Thank you to all my readers, followers and reviewers. Next chapter we're going to see the Masquerade Ball.


IX - Faithfull Meeting

CEO room, Wayne Tower, Central Business District, Gotham City

"Bruce Wayne," he intoned. "As I live and breathe."

Bruce rose to greet him, leaning on his cane. Fox couldn't remember the last time the hibernating heir had visited Wayne Tower.

They initiated a humorous dialogue. Bruce asked about his money, more precisely the loss of it, and how the company was doing. Fox replied that Bruce himself had funneled the entire R&D budget for five years into a fusion project that he then had mothballed. He added that Wayne Enterprises was running out of time and Daggett was moving in.

Bruce accepted the gloomy prognosis without complaint and asked about his options. Fox suggested he should turn the fusion machine on but was cut off by Bruce.

"I can't, Lucius."

"Then sit tight," Fox advised. "Your majority keeps Daggett at arm's length while we figure out a future for the energy program with Miranda Tate. She's supported your project all the way, incidentally. Besides she has already helped you, when Earle wanted to take Wayne Enterprises public and you were about to lose control of your own company. She's smart, and quite lovely."

Bruce rolled his eyes.

"You too, Lucius?" Years ago, with Miranda's distance expertise, he had been able to buy back the majority of the shares via roundabout means and again become the owner. However he didn't want to take any risks with the machine, and was not prepared to face her again after all these years. He didn't know if she still harbored some secret hope regarding them. For him, Miranda was a wonderful woman who deserved a man at the height of her qualities and Bruce felt like a hollow shell that could not offer anything to anyone.

"We all just want what's best for you, Bruce." It pained Fox to see such a remarkable man, who had already overcome so much tragedy, cut himself off from any hope of happiness. Bruce deserved better than the self-inflicted purgatory to which he had condemned himself. "Show her the machine."

"I'll think it over," Bruce said. That was more than Fox had expected, so he chose to leave it at that.

"Anything else?" Lucius asked.

"No, why?" Bruce responded. Fox smiled nostalgically.

"These conversations used to end with some… unusual requests."

"I retired," Bruce said tersely.

Neither man needed to clarify. They had always understood each other with regard to Bruce's former… pursuits, even if they seldom spoke of them directly. Plausible deniability had its advantages, at least as far as Fox was concerned.

Nevertheless, he wasn't finished.

"Let me show you some stuff anyway."

Fox hit a button and the bookcase opened into a hidden elevator.


Wayne Enterprise's Applied Sciences Division, bunker deep beneath the Wayne Tower, Gotham City

Moments later Fox led Wayne into a vast, gadget-filled space - the Wayne Enterprise's Applied Sciences Division - hidden away in a hangar-sized bunker deep beneath the tower, many stories below the business offices. When Bruce had first visited the facility, nearly a decade ago, it had become a graveyard for discarded prototypes and forgotten projects, left to gather dust out of sight, and out of mind.

Only he and Lucius had seen the potential in the division's extensive collection of high-tech castoffs. Together, they had turned the mothballed relics into an arsenal.

Before it all went wrong.

Now the bunker was a graveyard again. Or so Bruce thought. They passed some Tumblers with different weapons configurations, but there was some new stuff he didn't recognised at first. Bruce limped uncomfortably through the vast, cavernous chambers, inspecting Lucius's growing collection of high-tech toys.

Fox explained to him that he had been consolidating all the prototypes under his roof, attempting to avoid them from falling into the wrong hands. The older man offered him a couple of new gadgets, which were promptly denied by Bruce.

Then he moved to a thick metal door that guarded an adjacent chamber. Lucius entered a code into a keypad mounted next to the door and the security barrier rolled upward, exposing the hangar beyond. Bruce's eyes widened at the sight of a sleek, state-of-the-art vehicle that appeared to be all folding metal planes and panels. Enormous rotors waited to lift the intimidating craft into the air.

Lucius proudly explained the contraption, which he had pat called as 'The Bat'.

Bruce was impressed and couldn't resist taking a closer look. He limped forward and ran his hand over one of the prototype's many angled and overlapping elevons. The cockpit was sheltered beneath the wings in a sturdy armored module. The empty pilot's seat called out to him. Instinctively he wondered how the Bat handled in the air.

As though reading his mind, Fox assured him that the vehicle worked great, except for the autopilot. He then suggested, as Bruce had more free time than him, he could fix it.

But Bruce refused to let the older man entice him. He turned his back on the aircraft with an undeniable twinge of regret.


Rebuilt Gotham General Hospital, Gotham City

Bruce sat on an examination table in Gotham General Hospital. It was already dark outside, but Alfred had managed to arrange an after-hours appointment. The Wayne name still opened doors in Gotham, no matter what the latest financial reports said.

He was half-listening the huge and absurd list of injuries that the young doctor reported to him. He had other things on his mind.

Finally, Bruce thought when the physician ended up with it and left to attend to his rounds, leaving his patient alone in the exam room.

He quickly dressed and pulled a wool ski mask over his head. Moving rapidly, before anyone remembered to check on him, he hobbled over to the window and climbed onto the sill. Twisting the head of his cane, he drew out a length of unbreakable monofilament wire and clipped it to his belt, then wedged the cane securely behind the window frame. The glass pane slid open easily. Bruce leaned out to inspect the view.

Although he hadn't attempted a stunt like this in years, he threw himself out the window into the night. Gravity seized him and he plunged toward the alley below, the wire unspooling behind him. The night wind whipped past his face. He counted off the floors as he plummeted past them and waited until just the right moment to trigger the braking mechanism.

He came to a halt directly outside a private room on the eleventh floor. Dim lights penetrated the curtains as he stealthily raised the window and slipped inside the room. Trained in the arts of the ninja, he made not a sound as he crossed toward the haggard figure in the bed. His heart sank at the sight.

Bruce had first met Jim Gordon on the worst night of his life. As a young police officer, freshly transferred from Chicago, Gordon had attempted to comfort an eight-year-old child mere hours after the boy's parents had been murdered by a mugger in what would someday be known as Crime Alley. Although traumatized by the murders, which had taken place right before his eyes, Bruce had never forgotten the young officer's kindness.

One of the few honest cops in a town that liked being dirty, Gordon had proven a valuable ally in Batman's war against crime.

Over the years, the Dark Knight had come to depend on Gordon's integrity and courage.

Now Gordon lay helpless in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. Blinking medical equipment monitored his vital signs, which were alarmingly weak. An oxygen mask was affixed to his face. An IV fed fluids into his arm. Gordon's face was ashen. His skin looked clammy. Bruce felt a long-buried anger building in his chest.

Gordon was his friend.

Whoever did this to him needed to pay.

Bane.

A low growl escaped Bruce's lips, rousing Gordon, whose eyes fluttered open. For a moment, Bruce feared that the commissioner might panic at the sight of a masked man standing at the foot of his bed, yet somehow the injured man seemed to recognize him. Gordon tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled his words. Wincing in pain, he tugged the mask away from his mouth.

"We were in this together," he said hoarsely. "Then you were gone..."

"The Batman wasn't needed anymore," Bruce responded, disguising his voice. "We won."

"Built on a lie," Gordon croaked. "Our lie." He moaned weakly, in obvious distress. "Now there's an evil rising from where we tried to bury it. Nobody will listen." Anxious eyes pleaded with his visitor. "The Batman must come back."

Does he know what he's asking? Bruce wondered. "What if he doesn't exist anymore?" he replied aloud.

"He must," Gordon murmured, gasping for breath. "He must."


Park Row District, Gotham City

Park Row had once been a prestigious place, but the neighborhood had never fully recovered from a series of economic downturns over the last few decades. Most of the local merchants and dwellers had abandoned it, only to be replaced by successive waves of struggling immigrants, welfare recipients, and squatters.

The Monarch Theater was the greatest symbol of all that decay. In the heyday of the theater, the neighborhood had several attractions and people from the entire city had come to enjoy the square.

It was already night when Bruce pulled up his silver Lamborghini across from the forsaken theater, protected by the shadows. Although slightly out of place in this low-rent district, the deluxe sports car only attracted a few curious glances. It wasn't uncommon for the upper classes to go slumming in Park Row, looking for drugs and other illicit diversions. He was checking a tracking device when D.J. exited and entered into a small car parked in front of the building. Bruce watched him go then waited a few moments before pulled out his Lamborghini, checking his traker again which was beeping on the dashboard.

"Let's see where he's going with that jewelry," he thought.