The shadowy presence of Gotham seemed to have faded whenever someone walked into the apparent sanctuary of the city hall. The interior was unlike any negative impression that gnawed his mind since Gordon arrived. It seemed nice. Maybe too nice. The interior was everything Gotham wasn't. The city was cold with empty streets with the dying daylight turning the sky into a deep, dark blue, signaling for every sinner to feast. As heavenly as it was, the city outside was a disease of crime and filth. Reviewing the history of Gotham just as he did before he moved across the country, Gordon learned that the city hall district was located near the Finger River that sliced across the southwestern portion of the city. Seeing it in person was much more domineering than what he had seen in other images. It had a history that dated to near the beginning of the city itself. If it was as old as the city itself, then it wouldn't be safe either. Who's to say a fancy and divine place that stood for order and justice against corruption like this was immune?

Gordon walked into the large room after passing through the thoroughly cleaned double doors, giving away the shimmering engraved designs on the expensive wood. The mayor's office before him may have been old-fashioned like everything else he had seen before, yet this looked like it had been polished at a consummate pace. The city hall had been here for hundreds of years, yet the quality and smell of it told him that this was a brand new and fresh room that had recently finished construction. The carpet was a dark red, complemented by the lights from above.

The opposite side of the room was nothing but panes of glass that took up the entire wall, which separated the room from the rest of the outside world. The smell was even nicer. For once, the lack of cigarette smoke stench that engulfed the station several blocks away was replaced by something far better. He wanted to quit the habit, and this aroma was definitely helping with that.

The furniture was all bright red fancy leather, shimmering from the exquisite chandeliers that glowed from above like angels looking down upon him. Near Mayor Cobblepot's desk were several bird cages that emitted several erratic tweets. Their sounds seemed alarmed as if letting out a warning that almost made Gordon pause in his place.

The wide elegant desk before him was complemented by a wing chair, holding one man. The man was chubby and short in stature and wearing a sharp suit. The coat and shirt were pitch-perfect. No scuffs or spots that would catch an eye. His hair was slicked back, revealing a large bright forehead. Of all the noticeable features that stood out was his nose. It was long and hooky, almost as if it were a bird's beak.

When his beady eyes met Gordon, they lit. "Ah. James Gordon, isn't it?" Mayor Cobblepot said.

"Yes, sir."

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Oswald Cobblepot," he said, extending a handshake. "I heard you arrived here just nearly a week ago all the way from Chicago. How's Gotham? I hope it hasn't scared you away yet," he chuckled.

Gordon made a friendly smirk. "Not yet."

"Don't let it get to you. Gotham's a great city when it wants to be, so we try and get the best around here."

"I understand you wanted to see me?" Gordon said as kindly as possible to change the subject. "Commissioner Loeb told me you wanted to see me personally."

"Ah. Well, I hope this wasn't too surprising for you, Lieutenant."

"None at all," he assured.

"Good then. Y'see, I wanted to see you in person because I have a rather specific request from you. Y'see, as Gotham's anniversary is approaching, we'll have a number of charities and fundraisers. One of them—the biggest one—is one that I'll be throwing, of course. As you've read and seen, Lieutenant, Gotham isn't the safest place on Earth, unfortunately. In fact, I'm surprised you weren't attacked on your way here, let alone willingly come here alone. I'm thankful for that."

Gordon shrugged, "I go to where I'm needed most."

Cobblepot's lips stretched and then parted to reveal teeth that didn't exactly match along with the rest of the brightness and serenity of the room. "That's what I like to hear. And I admire your devotion. Like you, that's what I try to do—to give Gotham the idea that the people are in control and not these lunatics out there. We're all needed most when there are those who want everything. Y'see, back long ago during my campaign to run as Mayor when I was only on City Hall, my opponents were so many votes behind me, they did everything in their disposal to make sure I didn't win the election."

"What did they do?"

"Someone in their campaigns planted evidence in my office. Some might say it was a murder weapon. Of course, they were found out and that automatically cost them any chance of winning the election." He then grinned faintly. "Y'see Lieutenant, in this town, there are those who have everything. And then there are those who want what they can't have. All they ever do is want. And the more they want, the more desperate they get. That's what this is about. This festival along with all the fundraisers that I—along with other lucky silver spooners—will be sponsoring will be needing extra care. I wanted you here to tell you that I will be needing you and your partner, Bullock, to supervise and monitor any activity that goes on at that festival. It's extremely important, and those are the kinds of events those fanatics like to get their hands on."

Gordon raised a brow. Security wasn't near what he had envisioned when working in Gotham unless it had to do with a witness protection.

"Will you be having any security staff?"

"They're good, but I've seen better. This is a big deal, and I'm going to need all hands on deck for this one."

"Mr. Cobblepot, I do have one curious question. I understand the pressure of having more security, but why not just simply call me for this? A simple phone call would've saved us both."

The only muscle that shifted on Cobblepot's face was his lip which angled slightly into a smirk. "You're right. I could've called you. But I didn't. You want to know why?"

He folded his hands on his impeccable desk. "I have a gift, Lieutenant. Over a phone, I only hear what I want to hear. When I hear it from someone when I'm looking at them, it's much clearer. You—I see a man who's seen many other things. Great and ugly things alike. But you want neither. You want to get the job done, no matter what it takes. I'm sad to say Gotham has a reputation of lacking that kind of commitment."

Gesturing with his arms, he added, "Y'see these birds?"

Gordon shifted his eyes around once more to face the birds that chirped quietly in their cages. Now that he got a better look at them, their features were much more prominent. They had leopard-looking spots on their bodies. The heads were a multitude of colors, consisting of blue, orange, black, and white.

"They're small Kestrels," Cobblepot explained. "Small and don't look all that imposing but let me tell you—don't be fooled. They're birds of prey. Kestrels have the most relentless urge to get their hands on what they see. Even if it means fighting against something bigger than themselves. They attack in groups if need to. That's why I keep 'em around here—I let them know that despite how unremitting they can be, they're in their proper place. That kind of power doesn't come as easily, and don't let anyone else take it from you. If you want to get past them, you've got to think like them too—do everything in your power to make sure everything is in place, despite the odds." Cobblepot leaned forward in his chair close enough so Gordon can make out more of the details within those darkened curves surrounding his face. "So, I'll ask you, Lieutenant—from a man in a suit to a man in a uniform, man-to-man—how far are you willing to go to make this job your life?"

"I'll do what I can," Gordon answered humbly.

Cobblepot smiled.

For one second out of sync of the rest of time, Gordon's body jolted up in heat. That smile was murky in intent. His bosses back in Chicago were direct and incisive, always saying what they were thinking even if it wasn't pretty. This guy spoke much bigger than what his actual height was insinuating. Yet, all he could see was a soulless smile that unnerved every muscle.

Continuing his expression, Cobblepot said, "I believe you, Lieutenant. I can already read that in you. Very good."

"Thank you, sir," Gordon said, feeling his pulse return to normal.

"I'll be handing you a personal invitation along with our other helpful sponsors. Hell, you might get to meet some of our finest and wealthiest families. We have Henry Claridge, Burton Crowne, Bruce Wayne."

Gordon's brows clenched. Where had he heard that name before? "Bruce Wayne?"

"You could say he's the son or prince of Gotham. Probably the best, I'd say. The guy's a bit of a weasel, though. Spoiled and childish, but Wayne Enterprises has been quite the benefit and gold mine of fixing problems."

Gordon's mind shuffled. As these descriptions were said, it was coming back to him. He knew right away that Bruce had done a lot for the city, but that's not what made him think back on the familiarity of the name.

"Bruce Wayne," Gordon said pensively. "The one whose parents were murdered?"

"Yes," Cobblepot cleared his throat. "Terrible tragedy. Poor kid saw it happen. Luckily, he made it through, and now, he's our number one guy. Well, anyway, I better not take up too much of your time. I'd expect your invitation to arrive in your mailbox later, today. If not, tomorrow. You'll be hearing from me again soon."

Gordon sat up and shook his hand. "Thank you. Anything else I can do?"

"Ah, yes. Just close the door on your way out, Lieutenant. I don't like being disturbed."

Once the gruff lieutenant did as he was told, Cobblepot's smirk faded, and he reached into the first drawer of his desk for a phone.

"Yeah?"

"Anything about that snitch?" Cobblepot asked.

"No."

"Well, get on it. The festival's coming up. You know how important that is."

"I know how important it is, Mayor. I got my guys out there looking for him based on descriptions. He'll pop up again, eventually. Besides, I think this festival is going to work to our advantage."

Cobblepot tensed. "You better not intimate what I think you're intimating. No, this isn't going to be a bait-set trap. This festival is a big shot and a big score. And I don't think I need to remind you that I've got my finger on the button to the trapdoor beneath your career?"

"You're right about one thing, Mayor—this guy's gonna show up again, and when he does, we'll be ready for him. We weren't last time, and we almost caught him then. Think of what'll happen next time we see him again. He's not gonna get far."

Cobblepot tensed his lower jaw. "You'd better be right."

The phone call ended.

Bruce hung upside down. The magnetic boots he had adjusted were only new and needed to be tested. They worked out great once he adjusted the flow of the electrons on the surface. His body damp and glistening with sweat, his bare fingers were clawed to hold onto metal weight plates. So far, he had been holding 40 lbs. Not only did it serve as a valuable test of how well the electro-adhesion bond would endure, but it was also a good workout session. It wasn't every day someone out there was crazy enough to hold weights while hanging upside down. Gotham was capable of the unthinkable. Chances are, the things you've thought about doing but wouldn't in a million years, they'd do it for you right under your nose without a warning. It wouldn't make sense to not be prepared for such madness.

Alfred approached, holding another wight plate with two hands. It was a wonder how his master was able to hold that much weight in this amount of time while gravity was also pushing him downward. It was also remarkable when he noticed that Bruce was fighting through the endurance. Every muscle in his body was telling him to stop, but the face of determination told Alfred that he had no desire whatsoever to stop or quit. Hopefully, this wasn't a sign that his master would be heading into another collision course of suicide.

"Another weight, sir?"

Bruce gave a grunted nod and a droplet of sweat fell from that one measly motion.

Alfred carefully placed the weight on top of the stack that Bruce held dearly. For a brief second, it seemed as if Bruce had given in to the pressure as he jolted, adjusting to the new load he now had to take.

"I'm guessing that calling someone—let alone anyone—would be out of the question, sir?"

"This is guerrilla warfare, Alfred. If we're going to take them down, it'll have to be done under the radar. Off the record. Besides, that's one advantage I've got. They didn't expect someone like me to snoop around while they're hiding in plain sight."

"As long as you have a plan in mind, and not just wear something that would make you look like a homeless bandit from a retro film strip."

"I've got more in mind then looking like that. I'm talking stealth and knowing your enemies."

"Only on paper, sir—or in your case—your computers. You've only read documents, histories, and biographies. But you don't know the actual person. Mayor Cobblepot may have an impressive record and a well-respected one among the community, but the same people who call him that only know him about as much as you do, sir. My point is, you'll need to know how they think. You'll need to know their next move. Part of my experience in combat is learning how to adapt to your enemy and what they use. That, alone, is the difference between success and failure."

"Well, good thing they don't know about me, then."

"They don't know you, either sir. And that, as of now, is your only advantage. Question is, how long before they discover what you are."

Bruce's attentiveness hadn't stumbled, but Alfred's words added even more weight. "Right now," he said, "all they'll ever know is that someone out there doesn't want them to get away with what they've been doing since the beginning. Another weight."

"Sure, you are capable of doing that. But, they don't know that you haven't been able to fight. You can handle one man, but about ten? Twenty?"

Bruce paled. He was only but one, and there were countless others. In a normal fistfight, against one was doable, but there were greater in numbers. The notion coaxed him into having a tighter grip on the weights. His body hardened with endurance. Physical strength was a great weapon, but the combination of knowledge in combat would be indestructible. Understanding these practices would take months. Alfred warned that it would take more time if he had to perfect himself to be a skilled fighter. But that was a period of time he couldn't afford. These thugs had to be stopped and had to be stopped now. If not, more murdered families, more orphans like him, more chaos, and even if Cobblepot was no longer the mayor, he'd still be in as much power as he is now.

The practice of kickboxing was knowledgeable. There were dozens of techniques that someone could use to their advantage. It was about knowing what kind of opponent you were facing. Most of the scumbags in Gotham go straight for the kill. They're easy to read and manipulate. Bruce donned the bat suit and alternated between kicks and jabs at the sandbag before him. He had to know what it was like to be in the apparel while being in a hostile situation. It felt much different than what he had felt before. It was looking through different eyes of a whole new body. Like the bat of his apparition, it felt more powerful. He felt as of fear itself was in his control and had been all along, at last finding it. The vehement pounding was driven back to the night when he couldn't bring in Hobbs. If the art of kickboxing was driven with passion, he'd certainly understand the same sensation. The anger and torment drove him into a state where time was fading away into irrelevance.

The new practice came with new challenges. The practice of a backflip was quite an experience to learn. He needed to find a way to avoid being pummeled by several men at once, and a particular kind of maneuver was a suitable solution. The problem was perfecting it. Bruce spent a good number of hours while on a soft matt to make sure he wouldn't break his back in the process. It was a tricky tactic, he soon found. He landed on his back many times, it was a wonder how it wouldn't break no matter how soft the mat was protecting him from serious bodily injuries. One landing on his face told him it was time to stop and maybe return to the sandbag for more kickboxing techniques he had yet to learn. Time was running short. Maybe a wall flip wasn't as important as he had made it out to be. It would have to wait until this current ordeal was over. The important thing to remember was that as long as he was in control of the situation and not have to rely on something gimmicky, he'd have a chance.

A week had passed. Finding a moment to cease, Bruce removed the bat suit, revealing sweat-induced tight muscles that felt strained, yet much lighter. All of his energy had been fueled by the nearby image of the short, plump man that had been displayed near him ever since he had done more research on Oswald Cobblepot.

The Cobblepot family tree held an important grip on the rest of Gotham up until now. Unlike, Bruce, however, they never needed to reinvent the wheel to prove their worth. It was almost astounding to see how far the family came to be, considering his long history of upper-class pursuits. As mayor, he did promise that there would be less crime and businesses would be thriving. At least he was right about the last part. The only catch was that crime rates had been less reported. That didn't make them less severe, however. The homicides themselves have worsened in addition to more reports of missing persons.

Bruce glanced over the suit within that glass cylinder he constructed for safe space. The sight of it while mounted in the dim-lit room didn't frighten him as it did Alfred; he had already seen it long ago. It was hard to be afraid of anything anymore—another product of Gotham, no doubt, yet he had the most different agenda than anyone else.

According to Alfred, he had been down in that basement far too long. He guessed it was time to return to the real world. Bruce trudged out of the basement's doorway only to come inches away from Alfred himself, whose expression only came in the form of raised eyebrows—a mix of astonished and unastonished.

"I'm relieved that you're out of there, sir," Alfred said. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to carry your bed or make yourself a cot down there. Though, I will say, your backflips could use some more tutorials from, perhaps, say . . . the Internet? You do make a bloody fine mess."

He then held out an envelope. The font that depicted Bruce's name wasn't electronic-looking or in a typical sans demeanor. It was a graphic handwritten-like appearance. Probably another fundraiser of some kind. Then again, the only big event that was approaching was Gotham's anniversary festival. Something that big could only mean—

Bruce took the envelope and wasted no time tearing open the seam to find the letter. Skimming his eyes after the full letter and down near the bottom, he saw the signature of Mayor Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.

His pulse sped. Though, only at first. How would he know that Cobblepot didn't know about his involvement in the other night's catastrophe? Nobody could've possibly known about his identity, otherwise, he'd be dead—just like the others that Hobbs tried to put away.

"Cobblepot," Bruce said as if he were an angry animal that found his next meal.

"Yes," Alfred confirmed. "I take it that you'll be attending?"

"Of course, I will."

"Will you be attending as . . . Bruce Wayne or that thing I saw?"

Bruce grimaced a moment. "What's on your mind?"

"How do I know that this won't be like last time?"

Bruce let out a sigh. What he was about to say needed to sound as honest as he truly was. "Because this time, I know what needs to be done, Alfred. Last time, I wanted him so badly, I was willing to die to take him in. And I almost did. Now, I realize how big of a mistake it could've been. It's not just Hobbs anymore. It's the people he represents. It's personal, yes. But it can't feel personal."

Alfred dropped his skeptical face, which then morphed into a concern. "Sir, if you find yourself in trouble, will you promise me—on the life of your parents—that you will be careful this time?"

"I promise."

Alfred's face didn't change. He knew Bruce wouldn't be lying to him like last time. The bat creature Bruce had become wouldn't be made from the hands of a man who believed in and stood for nothing. He did recall telling him that he needed to be more than just a man to get involved with Gotham's war on crime. Being the bat was more than a man enough for him. Question was, what would the bat make out of the man?

"We'll need to keep in touch at all times," Bruce said. "I'll be going in while you tap on the cameras. I can make a workaround in the system so they wouldn't detect you. You keep an eye on Cobblepot."

"And what will you do, sir?"

For the first time in a long time, Bruce made a smirk. Alfred was internally wondering if he was feeling well.

"What I do best, Alfred. Mingle."

The invitation had said that the event would be held a few days later. This would give him and Alfred all the time that was needed to set up commlinks and wiretaps into the security systems. Bruce found the building where the address on the invitation said it would be, and it was quite a large establishment. It was going to be held in one of the city's largest and expensive hotel properties—the Ritz. Naturally, a lot of other large gatherings would be held there aside from extraordinarily wealthy wedding receptions. Bruce, himself, had attended other times in the past for numerous fundraisers. Half of them were for other colleagues who were in need. The other half, on the other hand, had been attended by Mayor Cobblepot himself.

The document also requested that Bruce would be able to donate for the festival, courtesy of being Gotham's brightest billionaire. Being himself, Bruce would have no problem preceding his reputation of being the prince of Gotham. Chances are, there'd be a couple of women he had encounters with who will be asking him questions. Hopefully, Vicki Vale—inevitably among them—wouldn't be too distracting. After all, there had been plenty of other lucky wealthy men who had snogged other women who wanted to get a closer look at Gotham's wealthiest charity balls.

On the dawn of the day that would lead to the evening of the event, Bruce had finished programming the wireless access point along with the monitor that would be linked to the cameras that watched over the premises. He then explained the entire plan to Alfred—the device would be able to hack into the cameras without detection. While Alfred would be parked outside in a secure location with the device equipped, he should be able to give a live update and readout of all activity that plays within the hotel.

Lastly, Bruce made micro transmitters that would be placed in his ear while communicating with Alfred. While Bruce acted like himself, Alfred would inform him where Cobblepot is. With careful and precise stealth, Bruce would be able to follow the Mayor and no doubt Tobias Hobbs.

"And in case of guns, sir?" Alfred reminded. "If you're ever caught, you'll need to be ready."

Bruce unbuttoned the top portion of his tux. Beneath it was the top portion of the dark leather suit that they had spent so many nights on.

Alfred comprehended before uttering, "I'd imagine that must be incredibly uncomfortable."

"I'll manage," Bruce said. "Once I'm in, I'm going to take him down."

Alfred held a hand. "If I may, sir."

He hesitated. Bruce waited for him to speak next, but whatever it was, he was certain he wasn't going to enjoy what was coming. Regardless, he braced himself.

"If you are caught," he paused. His eyes swiveled, trying to say what needed to be said without emotion impeding. ". . . if you still don't have anything on the mayor during this operation, don't go for it."

Bruce tilted his head. "Are you saying I shouldn't go for this? After all we did?"

"No, sir," Alfred shook his head. He then drew in a breath. "I suppose all I'm trying to say is . . . just please be careful, sir."

Bruce relaxed his face. For the first time, he empathized with what Alfred felt that evening when he went on his own without backup or even planning on calling backup. It was reckless then. Not this time. He wasn't alone now.