3. Rich and Poor

Alfred thought it would have been best to inform Bruce before he left for the evening. Normally, Alfred's nights were spent on the computer providing extra support for the vigilante, but he knew he had to attend the event if only to make a point. The elevator opened, and he entered the cave. He often would muse that the cave resembled something like a bachelor pad. It was minimalist in comfort, allowing for a small cot to sleep on, a small table, and a shower; there were also places where Bruce had piled things like clothing, which Alfred would clean every so often. The rest of it was completely dedicated to the work space. Computers, a forensic lab, a work bench for tinkering, a training pad, and places for equipment all took up the majority of the space in the cave. Alfred ducked for a moment as a screech whizzed by his head. Bruce's roommates, the bats, loud, obnoxious, and dirty as they were, took up a considerable amount of space on the roof of the cave as well. Yes, exactly like a bachelor pad.

When he found the young billionaire asleep on the desk, Alfred sighed. It was not the first time he had found him like that; he often worked to exhaustion, yet another reason Alfred wished he would get a social life. If he had people to talk to and places to be, he would have to spend time taking care of himself. He tapped the young man on the shoulder. Bruce snapped up suddenly but stilled when he saw Alfred.

"Real shame the Persian silk sheets have to go to waste," Alfred said as Bruce rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb. "Well, at least I've got several to spare."

Bruce knew what he was getting at, "The beds are too soft. I wouldn't sleep." He looked Alfred up and down. "A little overdressed, aren't you?"

Alfred pulled at the silk suit, "Just thought I'd let you know that I will be gone for a few hours; best to keep your feet on the ground until I get back."

"Hot date?" Bruce joked—one of the very rare occurrences of a joke.

"Well, Wayne Tower is opening today," Alfred straightened his suit. "I thought there ought to be someone to represent the missing Wayne at the gala."

"Wayne Tower opens today?" Bruce was taken aback for a moment. While living underground, time seemed to stand still, especially when he spent a few days recovering. "Seems like you only told me yesterday."

"Yes, well, I'll be out; I should be back in a few hours," Alfred decided to slide in a bit of their previous conversation. "That is, unless you wish to join me."

Bruce shook his head, "No, carry on."

Alfred turned to leave, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind caused him to turn around, "When do you think you'll be making your public appearance: in a week, a month, a ye—"

"Not in the foreseeable future," Bruce said quickly.

"Oh, I see, any specific goal you wish to achieve before you finally reveal yourself?" He knew he had asked the question before; he felt like he needed to reiterate it.

"When it's safe, when there is no more need to go out in a mask and fight crime," Bruce said, "That's when." He paused for a moment, then continued as if anticipating a rebuttal. "Gordon's not dumb. Bruce Wayne is known by the GCPD to be a bit of the heroic type with a penchant for chasing down suspects. Take my personality profile, cross reference that with the man who raised me—Alfred Pennyworth ex-British special forces—and add in the fact that the vigilante uses gadgets that are considerably expensive: you'd have a case or at the very least a suspicion. If I came back now with the people who know me, it wouldn't take long to finger me as a suspect."

"They'd have to prove that you were in town before the vigilante started doling out justice," Alfred assured. "There are plenty of other suspects before they start looking into you. It would give you a lot of time to pursue justice and throw them off the scent. Besides, billionaires are a strange mysterious bunch; they're likely to have other theories before they decide to put a face to the cowl."

"It's not only that," Bruce excused, "leading a double life would be time consuming and complicated. What would I do if an emergency came up? Excusing myself from every possible outing would be suspicious on its own. It's much more efficient to stay here."

"You might not see the benefits in running a double life, but I assure you that it would be much better than the life you lead now."

Bruce sighed, "Enlighten me."

"Well, for one," Alfred shrugged a little, "you can sleep in your own bloody bed, engage in much needed hobbies, get some vitamin D, have at least a few more people to rub up against in your daily life. You can have a normal life or at least half of one, which is better than what you have now."

"Alfred," Bruce sighed. "I don't need a normal life; I have never had one, especially in the last ten years. I am completely content to do my work without the extra strain of keeping up appearances."

Alfred bit back from saying some of his thoughts. Bruce hid it from him well, but, Alfred could see part of the problem. It wasn't that Bruce didn't think he could maintain a normal life; it was that he didn't believe he deserved one. Whatever guilt had been building up over the years had finally bore in some self-destructive thoughts.

"I don't think that is the healthiest way to go about this," Alfred paused for a moment, then went on. "We both have personally observed someone who experienced the psychological effects of long-term isolation underground," Alfred knew what he was saying.

Bruce grew silent for a moment; Alfred could tell that he had struck a nerve. Good: he was tired of tiptoeing around the subject.

"I am in perfect mental condition," Bruce insisted. "I test myself regularly; you know this. I know how to keep myself completely healthy."

"I'm saying that your only constant human contact cannot be your fist in someone's jaw."

"That's why I have you."

"I'm not enough," Alfred snapped suddenly.

There was silence. Alfred softened again.

"Master B, you used to have friends: a few friends, but good ones. You used to have Gordon, Bullock, and Ms. Ky—"

"And look what happened," Bruce stood suddenly. "I always got in over my head and everyone else paid for my mistakes. Selina was paralyzed, Ra burned down the city, and Gordon and Lee almost got murdered because of me, because some psychopaths latched onto whatever darkness they saw in me. I can't protect the people around me, and I can't lose them. People die when I get involved; it's best that they be at arm's length, far away from whatever crazies Bruce Wayne might bring out. Behind a mask, there is no one, there is no one to hurt, there is nothing but a vigilante. By doing this, the people I care about don't get hurt." Bruce sighed. "Alfred, I'm trying to do what is right; I'm trying to be who I'm meant to be, who you raised me to be."

"I didn't raise a vigilante; I raised Bruce Wayne," Alfred said calmly; Bruce maintained a stoic expression. "I understand your reasoning, probably more than anyone, but I just want you to come home."

Alfred took his leave and headed back to the elevator. Bruce sat back in his chair and rested his chin in his hand deep in thought. Alfred took one last look, sighed, and allowed the elevator doors to close.

The only reason that Jay was outside the Sionis Warehouse was because he was bored. There was nothing to do, he hadn't found a mark, he had found the parts to repair the TV but didn't feel like fixing it at the moment, and he needed something to keep him occupied. He figured going to see what the fuss was about; who ever posted the pamphlets was definitely desperate. The pamphlet he had thrown away a couple of days ago had multiplied. He found more stapled to posts on the street and on other people's doors. So, partially out of curiosity and partially out of boredom, the teen slipped through the metal door with a sign pointing to the rally.

At the rally, there was a small stage in the middle of the abandoned warehouse surrounded by about forty people. They were the average Narrow inhabitance, people with wild haircuts and a bad taste in punk clothing. He thought there would have been more due to the sheer volume of pamphlets printed, but, then again, you would have to be crazy to just show up in the Narrows at an advertised location. Jay wondered what that said about himself and the people around him.

Suddenly the lights went off. The crowd murmured in the darkness, and Jay became jostled by the disoriented people around him. He unfortunately became acquainted with his neighbor's sweaty arm in the darkness. The lights came back on and there was suddenly a figure on the stage. He was tall, had a red jacket on with a hood, and wore a white, featureless mask.

"How long have you waited for someone to save you?" The masked man asked; he talked with enough volume and clarity to be heard without a microphone. "How long has the government promised you things that it never delivered? How long have you been strung along by carrots, assured that the goal was in your reach all along only to have your hand slapped away when you grabbed at it? I ask you, why do we keep playing the games, following the trails that have been laid out in front of us when they only lead to stupidity, submission, and self-destruction? I'll tell you why, the corporate government doesn't want you to achieve anything." The man in the expressionless mask seemed animated and passionate as he talked. "Well, I say enough! I say that we are not going to be cogs in the corporate machine! I am Anarky, and I will lead the revolution to a new future for Gotham, one where the gangs and the stupidity of the government don't exist."

Jay rolled his eyes, yet another crazy person with another pitch to "save" the people. He wondered how many in the room would fall for it. Looking around, many people seemed to be encapsulated by the speaker's words. Some even cheered him on. Jay couldn't blame them. He hated the gangs and the incompetent local government as much as anyone, but whatever this guy was going to propose wasn't the answer. He felt that in his gut.

"Think about it," Anarky tapped his temple. "Everything we eat, drink, watch, consume, see in our daily lives is controlled by the very thing that we think we are not. We are told what to believe and who are heroes should be. Often, they are not the heroes we deserve. We build monuments to riches and bestow honors on broken men like Jim Gordon instead of making them accountable for their infinite mistakes. Protect and Serve? Do you remember the last time a government officer actually helped anyone in the Narrows?"

The rhetorical question wasn't left in silence. Many people let out their discontent with the GCPD; again, Jay couldn't blame them. The police were as crooked as they came.

"The police and the bureaucrats at the GCPD only work to line their pockets with dirty, gang money. They have long neglected their civic duty to help the People."

Jay had to admit; the guy did have a way of rallying up the crowd as he seemed to capture them in a second. He even found himself liking the guy's charisma, or maybe it was just the jacket.

"The people of Gotham deserve more than the slop the corrupt pigs of bureaucracy have to offer," He seemed to calm and lowered his voice and spoke sincerely to bring the crowd close. "We used to be a community; one that pulled together to fight through the darkness, one that made common men and women the proprietors of their own fate. There was a time where we were simply an altruistic, virtuous society where the People band together and helped one another without question. This time was not long ago, and it is gone thanks to the gears of bureaucracy and the oppression of the military!" A boo erupted from the crowd, "I say we return to a better time, a time when there were no governments, no banks, no gods, no pigs holding us down: an era of true human freedom. I say, we return to the era of No Man's Land!"

A shock ran through Jay. No man's land: the time when gangs ran the city, the time when death was a daily occurrence, when maniacs carved out the land for their own stupid gain. Anger boiled up in him. His fist clenched. He wasn't going to let that happen again. He gritted his teeth and impulsively booed through the scattered cheers.

"When we return to that time," Anarky didn't seem to notice if there were dissenters in the crowd. "When the government shackles fall away, we will be brought together in a grand experiment to build a better world for us. That's why we need the will of the People behind us. That way, we can establish our new order, one in which we decide our own fate, not our corporate masters!"

A cheer rose up from the crowd; the crowd's energy seemed to scrape against every nerve that Jay had. How could they want No Man's Land back? He needed to stop it. He knew that he couldn't let it happen again. He didn't know where the impulse came from, but he scooped down and grabbed a jagged rock off the concrete floor. In a second, his arm snapped forward hurling the rock towards the masked figure.

There was a thunk as the rock struck hard plastic. The rock hit right above Anarky's left eye and the masked man reeled back. Jay felt a slight bit of a thrill as he saw the would-be-revolutionary pull back and cover his mask. However, Jay immediately came to regret his action as he was suddenly seized by the crowd. The rage he felt translated to his moves as he swung violently at the crowd. He kicked someone in the shin and elbowed another in the mouth. He made sure that they couldn't get a hand on him.

"Hold it! Don't hurt him!" The crowd backed away from Jay as the voice emanated from the stage. Anarky was standing tall on the stage; the rock only cracked part of the plastic. He waved off the angry crowd as he continued, "We cannot blame the children for the sins of the elite. His conditioning is strong, but let's see if we can break him from it." He gestured to Jay. "Come on, I am not who I fight against. Speak your mind."

Jay took a few weary breaths. The people around him looked at him with baited breath and angered scowls. The stupid mask stared back blankly. Jay huffed in anger.

"You're a freakin' lunatic!" Well, Jay was never one to skirt around his actual thoughts.

Anarky chuckled like Jay was an unwitting child. "Many revolutionaries have been called lunatics; yet we see them as heroes now."

"Most of them didn't use the words of Jerome Valeska," Jay sneered. "'Cog in a machine' the talk of chaos and tearing down the established government: I've heard those words before. I've seen the tapes his goons pass around."

The tapes were something of common knowledge in the Narrows. Some acolytes of Jerome, however few they might be, made copy after copy of tapes regarding the psycho; they also took time distributing them or shoving them into PO boxes. It wasn't rare to find a closet or trash can full of discarded tapes. In a way, the words of the psychopath were ingrained into every Narrows kid who was curious enough to slip one into a VCR.

"You're just another mouthpiece for that psychopath," He hoped something he said would knock some sense into the potential acolytes. "You're just lusting for chaos."

"Even fractured minds recognize that the sky is blue," Anarky said simply dismissing the argument. "And as for chaos, I much prefer that to the shackles of the government—wouldn't you? The chaos is temporary; then, the people will come together in community—like we did in times of old. No corruption, no leaders, no rich, no poor, just the People: complete equality."

Jay mocked, "You call for equality, yet you stand above us."

Anarky took a step forward and jumped off of the stage; he walked forward towards Jay. The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

"A theatrical method, that is all."

"And the mask?" The guy's self-righteous attitude was grating on Jay's nerves. "Afraid to show us who you really are?"

"A symbol," he said as he came closer. "A figurative gesture: I am not myself but the will of the people. My face is inconsequential in the wake of my message."

Jay's teeth ground together as he continued, "What about the people who died during that time; you're just going to let others die like they did?"

"They were an acceptable loss for true freedom. Their sacrifice—"

"I don't see my parents as an acceptable loss!" Jay's face was a dark red as he yelled it.

Anarky was surprisingly silenced by the sudden outburst. Jay's eyes burned so bright with anger that he could have cut a hole into his stupid mask. The white mask stared back emotionlessly, but Jay could tell the man underneath was thinking.

"I see," he finally spoke. "This is much more personal for you." To Jay's surprise, he actually sounded somewhat emotional and empathetic, possibly even on the edge of tears. "Their loss. . . I can't imagine." He crouched somewhat and put a gloved hand on Jay's shoulder. Jay could see through the eye holes of the mask; there was something like emotion in them—he was human under the costume. Jay jerked away. The masked man sighed and whispered. "They will not be forgotten. They will be remembered as martyrs for the greater freedom. They will be immortalized in the people's consciousness for the rest of time."

He spoke with such passion that it was hard to think it was a rehearsed line. It was at this moment that Jay realized it wasn't an act. As much as the guy seemed like another pontificating self-proclaimed savior, it was even more disturbing that the guy seemed to actually believe it. Gotham really had a way of attracting the loons.

"They would be disgusted to be your martyr," Jay growled.

There was another pause. Finally, he extended his hand, ruffled the young teen's red hair, and stood from his crouch. "You'll learn." Then he turned his back.

Jay felt unbridled rage burn up in him. As Anarky turned around, Jay pulled his foot up to kick him. The next thing he knew, his foot on the ground gave way and his face hit the concrete. His kicking leg was still in the air behind his back, now held by the gloved hand of Anarky.

"You get that one, kid," Anarky said as he let go of Jay's leg. Jay pulled away and scrambled to his feet. "Next time, I won't be nice."

Jay ran. He didn't know why, but he knew he had to leave. He pushed through the crowd towards the exit. He burst through the metal door and kept running. He sprinted a few blocks away until he came to an alley way. He only stopped when his lungs burned for air, and he couldn't move his feet anymore. His face felt flushed with embarrassment, anger, and another bitter emotion that he couldn't describe. He felt the need to do something.

A nearby trash can became his victim as he kicked and toppled it. Then he kicked it again and again, denting it inward. He kicked it until his foot swelled with pain from hitting the metal object. Again, he stopped, out of breath, tired. He put his hands on his knees panting; pressure built up in his chest. He growled, dismissed the emotion, shoved his hands into his pockets, and headed for home.

Despite Bruce's absence, Alfred was intent on being a gracious host. He had already rubbed shoulders with Gotham's upper echelon and many members of the board. There were questions about the missing Wayne sure, but Alfred usually gave the most mundane answers he could. His more pleasant meetings were with Barbara Kean, despite her old reputation as the leader of the Sirens, and Lee Tompkins, who was surprisingly without the commissioner—something about a nasty illness.

Eventually, the climax of the evening came, and it was time for him to give a speech. He took to the small stage in the blinding spotlight and stood at the podium. The faces of the Gotham highlife beamed back.

"I would like to thank you for coming here tonight and for your unwavering support in restoring this historic building."

Alfred's words rang hollow in his mind despite the pleased looks on everyone's face. He couldn't shake the feeling that it should have been Bruce in his place. After all the years of construction, it should have been a monument to the triumphant return of the Wayne family. He held back a sigh and continued talking as he missed the small murmur that arose from a figure moving through the middle of the crowd. He continued unceremoniously.

"I apologize for not being Mr. Wayne standing before you. I wish more than anyone that he co—" Alfred stopped quickly as he noticed the figure quickly approaching the stage. A look of shock crossed his face. "Oh, my Lord."

Gordon knew it was probably rude to skip the gala, but there wasn't much he was missing. Nicely dressed socialites and politicians gathered in a single place to celebrate the construction of a building: it wasn't his scene. He much preferred the comfort of his home to a stuffy suit. This was something Barbara Kean adored; so, Gordon was glad to spend time with his daughter while Kean enjoyed herself. Lee went also in his stead; she invented the story of a stomach virus much to Gordon's relief. This left his evening open to simply rest, the first time he had rested in a while.

Well, rest as much as he could with two kids running around. Barb had immediately broken out the ice cream and board games to celebrate "dad night." James Gordon Junior—if Gordon hadn't been unfortunately absent at his birth he wouldn't have allowed that name to fly—was his six-year-old son who looked more like his mother, Lee, than his father; he took pride in winning several of the board game matches, which he always seemed to win despite his age. Eventually, they ran out of steam and crashed into sleep. As Barb lay dosing on his shoulder and Junior was asleep curled up on the armchair, Gordon flipped through the channels on the TV. Eventually, he landed on golf. He sighed. Really, he was at the age where watching golf was entertainment. He felt the need for something, anything, to come up at the moment to take his attention off of the screen.

As if an answer to his plea, he got a call on his cell phone. He checked the caller ID: Lee.

He picked up the phone and whispered into the mic, "Hey, Lee, getting enough of the Gotham night life?"

"Jim," She said quickly and with a hint of urgency. "Turn on Channel Seven."

Gordon quickly changed the channel and sat forward as the footage of the gala played out. The camera swiveled violently as it tracked someone from the crowd. Gordon squinted for a moment, following the blurry unfocused image as they approached the stage. Gordon's eyes widened as the camera focused and the man took the stage. Alfred, who had previously been at the podium, walked over to the man, hugged him, and pointed him to the podium.

"Hey, who's that?" Barb, who had been shaken awake by his sudden movement, asked as she rubbed her eyes.

Gordon unintentionally ignored her as his eyes were glued to the screen.

"What," Bruce Wayne smiled as he took to the podium, "you thought I wouldn't show up to reveal my own tower?"

The TV flickered in the low light of the Star City Luxury Hotel room. The sole occupant sat sideways in a plush arm chair and allowed her feet to dangle off the side. It had been a long day's work; taking a rest in the hotel in nothing but a plush robe was a well-deserved indulgence. Her prize, an emerald necklace, rested on her neck. The Queen family wouldn't be missing it anytime soon.

The 11 O'clock news was playing out in the background as she admired the necklace. This wasn't one she was going to pawn off on the black market. This one was a keeper. The only thing that tore her eye off of her prize was a quick flash of a familiar face on the TV. She found herself sitting up in the chair and leaning forward causing her curly hair to temporarily cross her face. She reached over to the remote and turned up the volume. Despite the reporter talking, she barely heard anything as her mind swirled with thoughts.

Her lips thinned into a line as she watched the picture of the billionaire flash onto the screen. All these years, not a word was said to her, then suddenly he had to come back with a sudden magic reappearing act: typical.

A frown crossed her face, "You've got to be kidding me."

The man in the red jacket growled as he saw the news covering the illustrious billionaire's sudden return. He sat forward in his chair as the new recruits behind him gathered the needed supplies for their next action. He wasn't entirely sure what that action would be, but, if need be, he had the equipment to carry out whatever he needed.

"The sycophantic pigs rejoice as one of their own returns from a luxury vacation," Anarky sneered to himself.

The newscaster, went on, "In a shocking twist, the 'Prince of Gotham,' Bruce Wayne, made a surprising appearance at the Wayne Tower Gala. Wayne has announced that there will be an event of his own held at the newly rebuilt Wayne Manor in the wake of his return."

Through his seething, Anarky had a spark of inspiration; Wayne Manor: that was how he was going to start off the revolution. Anarky held his gloved hand out into a finger gun and pointed it at the billionaire on the screen.

"Watch out 'Prince of Gotham'," he lowered his thumb.

In the forgotten corner of the recreational center of Arkham Asylum, a radio was playing a soft tune. It was calming, soothing, and was played for a very special patient. The general consensus was that activity was good for his mind, maybe even healing. Even if he was unable to output information, certainly, he could receive it. This was not that anyone wanted this particular patient to be healed—it would be best if he stayed in his state forever—but the asylum had to ensure that all patients were treated with respect and courtesy under the recent administration.

Suddenly, the news started to play. This was less appealing and usually the nurse would turn off the radio set when it started to play the news, but right now they were busy with another patient. So, the news played unhindered as it passed through the room almost completely unnoticed.

"In other news, local celebrity Bruce Wayne has made a shocking appearance at the opening Wayne Tower Gala. The eccentric billionaire has been absent from Gotham since the No-Man's Land period. Wayne apparently arrived back in Gotham earlier today, and he pledged to 'stick around' and 'help the people of Gotham who are most in need.'"

There was a cut and suddenly the voice of Bruce Wayne came through the speaker, "I want to help rebuild Gotham. After all these years away, I promise I'm not going anywhere."

For the first time in nearly a decade, the patient broke character with the twitch of a smile.

Well, hopefully you like it. The next one should be out around next weekend (unless something silly comes up in my everyday life like it usually does when I set deadlines).

Thank you for all your support, and thank you for reading!