Part III. III – "Lying down with dogs"

"How's your day passed?"

Alone in the cave, the simple question had Valerie whisk aside, looking at Bruce with mild confusion. Fixing his hard copper tool belt around his jumpsuit, preparing to meet with his CI, Bruce looked at her back. For any other couple the situation would seem normal, but they were no other couple, and Bruce Wayne was not interested with the trivialities of daily life… then she understood.

Today wasn't a normal day, and he wasn't asking how her day had passed, but he was making an inquiry to know how her meeting with the board member had gone. Though why he'd voiced the question like that, she didn't know. Perhaps, an involuntary slip… He'd prepared her breakfast, after all, with roses and all. Cooked for her, specifically for her. A man must be really slipping to do that.

A smile broke over her lips, as her stomach made those stupid flip-flops, and before she knew it, she was grinning at him idiotically. Bruce raised his eyebrow with suspicion. "Valerie?"

She shook her head. "Sorry," she said, bowing her head, because she was sure a heat was rushing out of her. God, what the hell was happening to her! She couldn't blush! She couldn't blush just because of a look and simple phrase of word. Yet, her cheeks were heating like she was on fire.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," she mumbled, passing him his balaclava. "Better than I expected, I guess," she said, lifting her head.

"They didn't cause you trouble?" he asked, skepticism high and clear in his tone, as if he was waiting a lot worse from his board.

Valerie wouldn't blame him for that. "Nothing I couldn't handle," she said, "it was a short meeting anyway. We shook his hands, Fox declared by the bylines of the company's book, I've got a clear authorization to question any situation for anyone." She paused, throwing at him a little wan smile, "Earle wasn't happy, but that's expected. He mumbled something like…if Fox stooped this low, he at least would've had the courtesy of hiring a male detective."

She had said it to make the situation lighter, but Bruce took her words at the opposite way. His eyes sharpened, a steely look glazing them, "In front of you?"

Baffled again with his reaction, she shrugged, darting her eyes away. "One day I'm gonna punch that man," he mumbled sotto voce, sucking in a rasped breath.

She laughed. "As much as I'd like to see that, I'm not sure if it'd be good for your cover."

"Yeah."

"When will you return?" she asked.

"Before the midnight, probably," he answered, "I'll leave you to the hotel after I return."

As tomorrow was his birthday, the manor was going to fill with hired stuff from the catering company in the early dawn. She would need to leave, but she didn't want to leave not before he returned. Shoot her, she'd become a mother hen. She smiled, walking closer to him. "Wanna stay, too?" she asked, "You can slip away later. I dropped by Victoria's Secret today. Felt like I should give you a better gift than that hideous tie."

There was a different glint in his eyes at the mention of the lingerie brand, less sharp but more heated. "I don't know," he said with another kind of rasping voice that she first heard from him, rougher, drawing her even closer, and took her in his embrace, "I really liked that tie."

She smiled, wilder, leaning over his chest to brush her lips over his, "Trust me, you'll like Victoria better."

In the heart of the darkness, Bruce was crouched motionlessly at the large flange of a building in the deep Narrows, watching as Bottlecup and his new company painted a Circle-A over the plaster wall of the building.

The wind carried the murmured voices up to him. "You dolt—you dolt—" rambled angrily the young man in his middle twenties to the younger one standing next to him, pushing the Guy Fawkes mask over his forehead, "You fucked it up, Bubble." He gestured the Circle-A that had a more an oval than a circle now.

The other street kid turned to him furiously, taking his own mask up, too, "You fucked it up, bastard," he jerked the words with a hiss, swallowing through the gum in his mouth, his fingers balling into fists.

For a moment, Bruce thought the two would start fighting, but before things escalated, Bottlecup interrupted, making another—wider circle over the oval shape, "There yo' go guys," Bottlecup chirped, rolling the words over the plate of his mouth, shaking his cornrows, "Done it." He turned to the younger street kid, "Bubble Gum, yo, pass me the black pain'," he shifted aside the older one, "Bastard, template."

A second passed before Bruce understood the oldest of the trio was actually called Bastard. He frowned. Bottlecup…Bubble Gum…Bastard… Street kids, never belonged to somewhere always made sure adopt different names, or nicknames, anything other than their real names, perhaps another rebellion at the fate.

The thought brought his mind to Valerie—the way she always refused to use her real name. Bruce knew despite his own time abroad, Valerie understood these kids in a way he could never do. As his thoughts wandered toward her, their last conversation infiltrated his consciousness. With a sharp intake of breath, Bruce shoved off the sudden image of her in a satin slip, and forcefully dragged his attention back to where it belonged.

He had a job now, he couldn't be distracted. Especially with that.

As Bottlecup finished with the template, they stepped back and watched their handiwork, the curtly stylized the Unheards—Our voice will be heard—looking at them back. Bubble Gum smiled, something very akin to content, as he ballooned his gum, and turned to his other friend, "Tis' like ol' days, ain't that right, Dan?" The balloon erupted with a silent hiss.

And, he had a name now. Dan. Bastard Dan. The young man didn't answer, but only grumbled. "Like you, me, and Boy—" Bubble Gum continued, turning at Bottlecup, "Now, we have Bottlecup. We're again three musketeers!"

Dan spat on the pavement, his face souring. "Who's…Boy?" Bottlecup asked, when Dan didn't speak. "Did I meet him?"

A sad expression appeared over Bubble's face, something made Bruce more intact. There was really hurt in the young man's watery eyes, hurt and longing. "No—he's—gone." He paused. "One day he was here—the next—puff!"

"Fuck," Bottlecup muttered.

"I liked him—" Bubble Gum continued, "When they gave out the candies in the orphanage, and when I couldn't reach out, he used to give me his." He smiled with crooked, yellowish teeth. "Was good at that way."

"Stupid," Dan interjected.

"You are stupid, Bastard," Bubble Gum fired fiercely.

His face expressionless, Bruce watched the strange exchange. There was something he could place with them, reminding him his own time in the streets…but he didn't let himself to think of those times, too. He might not wear his Suit and the cowl, but he was still Batman.

Dan spat at the pavement again. "I fucking hate when you get all emotion and shit, Bubble," he grounded, taking the mask completely off his head, "let's fuck off here before cops come. They say Guy will talk tonight. Don't wanna miss it."

They turned, but Bottlecup stayed behind. "I—I been remembered something, man—" he said, rather lamely coming up an excuse, turning the other side from them, "will see ya later."

Bubble Gum and Dan both shrugged, and went ahead. As soon as they got lost around the corner, Bruce leaped from his hidden place, and landed on the fire escape platform under him smoothly. "William," he rasped from Bottlecup's behind.

The young man jolted on his feet at the sudden mention of his real name, and swirled around. "Man! You scared shit outta me." Engulfed in the shadows, Bruce looked down at him. Bottlecup started fidgeting. "There ain't no words from you. Too much cops after you…That's why you suit up like 'tis?" he asked, his eyes traveling over his simple black jumpsuit, and head hidden balaclava.

Bottlecup was a smart kid, that's why Bruce had chosen him. "Who are they?" he rasped, though, instead of answering his question.

"The guys I mentioned—" Bottlecup answered, "Met them in a pit that wagers cockfight—"

He grimaced. He'd been closing those places since the last year, but Narrows simply had too many of them to keep the track of the things when he didn't have the police back-up with him. "What do you know?" he growled.

"Well, nothing much—" Bottlecup answered with a shrug, "there's 'tis place they meet—a sort of tavern. They go to there and listen to this guy."

"Who?" Batman asked.

"Guy," Bottlecup answered, "They call him, Guy. No one who he's…he talks from radio… He talks, they listen."

"Where is this tavern?" Batman rasped, his hands already on the rails to pull himself up to the roof.

"Badger St, 43," Bottlecup quickly supplied.

Without another word, Batman moved into shadows.

Before he landed back at the roof, though, he heard Valerie's voice. "Bruce, that's not a good idea," she said, as he asked Alfred, "Alfred, trackers."

"The neighborhood is clean, sir," Alfred answered, and added after a pause, "as much as we know."

"I'll make sure no one sees me," he told to console both of them. Even though, Alfred had further opposition he kept them himself, but Valerie was another case. She made a voice, but he spoke first, "Requesting radio silence," he demanded.

"Fine," came his answer with a clipped voice. "Have your silence."

Bruce shut off the tone, and moved on to the tavern.

The Narrows owed its name to its narrow streets on strange angles and curves. Badger Street was one of those narrow streets that straitened curtly to cause a bottleneck at the end of the street. The end of the bottleneck the tavern who was looking for stood anonymously.

It was a two stories plastered building with no sign at the front, as a "closed" door plate hanging over the entrance door. Standing at the edge of the low building at the corner of the street, he had a clear advantage of the whole street. For a half of hour, he watched the streets, but no one came. At the end of the hour, he thought there must be another entrance.

Five minutes later, he found it; a little side door that opened up the dead alley nearby, where a fidgeting young boy standing at the front, smoking a cigarette with a bowed head. Two young boy, and a girl appeared from the other side of the street, and walked through the door, no greeting for the fidgeting lookout, but the young man gave them a fleeting look under from his bowed head.

From his tool belt, Bruce pulled out the wire cam, and started drooping it over the length of the building. When he caught the sight of a slightly open window at the second floor, he directed it inside, and checked the interior of the building. It was a dusty hall that filled by young men and women that seated on the floor in a circle, whose ages diverted on a wide scale, there were teenagers, barely making their sixteens, and there were people around his age that made the external circle. In the circle, between two black guy, and a Latino girl, on a platform stood an old style radio transmitter.

There was a reverence in the silence of the room, as they listened to what the radio said; "Brothers and sisters," from above the building, Bruce heard the dispatched voice from the radio delivered his greeting, "Away from you, I sit in my dark confines, and think, and weep. But no one hears." The baritone male voice had a deep sadness, grief even in the scratchy disturbance of the radio waves, something that made Bruce even more alert.

"Alfred," he rasped, "Trace the transmitter," he ordered, "Can you zero in it?"

"Negative, sir," Alfred responded after a brief silence in which Bruce had heard the sounds of hitting keyboards. "Too much old technology, our satellite can't tracked the analog interface."

Bruce glanced down, and looked at the radio again; something from a vintage gallery, from the back of the days of the War.

"They strive, with no care, no consideration, with no responsibility!" With the last words the voice took a suddenly fire, the scratch deepening, "Our cries have fallen on muted ears, dusty death hearts. But what cries they have failed to hear? What tears? The plight of the poor after they have taken everything, and have left so little? Or the promises of justice while each day a baby died because of hunger?" The voice raised another octave with its arising fire, "They've failed to hear that their society are far more concerned about the status quo and tranquility than about justice and humanity, so that they can live in their perfect mute, dusty death worlds that they've built upon our pain."

"No more!" the altered voice bellowed out, "No more we play this game. One day—one day, we'll raise our heads, and look at the sky, and will scream—and be assured, when that day comes, there will be no running, there will be no escaping from our righteous fury."

"Spread the word, comrades!" The deep echo reverberated the hall with the force of it, "When that day comes, OUR VOICE WILL BE HEARD!"

A cold stone dropped in his stomach. He pulled back the wire cam, and called in, "Alfred," he rasped, "Find me that radio," he ordered. "This's worse than we've thought."

He couldn't see Victoria then, of course. Valerie just returned to the hotel alone, as Alfred and Bruce stayed behind to look for the transmission. Despite their best efforts, they couldn't find the point of origin. Instead, Bruce recorded the ferocious speech, and started analyzing the voice, crosschecking it to find anything related in the databases.

Lying in the bed alone in the hotel room, her last thought was the voice she'd heard in the cave. Bruce was right, it was worse than they had thought.

An outbreak was breeding in the heart of Gotham, and it was only a time before it spread ahead.

The next evening, before the sky completely darkened, Valerie gave the last overall at her reflection in the mirror, and decided that she looked enough professional and elegant for a dinner party that was hosted by her boss.

Even though the party was going to a black tie occasion, for her gown was out of the question. As freelance as she might be, she was still an employee of Wayne Enterprises, newly hired, and no self-respected business woman would go with a party of her boss like she was going to her sister's wedding. A cocktail dress should do. So like any girl in a crisis, she twisted her hair in a simple updo and opted a "little black dress" which only had black lace decorating over its V neck, neither too revealing nor too conservative. To complete the dress, and just because she wanted to, she put Bruce's pearl necklace, too.

Taking her coat, she left the hotel room, only to be greeted by her father and Rory in the corridor. In black suits, they both looked different, though Jason had left his bowtie at home, not even bothering with a regular tie. Well, he was wearing a suit, at least, she told herself.

They took a taxi, and went to the manor. She felt—she didn't know, a bit intimidated. It wasn't her first time she'd slipped in a formal party, pretending to be something for one thing and another, but this was different.

First of all, she wasn't pretending, and second she had never cared what those people had thought about her before. Now, she was a detective, for real, a detective that worked for a multinational business empire, and to do her business well she needed these people get to respect her.

And there was Bruce, too…whom she was going to officially meet the first time… who was going to attend the party with three dates… Because obviously one single woman wasn't enough for the birthday boy. She sighed inwardly, wondering what kind of jerkiness she was going to find tonight in her plate.

The manor was different. Different, different, as if the house itself had gone under a change like the master of it. Gone the bleak, haunting façade of the Gothic mansion, now stood in its place a living, buzzing nest of vanity, power, and money in parade. The ball room was lighted with big chandeliers that casted a warm light the whole interior, as people circled around, steady smiles plastered at the lips, like sharks circling around a bleeding prey.

She had no idea why she felt this defensive, and she wasn't going to stop and think her reactions either. It wasn't like that she let those money-mongering, fake-teeth douchebags get the best of her. She would kick their asses even at her worst.

Leaving Jason and Rory at the bar, she wasn't even going there, she padded toward the buffet. There was more than a dozen waitresses in the slick black serving costumes serving drinks and aperitifs, wandering around, but she needed to keep herself busy until Fox brought her to Bruce. She picked up a few hors d'oeuvre in her plate, and tried to find anything non-alcoholic.

There was none. There was every kind of booze one could dream of; champagne, bourbon, whiskey, vodka, gin, even beer… but there was no coke, no Fanta, no soda, not even damn water. "Great—" she muttered under breath with ire, "Juuuust great."

The man standing beside her at the line in front of the bar threw at her a glance, then smiled, taking her silent curse at the wrong way. "Hard to decide, isn't it?" he asked.

Grimacing, she pursed her lips. "Not really," she said.

Understanding lit in his eyes. "Ah—I see—" He paused, looking around, then leaned toward her, "Wait here a second."

She looked at his retreating back, as he suddenly turned and walked toward the backside of the bar. A few seconds later, he returned, with a club soda in his hands. She looked at him, revealing a sigh, her eyes grateful. "And I thought gentlemen had gone long ago extinct."

He laughed; an easy, clear voice, "Now, that's a first. Never been accused being a gentleman before."

Smiling, she looked at him. He looked familiar. He had dark brown slick hair that fell cropped until his neck, and stubble in the same color around his chin and upper lip, and a bright set of lighter brown eyes, sharp and intelligent over a face that had strong Indian heritage. His look was average; he was averagely tall, averagely handsome, but the glint in his eyes gave him a different air; intense yet effortless. And he damn looked familiar. She knew she'd seen him before, just couldn't place it anywhere. He didn't look like the types that would be hired by Wayne Enterprises, let alone get invited to the Bruce Wayne's birthday, but…

"Hmm—" she hummed, her smile turning a bit sly, close to flirty; well, she'd better sharpen her skills… She'd been out of the game so long, and it wasn't like that Bruce would mind it… "Should I ask what you're usually being accused?" she asked, moving away from the table to a corner, away from the cluster of the people.

He shrugged, following her. "The usual things—public enemy, dissonant, dissident…" he smiled, taking a seep from his beer, "And, my personal favorite, insurgent."

Then she recognized him. He was that activist lawyer from the Anti-Dent Act platform, the one who had just started an occupation movement in the Central Park, the one Bruce had classified having ties with mob, but they had discovered later it was because he took the slum kids cases from the Dent-Act pro-bono. Derrick Malkin, she remembered the name, too, and she understood where he was familiar, she had been seeing him at the Vicki Vale's night show on the cable.

But what the hell an activist was doing in the Bruce Wayne's damn birthday. She narrowed her eyes. "I know you," she said, the flirtatious attitude gone, leaving its place to an acute skepticism, "You're that lawyer from Anti-Dent Act platform."

He heaved a sigh. "Building myself a rep, ain't I?"

"Well, kinda," she said, "What are you doing?"

His eyebrow rose at her blunt question. "Lobbying—" he said simply, "Doctor Quinzel wants us to gain some support for—the cause."

Doctor Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. An accomplished psychiatrist, the doctor was the managing director of Arkham, one of the figureheads of the Anti-Dent Act Platform, and the leading doctor of the Joker's case. Oh, well. "I see," she remarked, her lips turning to a grimace.

He gave a look, his eyes half-narrowed, too, then they loosened. "So, what are you doing here?" he asked. She arched her eyebrow. He shrugged again. "I mean no insult, in fact, I mean it as flattery, but you don't look like these types—" His hand vaguely waved in the air.

Inwardly, she sighed. She wouldn't—shouldn't stand out this much. "Work," she said, and paused. "Basically I'm here to make observations."

In return, he raised his eyebrows back at her. "I'm working for Wayne Enterprises, I'm their PI," she explained, a touch of proud tinting her tone.

He looked at her impressed. "Well, that explains," he said, "and I might say that you're very good at your work."

She smirked. "Yes, I am."

"So you're here to observe who's gonna sneak away the booze from Wayne?"

"Don't forget the silverware," she shot back.

"Ah, yes, knives and forks are important."

"The keystones of the western civilization," she agreed. It was nice, the easy conservation, the back and forth, effortless but hinting a bit of harmless flirt. She'd missed it. All of her conversations or not-conversation with Bruce or Jason was so intense that she was missing the easy. That was why she had opted to spend time with Rory in the last days. Rory was an edged man, too, unbalanced, but at least with him, words didn't fail her.

Taking a sip from his beer, he looked at her. "So—any tips you can give me?" he asked, "Who I shall stay away?"

She laughed. "Almost everyone?"

Suddenly he grimaced, the ease in his gestures gone. "It couldn't be that bad," he said sternly.

She shook her head. "Sorry—most of this room are devoted followers of the Mayor Elliot," she said, "And supporter of the Dent Act. They believe it's making a progress."

He scoffed, his eyes losing their earlier warmth. "Old money—" he said with disdain, "Always ready to turn a blind eye to the freedom as long as they keep making money."

She shook her head, suddenly finding herself in the position to defend them. Life was odd. "It's not just that. They want to feel safe again. You can hardly blame them for that."

His eyes turned even colder. "Actually, I can," he rasped, "Those who would give up freedom for security deserve neither," he intoned the famous quote stiffly.

"They aren't that bad—" she said, defending them again. Why, she didn't even know. A snicker should have pursed her lips either in an equal disdain. It was old money, something she'd always hated. Oh god, what the hell was happening to her, what the hell was happening to her!

A sudden, blind panic rose inside her. Her hands trembling, she almost reached to the beer he was holding. She tried to take a breath, but her lungs weren't functioning. The lights from chandelier started turning above the tall ceiling, the walls coming upon her. Her stomach churned, as her blood roared in her eardrums. "Sorry—" she mumbled, "I gotta go," she said, almost running to the balcony to her left.

Blindly, she threw outside, and tried to get her emotions in control. Bile raised in her throat, her ears still drumming, and she almost threw up, but kept it inside at the last moment. She couldn't have an episode, not now. Not fucking now. She had to be strong. Goddammit, she was strong.

She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine how Bruce had calmed down in the morgue, his voice…firm yet gentle…telling her it was okay, she was okay.

It's okay, her eyes still closed, the words echoed in her hazy mind. You're okay.

Exhaling a deep breath, she opened her eyes, and returned to the ball room, and inside an eager, openly staring circle she saw him, flunked by two long-legged girl at one side, and with another at the other, his arms draped over their shoulders, he leaned forward with a drunken glee, the boyish charm at full force. She sighed, bottling up her water glass as if it was scotch. This was going to suck.

His head craned, and he whispered something to one of the girls, as the girl giggled in response. He lowered his arm then from the shoulder, wandering south toward her hip. She turned aside, starting walking away, then stopped dead in her tracks.

Jason was talking Doctor Quinzel. She stared at her father, closing her eyes, giving away slow breaths. Great, just fucking great. The blonde woman was looking like a no-nonsense woman in her middle forties, yet, when she laughed at what Jason almost whispered at her ear, she looked like a schoolgirl.

Oh dear god! They were flirting. Her father was flirting with the fucking therapist of the Joker!

She walked to them purposely, and took Jason at his elbow tightly. "I'm sorry," she said between tight lips, and dragged him away to the corner.

"What the hell, kiddo," Jason pulled off his arm free, "What are you doing?"

"What are you doing, father?" she shot back furiously.

"I'm having fun—" He opened his palms to the sides, "You should try to get some, too. You've really started sounding like your boyfriend."

She took a step closer, ignoring his jab. "Do you even know who she's?"

"Of course, I know," Jason bit off, as if he was affronted, "That's why I went to talk to her. I want to know more about that son of a bitch that almost got my daughter killed."

Looking at him with a steely look, she warned, pressing on each word, "Stay away from her."

He threw at her a grin. "Too late," he said, "I already asked her dinner tomorrow night."

"You did what?"

"She said yes, too." He paused, suddenly a frown appearing above his eyebrows, "Do you know a place I can take her to?"

The incredulousness shone in her eyes, as she shook her head at him. "Bruce's gonna have your hide this time."

He laughed. "God, kiddo, he's really turned you to himself."

A silent "argh" erupted out of her before she turned on her heels and moved away. The last thing she heard before she cleared off him was his voice with a deep sigh. "Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas."

She pretended she hadn't understood what that meant.