The Fourth Room
Wayne Manor
Bruce grew more and more curious about those that were apparently his children. The Three rooms that he had entered, he had begun to feel like he knew these children. But as the weeks went by, Bruce would notice something more was missing. So he begun to carry the photo album with him. Gazing at their faces and memorizing them.
Every once in a while, in the photo album there would be a dark-haired beauty. The man could see that this girl and Damian were possibly blood related.
The two shared features that Bruce would catch as suspiciously familiar. They both had the same arch to their eyebrows and the same slant of their cheekbones. Both looked at the world with the same seemingly cold firm eyes, but underneath- Bruce could see how deep their emotions ran.
It was the fourth door that opened new questions for the man. The room itself was impossibly clean- even to Alfred's standards-unlived in almost. A room so clean and at odds with the others that it left a confusing mental picture in his mind's eye.
On a wall were pictures of expensive feminine things- popular celebrities and boy bands. Pictures that would often grace a typical teenage girl's wall. Over the window hung frilly purple lace curtains. The covers on the bed were a deep inviting purple that Bruce felt like he should have known. White decorative throw pillows were placed meticulously on top.
Draped over the back of a winged back chair was a black motorcycle jacket. Its helmet had been placed atop the adjoining bookshelf beside several trophies and prize cups. Archery medals hung from hooks on the wall. A vanity with numerous fancy-labeled bottles was across from the bed, sitting before the very decorative antique mirror. Deep purple was everywhere along with black and white accents.
The coat hook next to the closet door, held several hats and scarves. On the desk were several unfinished papers alongside an open book. Bruce picked up the journal, reading the last entry that had been handwritten. It was short but the last paragraph stuck with him, striking something that Bruce would have believed he would never forget.
'There were so many ways that he could've helped them and left them their souls. Don't tell me about the law. I'm more interested in justice.'
Justice…
What did that word mean exactly? Had any of them gotten their justice? What had that word been so important once upon a time? How could Justice apply to this unlawful city? There was no justice here- not for the killer of his parents, nor for the orphans in the Narrows.
No, this city of Gotham held no Justice. She was cruel and heartless- always taking from those she had raised with a stern vengeful hand.
So why was this young girl; who had everything. Who had all that mattered to anyone- why was she so interested in Justice? And for whom?
Bruce looked around the room, again. The man noticed things with new eyes as a sense of who this was crept fully into view.
On the bookshelf were many books; spines well-worn and creased.
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle.
The Mark of Zorro by Johnston McCulley.
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain.
The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas.
Bruce's fingers touched each Title revertly- trying to figure out what this offspring of his was like
This was a room where a girl who had everything but didn't have the one thing she wanted. Instead it looked like she had more. This daughter of his fought for those who had no justice, Bruce could easily see her becoming a lawyer.
Had she? Has this brave little girl gone to fight those who stood in the way of justice and righteousness?
There were pictures of her on the walls. In most of them there was a tall blonde with short choppy hair and whose smile was everything you would want to see. Just seeing the girl made Bruce hear a voice.
'Before I left, Helena, I told you that we never belonged here. But you were the one to tell me that home is where you make it. I guess you were right after all.' Blue eyes stared at each other before the blonde walked out the door.'
Home.
These children of his weren't at home. Bruce had to fix what the he had unknowingly had broken.
Helena- the daughter who he couldn't remember but was after his heart in the way she couldn't bear to let others be beaten down and trod over. She had been raised as the princess of Gotham, given everything she ever wanted or desired, and she turns around and calls people out for their trash
'I can see why your name is Toro. You are nothing but Bull!'.
This girl fought tooth and nail for the injustice in the world, being bold as a lioness- a Huntress at times.
The closet door had been left open slightly, revealed its contents. Shoved into a back corner was a pile of rope. Bruce picked the twisted ends to put it on its shelf, properly, only to reveal that of a tattered black and purple pile of clothing.
A belt and other armour pieces were also in the pile. Seeing the unmistakable symbol of the white cross, caused Bruce to freeze instantly. He knew that symbol. A loud angry voice yelled in his memory.
'If you like hurting women. Try hurting me!'
Bruce recognized this symbol; the man fingered the uniform reverently. It was in the newspaper along with all those other Vigilantes and masked Villains. Bruce never imagined that those ghost stories would be real, but why would this be here? The costume and cape were those of the fabled Huntress. A woman in Gotham that despised the crime and injustice. Much like how Helena has.
Could Huntress and Helena, who fight for Justice…
Could they be the same?
And what of his sons and other daughter? Were they also in on this unlawful activity as well?
"How did things always get so complicated?" The man wondered out loud, gathering the clothes up and putting them somewhere safe. So that no one could find them, but he could still investigate and catalogue all of the 'Vigilante's' weapons.