2. Late Shift

Bright, scruffy red hair, dark, blue eyes, thirteen years old: the young thief sat defiantly in the chair. The hand cuffs had been left on the table unused; the relatively short kid was feisty but wouldn't be a threat to anyone who entered. Gordon stood observing him on the opposite side of the one-way glass. Bullock saddled up beside him and handed him a cup of coffee for the long night ahead.

"So much for going home," He sighed. "We got the crook with the broken nose and questioned the lady. She didn't see anything that we haven't heard before. What makes you think this kid has any sort of information?"

Gordon shrugged, "He had a vantage point to see the whole thing; wouldn't be surprised if he saw something that most of our other battered witnesses didn't."

"Well, you were there. What did you see?" Bullock gestured to him.

Gordon shook his head, "He looks exactly how they described him: he was tall, in some kind of stealth tactical suit with a cape."

"Oh, great, we've got a theatric vigilante on our hands," Bullock rolled his eyes as he took another swig of coffee. "Why can't anyone ever just be normal?"

Gordon continued, ignoring Bullock's comment, "I got there after he took down the mugger. I trained my gun, barely got out a word before he was up in the air, some sort of wire pulled him up. He was on the rooftop in a flash. Never seen anything like it."

"Didn't shoot him?"

"If I did, I could have shot someone's window in; probably even hit the kid."

"Speaking of which, you just picked him up? You know the press is going to have a hay-day if they find out you're interrogating a kid."

"I don't think he was a resident of the building, if you catch my drift. Besides, I read him his rights. I don't think I'll charge him; there was nothing on him anyway. He's not going to get into any trouble. We just need him to tell us what he saw, plain and simple."

"Fair," Bullock nodded. "Going a little soft on him, don't you think? He was at least trespassing and assaulted an officer."

"I don't know, maybe I just want to call it a night," Gordon said something that had been bugging him since the arrest. "He seems familiar."

"How?"

"I don't know; it feels like I've seen him before. It was a long time ago, too. I just can't seem to place him." Gordon shrugged. "It might be nothing."

"Knowing you," Bullock drank from the coffee cup, "it's probably something."

Gordon's phone rang, and he sighed, "Just give me a minute, and we'll talk to him together."

"Gotcha."

Gordon took a step into the hallway and opened the phone, "Hey dad!"

"Hey, Barb," He said with a cheery tone despite the news he was about the give her.

"Dad, when are you coming home? Aunty Lee told me to call, and Junior is asleep already!"

He sighed into the mic, "I'm so sorry; I don't think I'm going to be home before your bedtime. There was a bit of an emergency, and I need to question someone." He paused for a moment; he honestly wanted nothing more than to be home now. "I'll see if I can give the duty to someone else and come home."

There was a pause on the other end, "Dad, you've got to catch the bad guys, right?"

"Yeah, unfortunately," Gordon said with a sigh.

"I don't think it would be good as a police officer to put people in danger just because I came to visit."

"Come on, Barb; you don't need to be so selfless at a young age." She was mature, much too mature for her age. Sometimes it impressed him and other times it worried him. She often picked up on things quickly, and he could almost never hide any secrets from her.

Barb giggled, "No, dad, I think I would rather you catch the bad guy. Do that for me, alright? It'll make for a good bedtime story. Besides, I think Lee wants to watch a rom-com; I know how much you love those kinds of movies."

"Yeah, you're right, maybe it's better I'm away," Gordon smiled. "I'll try and be home as soon as possible."

"If you feel bad, you can always make it up in ice-cream," before he could answer she said. "Rocky road, please! Love you dad! Bye!" Then hung up.

Gordon shook his head. He really wanted to be home with her, even if that did mean watching one of Lee's movies, but now, he had business to attend to. He took a quick mouthful of coffee and set it down on a nearby table. He went back into the viewing room and gestured to Harvey. They entered the interrogation room together.

The teenager didn't straighten as they entered. He almost glowered like it was an annoyance that he had to be there. Harvey took point and sat in the seat directly in front of the red head. Gordon stood behind him.

"So," Bullock started. "Better start somewhere. You got a name, kid?"

The red head looked at Bullock then at Gordon. Gordon could tell he was sizing them up. He wanted to see how much trouble he was in before he spoke: a classic street kid tactic.

"Jay," the teenager huffed finally.

"Is that your real name?" Bullock asked, this wasn't the first time some kid had slipped a false name past him. "Come on kid, give me your full name."

"It's what everyone calls me," "Jay" responded with a peeved expression; skipping the demand for his full name, he continued. "So, what is this all about? I can't hang out on fire escapes?"

He was playing dumb. Hopefully they could put him at ease before he clammed up completely.

"We just want to know what you saw concerning the vigilante," Gordon nodded. "We don't care why you were in the position to see it, okay?"

Jay tilted his head, looked sideways at Gordon, and studied him with a cool expression, "Look, it's pretty obvious you need this. The deal needs to be a little more concrete in my favor before I talk."

Gordon shrugged, "We don't even know what you know; could be nothing."

"But, you're not going to know what I know until I get a better deal," Jay returned the shrug with a sly smirk.

"Or we could just call your folks," Bullock nodded.

The kid scoffed with sarcasm, "Yeah, sure, go ahead. Sure they would come racing down. You sure you guys are detectives?"

No parents: Gordon knew it was a possibility from the start. He thought that maybe he would have had parents. His clothes were relatively clean, and it looked like he had taken a shower in the past day or two. If anything, the kid had a place to stay.

Jay shifted his gaze to Gordon as he sat back in the chair, "I'm just saying that I'm going to need a guarantee."

The kid's personality was slowly grating on Harvey's nerves. "Look kid, you better spill or you're going to be sleeping in a cell next to Geilo, and he snores."

Jay rolled his eyes over to Bullock, "Tubbs, I'm talking to the guy in charge, okay?"

"Tubbs?" Bullock's face contorted into a scowl. "Let me tel—"

"How about this," Gordon suggested quickly, cutting off Bullock. "You tell us everything and we don't call Social Services." He was a street kid. Social Services was an inconvenience at best for someone like Jay, but Gordon knew that being let go outweighed any information. "You can head back home, no strings."

The red head studied him cautiously; finally, he smiled, "There we go. Sure, I'll talk."

Gordon nodded then continued, "So, what did you see? Start on how you saw the vigilante."

"The vigilante, no offence but he's a little more than the run-of-the-mill crazy person with a vendetta," Jay finally sat up right as he thought about what he saw. "So, I was minding my own business, hanging out on the fire escape."

It was a blatant lie. The kid knew it wasn't a convincing lie either, but he didn't have to try covering it up. Both detectives let it slide.

"I see this lady getting mugged. The mugger had a gun. I thought if I interfered it might have gotten her killed. Then all of a sudden, I see him on the roof opposite of me." Jay seemed to be more into it as a spark of excitement entered his eyes. "It's like this giant—"

"We know what he looks like," Bullock dismissed him before he got another long-winded description that matched countless others. "What was he doing?"

The red head was undeterred by the interruption, "He was watching the crime, peering down on them like a gargoyle. I was quiet; I didn't want to let him know I saw him. Then, he jumped and glided down."

"What?" Gordon asked in confusion.

Jay reiterated a little annoyed, "He glided down."

"Glided? Like how?"

"I don't know. The cape took care of that part. He just spread it out and it broke his fall," He tried to illustrate by holding his arms out like Dracula. "Kind of like," the kid shrugged as he thought about the dark material spreading out in a wing-like fashion, "a bat, I guess."

"You expect us to believe this?" Bullock scoffed. "How dumb do you think I am?"

Jay didn't skip a beat as he put a hand to his chin and thought, "Well on a scale from one to ten—"

Bullock was going to say something when Gordon cut in again, "So, he glided down using his cape. Then what happened?"

"Then he beat the mugger senseless. Then I saw you, and he used some sort of line to escape."

"Line?" Gordon hoped the kid could elaborate more on the escape than he could.

"An escape rope of some kind, like. . ." the kid thought about the word, "A grappling hook! Yeah! A grappling hook, but a super powerful, automated one! I heard it connect to the roof; it pulled him up in a second. He flew by me like a rocket and then disappeared over the rooftop. I didn't see anything after that."

"That's it?"

"Yeah," Jay retreated from his excitement back into caution.

"He didn't say anything?"

"Silent as death," Jay shook his head. "That's all I saw, I swear."

Bullock looked back at Gordon and he nodded.

"So, this means I can go?" The teen leaned forward.

"Sure," Gordon nodded; the kid took the next second to stand and head towards the door. "Just don't hang out on fire escapes and turn yourself into police custody when they ask."

Fat chance, the red head thought as Gordon opened the interrogation room door. The detectives just watched him as he left.

"Oh!" Jay stopped before he stepped out the door. "There's one thing I forgot to tell you."

"What?" Gordon asked as the kid took a moment to think.

"You may have not noticed but," he touched his upper lip and scrunched up his face into a concerned expression. "I think you've got a caterpillar, right there."

Bullock rolled his eyes, "Scram kid before I get creative with a charge!"

"Gentlemen," Jay touched two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute goodbye, flashed a smile, and slipped out the door.

"Losing your temper, Bullock," Gordon smirked. "What are you a rookie?"

"It's ten o'clock, I should be watching TV in my slippers. Yeah, I'm a little short tonight," Bullock grumbled as he stood, and they exited the interrogation room. "I'm too worn-out to deal with snots like him. Did we even get anything significant?"

"Come on, Harvey," Gordon said taking steps towards his office. "Like the kid said, this guy is a little more than just the run-of-the-mill crazy person. A tactical battle suit, an advanced grappling hook, a cape that gives gliding abilities, this guy was trained; possibly even military. He's got access to technology that we haven't seen before. If so, another thing is for sure; he's got one hell of a banking account."

"So, a rich, militarily trained, super-technician," Bullock huffed. "That'll be easy to pin down."

Unsurprisingly after a night of vigilante justice, there were stitches to be made. Alfred pulled out the first aid kit and went to work. There was quiet for the first few minutes as Bruce read the newspaper. The particular cut was not from a knife, but instead a stray piece of window glass that had found a niche in the armor where the neck lining met the cowl—another thing to improve. Apparently, bursting through windows to take down unsuspecting gang members was dangerous. Alfred had joked that the windows were going to do him in before any bullet did. Bruce was relatively quiet and contemplative as he sat with his shirt off while the butler worked. He didn't even wince as the needle went through his skin, but that wasn't what worried the butler. There were scars; scars Alfred had never seen before. They were old scars, but still, they disconcerted the butler every time he saw them. They spoke of a history that he hadn't been a part of; they symbolized pain. He couldn't help but wince at the sight of the scar tissue. It had less to do with the imagined gore and more to do with the fact that it was on the young man he had raised, but he wasn't that young man anymore. He was something else.

If Alfred was being honest with himself, sometimes it was like a completely different person came back. His return had come without warning and at a bit of a shock. One moment, Alfred was having a nice afternoon tea break in the new Wayne Manor garden; the next moment, he spotted an unexpected guest walking down the patio towards him. The joy he had felt at seeing the young man finally return was overwhelming; a feeling that cooled into immense concern after a few hours of talking to him.

Bruce had seen things, had experiences that changed him. One year he was learning from different martial arts masters in Tibet, the next he was tracking down cartels in South America, the next six months were spent in the Russian underworld. The young man was more distant when he spoke to Alfred, less emotional, cool. Even with everything he had told the butler, Bruce still kept things to himself. In a way, it annoyed Alfred. He'd known the young master since the day he was born; he didn't like this new distance between them. It made a pit in the bottom of his stomach, a dread filled pit that didn't go away as they talked.

Then, he told Alfred his plan.

Alfred had agreed to it immediately because he believed in Bruce. If he wanted to fight crime like they did back in the day, Alfred was going to help. Lucius was immediately on board as well; he built the gadgets and armor so quickly, Alfred questioned if Bruce had preordered everything. According to Lucius, the passion came from a break in the mundane track of his regular job. Oh, the trials of being a Wayne Enterprises' board member. It wasn't like this crusade wasn't planned, the bunker built in the caverns below the new Wayne Manor were a testament to Alfred's assumption that this was the end goal.

The work was slow going. Alfred was glad that it was deliberately cautious. The crusade against crime needed to start small, equipment needed to be tested, and a sort of legend needed to be spread. Therefore, mostly small robberies, muggings, and other crimes would be impeded. It gave Bruce a feel for the Gotham underworld without drawing attention to himself. In the daytime, he'd scout out areas and targets and gain intel on the local gangs. At night, he'd hit them hard. There had been mistakes and mishaps. Certain parts of the suit proved to be less than bullet proof or something would malfunction like the communicator did that night. It was best to fix the imperfections before things got too dangerous.

"Hmm," Bruce finally made a sound as his eyes scanned the newspaper.

"Something catch your eye?" Alfred grabbed at the first sign of conversation. He finished the stitch and focused on putting away the kit.

"Wayne Tower re-opens at the end of the week," Bruce said still deep in thought.

"Yes, indeed it does," the butler nodded. "Will you be attending the ceremony?"

Bruce looked at Alfred with a look that told the butler he should know better.

"There will be caviar, sir," Alfred said like it was a deciding factor, "pretty women, familiar faces, the perfect opportunity for you to—"

"I'm not going, Alfred," Bruce said simply.

"Right, no luxury for the hardened vigilante," Alfred said with sarcasm.

"No above ground activity. That's the luxury I cannot allow myself to afford."

Right, Bruce Wayne hadn't been seen for about a decade. As far as the world knew, he was still traveling abroad for personal reasons. The only people aware of his return were Alfred and Lucius. That was understandable for the time being; Bruce originally reasoned that if both Bruce Wayne and a vigilante showed up at the same time, there would be questions. However, after several months of activity, Alfred felt like it was time for him to make his official return. Bruce disagreed. There was to be no activity at all above ground outside of his vigilante persona. He didn't even go upstairs for breakfast. Since Bruce was technically off God-knows-where, it would be strange if someone spotted the billionaire wandering around the grounds—or at least that was how Bruce explained it. So, he was stuck in the underground tinkering away and formulating his next hit. However, as much a Bruce portrayed his reclusiveness as smart or tactical, Alfred knew it was more personal. Some part of him reveled in anonymity and the lack of social responsibility. Alfred didn't know why; he didn't want to prod him too hard too quickly but knew he needed an answer soon. He might as well start nudging the answer out of him now.

"A luxury you cannot or will not allow yourself to afford?" Alfred said as he finished packing away the kit.

Bruce sighed, lowered the paper, and came to a stand, "A double life wouldn't work. I need to focus on what is important." Bruce nodded to himself, "Bruce Wayne isn't needed for Gotham to be fixed; bringing him back is an unnecessary complication. He can be lost, forgotten. I'm at peace with that, Alfred."

Alfred was stunned for a moment. He honestly couldn't fathom Bruce's inability to recognize his own worth in his friend's lives, "Maybe Gotham doesn't need Bruce Wayne, but the people around him do. I promise you he wasn't forgotten." He took a long pause, almost taking in the absurdity that Bruce disassociated himself with his previous life in a way that made him refer to it in the third person. "I miss him and so do a lot of other people."

Bruce simply turned away and went over to the computer. They hadn't had an argument since he had returned. Alfred desperately wanted one as well; it was as if Bruce was purposefully avoiding all conflict with him. Bruce simply wanted to ignore the matter at hand and continue like it wasn't an issue. Alfred decided to leave it for the moment as Bruce rubbed sleep from his eyes. Arguing while sleep deprived would lead to a fracture between them before it would yield a change.

"Just," Alfred said as he approached the elevator, "promise you'll sleep on it."

He was silent for a moment then nodded, "Goodnight Alfred."

Jay used his freedom to return to the scene of the crime. The cops were gone by now. There was nothing to protect; he doubted if there was any substantial evidence to show that the vigilante had even been there. Considering the quality of the police force in the interrogation room, it would probably take months to even find the guy. Right now, he wasn't worried about the vigilante; he just needed to find his bag.

He went to the place where he had tossed it off of the top of the building; he growled when he saw it. The bag was limp, empty. The only evidence it had ever contained something was the sticky nature of the cloth that had been soaked by exploded soda cans. The busted soda cans were still in there, but everything else was gone.

"Couldn't even leave me my crowbar?" Jay growled annoyed; his lockpick was also gone. Steal a thief's score—sure—steal his tools—now you're just robbing him of future opportunities. He'd have to steal one from a junkyard or a construction site again; the lockpick would be even harder to pocket as his go-to hardware store was aware of his shoplifting habits.

Jay decided to head back home. Home was in the Narrows, a bit of a walk from where he was but not too far. As he made his way back, he couldn't help but look up towards the sky as if hoping to see the caped vigilante again. Alas, there was no looming shadow. He shrugged it off and continued home: an apartment building.

Jay climbed up the stairwell to the apartment building. It was old, mostly abandoned, left unrestored in the wake of No Man's Land, and held only a few remaining occasional residents. He made his way to the top floor, stepping over the legs of someone who had passed out on the stairwell. Apartment 310: he didn't own it, but then again, no one really did. It was vacant. The first time he entered, he had climbed in through the window—no fire escape to help him there, just old-fashioned finger strength and shimming across the wall until he reached the window. After discovering the fridge empty, a calendar that didn't date past last May, and most of the rest of the apartment devoid of everything but plastic covered furniture, Jay decided to settle in. There were nice decorations and knickknacks, but most of them were cat themed. Jay's main theory was that the apartment used to belong to a crazy cat lady who had just up and died without a will. He assumed crazy, because the quality of the lock was practically unpickable—spurring on his dangerous climb up the outside of the building. Whoever it was, they were paranoid about being broken into. He was glad it had that lock. It meant he had the apartment all to himself.

When Jay arrived at the door, he pulled out his key, one he had fashioned to avoid having to take the climb again. He paused at the door. A piece of paper had been jammed into the crux of the door. He pulled it out; a large A, an Anarchy symbol, was plastered on the piece of paper along with the slogan: "The People unite! The old Sionis Warehouse, Friday at 6:30!"

He balled it up and tossed it over the stairs behind him. He entered the apartment, slung the empty bag onto the coat rack, and turned on the light. He had always thought it was a little strange that the place had power—he never paid a bill in his life—but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He made his way over to the fridge and opened it up; the food would last him another week, but it was all junk. Even he knew he couldn't live off of stale potato chips and water forever. He needed some real food, and often he couldn't afford it. The fences always took advantage of the new blood. Jay had gotten into a fist fight or two with some of them over their prices—it never worked out in his favor. So, he worked for slave wages at best; and his last big score had been a month ago. He always took his time with his targets, made sure there wasn't any conflict; it took longer than most. He wanted to be smart; but that didn't always work out for him. It was that or he could start doing jobs for the gangs; he'd heard horror stories about the kids who started doing that. He lived by a sort of motto: take only what you need to sell, do only what you need to survive. If he got into the gangs, he knew he'd never get out. Then he'd be just another dumb criminal. If worse came to worse, he could always sell some of the weird cat paraphernalia, but it would probably only get him ten bucks.

Jay took a glass of almost sour milk and some jerky into the living room. He never really bothered to clean, there were a few piles of trash that had accumulated over time. He flopped down on the couch. The TV was off; it had broken about a week ago and he hadn't had time to find the parts to fix it or the chance to steal a TV. For now, his only entertainment was the morning paper. He picked up the newspaper off of the coffee table. He flipped through the pages absentmindedly until he stumbled upon a picture. It was a rough sketch of the vigilante—no it wasn't even a sketch more like a concept: a dark caped individual with an exposed chin. It was an ad for information on the person in question.

Jay snorted, it didn't even come close to what it was like seeing the guy in real life. There was this awe-inspiring fearful presence that followed him. The experience gave him a sort of euphoria; he'd never felt someone so powerful before. The way he effortlessly took down the mugger and how he seemed to be doing it every night, inspired the red head. If he had half the abilities that vigilante showed, things would be different in his life. The fences wouldn't be pushing him around, that was for sure. Yet, he had nothing to remember him by; there was nothing to prove he had ever even encountered the dark, foreboding figure. Well, maybe he could make one. He retrieved some scissors and cut the picture out of the newspaper. He took it and taped it to the wall. It was like a poster; the first he had ever owned. He felt a surge of pride go through him as he admired it on the wall. The pride was quickly overshadowed by a cautious, almost embarrassed feeling.

"Don't become an obsessed weirdo," He pleaded with himself.

Hopefully, you like it and I'm doing everyone in character; I'm still focusing on polishing the story and getting it moving. Forgive me if there are typos and what not, I proofread this at 2am.

Thank you so much for following and reading! It really helps motivate me to write!