Hey guys. So here's chapter 2 of this little experiment. Its' been a lot of fun for me trying to weave together the "mythology" of Batman that I want from the different sources, and a blast to write. Hope you all enjoy it.

Gillian Loeb was a short and portly middle-aged man whose greasy hairline was in the midst of a losing battle with the encroaching expanse of his brow and forehead. Gotham City's Chief Commissioner of Police sat in his spacious office snapping loudly on a piece of nicotine gum – his wife had been quite insistent on the ending of his cigarette habit a few months prior, as the growing graveyard of gum wrappers in his trashcan could attest to.

He sat peering at the papers spread across his desk, financial reports and bank statements from offshores accounts in less than reputable locales, when the sound of his office door opening roused his attention.

"Commissioner, you wanted to see me, sir?"

The voice was a deep bass, and Loeb motioned for its owner to enter. Detective Arnold Flass was a large man who nonetheless moved his bulk with surprising grace, navigating the labyrinth of shelves and cases bursting with knickknacks and novelties that filled the Commissioner's office until at last reaching the chair that sat before the large mahogany desk.

Wiping his papers aside, Loeb wrinkled his face into a smile and leaned back into his chair.

"Flass, my boy," he began, his voice rasping ever so slightly. He had traded in his cigarettes for gum, but the habit's mark on him remained. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, take a seat. Would you like a drink?"

Nodding in the affirmative, the detective lowered himself into the cushioned chair whilst his superior rummaged through a drawer in his desk only to produce two crystal glasses and one bottle of excellently aged whisky. Flass graciously accepted and Loeb gave out a contented sigh as the liquor touched his lips, having spat his gum aside.

"Now," he began, lowering his drink, "let's get down to business. Arnold, I'm having you reassigned. Starting tomorrow you'll be working under Sergeant Gordon."

Flass raised a brow at this. "Gordon, sir? The man is-"

"The man is a pain in my ass, that's what he is," Loeb interjected, taking another sip before sighing. "The public loves him, and the man has refused any and all offers we've ever made him." The commissioner narrowed is eyes and frowned. "A man of his reputation among the public remaining…" The man paused, as if tasting his words before choosing them before finally selecting one. "Unattached, shall we say, from the usual order of things around here, well I think you can see how that might be a problem, can't you?" The man rolled his eyes before continuing. "And now with that new DA being just as much of a boy scout as Gordon, our friends in the city just want some insurance that these two won't go rocking the boat."

Flass took all of this in in silence as he sipped his drink before finally turning his eyes back to Loeb.

"So what do you need me to do, boss," he rumbled at last.

"You know how things in this city work, Flass. You know how this force works." The commissioner leaned forward and stared intently at his underling. "Make Gordon understand it, by any means necessary. I need him contained and brought into the fold. That means no more 'super-cop' escapades giving him an even bigger public image than he already has, and no more sermons to his squad about ethics, and the meaning of the badge." Loeb sneered as he spat out those last words, shaking his head and taking another drink. "I think some of them are starting to stick; just last week Bullock turned down another 'overtime' job. Bullock of all people!"

Gotham's police commissioner could only shake his head and rub his temples before leveling a stubby finger at his guest. "I need a leash on Gordon," Loeb said at last in a low voice. "I need a leash on him, and you have got free reign to do whatever you need to in order to put it on him. Do I make myself clear?"

Flass was quiet for a moment, and then proceeded to drain his drink in one fluid motion before facing his commander with a smile. "Absolutely, sir. Need me to do anything about Dent?"

The older men waved a hand idly and continued to drink. "The good district attorney is not our problem," Loeb answered between sips. "Though rest assured he's being handled. You just worry about Gordon, and you'll come out of this with a healthy salary bonus." The commissioner smiled. "Our friends downtown like to show their gratitude."

Flass raised his empty glass in salute. "They always do," the man answered, a dark smile playing across his lips. "They always do."

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James Gordon heaved a heavy sigh as he plopped into the seat of his car and stirred the engine to life; it had been a long day, culminating with the distasteful news that one Arnold Flass was now under his jurisdiction.

The GCPD was riddled with dirty cops, but there were a few who had made corruption an art form, and Flass was one of them. The man was a headache that he most certainly did not want or need. He rubbed his temples idly before readjusting his glasses and inching the car out from its tight parking spot in the station's garage.

Gotham's rush hour gridlock was an inescapable facet of life in the city, a force of nature unto itself. Horns blared and curses in half a dozen different languages were slung almost casually while jaywalkers and madmen on bikes and motorcycles wove through the mess of automobiles with practiced ease. The heat of the summer was locked in by the humidity, and this far from the harbor there was scant hope of even the faintest breeze to provide any relief. Tempers boiled as sweat beaded on brows, overtaxed engines struggling to give their masters a puff of sweet air-conditioning, and all the while heat rippled in waves off of pavement and vehicle alike, a city sweltering and so very desperately trying to beat the heat.

The policeman had settled into his seat with a tired resignation that today would indeed be a long ride home, the mindless chatter of Gotham Today with Jack Ryder oozing out from the radio as background noise. A burst of static over his police radio shattered that weary apathy.

"…developing hostage situation in Midtown. Branden is requesting permission to engage, over."

Jim Gordon felt his blood run cold at that. In a flash, he had the handset to his mouth, other hand groping wildly about in the glove box.

"This is Sergeant James Gordon, I am en route to your location. Do not, I repeat do not engage the suspect. That is a direct order!"

Hands finally lighting on his prize, Gordon rolled down his window and slapped the siren to the car's roof, the strong magnet on its bottom locking it in place even as its lights began to flash and speaker wail. With a blare of the horn, the man broke his car free of the mass of immobile vehicles as he mounted the curb, laying on the horn generously to shake the sluggish pedestrians from their stupor and out of his way.

Gotta get there before Branden get's let off his leash, he thought desperately, hands glued tightly to the steering wheel. If that lunatic has his way it'll be a bloodbath.

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Howard Branden was not a patient man, and as the sun began to slip down behind Gotham's skyline his patience for standing around sweltering in full SWAT gear ran dry.

"Alright, screw this," he spat. "Get your head in the game, boys, we're moving in!"

One of the greenhorns, a new member on the squad, looked troubled before finally finding his voice.

"But, sir," he managed, "what about Sergeant Gordon?"

"Fuck," Branden spat back promptly, savoring every syllable, "Sergeant Gordon! You pussies want to sit around and wait for him to come hold your hand? Fine! If any of you boys still have your balls left, your welcome to come along, otherwise stay out of my way!"

The squeal of rubber on pavement rent the muggy air as Gordon's car screeched to a halt just beyond the police barricade. Camera bulbs flashed and reporters chattered excitably but the policeman brushed them aside without a second though; there were bigger issues at stake.

He waited until he was past the media circus that had assembled just outside the blockade; there was no need to make this into any more of a public spectacle than it already was. Once they were past the reach of prying microphones and cameras, though, the police sergeant leveled a deathly glare at the SWAT leader.

"Stand down, Branden," Gordon said, steel in his voice. "There are kids in there, for God's sake!"

"And we're here to get them out! The situation is being handled, Gordon. You're not needed here!"

The sergeant narrowed his eyes as he stared long and hard at the pig-eyed man before him.

"Just like you 'handled' that protest out at Robinson Park last month? Just how many college students did you end up hospitalizing, eh?"

Gordon hissed his final words through clenched teeth. It was monsters like Branden, like Flass, that had cost the police force the trust of the city. He wouldn't let it slip any further, not if he could help it.

Branden moved to speak, but another hard glare from Gordon saw the words wither and die on his lips. Branden's brows furrowed, and for a moment Sergeant Gordon could only wonder what thoughts we're flitting behind the man's hateful little eyes as he prepared for the worst. Finally, something seemed to break in the man.

"Stand down," Branden called back to his men, his eyes never leaving Gordon. "The sergeant here is going to attempt to negotiate. When that fails, we're up next."

Leaning in close, his hands in fists, the SWAT leader breathed words in barely a whisper for Gordon's ears only.

"You're gonna regret this, Jim. Mark my words."

With that, Branden turned heel and stormed off, leaving the sergeant alone in the sweltering heat to face a madman. Slowly steeping out to the front door of the apartment building the man had been cornered in, he reviewed what he'd been briefed.

Suspect has a history of mental illness, possibly schizophrenic, the policeman thought as he approached with his hands in the air. He'll be erratic, but not the brightest guy I've ever gone after. Above, looking out a third story window, was his target. It was hard to make out details from street level but what was amply clear was the small blonde-haired shape their suspect held close to him with one hand, the glimmer of gunmetal held to her head.

That sealed it. A change of hair color, and it could have been his Barbara up there, his little girl. His will turned to steel, and the rest came easy. Slowly and gently, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his sidearm, making sure the man could see it before laying it on the ground along with the jacket itself; he was sweating plenty already without it.

Hands over his head, James Gordon walked towards the apartment complex's front door and prayed that he wasn't making a huge mistake.

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The building reeked of must and age, and as Gordon climbed the stairs the floorboards groaned and moaned in protest. A battered looking old tomcat hissed at him as it darted underfoot into a new patch of shadows. The man paused a minute to calm his nerves before continuing on.

The floor creaked as he stood before the door of the kidnapper's den in the dingy hallway. Before he could do anything, the door swung open and there his target stood.

He was a heavyset man on the cusp of middle age, his face cratered with old pockmarks and acne scars. His eyes were wild, sweat beaded on his brow, a sort of animal panic written clear across his face. He held the same little girl he had held in the window close to his paunch with one arm while the other pointed a grimy revolver square at the policeman's chest.

"Stay back!" the man shouted, flecks of spittle flying from his lips. "No lunch! No gangrene lunch!"

"Easy pal," Gordon answered him, voice gentle. "That's fine. We'll order out." Internally he cursed; he hadn't expected the man to be this far gone.

The same mangy tomcat he had seen walking in chose that moment to let loose a long meow from its newest shadowed perch, and the kidnapper struggled to find the sound's source, his eyes flitting about wildly. Training took over.

Moving as quickly as he could, the cop closed the distance between them and pushed the gun up and away from himself – and the girl. A swift knee to the groin and a good right hook later, and it was over. The man toppled like a tree as the girl ran from his grasp in tears, and Gordon made sure that he was well and truly knocked out and thoroughly handcuffed before he approached the quartet of children huddling near the window, fearful eyes locked on his sweat-soaked form. He heaved a tired sigh before walking over to them, doing his best to appear as nonthreatening as possible. He dropped to on knee as he reached them, painting on a warm smile that stretched below his ruddy moustache in what he desperately hoped was a comforting expression.

"So," he asked the four of them as he reached into his pocket to retrieve the garish paper-covered packet. "Who wants gum?"

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"Reckless, thoughtless, and mind-bogglingly stupid, that's what that was."

There were very few people in the world that Bruce Wayne would accept such a tongue-lashing from, but Alfred Pennyworth was one of them. Bruce sat in silence back at the brownstone that continued to serve as his base naked from the waist up and grit his teeth, both in impatience and pain; while the butler's acerbic tongue went to work on his ego, the man's hands were occupied stitching up the handful of wounds his latest "blunder", as Alfred had called it, had earned him. Some of the shots Red Hood's men had taken came far too close for comfort, though he was confident he hadn't left behind enough blood to be tracked. Or worse, identified.

"That stunt at the parking garage almost got you killed, sir," the butler concluded sharply as he set the last suture with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary. Bruce had known for years that the man who raised him had done time in the British army, possibly even the special forces; his skills as a field medic served as a testament to that. Though in the countless years he had known him, the butler had never once opened up about those experiences. Perhaps I'm not one to judge when it comes to keeping secrets, the younger man thought with a half-hearted humor as he rose to his feet, derailing the train of memories from his youth; such trains invariably had one final destination.

"That stunt," Bruce shot back, rising at last, Alfred's ministrations complete, "saved the lives of innocent men that the Red Hood would have butchered otherwise." He winced slightly. "This Red Hood Gang… its something new, its not like the street crime that was plaguing the city when I left. It's like a virus, hidden until the last minute."

"Speaking of things remaining hidden, sir, isn't it about time Bruce Wayne returned to life?" The slightest tinge of hope flavored the butlers words.

Working out a kink in his shoulder, Bruce shook his head as he turned to face the older man. "Return Bruce Wayne to Gotham? I'm sorry, Alfred, but Bruce Wayne is legally dead, and that's the way it's going to stay. This is guerilla warfare, and I'm more effective as a shadow." He sighed. "Being Bruce Wayne again would just be a distraction."

The younger man watched as a retort rose and died in his former guardian's throat, stifled by some unknown mélange of respect, pride, and a host of other emotions that were promptly locked back behind the butler's veneered visage; Alfred was nothing if not painfully professional. For a moment, though, that mask cracked and a look of weary concern and time-tempered sorrow shone through.

"Master Bruce, you never stopped being Bruce Wayne," Alfred said softly before continuing. "I must confess that when I agreed to aid you in this folly, it was so I might gain your ear and talk some sense into you." A look of sorrow filled is old eyes. "Eight years, Master Bruce," he continued. "I thought…"

Throwing on a shirt and shoes in one smooth motion, the younger man turned to face Alfred and laid one hand on his shoulder as they left the bedroom strewn with various bits of medical supplies and gadgetry.

"Just Bruce," his charge answered the older man. "Please. Trust me. I've spent almost a decade preparing for this, and now that it's finally begun…I can't tell you what it means to me to have you by my side." Warmth filled his eyes and a smile graced his lips, but it was not one of joy, of humor. It held something else, a hunger. "We'll have the Red Hood Gang in pieces soon enough."

The weary butler bit his tongue once more. "As you say, sir," he said at last as the two moved towards the front door. Bruce slipped on his baseball cap and sunglasses and moved to open the door.

"Will you be needing me to drive you anywhere, sir?" Alfred asked over the creak of hinges in desperate need of oiling.

"That won't be necessary, Alfred," a new voice answered him from the doorframe. "I think I can lend a hand in that regard."

Whirling, the two men turned to face the newcomer. A wry smile stretched across a weathered face.

"Hello, Bruce."

"Uncle Philip?"

Philip Kane wore a well-tailored grey suit over his trim frame, nearly the same shade as his hair. Silver cufflinks glinted in the afternoon sun as the man clapped a hand on his nephew's shoulder.

"Its good to see you again, Bruce," Kane said with a smile, drawing the young man into an unreciprocated hug. Its recipient drew back, still in shock.

"But how did you-"

"Find you?" His uncle chuckled. "I've had a search out on you since you slipped away from Oxford. Had a few close matches; base-jumping in Laos, some kind of marathon death fight in Nigeria."

"Mr Kane," Alfred interjected, face cross. "I must ask that you leave us, at once."

"Its okay, Alfred," Bruce said raising his hands consolingly, his eyes appraising his uncle. "And I never killed anyone."

Kane simply smiled once more. "Its funny," he continued. "All that searching, and I should have known the way to find you would be to watch Pennyworth. If you were back, he'd follow you anywhere." Bruce watched look of distaste spread across his uncle's face as he took a step back and surveyed the neighborhood around him in the morning sun with dismay. "Even to Crime Alley."

"You had Alfred followed," the younger man demanded darkly. "What do you want, Uncle Philip?"

His uncle simply raised his hands in a gesture of peace, a cool smile stretching across his lips. "Just a few minutes of your time, Bruce. Drive with me, please." His eyes were earnest, his smile this time genuine. "There's something I'd like to show you."

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Their drive through town was long and mired by the city's traffic, and the young man suffered through his uncle's small talk for its entirety, politely answering where necessary and thoroughly disinterested where not.

"Kate starts at St. Hadrian's up in Boston this year" He shook his head, a rueful smile starting to grow. "God, she reminds me of her mother more an more every day."

A pang of guilt finally stabbed its way to Bruce's heart; he hadn't seen his cousin since she was a child. They were his last blood relatives to speak of, and he ignored them for the better part of a decade. Blood still had to count for something.

"I'm sorry about Aunt Deborah, Uncle Philip," the young man said softly, the first sincere thing he had said during the entire conversation. "I…I should have been there."

His uncle simply shook his head. "Don't be, son. Its an old wound, long healed."

They rode in silence for a time after that, until at last they drew near their destination. The skyscraper loomed over just about every other building near it, a mix of classic Gotham Pinkney gothic and modern sensibility, sweeping arches and grey stone facades giving way to gleaming glass expanses. Its sheer size wasn't what stole the young man's attention, though. Nor was it the crowd of protesters, picket signs in hand. No, that honor belonged to what was decorating the building's courtyard.

"You brought me here to see a penny?" Bruce asked incredulously.

Admittedly, it was quite the penny. Nearly twenty feet tall, it stood on its side like some great polished copper mirror, complete with a glowering profile of Abraham Lincoln.

Philip simply laughed. "That was just me indulging myself. I was a geologist before your grandfather dragged me into the family business. Metallurgy was my passion. I still like to play around with it, every now and then. No, what we're here for is behind the penny."

With a flourish, Philip kicked the car into park and extended his arms in fluid motion. "It's the new Wayne Enterprises," he said excitedly. "Newly remodeled." Philip turned to his nephew, eyes inquisitive. "I thought you knew?"

Bruce scratched his head beneath his ball cap, looking sheepish. "I saw the pictures in the newspaper," he admitted, "but I haven't actually seen the place since I came back."

His uncle, it seemed, was undeterred. "Plenty of time to get you back up to speed, my boy. We've been doing incredible work these past few years, incredible work. We finally merged the families, you know," he added proudly. "Kane Chemical is now a part of Wayne Industries, and there's been phenomenal growth in the other sectors as well. Wayne Enterprises in one of the country's leaders in protective technologies."

"Protective technologies?" Bruce shot back. "You mean weapons?"

"Mostly non-lethal, but yes, some," his uncle answered him, consolingly. "Here, come on in and let me show you around."

Bruce made no moves to follow his uncle's enthusiasm, and simply sighed. "I'm sorry, Uncle Philip."

Kane's face fell slightly. "You don't approve of what I've done with the company?"

Bruce Wayne could only shake his head. "No offense, Uncle Philip," he started, "but we barely know each other. You took me to the Pinkney museum once, the week after my parents died. We looked at the dinosaurs." The young man shrugged. "It was a good day. But this, the company? That 's your business."

"But I don't want it to be," Kane answered at his nephew, eyes pleading. "My sister – your mother – she, she…" His voice trailed off, hands in motion as if to snatch his lost words from the air. Finally, the man sighed. "I like to think that this is how I cared for her, and for you, in my own way. I rebuilt this company so that something, some part of that legacy, would live on. Its why I had you declared legally dead; a fresh start."

For a moment it seemed as if the weight of all the world rested on the shoulders of Philip Kane. He looked tired. He looked old. "But this city has always had a tough time trusting the Kanes," he continued. "We've had our share of scandal and controversy. You Waynes," Philip said as he leveled a finger at his nephew, "you were always the popular ones." He shrugged. "Its why everyone was so excited when your parents got engaged; two families," – he laced his fingers together, like the teeth of a gear – "moving forward together, completing each other."

Bruce sat uncomfortably as his uncle laid a hand on his shoulder. "You can't imagine how powerful a symbol it would be to see a Wayne back at the top of this company, Bruce," Philip said in earnest. "You can't."

There was a pregnant pause, and at last Bruce turned to face his uncle. "That's not why I came back to Gotham," he said simply.

"You're really not going to come inside, are you?" When his nephew gave no answer, Philip Kane gave a sad smile and half chuckle. "Guess I really did bring you out here just to show you a penny."

Without ceremony he exited the car and silently Bruce followed.

"I oversaw the forging myself," Philip said a loud as he ran his fingers over the penny's surface, his back to the younger man. Bruce could see his reflection in the penny, the world twisted in that copper mirror, figures and forms indistinct and colors muted. Kane gave another half laugh. "I came this close," he continued, turning around again and holding his thumb and pointer finger a minute distance apart. "This close to spending my life playing with rocks all day, and I would have been perfectly content with that."

He shook his head. "I was on an expedition in northern Mexico when your grandfather, Roderick, learned he was dying. I was down in an honest-to-God cave, Bruce, full of the most beautiful selenite crystals when he came to take me home." Kane's voice trailed off as memories returned to him, and the man closed the distance between them to stand before Gotham's lost prince.

"I understood him though, Bruce," his uncle continued, unabated. "You see, some of us have a responsibility. We give up the things we want to do what needs to be done. We sacrifice."

"I'm sorry, Uncle Philip," Bruce answered at last, softly. "That's not what I'm here to do. That's not who I am."

Tired and world-weary, his uncle looked him in the eyes and spoke the question that he had been trying to answer for himself for far too long.

"Then who are you, Bruce?"

Silence reigned, and with a final sigh Philip Kane took his leave, leaving his nephew alone with his thoughts and a warped copper-tone reflection of the world.

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Wayne Manor and its estate were situated in the rolling hills and forests south of the city proper, an isolated oasis away from the chaos of the city. A long driveway wound up through grounds in need of grooming to the mansion's wide front door, and a lone convertible kicked up dust as it traveled along its length.

The car pulled to a halt a fair distance away, and Bruce Wayne surveyed his ancestral home for the first time in years. The ivy was beginning to creep up the front, and the grounds were in need of care, but there was no doubt in his mind that the interior would be immaculately preserved through Alfred's ministrations and that the stalwart butler himself would be brewing a cup of earl grey in the kitchen. Off to the side was the garage where he had helped his father work on his collection of classic cars. With crystal clarity he could picture his mother in the kitchen, apron stained with flour as they baked a cake for Alfred's birthday only to discover the futility of trying to keep a secret from that man in the manor. He could even see in his mind's eye too the old well he had fallen into as a child, the darkness, the bats, and the sight of his father, flashlight in hand as he rappelled down forever seared into memory.

Biting his lip, Bruce dismissed the memories like ghosts and tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his uncle's question burning in his soul. Who was Bruce Wayne, truly?

With a heavy heart the young man turned the wheel, hard, and hurried back down the way he came, leaving the sight of home in the rearview mirror with a halo of a dust.

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Late that night on the high floors of Wayne Enterprises headquarters, in a room few knew of and even fewer entered, Philip Kane paced impatiently in the little space that was left.

"He's got some kind of chip on his shoulder," he said aloud. "He's not coming around."

"Hate to say I told you so," came his companion's reply, smooth and smug.

"Oh, I know you do," Kane shot back acidly with a frown. He turned to take another lap in the small space the room allowed. The room's majority had been all but consumed by a wall-to-wall tangle of colored yarn, pushpins, and post-it notes. At its center. like a spider in his web, stood his companion.

"I don't know why you're being so biting, Philip," the second man answered him.

"It's called sarcasm."

"Precisely," came the prompt reply. "From the Greek 'sarkasmos', meaning to rip, to tear the flesh." The man flashed a toothy smile. "To bite."

"We perhaps I'm being 'biting'," Philip answered sourly, "because we've stalled. I hired you as my chief strategist despite your less-than-savory past, and I'll admit you've helped this company reach new heights, but its not enough lately."

With an exasperated grunt, Kane plucked one of the spider's strands of yarn that spanned the room and it's shakes reverberated through the whole room-consuming mess. The spider at its center frowned.

"You sit up here in this, this cat's cradle…" Kane's voice trailed off and he turned to his companion in disgust. "I mean, come on does any of this even mean anything?"

"The algorithm is spatial, Philip," the spider replied, terse. "Your touching….disturbs things."

"You know what disturbs things?" the executive shot back. "Our public image problem, that's what. The city hates us for what we're making, and these Red Hood hoodlums are hell-bent on stealing from us, now matter how much we tighten security. So what," Kane spat, "oh wise one, is the answer to our mystery, eh?"

When he received no answer, Kane's patience ran dry.

"Are you even listening to me," he shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "God damn it, Nygma, answer the question!"

Edward Nygma turned to face his employer with a cool smile on his face. The younger man smoothed his dress pants, plucked pen from his shirt pocket, and twirled it idly in one hand as he smoothly stepped through his web to face the indignant Kane.

"Its not a mystery that faces us," Nygma said at last, "but a riddle. And riddles always seem so very complicated, but in the end have such simple answers. And you know how this one ends, Philip," he concluded darkly. "For everything we've built here to stand, Bruce Wayne has to stay dead, permanently," Nygma punctuated his plan with a particularly violent click of his pen.

Kane said nothing for a long second before fixing his strategist with a deathly glare. "Suggest that I have my nephew killed one more time," the older man said in a dangerous voice, " and finding new employment will be the least of your worries. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Nygma?"

"Crystal," Edward replied smugly.

Fuming, Philip Kane stormed out of the room a moment later, leaving his strategist to merely click his tongue and smile.

"Oh Philip," he murmured to himself as he worked is way over to his desk. "You really must learn when to listen to your betters."

Reaching his goal, Edward Nygma could only smile, gleeful that his newest informant's intel could be put to such good use. He had a phone call to make.

Well, there you go. Hope you enjoyed the read, and please review and comment. Any and all feedback is appreciated.