Chapter Seven: Intervention
Alfred dozed as his train crawled its way west, travelling so slowly that it seemed he would never arrive at his destination. Outside the late summer sky was low and heavy, the weather colder than it should have been, and his hot breath created a kaleidoscope of mist on the glass window of the dreary carriage as it rumbled along.
Eventually they ground to a jerking halt in a herd of other trains, great metal beasts penned together outside the main terminus for Blüdhaven, waiting impatiently for the backlog of passengers and cargo to clear. When the numbers had been sufficiently thinned they resumed their slow progress, shepherded onward by a complicated pattern of lights and signals, before at last they were pulling into Blüdhaven Central Station. A couple more staccato hops of the carriage juddered his bones as they drew level with the platform.
Alfred stepped off the train amongst a press of bodies and elbows, the weary commuters jockeying one another for position as they returned from their daily pilgrimage to Gotham. He cast a critical eye about himself as he left the platform. To say Blüdhaven Central Station was bland would have been an understatement. It was little more than a concrete vault, stripped of all character and feeling, much like the city itself. Where Gotham at least had a heritage of gothic architecture, mixed together with a new wave of soaring, modernist structures full of glass and light, Blüdhaven was industrial to its core, filled with drab buildings that thrust upward through plains of grey asphalt.
It quickly proved impossible to find a taxi in the throng outside the station so Alfred opted to walk instead. He didn't know Blüdhaven all that well, his previous visits having generally been confined to the district around Master Richard's apartment. The city had an ugly reputation as the violent younger brother of Gotham, a grim place full of belching factories and crumbling infrastructure, where trash fires from the municipal landfill spewed forth enough contaminants to burn your eyes, and the people were as harsh as the Atlantic winds whipping in from the sea.
The sun was starting to slip below the horizon and the temperature dropped quickly alongside it, so Alfred buttoned up his thick woollen coat in response. He would need to make haste if he was to get back to Gotham before Master Bruce noticed he was missing. Not, of course, that his employer was noticing much of anything at the moment. For the past two days he had been cloistered in the unquenchable shadows of the Batcave, his misery and guilt and anger piling atop one another, deepening like a coastal shelf.
Rather than wander aimlessly in what he hoped was the approximate direction of the docks, Alfred pulled out his WayneTech 2100 smartphone, thumbing through the list of apps until he found WayneMaps. He squinted at the screen then began to plot his way toward the area he most expected Master Richard to be patrolling.
He followed this route for perhaps twenty minutes before realising he was being stalked.
A sudden bout of intuition, the merest prickling between his shoulder blades, made him glance behind himself. He caught site of two men, about thirty yards back, staring at him with hungry eyes. One was black, the other white, both of them skinny and feral looking. Drug users, if he was any judge. They were taking in the iPhone, the expensive clothes, a general demeanour that smacked of wealth and privilege, and no doubt reckoned the frail old man they saw an easy mark.
All the better, he thought as he quickened his pace slightly. They would certainly help him attract Master Richard's attention. And if not, he still remembered enough moves from his time in the Secret Service to deal with a couple of tweaking street punks.
Alfred risked another look behind, saw that he had pulled far enough ahead of the would-be muggers for them to start trotting to catch up with him. The mouth of an alleyway appeared to his right and at the last moment he ducked into it. He stood a short distance inside, waiting next to a couple of overflowing trash cans. His pursuers rounded the corner a few moments later, puffing and out of breath, their eyes flashing with satisfaction as they saw he was cornered.
One of the pair grinned a broken smile full of rotten teeth. "Just hand over your wallet and phone, old man," he said. "We don't want no trouble."
Alfred pulled back his shoulders and looked at him defiantly. "Then I would advise you to turn around and walk away," he replied, summoning his most imperious British accent.
Rotten-teeth snorted in amusement. "Have it your way, limey."
They closed on him quickly, confident in their advantage over him. The black one came first, making a clumsy lunge toward Alfred. The butler jumped nimbly backward and picked up one of the trash can lids by the handle, smashing it into the face of his attacker. The man let out a howl and stumbled backward. Blood streamed from his ruined nose as he brought a hand up to his face.
"You boke by doze!" he accused, his eyes filled with disbelief.
Alfred said nothing. He had used up the advantage of surprise; they would not be so careless second time around.
"You shouldn't have done that, old man," said rotten-teeth, pulling a long, rusty knife from his belt. "I'm gonna enjoy gutting you like a fish."
Alfred backed away as he saw the knife, holding the trash can in front of him like a shield. The mugger followed after him with confident steps, making the occasional feint with his blade. His companion stooped down to pick up a broken half-brick and moved out to the left, trying to outflank Alfred, his other hand still clasped over his broken nose.
The butler dared a quick glance up at the surrounding rooftops. They were empty. Where exactly was Master Richard?
"No place to run to, you limey bastard," taunted rotten-teeth, mistaking Alfred's look upward for a panicked attempt to find an escape route.
It was easy to see why the man was so confident. Flight was no longer an option for Alfred. Nor would it be long before he ran out of alley, his back literally pressed against the wall. With no room to manoeuvre he would become easy pickings. He breathed deeply, summoning up long unused skills as the muggers continued to stalk him. He would have to fight, and soon.
His decision made, a certain calm descended on Alfred. Time seemed to slow for him. He watched as there was a subtle, almost imperceptible nod exchanged between the two muggers. The one on the left drew back his arm and made ready to fling his brick. Alfred had all the time in the world to throw the lid of his trash can like a discus, catching the man square in the face. His already injured nose shattered under the impact and he fell backwards, knocked-out cold.
With an angry shot Rotten-teeth charged toward him, knife extended outwards. He was just a few steps away and Alfred wasn't sure that he could avoid the blow. He braced himself to receive a slashing cut or worse. But at the last moment there was a whirling sound in the air, followed by a dull thud, and his attacker slumped to the ground as an eskrima stick smacked against the back of his skull.
Alfred bent over double in relief. He watched from the corner of his eye as Nightwing jumped down from a nearby rooftop, landing nimbly next to the prone form of the broken-nosed mugger.
Dick kicked the blood-spattered trash can lid. "Nice throw."
"Yes, well, all those years spent as opening seam bowler for the Bullingdon Cricket Club certainly gave me a good arm."
"Heh, I remember when you tried to teach me cricket in the garden. I never could get my head around the rules." Nightwing shook his head as his eyes twinkled at the memory.
"Yes, I seem to recall you and Master Bruce always holding the cricket bat upwards, as though you were playing baseball. Rather easy to bowl you both out as a result, I'm afraid. In any respect, I'm glad you found me in the end, Master Richard." Alfred glanced down at the curved knife for emphasis.
Nightwing looked somewhat sheepish and rubbed at the back of his head, a self-conscious gesture that Alfred recognised from the boys childhood. Normally it meant he was about to admit to doing something naughty. "Well, truth be told, Babs gave me the heads up on you ages ago. I've been following your progress since you left the station. I was gonna intervene earlier, but then you picked that trash can lid up and were like 'bam!' in that guys face – awesome move, by the way – and it looked like you were kinda having fun."
Alfred quirked an eyebrow in response. "I wouldn't exactly call it fun."
"Well, I guess it's what passes for fun amongst members of our peculiar little family," the younger man replied with a shrug. "Speaking of which, if you wanted to talk to me you could have just called, y'know."
"I needed to see you in person, Master Richard."
"It's about Bruce then." The younger man made a face. "Must be bad if you've come to me."
"Worse than you can imagine," agreed Alfred, looking around the dank confines of the alley. "But perhaps there are more… salubrious surroundings where we could continue our discussion?"
"Of course, though I wouldn't say I'm really dressed for a special occasion." Dick waved a theatrical hand over the blue eagle emblazoned on the front of his jumpsuit. "There's a diner just round the corner to the left. I have a cache not too far from here, so let me get changed and I'll come meet you."
"Very well, I'll see you there shortly."
Nightwing kneeled down by the rotten-toothed mugger and bound his hands behind his back. "Yep, I'll deal with these two then see you there in a bit."
Alfred walked past Dick as the younger man radioed the Blüdhaven Police Department, letting them know the location of the two criminals. He quickly turned left and saw the sign for the diner pretty much straight away. It was a classic all-American affair, filled with red and white booths and chrome bar stools, rounded off by a bell above the door that chimed as he entered. Surprisingly clean, given this was Blüdhaven. He sat down in a cubicle near one of the windows and took in the menu. The food screamed of the states – bacon and eggs sat on the breakfast menu alongside waffles and pancakes. Huge portions of fries and milkshakes accompanied burgers topped with cheese, bacon and a variety of condiments.
All in all, he didn't hold out much hope of the place selling him a cup of tea.
It didn't take long for the waitress to approach him. She was short and severe, with her mousy hair pulled back in a tight bun. He asked her for two coffees plus some pancakes with maple syrup. The woman scribbled down the order with alacrity and the drinks arrived promptly, the food coming not long afterward. Alfred couldn't help but find himself admiring the efficiency of her service from a professional standpoint.
A couple of minutes later the bell tinkled again and presently Dick was sitting on the leather sofa opposite him, dressed casually in a pair of black jogging slacks and a grey hooded top. His eyes lit up as he took in the pancakes.
"Alfred, you sly old dog, I do believe you're trying to bribe me." He cut into the pancakes with abandon then shoved a large forkful into his mouth. "Sho far I haff to admit ish working."
"Master Richard, what have I told you about talking with your mouthful?"
Blüdhaven's protector, scourge of countless villains, looked suitably chastised as he swallowed his food. "Sorry," he shrugged. "You know how much I love pancakes."
"Indeed I do, young sir, indeed I do."
Alfred briefly thought back on happier times, when Dick was still a young man and barely in his teens. He was so full of life, a bundle of inquisitive energy, eager to please Master Bruce in his endeavours, both at school and on the streets of Gotham. He used to delight in having Master Richard in the kitchen with him on Sunday mornings. The boy would always try to help – but usually inadvertently hinder – in preparing the traditional Wayne family brunch of pancakes and bacon.
It was sad to see how far the relationship between him and Bruce had fallen.
The last time he had made the trip to Blüdhaven was for Master Richard's birthday, dropping off the obligatory present and card. Bruce hadn't even bothered to accompany him, citing obligations in Gotham as his excuse. He remembered the look of hurt on the young man's face when he opened the door to his apartment, only to realise his adoptive father was absent. It was fleeting and well-masked – no surprise really, given he had learnt to hide his emotions from the best – but it had been there nonetheless.
Even after all this time, with everything that had passed between them, Dick still loved Bruce enough to be hurt by his coldness.
But then, was that really so surprising? For all of his shortcomings as a role model and a father, Bruce and Tim were all the boy had left in the way of family.
Just like they're all you've got left, old man.
"So what do you want me for?" Dick asked when he finished his pancakes. "The boss made it pretty clear he didn't want my help looking for Tim after that first night."
Alfred sighed, stirring his coffee before answering. "I wouldn't take it personally, Master Richard. You know as well as I do how much he hates showing weakness, and all the more so to those that are close to him."
"Well, it's difficult not to see it as personal when he still has Barbara out on patrol with him. He hasn't refused her, has he?"
"With all due respect, she never left Gotham. Having her aid him in the search is simply part of the status quo, whilst having you return from Blüdhaven is not. Ergo, Master Bruce sees accepting your help as a weakness on his part."
Dick grunted in response, taking a moment to assess what Alfred had said. "Suppose I agree with you," he said, a hint of reluctance in his voice. "Why does that change anything? Why would he agree to my help now?"
"No doubt you've heard from Barbara that Master Bruce has been injured?" When the younger man nodded in agreement Alfred continued. "Well, what you probably don't know is that he has hardly left the cave this past week, and barely eaten to boot. He is…wallowing, Master Richard. There is no other way to describe it. Wallowing in his own self-pity, first of all for leading you and Master Tim and Miss Barbara down this path, then for what he perceives as failing you all. Add to that the fact he has driven Miss Diana away again, perhaps for the last time, and for once he hasn't the slightest idea how to fix things. I have not seen him so bereft since he came home from that damnable cinema wrapped in a policeman's coat." The butler shook his head in sadness. "He desperately needs help, but he is the person least of all equipped to ask for it."
Even as he spoke, Alfred could see the walls of ill-feeling start to crumble away from Master Richard.
"I… I didn't know he'd fallen so far down the well, Alfred. Even with everything that's gone on between us, I still respect him. Love him even, though of course I'd never tell him as much. Everything I did, everything I've done, was of my choosing, not Bruce's. Sure, he gave me the training and the resources, but it was me that opted to use them." Nightwing raised his chin to look Alfred square in the eye. "And he never failed me. Not even once. I know that now."
"Then tell him as much." Alfred spoke passionately, reaching across the table to clasp the younger man's hands in his own, a most un-English act of physical connection. "He needs to hear it from you most of all."
Nightwing looked down at his hands, held in Alfred's own, before raising his gaze back up to the Butler. He nodded briefly in assent. "Of course. I'll do whatever I can." With that the young vigilante pulled away, breaking their hold and somehow lessening the intensity of their conversation. Once again he rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck. "But how exactly are we gonna do this, ummm, intervention? I don't think I can just waltz back into the cave and act like nothing has happened."
"You needn't worry about that, Master Richard," Alfred replied, smiling mischievously. "I do, of course, have a plan."
A blue icon tracked across the gigantic monitor screen of the Cray supercomputer. It was a crude graphical representation, little more than a few pixels banded together in the shape of a car, zoomed in so closely that the whole design looked as though it was fraying at the edges. Above it a designation in bold, black lettering: GCPD 412. The vehicle danced across the screen, passing by other icons of differing shapes and size, eventually joining up with its twin, another blue car bearing the designation GCPD 127.
Batman panned out the view, revealing hundreds of symbols shifting over a digital map of Gotham. They moved in a silent cacophony of colour, each of the icons indicating some item or event of strategic importance in the city. Blue designated the police, with the shape of the symbol showing if they were on foot, in a patrol car or airborne. Red was for a crime in progress, orange for persons of interest, gold for allies and affiliates of the bat-clan, green for known super-criminals. The list went on and on, as many shapes and colours as there were differing threats and allies in Gotham.
He zoomed the screen in once more, centring on a seething cluster of red and blue icons. In the midst of the melee sat another icon: a circular bat-logo, black over yellow.
He watched intently as the two blue cars converged on the melee then pressed the comms button on the computer. "Two more GCPD Cruisers en route to your location, Batgirl."
It had taken a little over a week for crime to return to similar levels prior to his blitz on Gotham. As with all things, it had started out by degrees: a mugging here, an assault there. When Batman failed to swoop down on the perpetrators and exact instant retribution, the rumour that the Dark Knight was no longer in the city spread through the Gotham underworld like wildfire. Muggers and thieves, gang-bangers and con-men, flooded back out onto the streets, desperate to make up for lost time. Inevitably the bigger creatures of crime followed in their wake, bringing with them the death and misery that characterised their grisly trade.
"Roger that. What about SWAT?" He could hear the crackle of gunfire and the howling of police sirens as Batgirl spoke. "The cops are getting creamed down here."
Barbara currently found herself positioned in the midst of a vicious three-way gun battle between the GCPD and soldiers from the Maroni and Dimitrov mobs. In the last few days the long-standing enmity between the two families had boiled over into open warfare. When two sets of their goons ran into one another on the Upper East Side a furious firefight had instantly erupted. Two nearby GCPD cruisers responded and from there the whole situation had escalated rapidly, with two cops dead and a score injured.
"No SWAT units for now; Brother Eye shows the bulk of them tied up on the other side of the city, dealing with a robbery at the First National Bank of Gotham."
He had first dubbed the monitoring system 'Brother Eye' following its creation some months ago and the name had since stuck. Based on a facial and number plate recognition program initially devised by Lucius Fox, the software had been heavily altered by Batman, before being fed into the CCTV cameras dotted throughout Gotham. Now it provided him with a near real-time map of events in the city. Some black spots remained, particularly in poorer districts with fewer cameras, but he had done some preliminary work on linking the system with WayneTech Satellites and remained confident that such areas would soon be eliminated.
"Two more cruisers just isn't going to cut it," answered batgirl, the gunfire louder and more persistent through the comm-channel. "The cops are heavily outgunned. I'm not sure – RPG! RPG!" A second later an ear-shattering explosion tore through the speakers.
For a moment the connection dropped out. When it resumed all Batman could hear was the staccato rattle of automatic weapons-fire and the panicked screams of the injured.
"Batgirl, report." Nothing. He felt a trembling in his arms and looked down to find he was gripping the edge of the keyboard. "Batgirl? Batgirl!" Much as he tried, he couldn't keep a slight quiver of panic from creeping into his voice. "Barbara…"
Numbly, he pressed at the keys before him, his mind reeling as he zoomed in on the angry knot of red and blue dots. As he watched, one of the patrol car graphics flickered and died, destroyed by the rocket. Next to it the Bat-logo remained still and unmoving.
First Dick, he thought, then Tim and Diana. Now Barbara. Am I destined to lose everyone close to me?
As if in answer he heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him. Alfred, moving through the cave, a little more noisily than usual. Even if he lost everyone else, he would never be truly alone whilst the Englishman was by his side.
He kept his attention riveted on the monitor as the butler continued his slow and steady approach, all the while willing the bat-logo to show some sign of life. Alfred must have been carrying a tray; there was the soft tinkling of metal as he set it down on one of the nearby work benches. The rich aroma of hot chocolate wafted to him over the earthy dampness of the cave.
"Master Bruce, I'm delighted to say we have a v—" Alfred paused mid-sentence as he noticed Bruce's taut posture. "Is something wrong, sir?"
"It's… it's Barbara, Alfred…"
"Miss Barbara?" The concern in the Englishman's voice was audible. "Is she alright?"
It was then that the communicator crackled back into life and the next thing Bruce knew Barbara was speaking in his ear. "Batman, are you there?" She sounded flustered and out of breath, but otherwise unharmed.
"Yes," he answered, relief flooding through him. "Yes, I'm here."
"Sorry, the explosion must have knocked out my comms for a sec." Barbara paused as she surveyed the scene around her. "It's absolute carnage here… One of the Dimitrov soldiers just took out a GCPD Cruiser with a rocket launcher, numerous cop casualties."
Batman hesitated for a split second and then his fingers were flying across the keyboard, accessing information provided by the Brother Eye database. "Priority is to get the goon with the rocket launcher," he said, a crisp authority returning to his voice. "According to facial recognition the perp is one Luka Djordjevic, a Serb who works as hired muscle for the Dimitrov's. Tough, but slow; he's got a shrapnel wound in his right knee from doing military service in Bosnia." With a click of a button he pulled up another file, this time with the schematics for the building. "The warehouse they're holed up in has a ventilation system that drops down into the room he fired from, you should be able to gain access to it from the roof."
"Ok, I'm on it."
The bat-logo started to move across the screen, tracing a careful circuitous route to the warehouse. Alfred stepped forward quietly, hovering over his shoulder as they both stared at the slow progress of the icon.
"I take it this means Miss Barbara is ok?"
Batman nodded once in response, still tapping away at the keyboard in front of him, trying to reconcile the barrage of emotion he had just experienced: the misery of believing Barbara was dead, then the elation of hearing her voice.
"Well that's a relief," said Alfred, with customary understatement. Bruce felt rather than saw the butler turn his head to regard him. "I see you've put the costume back on, sir. It's certainly an improvement on the jogging pants and sweat tops you've been favouring this past week."
"It helps me to focus. Crime has come back with a vengeance so I need to concentrate on where to send Batgirl."
"Indeed, sir." The butler moved back toward the tray and in response Batman turned his high-backed chair to face him. "Do you wish to talk about what just happened, Master Bruce?"
"Nothing happened, Alfred."
"No, but you thought something did."
Batman pursed his lips. "There's nothing to talk about." Certainly not the feeling of fear and guilt he experienced when he thought Barbara had been injured - or worse.
"Very well." With a flourish, the butler neatly presented a silver platter, replete with two steaming cups of cocoa. "I've brought you some hot chocolate. There are marshmallows and extra chocolate syrup, if you desire them."
"I'm not a child having a nightmare anymore, Alfred."
"No, you're not," the butler agreed, his expression sad. Reluctantly he set the platter back atop the workbench. "But then, I haven't seen you this pained since you were a child, sir."
Bruce frowned. It wasn't often that Alfred reminded him of the long nights of his childhood. "Maybe not," he conceded. "But how am I supposed to feel?"
"I'm not saying you aren't allowed to feel like this," said Alfred. "Most parents would, were their child to be missing."
He felt a pang of guilt then, remembering the numerous times when Alfred had thought him dead. "I'm not much of a parent," he said, shaking his head as he focused his attention back to the monitor. When he spoke again his voice was bitter. "I've failed them, Alfred. Dick, Tim, Barbara. I've trapped them in this life, and all they'll get out of it is misery and pain."
Batman was expecting Alfred to respond, so when another voice spoke in his stead he barely managed to contain his surprise. "Trapped us? That's a load of crap, Bruce, and you know it."
He turned his chair around slowly, using the time to gather himself. He narrowed his eyes as he saw a costumed Nightwing step out from the shadows to the rear of the cave. So that was why Alfred had been so uncharacteristically noisy earlier; he'd been covering up Nightwing's approach.
Alfred spread his hands apologetically. "Master Bruce, I was just about to say that we had a visitor prior to the – ahem – interruption with Miss Barbara."
Bruce ignored the butler, instead choosing to focus his ire on Nightwing. "You've certainly got a lot quieter when it comes to sneaking around. Even the bats didn't notice you this time."
"Well, I've had a lot of time to practice in Blüdhaven," shrugged Dick. "It's kind of forced me to get better."
Batman said nothing, just kept a cool gaze on the younger man, trying to intimidate him with the force of his glare. "What brings you to Gotham, Nightwing?" he asked eventually.
"Well, old Alfred here," said Dick, clapping the Englishman on the shoulder, "tells me you've been moping around feeling sorry for yourself, Batman. From what I've just heard, seems he was right."
"A servant," Batman said, shooting an evil glare at Alfred, "should know his place."
He was just about to turn back toward Nightwing when he frowned slightly. There was something about Alfred, his expression and posture, that wasn't quite right. So he kept his gaze on the Englishman. He certainly looked suitably aghast at what Dick was saying, but there was some strange dynamic going on between these two that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Batman concentrated, trying to piece together exactly what was wrong, only to find himself interrupted when an irritated Nightwing cut across his vision.
"Don't you talk to Alfred like that," said Dick, arms folded across his chest in a gesture of annoyance. "He's only trying to do what's best for you."
Alfred gently placed an arm across the chest of the younger man, pushing him out of the way. "No, Master Richard, you have no need to intercede on my behalf." He turned to face Bruce. "When I left Butlering School, sir, I had one final piece of invaluable advice handed down to me by Ponsonby, my old finishing master. He told me that you must always – always – do what is right for the Master and his household, even if it occasionally means going against his wishes."
Batman stared at the two of them, a defiant Alfred and resentful Nightwing. Is this how they thought they were going to help him? By marching into the cave and trying to perform some botched intervention on his behalf? The muscles in his jaw twitched underneath his skin. "You both have the temerity to come down here uninvited and lecture me on what's best for me, what my wishes should be?" His voice was as sharp as cut glass. "In this instance they're one and the same thing: for the two of you to leave."
He turned his chair back toward the monitor screen, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. He noted with satisfaction that Batgirl had nearly reached her destination. There was just one more building left for her to cross before she was on the roof of the warehouse.
Behind him he could almost hear Nightwing seething with anger. "Is that it? What about all that melodramatic crap about failing me? About trapping us in this life?"
"You weren't supposed to hear any of that, Dick." An edge of weariness crept into his voice as he used the younger man's name for the first time.
"But the fact is I did, Bruce." Dick strode forward till he was level with Batman's shoulder. "And I hate to break it to you, but Babs and Tim and me, we chose this life. You didn't force us into it."
Bruce sighed in response, rubbing at his eyes. "Please, you were – are – children. I brainwashed you into believing that what I was doing was right."
Nightwing tensed beside him, visibly bristling at being labelled a child. "I'm twenty four years old, Bruce! These days I'm a grown man with a mind of my own. If I wanted to stop doing this tomorrow, I'd quit, believe me. So you can let go of all this ridiculous guilt you've been hoarding up for yourself and start letting me help you."
Batman's expression hardened beneath the cowl. Who did Dick think he was, to lecture him about guilt? He turned his head to regard the younger man, noting the conflicting mixture of anger and compassion that moved behind his eyes. He wasn't sure which of the two he disliked the most. "What makes you think I want your help, Dick?"
Before Nightwing had a chance to form an answer Batman's communicator buzzed in his ear. He held up his hand for silence, noting with satisfaction how Dick bit back on his response, then pressed a finger to his ear.
"Batgirl to Batman," said Barbara. "Djordjevic is down. What do you want me to do next?"
Without a second thought he focused his attention back on the monitor screen. He zoomed in on the bat-logo and the building it was contained within. Brother Eye had identified twelve other Dimitrov soldiers in the building, all of them heavily armed, but now out of view of any cameras. With itchy trigger fingers and no solid intel on their positions it would be too risky to send Barbara in alone against them.
Dick, watching over his shoulder, had obviously reached a similar conclusion. "How long till SWAT are on the scene?"
Batman briefly switched channels on his comm-link. "GCPD scanners are saying at least forty-five minutes."
"I can be there in twenty on the bike," Dick stated matter-of-factly.
Bruce paused, weighing up the options. Could he accept Dick's help? Could he ignore all that had happened between them? Perhaps it was lack of sleep, the injury that rendered him impotent, or a genuine concern for Barbara which made him consign all the harsh words and angry exchanges to the past. Whatever it was, he found himself agreeing to the request.
"Fine," he growled, pressing the button on his commlink. "Batgirl, hold in place. Nightwing is coming to support you, ETA 20 minutes."
"Dick? What on earth is –" Batman cut the link abruptly, irked by the sound of surprise in Batgirl's voice. Her inevitable questions could wait for later.
He reached into his utility belt and pulled out a small black disc with a bat-logo stamped on it. He turned the communicator over in his hands for a second then threw it to Dick, who caught it with practiced ease.
Nightwing placed the device in his ear. "Don't think this means I'm giving up on Blüdhaven," he said, staring Bruce in the eye. "My obligation to that city still comes first."
"I wouldn't expect anything less. Let's consider this more of a working partnership than a full on merger."
"Cool, that works for me."
Batman pushed himself up from the chair, moving over to the nearby workbench, still limping slightly as he walked. "Do you need any gear?"
"Ummm…" Nightwing rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. "Despite the costume I travelled light, so some smoke pellets would be good. Y'know, given the tactical situation."
He gathered the requested items then handed them to Dick. An awkward silence grew between them till the younger man blurted out "How's the leg?"
"Let's not get all warm and fuzzy. Just get in, get out, get the job done safely."
"Don't worry, safety is my middle name," Nightwing replied irreverently, throwing in a mock salute for good measure. He spoke over his shoulder as he made his way out of the cave. "I'll be back with Babs before you know it."
Batman glared stonily after his protégé's retreating form, watching his lithe progress through the cave. Could the boy not take anything seriously?
Behind him Alfred discretely moved the platter he had been carrying, reminding him of his presence. "The hot chocolate has gone cold, sir," the butler observed. "Would you like me to warm it up for you?"
Batman grunted something non-committal in response, his eyes still on Nightwing as he darted up the steps leading to the secret entrance.
"If I may, sir, I do believe that Master Richard's attempts at humour are his way of dealing with stressful situations," said Alfred, moving up until he was level with Batman's shoulder. "Not everyone is as stoic as yourself."
He softened slightly, recognising the truth behind the words. "I suppose so, Alfred. And no, thank you, I don't need the hot chocolate to be heated up." He reached toward a flask of coffee sat next to the supercomputer. "I already have a drink."
Alfred made a face. "That's not the horrible instant stuff you make for yourself, is it?"
A smile twitched at the corner of Batman's lips as he poured himself a cup of the thick black liquid. "It is. I made it to industrial strength this time. Care to try some?"
"Not for all the tea in China, sir."
He drank the cup down quickly. It tasted like coffee flavoured paint stripper and he winced slightly as the harsh burn of it slid down his throat.
Alfred quirked an eyebrow at the expression of displeasure on his face. "Hit the spot I take it?"
Batman grinned in response. "Certainly did. I feel like a new man already."
"Excellent, sir. Well, in the spirit of being a new man, now that things have been patched up somewhat with Master Richard, might I suggest we discuss the other relationship that's vexing you?"
The smile fell off Bruce's face as quickly as it had arrived. "And who might you be referring to?" he asked, despite already knowing the answer.
"Why, Princess Diana, of course."
"Direct and to the point, eh, Alfred?"
"I find the simplest plans are often the most effective."
Batman turned away from the butler, not wanting to look him in the eye as he spoke. "What are you trying to get me to admit about Diana, Alfred? That I'd like us to be more than colleagues? That I feel something for her?" He gripped the edge of the Supercomputer console. "You know I can't allow emotion to distract me from the Mission."
"With due respect, sir, that's complete and utter poppycock," Alfred said forcibly. "Plant-people notwithstanding, I believe I have seen you in love at least three times before." The butler raised three fingers on his hand then ticked off the names in order. "Miss Beaumont, Miss Kyle, and Miss Talia."
"Talia al Ghul was never love," Batman replied, shaking his head. "Just a brief and almost deadly infatuation. As for the other two, you're just proving my point. Look at how those relationships ended."
"I would agree with you that love can be fleeting, sir, and sometimes badly chosen. It can be poorly directed at people who can't - or won't - love us return. And even if we are lucky enough to find someone who feels the same way, sometimes love burns so hot that it winds up destroying itself. Other times the flames simply cool down and die over time." The butler paused briefly before continuing. "The question isn't whether or not you love Miss Diana, Master Bruce. It's whether or not you can live without her."
"Of course I can live without her. What do you think I've been doing all these years?"
"Is this living, Master Bruce?" Alfred spread his arms wide to take in the shadows of the cave. "Is it? If your parents, God rest their souls, were here to ask, what do you think they'd say?"
"Leave my parents out of this!" Batman snarled. He rounding on the butler, but the look of profound sadness that Alfred wore on his face gave him pause in his anger.
"Please do not misunderstand me, Master Bruce," the butler began. "I have never subscribed to the view that your parents would be ashamed of what you do. Your methods might be different to theirs, but you both fought to make Gotham a better place. Indeed, I believe you honour their memory with your struggles. That is why I have helped you in this endeavour from the beginning, and it is why I will continue to help you." He moved forward, looking Bruce in the eye. "But they would not be happy for the Mission to be the sum of your existence. They would want you to have a life beyond the cape. A life with someone who loves you in return, as your mother loved your father, and he loved her."
Batman couldn't stand the look of sorrow in Alfred's gaze, so he broke away from the butler, turning to the workbench set nearest the supercomputer. Picking up his utility belt, he turned it over in his hands. "But this is what I am, Alfred. The cape and the cowl and the belt."
"No. That is what you do. And what we do doesn't make us who we are."
Bruce continued to turn the utility belt end over end. He thought of Diana, how he was always pushing her away, testing the limits of her affection. This time, he wasn't sure if he'd pushed too far: the coldness in her eyes when she'd last looked at him burned him all the way down to his soul.
Finally he stopped twisting the belt. He sighed deeply and turned back toward Alfred.
"Even if what you say is right, I don't know how to fix things. Not with Diana. She has a way of throwing me for a loop."
"Love will do that, sir."
"I never said it was love, Alfred."
"You didn't need to," replied the butler, a brief flicker of a smile returning to his face. "As for how to fix things, might I suggest accepting her recent offer of help as a starting point?"
Batman carelessly threw the belt back on to the workbench as he considered a response to Alfred's suggestion. It tinkled slightly as it landed, the distinctive chime of glass knocking against glass, and he watched with surprise as a pair of test tubes rolled free from one of the compartments.
After the shooting and the ensuing events he had more or less forgotten about the samples taken from Lar, Mo and Cur in the Stacked Deck. Indeed, he'd more or less dismissed them as a viable lead. It was clear enough from his interrogation that they held no real idea as to Joker's current whereabouts; they'd last dealt with him some months ago, on yet another madcap scheme gone awry.
Still, it wouldn't do any harm to double check things. He popped open the samples and inserted them in the analysis chamber, then keyed in the relevant sequence before turning back toward Alfred.
The butler wore an expectant look on his face.
"Very well, Alfred," Bruce said, inclining his head slightly as he spoke. "I'll see if I can persuade Diana to come to Gotham and help us look for Tim."
Alfred beamed at the words. "That's excellent news, sir," he said, picking up the serving platter filled with the now-cold hot chocolate. "Now if you'll excuse me, I had best get back up to the manor and start preparing dinner for you."
The butler stepped forward, intent on leaving the cave, but pulled up short when the tinny robotic voice of the super-computer sparked into life.
"Compound analysed. Compound analysed. Compound analysed."
Batman turned back toward the monitor in surprise. The analysis had come back far quicker than he expected. He stepped over to the vast machine and pressed a button upon the console, silencing the robotic voice. The Brother Eye map dissolved gradually, replaced instead by a series of three-dimensional molecules, the layout of which made every muscle in his body tense.
"No… it can't be…" he whispered, hitting the button once again.
Behind him Alfred dropped the serving platter in shock, the metallic clang of it echoing loudly in the darkness of the cave.
"Oh my, Master Bruce!"
The letters glowed fiercely on the screen, spelling out the name of the compound.
Venom.
Bane was back in Gotham.
