate, motioned for Bruce to join him on his walk back. Bruce smiled, thinking that he was finally going to make a friend. The bosun grinned and said, "I am Hector."
Still smiling, Bruce neared the bosun and was kicked in the groin. He doubled over, falling to the deck, and without a word the bosun kicked him on the top of his head. Bruce fell into a whirl of eddying color and awoke hurting.
The following day, a member of the black gang hit him with a garbage-can lid, and as Bruce reeled against a bulkhead, he tossed the lid aside and punched Bruce, twice in the chest and once in the face. When Bruce opened his eyes—how much later, he couldn't tell—his attacker was gone.
Bruce went to the toilet and turned on a rusty faucet. He splashed cold, salty water on his bruises and tried to understand what was happening to him. An initiation? Maybe that, but probably he was being hit because he was a stranger and life aboard ship was boring. Okay, he'd accept this reality and take what he could from it. He didn't like being punched and the color of his own blood held no delight for him, but there were lessons to be learned here, and Bruce was determined to learn them.
The bosun initiated the third attack the next day. This time, Bruce was ready and managed to land a blow before being knocked out. Bruce awoke with water in his face. He looked up and saw the bosun standing over him with an empty pail. "I teach you…"
"But without any contact or proof of life from the billionaire, reports of his whereabouts dwindled, culminating in the declaration of his death by his trusted guardian, Alfred Pennyworth. In his absence, Wayne Enterprises came under the control of William Earle, who initiated the floatation of the company…"
"Will you be staying in Gotham for long, sir?" Alfred questioned from the seat opposite from Bruce as a Wayne Enterprises private jet steadily made its ascent from the small airstrip from Kathmandu, Nepal.
"As long as it takes," Bruce replied as he gazed out the window at the icy Himalayas they were beginning to pass over, his home for the past year. "I'm going to show the people of Gotham that their city doesn't belong to the criminals and the corrupt."
Alfred leaned back with a slightly thoughtful expression on his old face. "Your father nearly bankrupted Wayne Enterprises combating poverty. He believed that his example would inspire the wealthy of Gotham to save their city."
"Did it?"
"In a way…their murders' shocked the wealthy and powerful into action."
Bruce nodded. "People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy and I can't do that as Bruce Wayne. As a man, I'm flesh and blood. I can be ignored, I can be destroyed. But as a symbol? As a symbol I can be incorruptible…everlasting…"
Alfred cocked his head. "What symbol?"
"Something elemental…something terrifying."
"I assume that as you take on the underworld, this 'symbol' is a persona to protect those close to you from reprisals."
Bruce's eyebrows rose. "You thinking about Rachel?"
"Actually, sir, I was thinking of myself," Alfred chuckled, which made Bruce smile.
"Have you told anyone that I'm coming back?"
"Well, sir, I haven't quite figured the legal ramifications of bringing you back from the dead."
"Dead?" Bruce questioned with surprise.
"You've been gone seven years."
"You had me declared dead?"
"Actually it was Mr. Earle. He's taking the company public. He wanted to liquidate your majority shareholdings. Those shares are worthy quite a bit of money."
Bruce thought it over; his timing couldn't have been better. "Well, it's a good thing I left everything to you, then."
"Quite so, sir," Alfred replied as he leaned further back in his leather chair while folding his hands across his lap and shutting his eyes, preparing to nap for as much of the flight as he could. "You can borrow the Rolls if you'd like. Just bring it back with a full tank."
Bruce smirked as he glanced out the window again…
"In the process of going public, though, Gotham got a big surprise when Bruce Wayne resurrected himself just in time to purchase enough stock to become the majority shareholder in the company. Regaining his authority, Wayne secured himself a position as CEO while entrusting all the work and responsibility to Lucius Fox, which many consider the smartest move Wayne ever made…"
"Bruce Wayne," Bruce answered after putting the car phone on speaker. His eyes skimmed through the article on his destroyed mansion while Mr. Earle's clearly annoyed voice filled the car.
"What makes you think that you can decide who's running Wayne Enterprises?"
"Well, the fact that I'm the owner," Bruce replied with a slight smirk as he glanced at Alfred's grinning blue eyes in the review mirror.
"What? The company went public a week ago—"
"And I bought most of the shares, through various charitable foundations, trusts, and so-forth. Look, it's all a bit technical, but the important thing is, is that my company's future is secure," Bruce replied with a slight chuckle he just couldn't help. "Right, Mr. Fox?"
"Right you are, Mr. Wayne," Lucius Fox replied over the speakerphone on the other end…
"Bruce's return to Gotham seemed permanent as he took up residence in his family's ancestral home, Wayne Manor. However, any thoughts of a newfound maturity quickly subsided with the news of a drunken episode that resulted in the burning down of the palatial estate during a birthday bash…"
"Bruce, there's someone here you simply must meet," Mrs. Delane, an elderly woman in a strapless organdy gown and a lot of makeup, said as she caught Bruce's arm and tugged him away from his current path.
He had much more important things to do than to play the playboy for anyone; Gotham was at risk and he had to stop whoever was planning to release Crane's toxin. "Not now, Mrs. Delane—"
She ignored Bruce's protest and pulled him to a stop in front of a man whose shaved head was turned away from Bruce. But while Bruce was busy glancing around the room anxiously in search of any sign of trouble, Mrs. Delane started their introduction. "Now am I pronouncing it right? Mr. Rahs All Gool?"
Instantly Bruce's gaze reverted back to the man in front of him as he slowly turned around, revealing himself to be a younger, newer version, who was still working on his moustache, of Ra's. Confused, Bruce glanced from the blue poppy in the Asian man's jacket pocket towards his unrecognizable face. "You're not Ra's al Ghul. I watched him die."
"But is Ra's al Ghul immortal?" a familiar voice questioned from behind Bruce. "Are his methods supernatural?" Henri Ducard, dressed in a black tuxedo and leaning on a polished ebony cane, continued with a smile as Bruce turned around to face his old friend and mentor.
Instantly it clicked as Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Or cheap parlor tricks to conceal your true identity, Ra's."
Ducard, or Ra's, bowed his head with a smirk in acknowledgment of Bruce's conclusion. "Surely, a man who spends his nights scrambling over the rooftops of Gotham wouldn't begrudge me dual identities?"
"I saved your life."
"I warned you about compassion, Bruce."
Bruce scanned the room and silently berated himself for not noticing them earlier—these grim men from the League of Shadows who hovered at the edge of the crowd, obviously out of place: hard, dangerous men, some of whom Bruce recognized from the monastery. Bruce looked at his guests: laughing, chattering, some of them tipsy. "Your quarrel is with me," he said as his eyes settled back on his opponent. "Let these people go."
"You're welcome to explain the situation to them."
After a quick assessment of Ra's expression, which he guessed was a mixture of amusement and hostility, Bruce turned to snatch a champagne glass from a passing waiter and shouted loud enough to be heard over the music and chatter. "Everyone. Everybody" He raised his glass and tapped it while he swayed a bit as his words were slightly slurred. "I, uh… I want to thank you all for coming here tonight and drinking all of my booze." There was a brief burst of laughter and even Bruce chuckled slightly before continuing. "No, really," Bruce continued. "The thing about being a Wayne is that you're never short of a few freeloaders, like yourselves, to fill up your mansion with, so here's to you people."
Bruce began to take a swig when Douglas Fredericks, his father's old friend and colleague, clasped Bruce's elbow. "That's enough."
But Bruce quickly lowered the glass from his mouth and pulled his arm away from Fredericks as he shook his head. "I'm not finished. To all of you, uh..all you phonys, all you two-faced friends, you sickafrantic suck-ups who smile through your teeth at me, please leave me in peace. Please leave. Please go." The smiles quickly faded while murmuring arouse. "Stop smiling, it's not a joke. Please leave. The party's over. Get out."
"The apple has fallen very far from the tree, Mr. Wayne," Fredericks commented as he strode past. Bruce, who was adding to the act by taking another swig, lowered his glass as he originally cast a dark look towards his father's old friend, but as the man stalked away, Bruce's expression changed into a remorseful one. Bruce was surprised to find that much of what he had said, he believed.
Most of the party-goers were already moving toward the doors, snaking their way around tables and chairs, being careful not to look back at Bruce. The vast room was silent except for the sound of their movements. Bruce could hear automobile engines starting in the driveway. But the room emptied quickly, leaving a dozen men who stood with their arms hanging loosely at their sides, weight centered in their bellies, and Bruce and Ra's.
"Amusing," Ra's commented as he stood next to Bruce, his gaze glancing around at the various Gotham elites that were now filing out of the mansion. "But pointless. None of these people have long to live. Your antics at the asylum have forced my hand."
"So Crane was working for you." Bruce concluded as his eyes continually glanced around, surveying his surroundings—how many men, their positions, possible movements, possible attack angles, possible weapons, etc—as the pair slowly strode through the room.
"His toxin is derived from the organic compound in our blue flowers. He was able to weaponize it."
"He's not a member of the League of Shadows."
"Of course not. He thought our plan was to hold the city for ransom."
"But really you are going to unleash Crane's poison on the entire city."
"Then watch Gotham tear itself apart through fear."
"You're going to destroy millions of lives," Bruce said as Ra's pace quickened through the main corridor, Bruce following in stride.
"Only a cynical man would call what these people have 'lives,' Wayne. Crime, despair; this was not how man was supposed to live." Suddenly Ra's stopped and turned to face Bruce as men took their places at both ends of the corridor. "The League of Shadows has been a check against human corruption for thousands of years. We sacked Rome, loaded trade ships with plague rats, burnt London to the ground. Every time a civilization meets the pinnacle of its decadence, we return to restore the balance."
"Gotham isn't beyond saving. Give me more time. There are good people here."
"You are defending a city so corrupt, we have infiltrated every level of its infrastructure. When I found you in that jail, you were lost. But I believed in you. I took away your fear and I showed you a path. You were my greatest student, it should be you standing by my side, saving the world."
"I'll be standing where I belong. Between you and the people of Gotham."
Ra's eyes narrowed. "No one can save Gotham." He glanced around Bruce and nodded to the men standing at the end of the corridor behind him, who immediately moved into action as they started to throw various articles of furniture to the floor. As glass shattered and wood splintered, Ra's continued, "When a forest grows too wild, a purging fire is only natural and inevitable." The men poured gasoline over the broken furniture before throwing lit matches. "Tomorrow, the world will watch in horror as its greatest city destroys itself…"
"Homeless and forced to relocate, the playboy has recently landed here, atop this newly-built luxury tower, where Wayne has purchased a two-story, 25,000-square-foot penthouse apartment with 40-foot ceilings, two gigantic balconies, a parking space for his helicopter, and a 360-degree-view of the entire city below. The price? Who knows? But the monthly maintenance fee alone is reported to be around $31,000. The real perk is the location, though. Over the course of the last few months, Bruce has made appearances at all of Gotham's ultra-posh eateries, clubs, and lounges, creating a commotion wherever he goes with a gaggle of gorgeous women in tow. In fact, just last month, escorting all 150 Miss Earth contestants, Bruce accidentally crashed a Harvey Dent fundraising event at the city's newest hotel, the Gotham Grand. Wayne and Dent have never met, but both know Rachel Dawes. An old and loyal friend of Bruce, Rachel has recently become something more to Harvey Dent as the two have been seen around town together, occasionally holding hands. Whether Bruce approves, no one knows for sure…"
"Have you decided that Mr. Dent is the paragon he seems to be?" Alfred asked as Bruce flopped down on one of the sofas, pulling off the red, curly wig and tossing it to the floor.
"No. There has to be something wrong with him."
"Perhaps what's wrong with him is that he seems to have captured the affections of Miss Dawes."
"I won't dignify that with a reply."
Bruce exhausted every possibility in investigating Harvey Dent: interviews—usually as Charles Malone—with teachers, classmates, old girlfriends, recent girlfriends, fellow prosecutors, defense lawyers, even convicts. He checked Dent's school transcripts as far back as junior high. He checked bar association documents. Nothing. Harvey Dent wasn't a saint, but he was a person of enormous integrity, courage, and ability. Then he concentrated on Dent himself. For weeks, although he didn't know it, Harvey Dent had an unseen guardian angel. Batman followed him to and from his office, as well as the various courtrooms Dent frequented. Bruce Wayne, pretending to be interested in a female defendant, watched Dent conduct a major trial, and disguised as Charles Malone, watched Dent conduct several minor trials. All successfully, all with the utmost reticence. Finally, on a rainy Friday evening, Bruce saw Dent meet Rachel in the lobby of her apartment building. She kissed Dent quickly but deeply on the lips, and Bruce realized they were on another date. Then he had an epiphany: He was jealous! Upset and angry and jealous…
"But Ms. Dawes disapproved of the distraction caused by Wayne's impromptu appearance, asking Bruce to leave the event almost immediately."
"I'm sorry, sir, but this event is invitation only—"
"I'm making a last minute donation," Bruce interjected as he stuffed a wad of hundreds into the man's coat pocket before striding past him with a gorgeous woman on each arm, and nearly a hundred and fifty more behind him.
But he, and the rest of the beauty pageant contestants, didn't get far inside the hotel before the one woman Bruce thought was the most beautiful woman in the world, interceded them before they got anywhere near the hotel's ballroom and where Harvey Dent was. "Bruce, what are you doing here?" she demanded as quietly as she could while the photographers flashed their cameras around them, the photographers that had cued her that he was here.
Bruce beamed as he glanced around, making a big show. After all, that was what he was supposed to do. "I was just showing these lovely ladies around town when I heard about this little fundraiser. And I thought to myself, what better way to introduce these girls to Gotham than to introduce them to Gotham's future D.A.? But since you're here now, Rachel, they can meet Gotham's current D.A."
Rachel did not look enthused. In fact, it was the most angry he'd ever seen her; worse than when he had confessed to her that he had wanted to, and was going to, kill Joe Chill all those years ago. As her cute face struggled to remain smooth, her brown eyes smoldered with frustration. "Bruce, you need to leave now."
"Aw, Rachel—"
"Now, Bruce!"
It was then that the hotel's security received their confirmation that it was alright to support the current District Attorney, Rachel Dawes, and to remove playboy billionaire, Bruce Wayne, from the premises, along with the 150 gorgeous guests he had brought with him. And, much to the surprise of the photographers, managers, security, and Miss Earth contestants, he left without arguing. But he knew that he had overdone it with Rachel and it would take a lot to earn her forgiveness…
"When asked about the incident and Bruce Wayne, Harvey Dent told reporters:"
Harvey Dent began speaking, caught, by the looks of it, on his way home for the day in one of the boring, familiar halls of the district attorney's offices. "Look, what happened to Bruce's family and other people like him, it's just—it's unconscionable that a kid should have to endure that in Gotham. His family's been so good to this town. I'll do whatever I can to prevent something like that from ever happening again."
Filangeri: "Later that night, reporters caught up with Wayne at the popular sushi restaurant, Ra."
Bruce didn't need a memory to clarify or explain this incident as the video played, revealing his perfected art of disguise. "I don't know Harvey Dent, you know. I try to stay away from politicians, though, you know? You never know what you're gonna get with those guys. But if anyone is for abolishing the speeding ticket, they got my vote."
"Like him or not," Filangeri continued, "Bruce Wayne is our very own Peter Pan. Armed with a limitless trust fund that acts as his sword, his adventures do make for great headlines in the tabloids. But unlike the mythic boy who never has to grow up, Wayne has real responsibilities that affect us all. Responsibilities that include overseeing Wayne Enterprises, which has been Gotham's economic core for over a century. Over the last few months, Wayne Enterprises has acquired and/or developed technologies emanating from abandoned aerospace and military programs. Programs that have produced specialized fabrics, electromagnetic gyroscopic navigational systems, hemostatic powders, high-tech plastics, radiation-stamping technology, and rotor blades made of metal composites that have a low radar signature and special acoustic design. Vice President of Operations, Douglas Fredericks. Is there logic to any of this, or is Bruce Wayne just manufacturing parts for some expensive toys he wants to play with?"
Douglas Fredericks familiar face appeared in front of a green screen made to look like a study as he found a subtle way to cover for his old friend's son. "Lydia, the space program not only put a man on the moon, but it introduced the world to Velcro." Bruce could tell that Fredericks still housed some hope for him, but that wasn't the reason why he made him vice president. Fredericks was on the Board all of those years for a reason: he was good; and it was him who kept Earle in check as much as he could without being obvious.
Filangeri: "But we're talking about stealth rotor blades, here. I mean, where is the practical use in that?"
Bruce was expecting a loud roar to accompany the sounds of the steadily starting-up engine in front of him, but when the only noise was the soft hum of the engine and the flutter of wind, Bruce let a smile slip onto his handsome face. The presenter, Dr. Anderson, beamed in response to Bruce's small sign of approval and continued without having to shout over any abnormal noise. "These rotor blades are revolutionary. What we imagined nearly a year ago actually became a reality. Low noise levels, low radar signatures; the jets that are fitted with this type of engine will be nearly undetectable."
Lucius Fox glanced to Bruce, a proud smile of his own on his face while Bruce's was a bit more thoughtful. They both knew what the other was thinking, and now that Wayne Enterprises top scientists in their aeronautics engineering department actually accomplished the idea the Board, or rather Bruce and Lucius, had suggested as a goal only months before, the two co-CEOs could begin their own private work on a more civilian-type aircraft than a military jet.
Bruce gave a quick nod of approval before he turned for the door of the hanger, one of the few that Wayne Enterprises owned on Gotham's local Air Force base, located northwest of the Gotham islands. "Thank you, Dr. Anderson," Fox covered. "The board will be pleased with your departments breakthroughs and hopefully we will be back to discuss plans for the aircraft these jets will be attached to."
Dr. Anderson nodded quickly as he shook Fox's hand, a wide smile on his surprisingly young face. "Of course, of course. Thank you Mr. Fox."
Lucius caught up with Bruce quicker than usual, as Bruce was waiting just outside the hanger, glancing around at the various aircraft parked, including the Wayne Enterprises helicopter that was waiting for them. "That look in your eyes tells me you want to start this right away."
"As soon as possible," Bruce corrected, his expression the same and his eyes still glancing around the base. "I have a lead on Crane's whereabouts tonight, so the jet might have to wait."
"Of course," Lucius replied, but before he could say more, Bruce was already strolling towards the helicopter that was already beginning to start-up. So Fox, as always, followed without another word about future plans involving Bruce's other life…
Fredericks: "What some may consider niche or off-the-wall technology, we view as doors to the future. And our strides through those doors will strengthen this company and the community around it."
"The jury is still out whether these ventures are helping or hurting the company," Filangeri continued. "In fact, one stock analyst is calling for the board to remove Wayne as CEO before he causes the city to enter into another depression. On the other hand, another analyst is telling investors that Bruce Wayne might be the perfect person to usher Wayne Enterprises into the next generation by taking risks on technology that could change the world for the better. But since it's impossible to tell whether the card up the playboy's sleeve is an ace, or a just a joker, the future of Wayne Enterprises will remain uncertain. Thanks so much for watching us. Join us in two weeks as we profile another one of Gotham's familiar faces, Lieutenant Jim Gordon, head of the newly formed Major Crimes Unit in the Gotham Police Department…"