Upon returning to the city proper he went straight to Wayne Enterprises where after a few choice phone calls he managed to land what he thought were some good deals on Gotham General from several of the benefactors who had attended his fundraiser. The psychiatrist seemed pleased with the results as did the people who were rebuilding the chapel. Then he had to attend some meetings during which he drew terrible cramped approximations of Edvard Munch's The Scream on the lined paper where he was supposed to be taking notes. Lucius asked him privately a little later how things were going, and he lied and said everything was fine, and then he went home and told Alfred he had business plans tomorrow that would take an unknown amount of time and so to either avoid or cancel anything else. Then he swallowed an Ambien and went to bed.
In the morning he was still unsure as to his decision and whether he could handle it but he went to the meeting anyway. He took again the Mustang which was probably a stupid idea but which also remained his least threatening, least conspicuous car. The meeting was in the basement of one of the mob restaurants. Bruce had to bypass the bartender and the few patrons having early lunches; the bartender gave him an odd look, and Bruce wondered if he would say anything, but after a moment he only went back to cleaning out the filthy glasses with a rag. Frank Sinatra was playing on the jukebox. Bruce went to the basement door around the back and knocked three times as the card instructed; one of the henchmen let him in, patted him down, and sent him to the others. There were seven of them including Cornell and Reznor. If they were surprised to see him Bruce couldn't tell; they had their masks on again. The Joker himself was not there; Bruce wondered if he should comment on it. Instead he began, tentatively:
"So what's — " but Cornell held up a finger.
"Shut up," he said. "I told you, today you're here to observe. Just listen, okay, Wayne? Can you do that?"
It turned out he could, or at least that he could fake it very well. Bruce employed tactics similar to those he used when sitting through hours of boring meetings: he stood to the side, head a little lowered in deference to the others, and watched out the corners of his eyes as they conducted their interrogations. As Batman he'd seen a few of the men they were questioning; they were former members of the mob, the last remnants of the system the Joker had dismantled so quickly back in July. It was occasionally still shocking how even the Falcone crime family was struggling to reorient itself following the Joker's overhaul of the city. The Joker wanted more weapons, or something; Bruce wasn't really listening, though if Cornell or the others glanced his way he made every effort to appear otherwise. And his acting must have been better than he thought, because some days after this initial interrogation he was asked to come back — a card pressed into the folds of his wallet, somehow, when he was surveying the plans for the refurbished hospital. He went to two more meetings like the first — basements of mob restaurants, smelling like the grease fires above and the cooking fat and oil and punctuated throughout by the sound of the cooks arguing half in Italian. In between these meetings (Bruce always standing in the background, silent, while Cornell half watched him and half watched the proceedings) he went to things concerning Wayne Enterprises; also he listened to the police radio, trying to ignore the stabs of guilt he felt when he heard the Joker's activities being broadcast and knowing he was actively aiding in them rather than stopping them; and he worked out sometimes at midnight in the gym at his penthouse, once listening to OK Computer on his iPod, thinking about Yorke — the henchman, not the singer — and the spread of his blood across the stone floor. Alfred watched him unsubtly and worriedly but of course didn't bring anything up. Bruce wasn't sure if he wanted him to.
Two weeks into the whole thing, he began feeling a little — dissatisfied. He hadn't seen the Joker since their first meeting in the warehouse. He didn't know what Cornell or any of the others were telling him. He assumed it was satisfactory enough, since the cards kept arriving. But he wasn't sure why they kept calling him back just to stand in the corner and watch things going on. The guys they were interrogating were small-time criminals, even the ones from the mob, and they never even looked Bruce's way because Cornell kept him hidden in the shadows. He hadn't been asked to participate and he hadn't been given any sort of instructions outside of stay out of the way, keep your mouth shut, don't fucking breathe unless we tell you. He had no idea how the fuck he was supposed to gain their trust — gain the Joker's trust — with his back against the fucking wall, and his hands in his pockets.
The thing was there was probably no limit to what any of them would do, in the end. He'd only seen very mild things in these first weeks but he was used to smashing criminals' heads into brick walls to knock them out or else beating them into submission with his fists and he knew the Joker had even less inhibitions than he did — if he had any at all. If he wanted to gain their trust he'd have to do something big, probably. Maybe they were waiting for him to make the first move; it didn't seem likely, given how fond Cornell and Reznor and the others were of glowering at him when he showed up to the meetings, but anything was possible. He could take initiative; he'd seen them at work enough, he knew what they wanted, the basic patterns of their tactics. They were not dissimilar to certain of the tactics he employed while interrogating people as Batman. This needed to work. He needed to infiltrate the gang and destroy every evil underhanded part of it. But he needed them to actually think he was on their side, first.
How far are you willing to go? Thomas' voice again. How far will you go for the man who killed Rachel? Will you be party to the same types of orchestrations? Will you set up another chain of events like the ones from that night, and lead the lambs to slaughter, and ruin one more life?
He didn't know. He didn't know. But one thing was clear: the Joker wasthe reason Rachel was dead. He'd lied knowing what Bruce would do, which side he'd pick, and Bruce had played into it, he'd been weak and foolish, and she was gone. They'd done that together, and he couldn't apologize, not to her, and not to Harvey, either. But he could keep it from happening a third time. He could drag the Joker through hell; he could knock him down, leave him struggling in the dirt, rip him apart, destroy every inch of him, all his lies and his manipulations, every second he'd made Bruce suffer, every second he'd made Harvey suffer. Bruce could go pretty far to ensure there was vengeance for that. He'd already shaped his entire life around vengeance for a single night in an alleyway. He knew he was more than capable. Assimilation at any cost.
It occurred to him in a sort of detached way that even when he'd revealed he was double-crossing the Joker and had him brought in, he'd never be able to tell him he'd done it for Rachel, or even for Harvey, because the Joker couldn't know he was Batman. But he'd deal with that when he got to it. Maybe he'd get his satisfaction in a different way, in the end.
At the beginning of the third week of October, a joker card was slid beneath Bruce's glass of water at a restaurant when he went to the bathroom during a business lunch. The woman he was eating with didn't seem to have noticed anything, and as soon as he sat back down she started chattering again about her garden, and how next spring she was going to plant lilies, because her grandmother loved them. Bruce half-listened, slid the card out from under the glass, and set it down in his lap. The water had smudged some of the ink but it was still legible: Back alley. Come soon. Bruce sighed; he forced himself to spear another green bean, and then he said,
"Excuse me for a minute, Courtney — I just remembered I have to make a phone call."
"Of course," she said, waving her hand. Bruce got to his feet again; walked out the door. The restaurant alley was half a block away, due to the size of it, and it reeked of garbage, but Cornell and Reznor were standing just outside it. Reznor was smoking a cigarette.
"This isn't a great time," Bruce said, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm with a colleague."
"Oh, so sorry we forgot to cater our schedule to yours," Cornell said, rolling his eyes. "Next time we'll fuckin' page you first, Wayne, huh? Would that make it easier for you?"
Bruce folded his arms. "What do you want?"
Cornell looked at Reznor, who sighed, and stamped out his cigarette. "Boss wants you on the next interrogation," he said. "It's tomorrow, it's a — well, it's a shakedown, we're trying to get this fucker Richmond to fork over the parts he owes us and he's being a bitch about — "
"Richmond?" Bruce said, and Reznor blinked at him. Cornell exhaled sharply.
"You fuckin' deaf? He said Richmond, yes, let him — "
"I know a Richmond."
Another eye roll. "Good for you, Wayne, I'm sure there's a thousand fucking Richmonds in the city — "
Bruce sighed. "Just — who is it?"
Cornell glanced at Reznor, who shrugged. Cornell groaned. "His name's Josh. Joshua Richmond. He's this old fuck we've been doing business with for a while now, don't really know him very — "
"Yeah. I thought so. He used to work for me," Bruce said, and relished the surprise that passed over Cornell and Reznor's faces before they could hide it. "I know his family. Not, like, insanely well or anything, but we have employee records at the company, of course, and I could — I mean, if it would help — " What the fuck was he doing? Assimilation at any cost, but was this the cost? He didn't even know where the suggestion had come from —
— though he did remember Lucius' sonar, and how he'd tapped every single phone in the city to chase a man down and throw him off a building —
— but he could feel his heart in his throat, watching Cornell consider it. Finally he said,
"You could hack the files? Get information on his family? Stuff about his wife, his kids, whatever?"
"I own the company, so I wouldn't have to hack anything, but — yes. I could get that for you." It was just a job. He was good at coming up with things for his company and he could be good at coming up with things for this company. He was just acting. He needed this to work. If this was what it took for them to trust him —
"Okay." Cornell was frowning at him, but he was also nodding, albeit slowly. "Okay, so, you get the information now, and — "
"I told you, I'm having lunch with — "
"Now, Wayne. This thing is tomorrow. We're not fucking catering to you just because your company could buy out the state."
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. Reznor was texting rapidly on his Nokia; after a moment he said, "Boss likes the idea," which — great, that was exactly what Bruce wanted. The Joker's approval was only the first step, but it was a huge step, and he made himself smile, and he said,
"I'll go pay my check, and I'll get started on this right away. How do you want me to get the information to you?"
"Reznor will come by your building in an hour. Can he get in the lobby or will he need you to buzz him in."
"The lobby's fine — "
"Great." Cornell pushed past Bruce and headed down the sidewalk. "One hour, Wayne," he called over his shoulder. Reznor followed him, pulling out another cigarette as he went. Bruce watched until they crossed the street, heading for a McDonald's; then he went back into the restaurant. Courtney accepted his lie that an emergency had come up — it wasn't entirely a lie, anyway — and flagged their waiter down while Bruce wrote out his half of the bill. He stuck the check under his plate, apologized to her again, and ducked out. It wasn't a far walk back to the building, and he took the elevator to the uppermost floor of the business section, where the files were kept on employees. Josh Richmond was buried deep in the back, because he'd retired nearly ten years prior, but once Bruce extracted the file — he could have gone into the company server, but he didn't want any electronic proof he'd done this, just in case — it was easy to find what he knew Cornell wanted, and what he'd offered. By the time Reznor arrived Bruce was already waiting in the lobby for him.
"He has grandchildren at Wayne Day," Bruce said quietly. "We can go there tomorrow morning and follow his car."
Reznor raised an eyebrow; evidently he hadn't thought Bruce would really do it. This pissed him off, for some reason.
"Can I have the file?" Reznor asked, but Bruce shook his head:
"I'm not risking any copies getting filtered into the wrong hands and backlash landing on me. If the boss wants me on the job in the morning then I'm going with you or with Cornell or whoever it is he's assigning this thing to. I can give the information then."
"You're not in any position to fucking negotiate terms — "
"The boss said he wanted me there. What the fuck use am I if I give you the file now? I have a photographic memory, I won't forget anything I read on Richmond just now. It's safer in my head than out where literally anyone could get hold of it. No offense, but I have way more at stake doing this than any of you — "
"Oh, man," Reznor snorted, "none taken, asshole — "
"Look, I'm just saying — "
"I get what you're saying." Reznor glared at him, taking a step back. "You are a fucking piece of work, Wayne. Cornell's right, I have no idea why the fuck the boss hired you." He kept his eyes levelly on Bruce's for a long time, and Bruce stared right back, watching peripherally the rush of people around the two of them. He wondered what they were thinking, seeing him just standing there. At last Reznor sighed; he pulled out his phone again, and shot off a text, and some minutes later he said, "All right. Cornell's gonna pick you up tomorrow morning. You'd better have some damn good shit to tell him."
"I will." Bruce shoved his hands in his pockets so Reznor wouldn't see them trembling. "I will."
Reznor just shook his head. As he walked out, Bruce saw him snatch up some of the complimentary mints from the front desk. They were really technically only for guests of the building. But he decided to let it go.
Bruce had assumed a Suburban would be too stereotypical for the Joker's people but when Cornell pulled up to the bus stop the following morning at the corner of Edmonton and Burnside he was indeed in a black Suburban, cigarette smoke trailing from the driver's side window. Bruce heard the locks pop from inside. He hesitated, glancing down the street, then got in. Cornell was already rolling his eyes as Bruce snapped his seatbelt.
"Don't look to the left and the right, Wayne, for fuck's sake," he said. "The point is to be as inconspicuous as possible, not to look like you're dodging the fucking police."
"Sorry," Bruce muttered, which earned him another eye roll. Cornell pulled out, and turned right. They drove in silence for most of the way, except for the radio which was playing, somewhat surprisingly, a Top 40 station. Cornell ashed his cigarette out his window when they were close to the school and held up his pack to Bruce with his eyebrows lifted a little. Bruce was so startled by this gesture that he took a cigarette and lit it with Cornell's proffered lighter. He'd only smoked a handful of times in his life, usually at business functions to make himself seem more open and social, and the first inhale made him cough. Cornell laughed at him as he pulled over to the curb just outside the school zone and killed the engine. There was a line of cars waiting outside the gates, kids spilling out, waving to their parents as they headed in. Bruce saw the Richmonds' van almost immediately, and pointed it out to Cornell, who nodded and settled back in his seat.
"So tell me about them," he said. "This wealth of information you're supposed to have. What is it?"
Bruce swallowed. The cigarette was hot between his fingers, and he took another drag on it to distract himself. "Well, um — " He hesitated; he hoped Cornell would take it as his inexperience, and the nervousness that would inevitably come from a businessman trying his hand at crime. He watched the van doors open, and three children spilled out, holding their plastic lunchboxes and shoving at each other good-naturedly. "The guy who worked in my company — his name's Josh Richmond. He and his wife Kathy are uh, they're both in their early seventies, and he worked in the music industry for a long time before he switched over to Wayne Enterprises. He retired in '99. He and Kathy take care almost full-time of their grandchildren — " pointing to the kids, who were running into the gate now, waving over their shoulders at the car — "Stella, Suzanne, and Daniel. But sometimes they live with their mom…" The longer he talked, the easier he found it to let the words spill out. He had no idea if what he was telling Cornell was even useful but Cornell never interrupted, or took his eyes off the van. And Bruce told him everything: more names, addresses. He told him things that wouldn't necessarily lead back to him directly; other people could have easily known the things he said, and he and the Richmonds had never been close.
This was just a job, he reminded himself. He was an employee, and Cornell was his colleague, and he was giving him information on a client. That was how he had to look at it. That was how it was. This was what he'd wanted to do, and if this was how he had to do it then he'd do it this way. If gaining the Joker's trust meant giving out a little information for an interrogation then okay. Bruce wouldn't have to feel guilty about it later because he would turn the gang in to Gordon and save so many other people from this. This was his job, however temporarily. And Bruce had always been a good worker.
When he was done, he glanced at Cornell. Cornell's expression hadn't changed; there was something calculating in it Bruce didn't really like, and after a moment he said, "You know, all of that information had better be correct. Because I'd hate to have to call the boss and tell him you wasted our time."
"Call him if you want," Bruce said, measuredly. "I didn't lie about anything."
The van's brake lights flashed, and Cornell sighed. He cranked their engine again, and pulled out a little after. He followed the van across town, keeping a good two or three cars' lengths behind it, until at last it pulled in at the parking lot of a Kinko's. Cornell parked three lanes behind it and lit another cigarette. Bruce pitched his out his window. They both watched the car until the driver's side door opened, and out stepped —
"Fuck," said Cornell. "That's not Kathy Richmond."
It was a young woman, blonde. She shook her things down into her purse, locked her car doors, and started for the Kinko's. Cornell turned blistering furious eyes onto Bruce.
"You fucking lied to me — "
"No," Bruce said, straining to keep his voice even despite the soft strand of fear that had wound up his chest at the sight of her. "No, I didn't. That's the right car and those were the right kids, and that's — that can be the right girl. It's just a different girl than we were expecting."
"Well then who the fuck is it, Wayne?"
Bruce tightened his fingers against his knees. "Her name is Alice Richmond," he said. "Remember, I mentioned her earlier — she's the kids' mother. Josh's daughter-in-law. Her husband Donald was killed a few years ago in a car accident, and — "
"How many years?"
Bruce frowned. "Why does that — "
"It matters," Cornell said, sounding close to murder, "because we cannot fuck up any part of this job, Wayne. Do you understand that? No, of course you don't," he said, before Bruce could answer, "you've only ever sat in a cushy fucking office and smiled at the pretty receptionist and had birthday cakes in the breakrooms and whatever the fuck else. You've only ever owned your whole fucking family's company. It's not like that with us. The boss is good to us. But only so long as we give him what he wants. The second we're less than perfect, the second we don't turn out the right information or collect enough profit or whatever, one little thing wrong, that's it. And we aren't just fired. We're killed. Even me or Reznor. It's not set in stone that you're here, Wayne. So you need to tell me the exact number of years so I can know how to get to her. Because otherwise you might not get to go back to that safe pretty penthouse with the air-conditioning and the elevator. Okay?"
Bruce bit down on his lower lip. He stared at the Kinko's entrance and thought for a bit and then he said, "Five. It was five years ago. I remember that because I hadn't come back from — from studying overseas when it happened, and — "
"You studied overseas?" Cornell snorted. "Fuck'd you do that for?"
"I — " Bruce hesitated. His stupid rich Wayne persona would've come in handy right now, but in the end all he could say was, "I just… thought it was a good opportunity."
Cornell rolled his eyes for the third time that morning. He tossed his cigarette out his window and rolled it back up before cutting the ignition. "What the hell could possibly be worth learning overseas that you couldn't learn in some college here," he said, though he didn't really seem to expect any real answer. Bruce shrugged. He cracked his knuckles, remembering how much Alfred hated it. Then he said,
"It's — it wasn't worth it. It's just some dumb shit I don't use anymore."
Cornell looked at him for a moment. Then he shrugged, got out of the car. He walked around to the trunk and retrieved a UPS outfit which he changed into in the spacious backseat. The nametag said Jorge. He shoved a cap over his hair, and then he grabbed an empty cardboard box and walked around to Bruce's side of the car. He dropped the keys and his burner phone in Bruce's lap through the open window.
"Anything goes wrong, you leave," he said. "Don't wait for me to come out. Call Reznor or Kowalczyk before you call the boss. Okay?"
"Okay," Bruce said. Cornell hesitated, looking like he wanted to say something else — don't fuck this up, probably — but then he walked away. Bruce watched him enter the Kinko's. He was in there for a while, and when he came out — sans box — he was walking with purpose. Bruce decided it would be best to start the car up while Cornell was still heading over, so he did, and unlocked the doors, but Cornell only slid into the driver's seat and tossed his hat to the floor. He put the car in reverse and left the lot. It wasn't until two blocks later that Bruce learned his information had gone through okay.
"She was so fucking terrified," Cornell said, laughing a little around his fresh cigarette. "You know — 'oh, please, don't hurt my kids, please, I'll do anything'…" He pulled up to a red light and sat drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. "Fucking annoying cunt," he muttered. "She's lucky Josh has the money he does so she can afford to suck the fat off her neck."
Bruce felt something clench up in his chest tight and hot like a burning fist. He could feel Cornell's eyes on him, watching for some kind of reaction, like he knew what Bruce was thinking, so he forced his face to stay neutral. He offered Cornell a little smile.
"You gonna tell the Joker I came through, then?"
The fourth eye roll. "Whatever."
"So am I in?" Bruce asked.
This earned him an incredulous laugh. "Fuck no, Wayne," he said. "What the fuck. I told you, this isn't a one-and-done job interview type position. You gave me one set of facts about one person, and it turned out to be right, but this was so small compared to everything else. You're far from in. Now shut up — " turning the radio louder — "I fucking love this song."
After Cornell dropped Bruce off at the penthouse he went down to his garage and drove out to the bunker where he pulled up the city's security camera files on his computer. It wasn't difficult to find the Kinko's he was looking for, and within two minutes of that he'd hacked their CCTV. He rolled to the right timestamp, pulled up audio, and leaned back in his chair.
Alice walked in first. She handed the cashier a USB and they chatted for a while about the various files on it, and then about wedding cakes, for some reason. Then Cornell walked in, carrying his package. He set it on a table in the back and though the cashier was standing there eyeing him with curious expectancy — waiting, no doubt, to sign for it — he ignored her completely. He looked at the cards in the rack by the door and touched the highlighters and notebooks on the wall, and all the time, he stole occasional covert glances over his shoulder at Alice. Bruce had no idea why the cashier wasn't suspicious, but after a while she seemed to have forgotten he was there to begin with.
Eventually Alice finished with her USB file transfer and walked to the back to make a copy. Cornell followed her, and Bruce switched to the second camera in time to see him stand behind her as though waiting in line. He reached out to touch her shoulder and she jumped, spinning around.
"You startled me!"
"I'm sorry," Cornell said. "It is just that I think I know you from somewhere." He was affecting a thick Spanish accent he didn't have normally, but for some reason it seemed to set Alice at ease; Bruce watched the tension flood out of her shoulders and her face relax into a pleasant smile.
"It's all right," she said. "I just didn't hear you come up behind me, that's all." She turned back to the copier, but before she could get the paper on the glass Cornell touched her shoulder again.
"I swear, I know you," he said. Her eyebrows drew together, her smile growing a bit — not much — dimmer.
"I don't — "
"Si, si," Cornell said, like he was just remembering something. "Yes, I know what it is. Your children are at Wayne Day Academy, isn't that right?"
Her face shifted, the smile fading more steadily now. Bruce could see her working through the options in her head: was he a parent she didn't know? A teacher? "I'm sorry," she said, finally, "I've never — "
"Stella, Suzanne, and Daniel, right?" Cornell said. "Your kids?"
Her shoulders stiffened back up. The smile was totally gone. "I — I'm — "
"How are they doing?" Cornell asked, still with his fake accent. "Suzanne's in — lacrosse, isn't she? Fifth grade?"
Alice's throat jerked as she swallowed. Her face was frozen, deciding between panic and anger. "Who are — "
"And how are you, Alice? How's the waitressing going? I'm surprised with a job like that you can afford to send the kids to that school. I'm surprised you can live in the neighborhood you do. Moon Terrace, right? 1755 Lakeside Drive? Or do you pay for it at all? Is that the work of the father-in-law, maybe? Josh Richmond?"
Her hands were claws against the copier. Her arms were shaking, the elbows locked. "You — how do you — "
"Josh and Kathy love their grandkids, don't they," Cornell murmured. He'd stepped closer to Alice; he was almost whispering. "I'm sure they'd all hate to lose each other, especially after the accident."
The color was draining from Alice's face. "What?"
"Your husband, Donald? He was in a car crash five years ago, wasn't he?"
"I — "
"So you can understand, Mrs. Richmond, why I am trying to prevent your family suffering more loss. Your father-in-law owes us a shipment. He's two days late on it, and for my boss, that's just not acceptable. We'd really appreciate it if you could let him know that we're waiting to hear from him about it."
Alice's mouth worked, but for a minute no sound came out. Finally: "My father-in-law doesn't work; he's retired — "
"Si," Cornell agreed softly. "But he took a new job. And like I say the boss doesn't tolerate mistakes. So. We'd like if he'd deliver what he promised us. The sooner the better, okay?"
"S-Sure," Alice said; her voice was completely dry. "I can — I can call him right now if you — "
"No, no, that's okay." Cornell waved his hand. "You want to finish your errands, of course." He reached out and took the piece of paper from Alice's hand. Bruce watched his eyes flick over the writing; then he said, "This is a flyer for one of your children's events?"
Alice closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "My Stella's dance recital."
"How nice," Cornell said. His eyes scanned the paper again, and Bruce realized with a jolt he was memorizing whatever was written there: the date, the time, the address. "So you can tell Josh that he has — what is that, a month and three days to deliver what he owes us? That's an awfully generous amount of time, Mrs. Richmond. I don't expect your father-in-law will make a mistake on this. Do you?"
"No," she whispered. "No, of course not."
He smiled at her, though her eyes were still closed. He handed her the flyer back, and her hands crinkled its corners with the force of their trembling. "Have a good day, Alice," he said, softly, and he turned and walked back to the front. Bruce switched back to the first camera to watch as he purchased a pack of the colored highlighters he'd been admiring, and a pack of gum. He smiled at the cashier, whose eyes flicked to the cardboard box, then back to Cornell. She seemed to be considering telling him he was leaving his package, but apparently thought better of it and just wished him a good day. Bruce watched until Cornell walked out the door, the bell jingling behind him. Then he cut the feed and scraped his hands down his face.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't. He couldn't give out information that would result in the potential deaths of children, of entire families. Batman would have already beaten Cornell to shit for that, put him back in Arkham for a few weeks at least. Long enough to get the Richmonds out of Gotham and into protective custody. Bruce couldn't condone this, this violent, soulless behavior —
And yet. And yet he had to. Because it was just a job. It was just for now. If he got on their side and gained their trust through feeding them information, then he'd be saving so many lives in the long run. If he infiltrated the gang and took them down from the inside, if he had enough to give Gordon to put them all away for life, then so many families like the Richmonds wouldn't ever have to suffer like this again. Hell, a month and three days was a long time. Bruce could potentially break through the gang before then if he kept his head down and kept feeding them information and kept his mouth shut. Because he had to. Because this couldn't go on.
Momentarily he closed his eyes, and leaned his head on his forearms. He counted backwards from thirty. Then he straightened up, and drove back to the penthouse, where after heading up in his private elevator he poured himself a coffee, and headed down to his offices for the first meeting of the day.
"The boss was impressed."
Cornell's voice came from the other side of the gas pump, and Bruce nearly knocked his fuel nozzle out of the car. He wasn't often startled and he didn't like the feeling; to cover for it he set his mouth in a neutral expression and said,
"With what?"
There was a pause. He could see Cornell's eyes over the pump. He was filling up a white van, and Bruce debated asking if he wanted him to go into the Circle K and buy him some candy to go with it. But he kept his mouth shut, and after a moment Cornell said,
"With the info you gave on Josh. Fuck else do you think? I told him how it all checked out and he said that was great, and he wants to see you in action since, quote, you're 'full of lovely surprises like a piñata'."
Bruce snorted without meaning to. Then the full meaning of Cornell's words hit him and he almost dropped the nozzle again.
"He wants to see me — "
"Yeah. There's a meetup tonight at the Quik and E-Z in that shopping center on Carter. A guy we know from Delaware is delivering a shipment of guns and the boss wants to be there personally since it's his guns."
Bruce breathed out. "And he wants me there because — "
"Because you fucking work with us, Wayne," Cornell snapped. He shoved his own dispenser back into its chamber and walked around the pump to glare at Bruce. "You did a good job on the Richmonds and the boss wants to see what the fuck else you're capable of — personally I'm thinking he's going to be a little disappointed, but — "
"If I hadn't given you that info you would have been fucked," Bruce interrupted quietly, hanging up his dispenser and collecting the receipt. "The boss won't be disappointed."
Cornell's mouth tightened. But all he said was, "Just get your ass and that pretty fucking car of yours down to Carter by ten, okay? If you're not too fucking busy."
"I won't be," Bruce said coolly, and he slid into the driver's seat. When he keyed the ignition the radio was blaring Nirvana: he's the one who likes all our pretty songs, and he likes to sing along, and he likes to shoot his guns… He could see Cornell in the rearview watching him, and he made sure to roll down his window and wave as he drove off.
It had been four days since the incident with Alice Richmond. Bruce was — surprised, for lack of a better word — that the Joker wanted to see him perform. Surprised, but not disappointed. This was working. His stupid reckless plan. He wondered what exactly the Joker was expecting from him, and if perhaps there was a way to make this go more or less favorably for him. Assimilation at any cost. How far was he willing to go. The same two thoughts, over and over. Vengeance for Rachel, and for Harvey, and for his city. Whatever he had to do.
As he pulled up to a stoplight he thought vaguely of how little necessity there was in his attempts at baiting Cornell or Reznor, or trying to prove himself to them, trying to impress, whatever the fuck he was doing. He needed to look good for the Joker in particular, and for the gang overall; he needed their trust, but he himself didn't need to feel anything real about it. Still, he supposed it was better if he genuinely believed he wanted their approval. It would make everything that much more convincing, in the end.
On the radio, a commercial started up for hair cream, and Bruce twisted the knob until the volume cut out, and he drove on.
"I thought the boss didn't work with other gangs," Bruce said, as he walked across the parking lot towards the laundromat, feet falling in the shadow he cast from the orange streetlight. This statement earned him, as usual, an eye roll from Cornell and Reznor. Despite his earlier talk with himself — or perhaps because of it — he felt another twinge of unexpectedly sincere desire to get them to stop. He wanted to say, look, I'm trying to get you to like me, I need you to like me, this fucking needs to work, but of course he couldn't; all he could do was stand back quietly and listen as Cornell explained that out-of-state gangs weren't the same. The Joker didn't necessarily view them as threats so much as competition, and that was okay. He needed contacts in other cities, anyway.
"In case anything goes wrong on our end," Cornell said. "Then we'll have guys outside the Gotham jurisdiction who can take up the slack for us. And anyway it's good to have multiple sources and people who can vouch for whatever the fuck's going on in New York or wherever. I thought you'd appreciate that, considering what you do. Or are you just a shitty CEO?"
Reznor snorted. Bruce sighed. They'd reached the Quik and E-Z and as he pushed the door open he said, as neutrally as he could, "I was just asking so I could learn more about what we do. I'm just trying to be as attentive an employee as I can. I figure the more I know the less likely I am to fuck up, and then you two won't catch any shit for not training me right. Or would you rather I didn't show interest?"
He thought another series of eye rolls were coming, but after exchanging glances Reznor and Cornell only walked in after him. The Joker, Kowalczyk, and a guy Bruce didn't recognize were already inside; Kowalczyk set down his magazine — Home and Garden — and introduced the sixth guy as Weiland. He had on face paint similar to the Joker's and Kowalczyk explained this while Cornell and Reznor set themselves up with their concealed knives and guns and stood to watch for the other gang.
"Weiland's got asthma," Kowalczyk said. "So he can't wear the fuckin' clown mask. But he's also got — y'know — " he gestured vaguely at his face — "this massive fuckin' birthmark, it's ugly as shit — "
Weiland shoved him. "Shut the fuck up," he said, but he was laughing; they all were. Even the Joker looked moderately amused.
" — so that's, y'know, the most distinguishing mark any of us have, I mean, besides the obvious, and the police aren't gonna take the boss down but they won't fuckin' hesitate with anyone else, so he covers his face like that." He paused, then, grinning: "And he picked the clown shit specifically 'cause he wants to suck the boss's cock," and Weiland shoved him again, but he didn't look especially annoyed. Bruce was surprised for some reason. He glanced at the Joker; there was a mild tightening of the skin around his eyes, but he didn't say anything. After a moment Reznor said,
"So where's Ashland?"
"Late as fuckin' usual," Kowalczyk said. He lit a cigarette despite that New Jersey had outlawed most indoor smoking in 2006. Bruce sat in one of the cold plastic chairs surrounding the washers. He tried to look as though he knew what he was doing.
A woman came up to the door, bag of laundry in her arms. Cornell leaned against the frame and smiled at her, mostly teeth. "Sorry, sweetheart, we're closed," he said, but she didn't seem to care until she looked around his shoulders and saw the Joker. He wasn't doing anything, just leaning against one of the dryer units, smoking his own cigarette, but the woman at last seemed to decide it would be easier not to argue, and backed off. Bruce bit down on what he'd wanted to say which was, don't be an asshole, she wouldn't have been in the way, because even he knew that wasn't true. Another few minutes went by, and then a group of four men came in, obviously not customers. Two skinheads with steroidally large muscles, maybe twins, and a guy with a white-blond mohawk, and a dark-skinned man with a rose tattoo on his cheek. One of the skinheads situated himself at the door; the other walked over to stand close to Reznor. The guy with the mohawk and the guy with the tattoo stood in front of the chairs.
"Fuckin' finally, Ash, what the fuck," Cornell snapped.
"Sorry, traffic's hell on 78, you know that," Ashland — the guy with the mohawk — said. His eyes flicked between the six of them; when they lit on Bruce he frowned. "Who the fuck is this?"
"New recruit," the Joker murmured around his cigarette. He unfolded himself from the dryer, a languid, dangerous line. "He's not important."
"Not important?" Ashland's eyebrows lifted just slightly, and he smiled at Bruce. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?"
"Yeah, probably seen him in your mom's bed when you got home too early," Kowalczyk muttered, and Weiland broke into laughter. One of the skinheads' shoulders tensed, but Ashland waved him down.
"All good fun," he said softly. "So listen, about that shipment I promised."
The Joker folded his arms and tilted his head questioningly. Ashland took a breath.
"It's gonna be a little later than I expected," he said. Reznor frowned.
"What the fuck, Ash."
"What's 'a little late'?" the Joker asked. His voice was quiet, calm, but Bruce saw the tension starting up in his jaw. Ashland folded his arms too, and looked at the guy with the tattoo.
"Rollie's guy got some dates mixed up," he said, "and they don't have the AK's they told us about. So we're not gonna get it to you for at least another week."
Weiland dragged a hand down his face. "Oh, man."
"Just a week?" the Joker asked. His voice was still calm. "You promise?"
Ashland raised one hand. "Swear on my mama's titties," he said. Turning to Bruce: "Which you would know all about, apparently."
This time his guys all laughed. Cornell, Reznor, and Kowalczyk looked at each other. Bruce saw their hands go to their pockets.
"Well, see, the thing is," the Joker said, "now I don't know if I can trust you. Because you promised me arms last week. And apparently your dealers are too incompetent to work with a calendar. I want those guns. So I'm gonna go straight through the source."
Ashland's eyebrows drew together. "You said I could take half the cut — "
"Ah, yeah, I did. But Ashland — " he walked over to him, patted his shoulder — "I'm starting to wonder if you could even count that high."
The guy with the tattoo — Rollie, apparently — pulled out his gun. Cornell and Reznor did the same; Kowalczyk and Weiland got their knives. This prompted the skinhead by the door to block it completely with his body while his brother pulled out a shotgun. Bruce slid as quietly as he could out of his chair and walked over to stand beside Cornell. He thought Cornell would snap at him but he was focused on Rollie. They were all standing in a circle around Ashland and the Joker, who still had his head tilted, a calm, almost pleasant smile on his face.
"Sensitive, isn't he," he said, nodding to Rollie.
"He just doesn't like people touching me," Ashland explained. "I've been stabbed one too many times." Up close Bruce could see his eyes were a striking shade of ice blue. There was a tiny scar under one of them which curved over his cheekbone.
"Is it because you make shitty deals like this?" the Joker asked. Ashland's mouth tightened.
"I told you, it'll just be another week," he said.
"Yeah, and then in a week it'll be the same thing, and on, and on," the Joker said. "You know, I don't have an infinite amount of time to wait. Or infinite patience."
"I can find a thousand other guys to sell to who'll wait a fuckin' month if I ask," Ashland snapped, and Bruce knew it was a mistake even before the Joker's face changed. The pleasant smile dropped and he nodded at Cornell. Suddenly Cornell was grabbing Rollie by the arm, trying to dislodge the gun. It went off in the floor, and Reznor slid in, holding up his own gun, but one of the skinheads grabbed him by the hair. The Joker was aiming kicks and punches at Ashland, who seemed capable of dodging every wild swing the Joker threw at him, as though this was not the first time they'd fought. Kowalczyk and Weiland had their knives out and were trying to get in at Rollie and the other skinhead but with Rollie's gun still loaded this was proving difficult. Bruce couldn't see what was going on. For a moment he wished he had the suit; he could've just pushed his way in, without fearing the bullets or the blades, and grabbed Ashland by the collar, and hauled him back. It would've put him in a position of power over him, and it might have added a modicum of respect to the Joker's opinion of him. But he didn't have the suit, he hadn't brought any weapons because they'd told him not to, they'd said this would go smoothly… Everything was confused, and the Joker was still fighting in his usual unhinged, untrained way, punching and kicking without reason, and Cornell was twisting Rollie's wrist, and Reznor was trying to get at his own gun to shoot the skinhead in the jaw, and then —
— the Joker looked at Bruce. It was just for a second, and Bruce thought it was just a reflexive glance over his shoulder until he saw the Joker's eyes. He was looking from Bruce down to his foot. When Bruce looked too he saw the Joker had trapped a knife — his or someone else's — beneath the sole of his shoe. He must have done it sometime when he was flying at Ashland; Bruce had to admire the way he was able to act, fluidly, seamlessly. How he always had the element of surprise; one second there was nothing in his hand, the next a bomb. His hands were occupied currently with fighting off Ashland, and Bruce rushed in. The Joker aimed a kick at Ashland's stomach, and Bruce grabbed the knife. He did not think. When Ashland doubled over from the blow Bruce grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back. He got the knife against Ashland's throat. Ashland struggled against him, but Bruce gripped his wrist harder. Even without the suit he discovered it was easy, easier than he'd assumed it would be, to hold on, distributing his weight so that he could sort of hold Ashland against him. He could feel his pulse jumping against the knife. Suddenly everyone was looking at the two of them. The Joker stepped back, breathing hard. His hair fell into his eyes.
"What was that about selling to someone else?" he asked, still in that same soft voice from earlier. "Do you really want to find another buyer? I think it's a little late in the game for that, unless you're really that confident."
Ashland swallowed. Bruce got his elbow over his shoulder and pressed in harder at his throat. He could feel Cornell and Reznor both looking at him from either side. The Joker kept staring at Ashland, almost pleasant again. Ashland was looking at him, too, with his head tilted a little back from where Bruce was pushing his jaw up with the knife. After a few moments he sighed.
"Rollie…" he said, and Rollie set down his gun. Cornell picked it up immediately and handed it to the Joker, who dismantled it, never once looking away from Ashland's face.
"You're going to call your dealer," he said. "You're going to tell him that his deadline is midnight. That's in two hours from now. That's plenty of time to get the shipment together."
"But — "
"Ah, ta, ta," the Joker said, waving the empty gun. "That didn't sound like a question to me." He looked over at Bruce. "Did that sound like a question to you?"
It took Bruce three long seconds to realize he himself was being addressed. The Joker was looking at him expectantly, eyebrows raised, so he said, "No, boss," and gave Ashland's arm an emphatic twist.
Another sigh. "I'll get him on the phone," he said. "The guns'll come in at the fish wharf."
"Excellent," the Joker said softly. He nodded to Reznor, then to the skinhead. "Could you please let my man go so he can collect my guns?"
The skinhead frowned at Ashland. Ashland nodded against Bruce's knife. Reznor was released, and he walked forward.
"Boss?"
"You and Weiland go get the shipment," he said. "Kowalczyk and Cornell, stay with the guys until the phone call's complete. I'm not interested in having this conversation again." His eyes darted again to Bruce. "You can let him go," he said, and Bruce dropped Ashland's wrist and removed the knife from his throat. Ashland started coughing, for some reason, and the Joker rolled his eyes, then held his hand out for the knife. When Bruce handed it to him there was a moment — his fingertips brushed the Joker's palm, and it startled him into looking up. The Joker was already watching his face, his eyes dark, inscrutable, calculating. He had his head tilted again, but it felt different, now. His tongue darted out to wet his mouth. This close Bruce could see the moment it touched his scars.
Then the Joker looked away, and started for the door. "You can stay here, or you can go home, I don't care," he said to Bruce. Then to Cornell and Reznor: "Text me when your parts are done," and he walked out. Bruce's hands had started shaking, so he shoved them in his pockets. He looked once more at Cornell, who was looking back at him with his eyebrows furrowed. Then Ashland pulled his phone out of his pocket, and Bruce walked away. He headed slowly across the parking lot, trying to reason with himself: it wasn't as bad as some of the things he'd done — most of the things he'd done — as Batman. He'd thrown Salvatore Maroni off a balcony, for fuck's sake. He'd broken both his legs. Hell, he'd smashed the Joker's head into fucking plate glass; he'd thrown him off a building, nearly killed him. It was just the job. If it got him closer to convincing the Joker and everyone else of his sincerity, so be it. He'd made it through blackmailing the Richmonds and there had been no repercussions, and this guy — Bruce could put him behind bars too, when it was all over; would have already put him behind bars as Batman if he'd known about him sooner. So in a way wasn't this better? Learning more and more details about life underground? Wasn't that the point?
He reached his car and paused — there was something stuck under his windshield wiper, and for a moment he thought he'd somehow managed to land a parking ticket. Then he realized it was a joker card. The design was old-fashioned, a man in a jester's outfit covered in yellow and red and blue diamonds, a black mask over the top half of his face, little red cap, outlandish white Elizabethan collar. The edges were stained and worn with time, and blood, and cigarettes. Bruce flipped it over; on the back, in the same tight, jagged handwriting as on all the other cards, it said:
You're doing so well, you get a prize. Like those claw machines at arcades. Or maybe like a dog that's finally learning how to behave indoors. Expect a phone in the next few days. It'll come with special secret initials.
Like a dog learning to behave indoors. Bruce's fist flattened the card so that it creased at the center. When he looked again he saw his thumb had smeared some of the ink across the paper. The Joker must have just written this, then, and left it. Bruce had no idea how he'd managed to do it so quickly. He looked around the lot, but all he saw was an empty plastic bag beneath a streetlight at the far end, inflated by the wind, trapped in mangled weeds. Inside the laundromat he could still see Cornell and the others waiting for Ashland to wrap up his phone call.
He looked back at the card. Expect a phone. That had to mean something. He was 'in' enough now he could receive direct contact from the Joker himself. Maybe all of this would be over faster than he'd thought. That would be…
…well, it would be good, he thought, as he got into his car and started the engine. If the prize for holding a knife to a man's throat was getting a burner phone — and secret initials, whatever the fuck that meant — Bruce wasn't sure he wanted to know the prize for going further. Or how much further he'd have to go in the first place.
Probably it was best if it plateaued here. He turned out of the parking lot, heading north on Carter. He was feeling a little — off, like he wasn't really sitting in the driver's seat, like maybe part of him was still back there in that laundromat with the others. He knew it was likely just residual guilt — he was working to gain the trust of the man who had killed Rachel, after all — but even so, he thought perhaps the faster he could get away from this, and get back into the suit, and get back to doing things like this in the suit, the better off he'd be.
Close to dawn, he gave up on sleeping and headed into the in-home gym for a run before work. Rachel had made him download a lot of Gwen Stefani and Christina Aguilera onto his iPod last year in an attempt to revamp his iTunes library and also just to try and get him involved more in the music scene he'd missed out on. He didn't especially care for it but it was good exercise fodder; also now, of course, it meant something else entirely. He turned on the Food Network, too, and tried to channel his confused unmoored energy into something burning and focused while her music blared in his ears: get it fired up in a hurry, wanna get dirty…
He was on minute five when he remembered the way Ashland had looked at him when he'd first walked into the laundromat. Don't I know you? He'd been lucky that time, because Ashland was from out of state, and hadn't recognized him. But there was no way — even if he only went out at night, and kept his head down, and didn't talk, there was no way no one in Gotham would notice Bruce Wayne, head of Wayne Enterprises and affiliate companies, stalking the city at one in the morning with a knife in one hand alongside the Joker. He wore the mask as Batman for a reason. It made it hard to breathe sometimes, but it was effective. It kept everyone in the dark. If this was going to work, he'd need a disguise here, too. And his hand was already flying to his phone to text Lucius about it when he realized: he couldn't do that, either. He'd have to come up with something on his own, because Lucius couldn't know. Not even Alfred could know — Bruce didn't know how either of them would react, but he couldn't imagine it would be good.
You're getting in too deep already, Master Wayne.
You've got to remember your own human limitations, Mr. Wayne. You can't take a project of this size and this much danger on by yourself —
But he could. And he was. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and pushed the speed of the treadmill higher. When he turned the Joker and all his men in, Alfred and Lucius and everyone else would be thrilled. They would shower him with praise, and they'd help restore Batman's name in society, and they'd forget to care that he'd snuck behind their backs, face shrouded, in order to do it.
The package arrived before seven in the morning two days later while Bruce was still waking up, navigating his schedule in his head. Alfred approached the bed and deposited it on the side table; Bruce glanced at it, felt his heart skip, and, trying to sound casual, said,
"What's that?"
"Package for you, Master Wayne," Alfred said. "It was left in the lobby downstairs. I've run the usual scans on it and nothing seems amiss — shall I open it, sir?"
"No," said Bruce, "just — leave it there, it's fine. Thanks, Alfred."
"Yes, Master Wayne," Alfred said. He walked out to start breakfast and Bruce took the package up, setting it on his lap. It was addressed from JRB — the initials the Joker had told him to watch out for. Bruce wondered what they meant — if they were code for the name he was supposed to take in the gang now, maybe. As he rummaged in his side table for a pocket knife he thought about the nineties rock singers he knew — none of them had J and B as initials, though in fairness he didn't know many.
He slit the packing tape open and lifted the cardboard flaps. There was the phone: a Razr, garish shade of hot pink. He caught his mouth trying to smile and forced it back. He imagined one of the guys, Cornell or Reznor most likely, or else maybe the Joker himself, selecting the phone at a Radio Shack and laughing, the image of stoic dark businessman Bruce Wayne and this ridiculous overblown phone. He knew it likely had been selected specifically to humiliate him. They were still testing him. This was going to take a long fucking time.
At length he checked the contacts menu and found three pre-entered names: Cornell, Reznor, and… the source of JRB. He was so surprised for a moment he thought he was hallucinating; he would not have guessed this particular answer to the riddle had he been given a week to decipher it. He stared at it for long minutes, keying over it with the arrow buttons; finally he hit the green call button, and stuck the phone to his ear.
The Joker picked up on the first ring. "Wayne," he drawled. "You got it."
"Yeah, I did — "
"Do you like it?" The Joker's tone was borderline pleasant. Bruce wasn't sure what he was really asking; chancing it, he said,
"Yeah, it's great, boss," and then, "Listen, I — "
"I'm sure it's not quite up to your standards," the Joker said. "But it's better than what I've gotten most of my guys."
"I mean, it's still a popular phone, it's fine," Bruce said, and then, before the Joker could keep talking: "So listen — that name… is that what this is about? Is that… real?"
There was silence on the other end. Bruce could hear the Joker breathing; it crackled gently over the receiver. Finally he said, "Surprise," more quietly than Bruce had ever heard him.
Bruce's heart started racing for no apparent reason. He was trying to think of appropriate things to say, but he couldn't; at last, a little impatiently, the Joker said,
"Is this going to be a problem?"
"No, I — no," Bruce said, "it's just — I wasn't expecting this. That's all."
The Joker snorted. "So you remember me, then?"
"Yeah, I — of course, yeah."
"I'm flattered, Wayne." The Joker was smiling; Bruce wondered if it was the nasty fake one, or something else he hadn't seen yet. "I've been wondering."
"Jude Baker," Bruce said; he tried to keep the dubiousness from his voice, and the incredulousness, but it must have gone through anyway because the Joker — Jude — whatever — sighed. Bruce heard something rustling on his end.
"Yeah, it's really me," he said. "You can't run a fingerprint check, so don't try."
"I don't want to," Bruce said. "I mean, I just — why did you even tell me? No one knows your name." He wanted to say, not even Jim Gordon, but he couldn't remember if Bruce Wayne was supposed to know Gordon or not; at last, taking the middle road, he said, "You're just a mystery in every circle, boss."
Jude laughed. Bruce heard voices in the background; Jude called to someone, and then he said, "Well, as much as I'd love to chat with you, I'm pretty busy today. Lots of interesting plans. I left you a little note in your package — "
"Wait," Bruce blurted, and Jude sighed.
"You're not one of those people who develops ADHD or whatever the fuck the second you get on a phone, are you, because I'm taking it back if — "
"No, no," Bruce said. "I just, I wanted to tell you — I'm working on a disguise."
There was a pause. "A… disguise," Jude said, finally. He sounded dubious, or perhaps just confused. Bruce leaned his elbow against his knee, readjusting the phone in his hand.
"Yeah," he said. "Ashland almost recognized me. I can't — you know I have a reputation."
Jude snorted. "A reputation. Yeah, Wayne. Don't we all."
"Yeah, no, but I mean — "
"I know what you mean." A faint note of impatience was creeping into the Joker's — Jude's — voice, and Bruce hurried on:
"So I just — well, you and Weiland have your face paint, and some of the guys have masks, and I thought maybe I could figure something out for myself, too."
Jude called again to whoever it was in the background. "Wayne," he said, "look, I'm not fucking holding your hand through this; if you want a mask you'll have to find it yourse— "
"I don't want a mask," Bruce said. His voice came out sharper than he'd meant, and Jude made a noise, so Bruce hastened to add, "I have an idea already, that's all," which was only partially a lie. At any rate he knew how he wanted to dress, sweats and a beanie. "I just wanted to run that by you and make sure it's — "
"I don't give a fuck, okay?" Jude was evidently annoyed now. "I really have to go, so if you're done — "
"Yeah. Yes. I'm sorry. I'm finished, boss."
Jude breathed out. He sounded like he was trying to even himself out, or something. He said, "Okay. Listen, just don't paint your face some weird shit, okay? We've already got enough of that here. Wear whatever it is to the next meeting. See you in a couple days, Bruce Wayne," and then he hung up. There was no phone etiquette taught amongst thieves, Bruce supposed. Though he was still so shaken by the name reveal he doubted he'd have remembered to say goodbye, either.
Jude Riley Baker. His parents were Leo and Nina; Leo had worked for years with Wayne Enterprises, first as a senior in the financial department at the Chicago branch, then as head of accounting at same. The Bakers were rich; in Gotham, only the Waynes and the Sionises made more. Leo would come out sometimes to work from the main offices; in the summer, Nina and Jude would join him, but otherwise they stayed in Chicago so Jude could go to school. Therefore Bruce only saw them a few times a year at various Wayne Enterprises functions.
Jude was six years younger than him; he'd been four when Bruce's parents died. Bruce remembered him vaguely (the familiarity from the past few weeks washing over him in sudden shocking clarity, like ice water); he'd stand in the corner of the room at whatever function he was attending, the youngest person there by far, awkward and scrawny and quiet. Usually he was holding a plate of hors d'oeuvres, typically something Bruce made sure Alfred brought him so he wouldn't be forgotten. He'd been towheaded when he was really, really little, with those curls cropped short and close to his head. Bruce remembered kind of feeling sorry for him, because he was at the functions all night essentially alone. But he'd been wrapped up in himself, and in Rachel, his weird obsession with her even then, and he hadn't had room in his life (or time, or patience) to try and befriend some out-of-town kid not even in his age group.
The last time he'd seen Jude, they were eleven and seventeen, respectively. It was one of Bruce's last nights in Gotham before he'd left — summer 1992, and he was busy handing the company off to his immediate successors. Everyone was plainly shocked that he was leaving but to their credit most did a valiant job of hiding it. Likely they all assumed he was heading for or had at last arrived at the long-anticipated breakdown over his parents' deaths, or that he was leaving the country because he couldn't handle seeing the reminders of them around Gotham, or because he needed fresh scenery, or simply because he was a rich entitled teenager graduated early from high school who neither cared about nor needed to concern himself with the future of his father's company. He finished up his speeches and left the podium, taking a drink of sparkling cider from Alfred and making his way around the room.
The Bakers were there, of course; Bruce had been the one to promote Leo to head of accounting in the Chicago branch. Jude was trailing behind his parents; Bruce remembered his hair hanging almost to his shoulders. Leo and Nina each shook Bruce's hand and wished him luck on his venture; then they were accosted by another of Bruce's business partners, and Bruce was momentarily left alone with Jude.
"Good luck," Jude said, echoing his father. He looked at the floor as he spoke; he was holding a plate of miniature egg rolls, balancing them so they wouldn't fall off.
"Thanks," Bruce said.
"It's gonna be better than here," Jude said. Bruce remembered — or thought he remembered — Jude's voice at eleven was not the same voice he had now at twenty-seven. The hoarse nasal pitch and the sarcastic lilt were both gone; it was just a normal kid's voice, a little scratchy, maybe, but nothing like what it would become. It was no wonder Bruce had never guessed at the truth.
"What is?" Bruce asked, noticing across the room Rachel gesturing at him: come here, come here!
"Wherever you're going," Jude said.
Bruce offered him a half-smile; he wasn't really listening, because Rachel had her excited 'you have got to see this' expression on. He was already saying something to Jude about, excuse me for a minute, it was good seeing you and your parents, thanks for coming… He walked away from Jude to join Rachel at the window so they could both laugh at the drunk guy wandering around the manor lawn rocking out to some song on his Walkman, still fully clothed in his black-tie outfit. Bruce could not remember anything else about the Bakers from that night; when they'd left, if he'd said a more proper goodbye to them, if he'd seen Jude again, even from across the room.
He wondered now what might have happened if he'd had the presence of mind to ask Jude to come over with him and Rachel. If he'd remembered even for a minute that Jude was the same scared, lonely kid he felt sorry for at all the functions.
Probably nothing, he reasoned, fiddling with the phone, keying over the name again and again, remembering across the years the wild curls, those vivid greenish eyes. Probably nothing at all.
