Pennyworth double checked the navigational equipment, as he did every evening at dusk. The small yacht he was piloting around the Atlantic was only the most recent cover story for the Master's training. He was used to meeting Master Bruce after every step of his training, but reporters in Gotham were starting to become nosy, questioning whether Bruce Wayne would ever helm the company that was his namesake. Pennyworth knew the Master was coming to the end of his training, and this ploy was the best option for him. Away from prying eyes, he could return whenever he wished, and none would question why such a solitary young man would do a little soul search in the custom of rich young men.
So, it was up to Pennyworth to fabricate the evidence, actually taking the ship around, a ship which could be traced by any reporter who had enough grease and gall to get things moving. It was pleasant enough a task, yet he wished he could be there when his Master returned.
The night was fast approaching, and once he was sure that everything was secured and working properly, he prepared to go below. He was just about to close the hatch when he heard it.
The splash was quiet but too big to be a fish. He knew the sense of taking precautions, so he armed himself before finding cover against the raised platform around the mid-deck, finding the shadow to his liking. He listened and heard neither creak of board nor shift of water that was out of place. He moved around the platform, making it halfway up the ship when he found it. Water, a large puddle of it, was running off the side. There was no way a wave could have gotten this height without a storm, and there was evidence of a trail of water, heading away from him. He was not alone.
He considered throwing caution to the wind; if his assailant was using stealth, that either meant he or she likely couldn't take Pennyworth by main strength. There was nothing of particular value on the boat save the boat itself, and with the assailant's presence known, coming at him or her directly and without caution could likely turn the element of surprise in Pennyworth's favor. But, he deemed the maneuver too risky and was preparing to continue on when the light from below clicked on. He dropped to the deck as quietly as he could. Moving at speed, he made his way back to the aft hatch and went below, easily. On the luxury deck, that was just large enough to stand, was a figure, standing at the bar. He wore white silk pajama bottoms under a black silk robe and was sipping a glass of what looked like scotch. Pennyworth was about to raise his firearm when he turned.
"Master Bruce," said Pennyworth, utterly confused. He suddenly wondered if he had somehow been mistaken and if the Master had been aboard this whole time. Then, the reality of the situation settled in, and Pennyworth looked over the young man, who had been a boy when last they had met, with a feeling of pride and not undue awe.
He was certainly transformed, in size, form, and posture. He held himself with the same sort of tenacious precision that had dominated his mind in youth, now manifest in his limbs and movements. His strength was obvious, although his bulk was not that the bodybuilder, who works towards an aesthetic appearance; he was that lean muscle that comes with that of practical fitness, worked tirelessly and regularly to an optimal functioning weight, balancing tone and flexibility with strength and endurance.
However, the biggest change was to his eyes. As a boy, his gaze was only occasionally direct. There had always been a bit of a wariness about him, and while he seemed to have no trouble looking into another face if the situation called for it, it seemed that there was always a hint of defensiveness to it, as though he expected only his name and station to protect him from potential retributions. But now, there was an inner solidity, a daring and confidence that comes only from testing one's own metal and finding nothing wanting.
"Alfred," said the Master, sipping his drink, and only then did Pennyworth realize the sheen to his hair was more than it seemed. He knew he would likely find a wetsuit in the changing room off of the fore hatch, and that his current clothing had been taken from the main bedroom, where all his belongings were stored and kept as though he were actually present.
Pennyworth found himself, at last, stowing the firearm and returning his posture to that he had held since before the Master was born, "Can I assist you in any way, sir?"
The Master seemed to consider, swirling his drink before dismissing it completely, "Yes, Alfred. Alter our destination. We're going home."
The trip back to Gotham was uneventful. The Master seemed to be in a constant state of deep reflection. He tended the ship himself, as well as, if not better than, Pennyworth felt capable of himself. When he wasn't seeing to the yacht or taking his meals, he was held up in his room, using the computer. Pennyworth found himself settling into the old routine as though he had never left it, wondering why he ever thought that the return of the Master meant that he would share his mind and intentions with an aging servant such as himself.
Though the return trip was without incident, the actual arrival was wholly unexpected. The precession was rather large, though no larger than Pennyworth was used to seeing for the return of a Wayne after a long period away from home. What he hadn't expected was the throng of young women the Master's age, some who's garb was scant for early spring. Many of them screamed their delight as they made the final approach and tied off. The Master cut a handsome figure, wearing white khaki shorts and an open shirt, well-muscled abs apparent, his hair windswept and his skin golden from the sun. Despite his usually reclusive nature, the Master was instantly charismatic, smiling broadly at the reception, and greeting the women with equal exuberance, though less volume.
Pennyworth saw to his duties. As the Master finished tying off, he jumped ashore, beset by the ladies and goodnaturedly answering any questions that the reporters threw his way. As Pennyworth began unloading, he was parting the crowd to the car that had been delivered for their use when he saw none other than Harvey Dent edge the back of the crowd.
It had been a long time since Harvey had seen his boyhood friend, almost a decade, he couldn't remember. He wasn't sure what he was expecting upon his return, but this wasn't it. He knew about the girls, the string of women through the Caribbean, all of which had posted some rather illicit photos of a half-naked Bruce on social media sites, waxing poetically of their charming prince of Gotham who adorned them with gifts and luxuries by day and made their every dream and desire come true by night. Harvey had no idea these posts would elicit such a response, nor that the quiet and reserved boy he knew was this... playboy, for lack of a better term, he held before him. He was about to turn and go, pretending he hadn't seen any of this and meet Bruce later, in a more genuine situation, when Bruce, in the middle of answering a reporter's question, looked up and called, "Harvey!"
Before he could do more than go rigid, Bruce was there, embracing him. He was momentarily put out to be hugged by a nearly shirtless man, the man being his friend once notwithstanding, but he found Bruce's renewed enthusiasm infectious and was soon smiling and cutting up more than he ever had as a boy.
"What are you up to?" Bruce practically crowed. "It's been a long time! I'm so glad you're here."
"Law school," said Harvey. "My old man just about flipped his lid when I told him I had an internship at the district attorney's office."
Bruce laughed boisterously, "I bet he did. Your dad was such a blowhard! Is he the same or did he finally get that stick-ectomy?"
More than one girl laughed and Harvey couldn't help but chuckle, "He's the same."
"That's okay," said Bruce. "We won't hold that against you, will we ladies?"
There was a resounding cry from the women around them, and Harvey was amazed that one of them actually looped her arm in his.
"Now," said Bruce. "I am terribly sorry to all of you lovely newsies, but my friend is here, and I'm sure that if we don't get to partying, some of these lovely ladies will turn into pumpkins! Ladies!"
With more laughed and cries, the girls were suddenly a living organism onto themselves, with a singular will and purpose. Harvey was dragged, almost bodily, along with Bruce, to the limo that was waiting for them. Harvey's protests that he had things to do fell on deaf ears, even Bruce's. They drove around the city for hours, the limo's bar sustaining them until Bruce managed to get one of Gotham's hottest nightclub's owner on the phone and convinced her to open the doors to her club, Black Melancholy, almost half a day early. Suddenly, every girl in the limo seemed to be on their phone, making call after call, and by the time they reached the club after the agreed prerequisite time to prepare it to open, there was already a line of gorgeous youths running around the building and out of sight.
The paparazzi was in full swing as they pulled to the curb, and Harvey tried once again to make his excuses.
"What are you doing?" Bruce asked. "You can't leave now! I just got back. We have all this time to make up for! Besides, I know Marilyn doesn't want you to leave, do you, Marilyn?"
Before Harvey could really get a good look at the said Marilyn, he found himself getting pulled into line at the very front. The doors opened and Bruce was the first one in, followed by his entourage. They made their way to a central table, and after a moment, the club's owner came by and thanked Bruce for his patronage. The club was full in a matter of minutes and the party was in full swing shortly thereafter.
Harvey had trouble relaxing, but he finally did. He had some drinks, a girl on each arm, and soon it didn't matter that half of their screamed conversation couldn't be heard over the blaring DJ. They were laughing and falling all over one another. Harvey was trying to tell Marilyn some story about his dad and how he was wrong about Harvey when suddenly, she kissed him. His head was swimming, and as soon as the kiss broke, the girl on his other side kissed him. He was confused that it felt like kissing the same girl, more confused when he pulled back and it was the same girl. But no, not quiet. Marilyn was all party girl, with lips that match her nails, eyeshadow, and dress. This other girl on his left, who shared Marilyn's face, was pure goth, sultry and mysterious. He looked at Bruce who just grinned back, and despite the ludicrous juvenility of it, he high-fived his long lost friend.
The club got a bit fuzzy from there on. At one point they were served food, though Harvey was fairly certain the club didn't prepare any food. They eventually made their way to the VIP room, after which Harvey began to sober a little. At one point Marilyn handed him another drink, which made it out of his hands somehow, before Harvey thought he saw Bruce hand an identical drink to a passing girl who looked far more lucid. He noticed that Bruce didn't seem to be drinking at all anymore, but was nursing a drink that looked like it might only be soda water with lime. Harvey could have sworn he saw Bruce removing mostly full drinks from the hands of girls who looked on the edge of fall down drunk, but it all happened so fast, he couldn't be sure.
Then came the Party Planning Committee, but Harvey couldn't remember who called them that. It was one guy, electric blue hair with fluorescent pink tips, with two teen girl toadies pumping his party favors in little baggies with literal hugs and kisses.
Harvey felt largely uncomfortable, but Bruce stepped it, facilitating everything with a practical polish, examining every pill and resenting everything that wasn't marked or he couldn't identify, which wasn't much, saying, "Only the best for my girls."
The girls doled out the baggies themselves, and Harvey breathed a sigh when they were offered to no one, only taken by those that wanted them.
Harvey had another drink, as did many, and the night took on a dream-like quality. Somehow, Bruce talked a pair of what looked like marines into overseeing the girls and running off anyone who looked as though they might take advantage.
They partied into the night, Harvey getting drunk enough that he started losing snatches of time. At one point Harvey recalled Marilyn kissing him, a long kiss with a lot of tongue, leaving a pill in his mouth. Then he was kissed deeply and forcefully by her twin, and the pill was gone. He recalled a restaurant with awesome finger foods. He remembered something about a park and a jungle gym. There were bits and pieces all jumbled together of riding in the limo, coming and going, at times with the Party Planning Committee, at times without. Finally, Harvey seemed to sober enough to realize that they were in a hotel room. He was lying in a comfortable queen sized bed, the twins to either side of him. They were both bare down to underwear, which left Marilyn more than twice as nude as her sister. Managing to rise without rousing either of them, he found his shirt and walked cautiously out into the suite.
There were girls everywhere. Both of the Marines were there, with three girls between them. There were more than a couple girls nestled together in various states of undress, a pair or two spooning. He wasn't sure if he should leave or what and decided to look for the kitchen, in search of water or maybe something to eat.
As Harvey wondered past a doorway, he saw Bruce standing on a balcony, the door to the outside night wide. Before he could think to continue on, Bruce turned and saw him, gesturing him forward.
"It's a nice night," Bruce said, after Harvey had crossed the room where at least four girls lay curled in the Master bedroom's bed.
"It is," said Harvey, feeling at a loss. Finally, after a long pause, he spoke up. "Bruce, what the hell?"
Bruce didn't even flinch.
"You were gone," Harvey went on, "for years. Not just years; a decade. You don't even say goodbye. You were just gone. Then you come back and you're- I don't know what you are."
"People change," said Bruce and there was something strange about his voice. It was haunted and yet somehow haunting.
"What the hell happened to you out there?" asked Harvey. "I am a law student in the DA's office. And even so, I have seen my fair share. I know hiding when I see it. What are you running from?"
Bruce's shoulders slumped, as though succumbed by a great weight. He shook his head and said, "I am not running. I can't explain it to you. I'm not sure you would even want me to. I know the type of running you are talking about, the running, the avoidance of responsibility. It is what killed my parents. It took my childhood away from me. It makes children into bullies, the shamed and the desperate into thieves and murderers. It makes decent men wicked and cowardly. It takes the sanity out of the work. I can't live in this world and accept these things as they are. I just can't."
Harvey nodded. He guessed that if he saw all that, every day, he would try to hide from it too.
"You could always try to change it," said Harvey. "If anyone could change the world, it would be you."
Bruce smiled unhappily, "People are going to do what they are going to do. I can't change that."
"You made this night happen, all this partying," pointed out Harvey.
"Did I change anyone's behavior?" asked Bruce. "Did I inspire anything out of their norm?"
Harvey tried to see past his liquor addled brain. No, he hadn't. The driver drove. The girls guided and pulled. The owner opened the club. The Party Planning Committee supplied the drugs. The club supplied the alcohol. Even Thomas Wayne supplied the money. Bruce was there, doing just enough to let it all happen. But why? What had it all been for?
"It's men like you, Dent," said Bruce, standing straighter as the far-off horizon began to glow dimly. "Good men like you will save the world, men who see what the world is like and want to change it. The best I could do is help keep it from becoming a worse one."
Harvey smiled, "People change."
Bruce turned, and, for one long moment, Harvey could see the blank and hopeless face of the little boy that had stood beside his parents' open graves.
"Do they?"
