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Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell the truth.
-Oscar Wilde
Bruce winced as he reached into his locker, his stitches threatening to tear out again at his movement. They had already disrupted his regular morning regimen of workouts, splitting open as he attempted inverted sit-ups. Alfred had admonished the teenager all the way from when he was stitching, yet again, to when he had dropped him off at school, now attired in the proper uniform. Whispers had sprang forth at his entrance, hushed and excited tones that he tried to ignore, merely offering a rueful grin as he made his way to the locker he had been assigned. He sorted the textbooks he had been provided with but did not immediately need into it, focused upon his work and distracted by his pain so that he did not notice the presence that sidled up alongside him until the intruder spoke.
"So you're the great Bruce Wayne. Gotta admit, with how long you'd been gone, I was pegging you as dead."
He turned to regard the dark eyes that lacked a shred of basic human sentiment. Their owner leaned with one shoulder against the lockers to Bruce's side, a smirk playing across his angular features. Forcing a smile, the dark-haired youth returned, "It appears the rumors of demise have been greatly exaggerated."
"Roman Sionis," he introduced, offering his hand. Bruce accepted it and was unsurprised when Roman applied undue pressure, attempting to assert his dominance in the simple gesture. Still somewhat irate about his wound from the night before and lacking the patience for such games, he applied pressure to a nerve cluster that left Roman's hand limp and numb. The blonde grit his teeth and quickly retracted his extremity, massaging it with the other as he gave a smile that did little to conceal his ire. "Quite a grip you got there."
"Thanks. So your parents own that cosmetics company, right?" he asked, making an attempt at civil conversation.
"Janus Cosmetics," he nodded. "My pop's 'baby.' Not as big as your Wayne Enterprises, but it brings in a tidy little sum."
The bell rang, banishing the students to their respective homerooms and Roman gave another nod as he pushed off from the lockers, "Catch you later, Wayne. It's nice to have somebody else with a little bit of class around."
"Uh, yeah. Sure," Bruce nodded uncertainly before closing and securing his locker. He hiked his backpack higher up onto his shoulder and headed to the room that they had assigned him yesterday. The teacher greeted him warmly before pointing him towards his seat. Sliding into it, he accidentally bashed his side into the arm of the desk, sending pain arcing through his side. His breath escaped in a hiss and he wrenched his eyes shut, forcing down the hurt that stabbed through his nerves. Focusing on his breathing, he pushed the pain out until it was little more than a dull throb, only lifting his lids when a voice intruded upon his concentration.
"Hey, Bruce, you all right?"
Turning towards the pudgy Oswald as he settled into his seat, Bruce offered a smile and assured him, "Yeah, I'm good. Just had a bit of a mishap the other night."
"Speaking of the other night, thank you for helping me out with those goons. Makes you wonder how they could let . . . riffraff like that in," he sniffed in obvious disdain and Bruce gave a good-natured chuckle.
"Well, somehow I don't think it was their brains."
Oswald stared at him with an unnerving sense of wonder before noting, "You are probably the greatest thing to ever come to this school. Well, greatest male thing. I heard you were chatting it up with Silver St. Cloud."
"That happened yesterday, in the final thirty minutes of the school day. How in the world did you already hear about it?" he demanded.
"Wahwahwahwah," he chortled, surprising his companion with the sound. "In Gotham Academy, rumors are faster than a dive-bombing peregrine falcon. They're probably giving the speed of light a run for its money."
"Well, let's see if we can spread the truth just as fast," he leaned in, and, as though guarding a secret, cupped a hand next to his mouth and whispered, "Absolutely nothing more than friendly conversation happened between me and Miss St. Cloud."
"Hey, Wayne, I heard you were muscling in on my girl," Harvey barked as he strode into the room, having already deposited his backpack in his own homeroom. His attempt at an angry countenance shattered as he flopped into the empty desk in front of his dark-haired friend and offered a broad grin while Bruce rolled his blue eyes.
"I'm sure you did. Do any of you guys here actually do anything besides listen to rumors?"
"Hey, most of us are the prospective rich and famous. Just wait until we. Then it'll be the whole world reading about crazy misconceptions in the tabloids and mags about us," he smirked. "I'm already planning on starting this whole big 'multiple identity' thing."
"Then you might as well get it right. It's dissociative identity now, not multiple," Bruce corrected with a sigh.
"Why do you know that?" asked Oswald with obvious perplexity.
"Morning, Ozzy," Harvey beamed at the rotund teenager who offered a weak smile and focused on Bruce's answer.
He shrugged, "I like learning things."
His friends stared at him for a moment before their eyes met and Harvey mused, "I bet I know what he'd like to learn."
"What's that?"
"Silver's phone number."
"All right, all right. That's enough out of you. Get to your own class before I do something to get people starting the totally accurate rumor that the new kid kicked Harvey Dent's ass."
"They'd probably think we were fighting over Silver," he laughed as he rose and exited the class, but not before turning at the door and loudly threatening, "Just make sure you stay away from my girl, Wayne, or we'll continue this conversation after school!"
With a wink, he darted away, leaving Bruce to groan as he reclined back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling tiles for a minute. Oswald sniggered at his friend's duress as the bell rang and everybody filed sluggishly to their seats as the teacher stood and walked over to the board. As the morning announcements blared over the intercom, Bruce instinctively scoped out his peers, dissecting their mannerisms as best as he could. The anxiety of the girl who incessantly tapped her foot while she folded her arms over her chest, tugging her sleeves up her wrists to hide the answers to the quiz that she had scrawled there. Across the room, a boy worked on some clandestine prose or poem concerning a girl not too far from him, occasionally sneaking glances at her to assist in his description. Another boy had dabbed on slightly too much cologne to disguise the scent of the marijuana he had been recently smoking, and the subtle shifts and protective patting of his pocket suggested that he had more stashed on his person. Finishing his survey of the occupants of the room, he began cataloguing potential escape routes and, for more extreme cases, weapons until the bell clamored. Everybody rose from their seats and shuffled to the door, massing together and hampering progress for a moment.
Finally emerging into the river of people, Bruce followed along in the slow crawl, having managed to memorize the layout of the academy's floors between getting his wound restitched and breakfast, as he made his way towards his class. He had mixed feelings about the path that opened in the crowd before him, reminiscent of a story about a man with a staff and the Red Sea, as he walked through the halls. His lips tugged into a rueful grin as he murmured his gratitude and encouraged them not to make such a path again. Escaping from the attention into his first classroom, he spotted familiar scarlet tresses at a lab table and crossed the room towards them, dropping in the stool beside their owner.
"Hello, Pamela," he greeted her as he pushed his bag under the table with his foot. She nearly toppled from her seat at the sound of his voice but she managed to whirl, large green eyes staring in surprise as her mouth flapped open and close for a moment.
"B-b-bruce! W-what're you-you -"
"Oh, sorry. Was this somebody else's assigned seat? I can move," he offered, reaching to fish out his knapsack. She gasped and pressed her hands to his arm though she quickly retracted her touch as though she had been burnt.
"Oh, nononono! There aren't any assigned seats, it's just that you, well, you kind of surprised me. And I usually sit with -"
"Ooh, my lil' Pammy's got herself a boyfriend! Atta' girl! I knew ya had it in ya," a feminine voice with a strong nasal accent squealed. It was Bruce's turn to give a small jump and he mentally berated himself for not hearing the approach of the girl as he twisted about to stare at the beaming blonde. She was lean with the build of a gymnast and remained constantly posed as though ready to leap into the air at any moment. Straw-hued hair descended past her shoulders and was collected in two pigtails atop her head, held in place by a pair of bands, one red and one black. Bending at her broad hips, she pushed out a full lip and stroked her chin as she studied the dark-haired boy who accepted the scrutiny with no more than a raised brow. Circling about him, she continued her intense observation, occasionally making thoughtful or appreciative sounds in her throat, never manifesting into true words. Finally she smiled and gave a nod, springing to Pamela and capturing her in a hug, nuzzling her cheek.
"Ooooh! I am so, so proud of ya," she gushed as the redhead's face turned a shade to match her hair.
"Harley, he's -"
Leaping off of her, the blonde stood before Bruce, a balled fist on her broad hip as she wagged a finger in his face and cautioned, "Listen up, handsome. Ya better treat this gal right, ya hear? She's a delicate lil' flower, and I find out that ya hurt one dainty lil' hair on her head, I'll pound ya into paste. I'll – umblphm!"
She was cut off by thin fingers sealing themselves over her mouth as Pamela tried to rein the enthusiastic girl back in, her face still crimson as she muttered, "And I think that that's about enough of that. Sorry, Bruce."
"Brmphmm!" the blonde's eyes widened and flickered between the girl holding her captive and the dark-haired boy.
"Not a problem. Your friend seems . . . enthusiastic, at least," he grinned. The blonde slipped from her captor's grasp and performed a grandiose bow, sweeping her arm in a broad flourish.
"Harleen Francis Quinzel. But call me Harley. Everyone does," she grinned. "And ya must be the great and illustrious Bruce Wayne. Let me say, I've heard quite a bit 'bout'cha."
"I hope it's all good," he offered a friendly smile.
"Oh, you could say that, Mistah W," she winked before dancing to the teacher's desk and stealing the wheeled chair. She spun herself back towards the pair, twirling in her seat for several more turns before finally stopping herself, beaming at the pair as she crossed her arms on the table and set her chin upon them. "What brings ya back t'Gotham, Mistah W?"
"Had to dispute some claims of my demise. Soon as that gets taken care of, I'm probably out of here," he admitted as the bell clanged, sentencing students to their seats as the teacher entered the classroom, giving a tired sight at the blond in her seat.
"Harley, get out of my chair," she instructed.
"Sure thing, teach," she answered in her distinctive accent, pushing off from the table and spinning towards the desk. Jumping from the chair, she loped back to the desk behind Pamela and Bruce, swinging her arms broadly before settling onto the stool. Shaking her head while heaving an exasperated sigh, the teacher took control of the class and the lessons began. Bruce periodically glanced over at Pamela, ensuring that no assaults were being staged upon her like the day before, but was pleasantly surprised to see that none dared. Every time he glanced backward, Harley began to wave excitedly until he finally acknowledged her enthusiastic greeting.
When the bell rang, permitting them temporary reprieve from class and Bruce smiled and nodded to Pamela as he rose, bidding farewell to her and Harley before heading out into the hall. As he merged with the crowd, he felt a sudden pressure on his shoulder, but before he could deliver any offensive counterattack, Harvey whispered, "Dude . . ."
"What?"
"Dude."
"What?"
"Dude."
"Harvey, if you can't explain why your hand is on my shoulder, I'll remove it for you," he menaced.
"Fair enough," he nodded, lifting his hand and heading alongside him. "How in the world do you know Pamela Isley?"
"Is there something wrong with her?"
"She's a bit plain, but not really. Well, she's not from money or anything. The only reason that she's here is because of some special scholarship or something like that they hand out every year," he explained.
"Oh, so you mean she's here because she actually worked for and deserved a place unlike all those who are just handed an education like ours? Scandalous," he observed drily.
"Okay, see, now why do you have to make everything I say sound stupid?"
"You don't need my help with that."
"You know, you two keep whispering sweet nothings like that, and the next rumor they start sure isn't going to be about me and Bruce," Silver suddenly quipped, leaning between the pair and giving a bright smile.
"He should be so lucky," Harvey scoffed at her suggestion and Bruce rolled his eyes. She loops her arms in their elbows as they continue down the hallway, attracting a number of stares.
"Actually, you're both pretty lucky. You get to walk a beautiful girl to her next class," she returned.
"Beautiful girl? Where?" Bruce smirked, earning a pout and pinch on his forearm as he chuckled good-naturedly.
"Be nice, or there really will be rumors about you and Harvey."
"Let them tell their slander! Nothing shall stand between the love that Bruce and I share. Nothing!" yelled the evenly featured boy, raising his free arm into the air to accentuate his point.
"One day, I'm going to push you off a building," Bruce groaned as Silver giggled.
"Well, far be it from me to stand between such a happy couple. Have at it, boys," she grinned as she slipped away from them, ducking into her class. Bruce stared after her for a moment, a soft smile still on his features as Harvey wiggled his eyebrows.
"Oh, the stories they'll tell," he gave an evil laugh.
"Which you'll only be encouraging, I presume."
"You know me too well, Bruce. Speaking of stories to be spread, this is my stop. See you at lunch, man," he slipped past and then unleashed a battle cry as he charged through the opposite flowing file of students to push into the classroom. He paused, turned, and offered a salute towards Bruce who waved farewell and continued along his path. As the numbers thinned, he counted the numbers on the door, making sure that he had not mixed his next class in the distractions he had found himself caught up in when a cold voice intruded upon his count.
"You keep some odd company, Wayne."
"Roman," he glanced back and found that the sharp-faced boy was accompanied by his broad-shoulder companion, lips parted in a seemingly permanent sneer. "And Gunther Hardwicke, right?"
"Only if you want to be spitting out your own teeth. Call me Shackley," growled the tall boy.
"Cut Wayne some slack. He's new," Roman advised but there was a steel to his voice that drew the notably larger boy to heel. Shackley snorted, but dropped the subject as Roman offered what he probably thought was a friendly smile. "Like I was saying, you've got some odd friends. I heard that you protected that Cobblepot kid yesterday."
"I've been here less than a single day. Do you guys just mass text everybody any time somebody finds something that is even remotely interesting?" he grumbled.
"Eh," Roman shrugged as he took a spot at Bruce's shoulder who did not fail to notice the wide berth the boy was given or the anxious looks of the students. "At least it's better than being thought dead."
"I'm going to have to get back to you on that."
He laughed, a hollow sound devoid of sincerity, and clasped Bruce's shoulder in an overly companionable manner, "You know, Wayne, you're an interesting guy. I get the feeling that Gotham's going to get a lot more fun with you around."
"We can only hope," he muttered, giving a closed-lip smile.
"I still don't get why you're trying to get so cozy with that Wayne kid. He's just another one of those soft, legacy kids," Shackley grumbled as he stomped down the hall behind Roman. They had left the school hours ago and changed their garments, the shorter boy donning a dark pinstripe suit, black dress shirt, and a crimson tie while his bulkier companion had shrugged on a leather jacket and jeans. They strode through one of Janus Cosmetics' defunct factories, currently occupying the once white-washed walls of the administrative area that had since been decorated with a variety of Gotham City's tags. Squatters had once lingered within the large building, but Roman had encouraged them to find other accommodations after he decided it would be serving as his base of operations.
"Shackley, if we went through the trouble of writing down what you don't get, we'd have a novel on our hands," mocked the cruel-eyed boy.
"Stop treating me like I'm dumb. I'm not the dumb one," he snarled.
"But you certainly aren't the most astute of us," observed a modulated voice, only barely recognizable as female. The grey suit clung to the curvy girl's frame, her face obscured by a porcelain fox mask that was decorated with graceful scarlet swirls and markings. She nodded her head in greeting as the pair approached and Shackley growled at her.
"Fuck you, Li," he snapped.
"Shackley, what's the rule about the masks?" Roman chided, almost painfully but his eyes remained dead as he glanced up at the taller boy. His brow furrowed and he bared his teeth before turning away and correcting himself.
"Fuck you, 'Fox.'"
"Vulture is here," she reported, ignoring her fellow lieutenant.
"And what about the rest of my Society?" her boss asked as he pushed through the door she had been standing beside.
"Those not assigned to pick-up are awaiting your command, sir," she followed after him, cutting off Shackley as he pulled a pair of bandanas from his pocket. He knotted the first about the lower half of his face, covering it with an image of gaping shark jaws and then secured the other about his forehead, taking a second to shape it so that it emulated a fin.
The break room was moderately sized, bearing the typical decorations of the largely abandoned building with the addition of the broken and ransacked vending machines. Most of the chairs had been stolen and the tables scrawled with obscenities that Vulture perched upon, his face covered by a mask reminiscent of those once worn by plague doctors. A frumpy canvas jacket enveloped his nearly emaciated frame and his baggy pants swallowed his boots.
"Yo, boss. The boys are waiting for you," he nodded in greeting.
"So I heard, Vulture," he nodded as he turned to face the wall filled with hanging masks. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and whistled to himself as he perused them before lifting a solid wooden mask devoid of aspects beyond eye gaps and pulling the straps about his head. Adjusting it, he turned before pausing and fixing his cold stare upon the Shark.
"By the way, the interest in that Wayne kid? I want to see what he's keeping under that mask of his."
He emerged from the room, simultaneously activating the microphones worked into his mask, onto the gangway overlooking the large work area, filled with tubs of chemicals that had been left to languish. At the end of the long room were tall doors that trucks would pull up to for shipment of the products the factory had once produced. Men and women lounged in the vacant spaces of the room, leaning against a vat or table when available. Their manner of dress varied wildly but all wore a mask of some sort. Most had simply donned Halloween masks, leading to a number of 'werewolves' standing amongst the crowd, but there were also hockey masks, biking helmets, smaller designs that only obscured the eyes, and specially crafted false faces. Murmurs that had been spreading amongst them quieted as he wrapped his fingers about the railing and gaze out upon his society. The trio lined themselves behind him and he waited for total silence to fall before lifting his arms as though to embrace the collective.
"You're all looking well," he greeted them, his voice echoing from the speakers on the wall. His remark earned him scattered chuckles, and he smirked beneath his mask as he dropped his hands back onto the bars before him, leaning in slightly.
"Now, I bet you're all chomping at the bit to go out for another fun night on the town, and I want nothing more than to unleash you on our dear, dear city, but we have a slight problem," he announced. He dropped his head and sighed, "It seems, the fossils who think they run this town didn't get the memo of their extinction."
There was a general outcry, a roar of derision for the more established groups of Gotham City's organized crime and the upstart smiled at their eagerness, "They sit in their mansions atop hills, looking down on us as though they think their reign eternal. The police sit snugly in their pockets, and they start thinking themselves untouchable."
He pauses for a second, letting his voice echo throughout the large room, his society waiting with bated breath, all eyes upon him before he continued, "Meanwhile, we are left the scraps on the table. We find ourselves chased and persecuted at every turn by police who we can never pay off as long as the leeches grow fat on what should be our due."
Slamming a fist against his chest to emphasize his point, he stared out across the ocean of masks and his tongue flickered over his lips as his hand returned to the railing.
"They swagger in the sunlight, unconcerned with authorities and their true selves masked behind bill folds. They have forgotten what it is to fear."
They hung on his rhetoric, ready to set the entire town ablaze should he ask for it and their devotion was intoxicating, stalling him for a moment as he internally reveled in it, taking in a deep breath. He let it out slowly, a pleased sigh, before stating casually, "I think it's time that we remind them what it is to be scared. To not know if they're going to make it to the next day. So we will tear apart the infrastructures they have spent years building. We will paint the town red with their blood. We will build monuments of their corpses. And we will take. This. TOWN!"
Hundreds of voices like thunder rumbled through the factory as he stood over them, hold his arms out as their roar vibrated through his body. The idea gripped them and they pounded on the sides of the drums towering over them, on the tables, on whatever was near as the excitement sought some means of escaping their bodies. Their cries would have escaped into the outside had the factory not been constructed as soundly as it was, and even then it was only barely holding back the cacophony. Amongst the din, Fox turned and slipped deeper into the shadows, pressing two fingers to her ear before approaching her boss and whispering to him. Another smile bloomed beneath his mask and he turned his hands so that they were parallel to the ground and shushed his eager legion.
"And now, I present to you the means to do so!"
Metallic rattling filled the room as the large doors at the end lifted and the masked men who had been waiting wheeled in the wooden crates set on dolley carts. They set them on the ground with solid thumps before pulling out crowbars and tearing off the lids with the sound of splitting wood. As the covers were carelessly discarded, one of the men lifted an M4 stored within into the air, drawing another cheer from the crowd who rushed forward to get their hands on the armaments as more crates were pulled from the trucks that had delivered the cargo. Roman grinned savagely, a cruel light coming into his eyes as the agent he had entrusted with the task made his way along the gangway, bowing his head in greeting as he approached.
"I trust that you got ammunition for them," the ambitious young man said.
"Of course," he scoffed.
"Good. Did you hear my speech?"
"Yeah, we arrived right when you started. Didn't want to interrupt you."
"Smart move. What did you think?"
The dim lights cast a shine to run across the suited man in the full crimson mask that lacked facial features shrugged, "It was good and all, but I really think that you should leave the jokes to the professionals."
We're baaaaaaaccccck! We hope you enjoyed this chapter as it sets up more foes for the young Bruce Wayne. As always, please review.
Sporks: So we realize that we could have sent you a PM now, but we figured we'd just answer your last review here. We have plans for more Selina, but it's going to take a while to properly work her in - until then, we hope you enjoyed Harley's appearance in this chapter. And, yes, Crock is indeed Sportsmaster. We cannot describe how happy you are that you got that.