5

WAYNE MANOR

An iron pan sizzled as the smell of maple bacon filled the kitchen. Meanwhile, Jamaican coffee beans were ground, pressed, and brewed. As it was every morning, breakfast was prepared with near surgical precision. Alfred found that such precision served him well, no matter his occupation. He had worn many hats during his long life. From a young actor on the West End stage to a special agent in M15, his versatile career had found its resting point in the home of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

The tabloids loved to romanticize the Waynes. They were Gotham's fallen stars, the beautiful angels that advanced the city, only to be cut down in their prime. Newspapers rarely knew people in the way their hired help did. Alfred had found that the worst way to find out information about a man, especially a rich man, was to ask him. Lying came to the rich as easily as eating and breathing. If someone truly wanted information, they needed only to stay quiet.

During his time with Thomas and Martha, Alfred had only addressed them with customary butler speak. Would you like more tea? May I help you with your coat? Master, madam, sir, Miss… a maddening litany he repeated day in and day out. However, the Waynes had told him far more than their superficial commands, more than either of them realized.

If he were to sit down with one of these romantic reporters, he could tell him many things. For example, he could say that Thomas Wayne was a womanizer who had committed at least ten acts of infidelity and had fathered at least two bastards. He could also tell him that Martha Wayne was a drunkard who tried to gamble her husband's money away as quickly as he could make it. Of course, the reporter would not tolerate such slander of his idols. Alfred would be called an ungrateful old fool. Not that it mattered now. Thomas and Martha were dead, and their demons had died with them.

However, despite all their sins, the Waynes had always kept one redeeming quality: they loved their son. It wasn't hard to see why. Bruce had barely survived infancy. He was born premature and highly underweight, with an emaciated frame that seemed it would break with the slightest touch. Within forty-eight hours, he had contracted pneumonia. Alfred had watched his silent body in the incubator, his tiny chest moving so slightly it appeared nearly still. At any moment, he expected the small, labored breaths to cease and the heartrate to flat line. But it hadn't.

It was a slow process, but each day, the breaths grew stronger and more frequent. After nearly a month in the incubator, Bruce's silence finally broke. Alfred watched as he balled his tiny fists, contorted his features, and released the most beautiful cry the butler had ever heard. From that moment on, Alfred had known the boy was special. There was always something special about those who cheated death at such a young age.

However, his strength became less apparent as the boy grew. The typical childhood sickliness, in addition to his parents' ceaseless pampering, created a fragile child who could barely lift his bowl of morning cereal. There were days when Alfred wished he could have stayed that way. When Bruce limped out of the Batmobile after a fight with Bane… when he would sit at his computer for nearly twenty-four consecutive hours, trying to find a pattern in the Joker's madness… when he bore so much weight on his shoulders it was a wonder he didn't collapse… and when he bore too much weight and did collapse.

Alfred's thoughts were broken as Bruce rushed in, throwing on a jacket and adjusting his tie.

"Alfred, where's my iPad? It has the charts I need for the meeting."

"It's in the master bedroom, top drawer of your nightstand, underneath your chargers, sir."

"Thanks."

He grabbed the coffee and bacon Alfred had set out and headed for the bedroom. The butler sighed. Yes, that soft little boy was long forgotten. He had been heated and wrought into a man as cold and hard as the city he fought to protect. Much like Alfred, he wore many different hats. The brilliant businessman who kept Wayne Enterprises running like a well-oiled machine, the philanthropist who never met a cause he wouldn't support, and the drunken party boy that always appeared with a different woman on his arm. Each persona was a mask he could change at a moment's notice.

Only Alfred knew the true man, who could hardly be called a man at all. He was as solid as iron, able to beat the city's worst to a bloody pulp. Then, in the same breath, he could take a trembling child into his arms and give him peace, relieving all of his worries and fears in an instant. Alfred ceased his thoughts and robotically continued his routine. Analyzing the Batman was an impossible task. He had always found it easier to leave Bruce to his brooding and clean up his mess.

WAYNE ENTERPRISES

Bruce stepped into his office and shut the door behind him. He took a moment to appreciate the quiet darkness that filled the room. The space was massive, containing a bar and a television lounge. Not that he used any of these features himself; they were purely negotiation tactics. Alcohol and television softened the mind, inhibiting business men's intuition and making it far easier to negotiate a favorable deal.

He strode past these novelties to the far wall. It had been replaced with an enormous window overlooking the Gotham River. As he peered out the window, he noticed peculiar smudges left on the glass. Slowly, he breathed onto it. As the glass clouded, the words "TURN AROUND" appeared.

He smirked. "You need to work on your breathing, Dick. I've known you were here since I came through the door."

A groan was heard from the ceiling. One of the tiles slid back, and Nightwing dropped gracefully onto the desk. "And my life's dream to surprise the Batman remains yet unfulfilled."

"You shouldn't have come here," Bruce said, instantly stern. "It's too risky. Someone could see us talking to one another."

"Yup. Because the halls are so crowded at 11:00 P.M. And just imagine all of the people with access to your office security cameras. There's Lucius… oh wait, he's one of ours. Well then, Alfred… wait. No, he's ours, too. That just leaves you and me, and I can't see either of us spilling the beans any time soon. Relax, Bruce. And look, I come bearing gifts."

Nightwing pulled a flash drive out of his belt and plugged it into the computer. Soon, pictures arranged themselves across the screen. Bruce was no stranger to atrocities, but he still felt vomit rising in his throat. Quickly, he choked it down and studied the photographs. There were six of them, taken inside the sewers. They showed a ladder leading down to a narrow walkway for maintenance crews.

Along the walkway, mutilated body parts were scattered about. He could see three arms with tendons still clinging to the shoulder. A torso lay in the middle; the abdomen had been ripped open and the internal organs were spread across it. Closest to the camera, a disembodied head lay on its side with part of the spine protruding from the neck. Both of its eyes had been ripped out.

Bruce studied the background of the photographs. "This is the sewer system under Holdcroft Boulevard," he said.

"Ah yes, the one that runs under the GCPD," Nightwing sighed. "So many good memories swimming through the river of..."

"My point is, Dick, this occurred in Gotham. I don't see how Blüdhaven is involved. Therefore, I don't see what you are doing here."

Nightwing was unfazed. "Well, you're right about one thing, Bruce. This happened in Gotham. However, just yesterday, a nice Blüdhaven lady's toilet backed up and began spewing blood and muscle bits. That is why I'm here. Oh yeah, not to mention the fact that seven people were ripped limb from limb in a sewer that you arguably spend more time in than your own home. Doesn't that strike you as the teeniest, tiniest bit strange?"

"What do the cops have to say at this point?" Bruce asked. Nightwing took his changing the topic as an apology and awarded himself a mental point. Victories over the Batman were a rare and treasured occurrence.

"Unsurprisingly, they're calling it an animal attack. No one's sure what type…"

"It was a human."

"Come again?"

"It wasn't an animal."

"Bruce, it's obvious that the mutilations were done pre-mortem. The toxicology reports we have don't indicate any kind of drugs in their systems. These victims were alive and conscious when they were killed. Do you happen to know a person who can reduce seven, able-bodied people to mincemeat? Other than you, of course."

"Why do animals kill, Dick?"

"What?"

"Lions, wolves, bears… do they kill for fun?"

"No, they kill for food."

"Exactly, and they don't waste anything. If they can eat it, they will. Look at the parts that were left behind. Deltoids, quadriceps, internal organs. Some of the tastiest parts left for the rats. Judging from their condition, I assume it's been about a week since the murders occurred. Even if an animal had eaten its fill after the first attack, it would have come back for the rest by now. Furthermore, it would have attacked anyone or anything who came near the territory. So why didn't this one?"

"Bruce, I don't…"

"I'm not done, Dick. Look at the nature of the attacks. When animals attack, they're precise and calculating. They aim for the throat, the Achilles tendon, whatever will take you down the fastest. There's nothing organized about these killings. The assailant was just tearing into whatever meat he could get to first. He snapped, and then he ran. I'm not saying this was your average human, but it was something with enough sense to know he had made a mistake. Then, he had enough control to deny animalistic instinct to feed and fled the scene."

After a moment of silence, Nightwing shook his head and leaped onto the desk. He shot his grappling hook into the opening he had left in the ceiling. Taking one last look at Bruce, he said, "The cops and animal control should finish their investigation soon. I'll be in touch. In the meantime, I suggest you get better at interrogating wild animals. I hear it's pretty hard to make them talk."

He then pulled the trigger on his grappling hook and was lifted into the ceiling. The opening in the ceiling closed as the tile slid back into its rightful place. Bruce was left to stare at the gruesome imagery on the screen. His eyes scanned the images, recording the details of each mutilation. Suddenly, they paused on the bottom middle photo, the one of the head with its eyes ripped out. The picture was taken with the river of sewage in the background. He zoomed in on the river, trying to get a better look at what had piqued his interest. The image was grainy, but he could see a dark mass with fuzzy yellow patches hovering above the water. Probably a piece of reflective material from the victims, he thought. Still, he adjusted the contrast and sharpness of the photo.

As the image came into focus, Bruce clenched his fist and stood up. Turning to the window, he pulled out his phone and hit his first speed dial key. "Something you want, sir?" a stout, British voice replied from the other end.

"Prepare the bat suit, Alfred. I'll be taking a trip down below tonight."

"Ugh, the sewer again? Are you sure?"

"I'm afraid so."

Bruce turned around and stared at the computer screen. Though the image was pixelated, he could clearly see two yellow eyes staring back.