11. Licking the Wounds
Lee operated in silence on the darkly clad figure. After quickly sterilizing what she could, she had sat the man down in the medical examination chair. Bruce had removed the armor while Lee had gotten some gloves and a surgical mask on. There hadn't been much time to prep for surgery, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She shouldn't have been doing surgery in her small clinic, but she knew that he wasn't going to accept her offer to call an ambulance. A number of her patients refused to go to hospitals for various reasons. So, she often found herself doing small, emergency operations to save their lives just like she was now. She had managed to stop the immediate bleeding and extract all of the shrapnel that had pierced the armor. It was a quick job, but some part of her doubted her abilities. She still felt like telling him to go to the hospital to get it checked, but she knew she would have some convincing to do.
Bruce wasn't kind to his nerves. No pain killers, he claimed it would make his head fuzzy. She couldn't imagine he was thinking straight with the blood loss and pain, but somehow, he managed to keep lucid and gain more lucidness with the blood he was receiving through the IV. He either stared off into the middle distance deep in thought or at Lee's handiwork.
"What the hell hit you?" Lee finally broke the silence that had persisted for the past thirty minutes as she finished up the last of her stitches and started to dab away the blood around his wound.
"Not sure," he answered quickly. "It was a concealed weapon. It was enough to pierce the armor with a direct hit, and the spread suggests that it is based on a shotgun in its origin."
"Seems rather centralized for a shotgun." Lee had seen quite a few in her day. Most of the victims were from the street themselves. Usually, she'd have her staff call an ambulance because they didn't have the capabilities to take care of emergency patients, but that didn't stop them from saving a few lives regardless. Bruce was lucky she had the wherewithal and some of the equipment to perform some quick surgery.
"I was rather close to the shot."
"Well, whatever you're wearing, it deflected some of the shrapnel and absorbed a lot of the force. It doesn't seem like any of your bones are seriously fractured. Though you do seem to have a hairline fracture on your collarbone, you'll need an X-ray to make sure," She kept the conversation clinical.
She paused for a moment, realizing the strangeness in the conversation that she was deliberately ignoring: the whole vigilante part. Neither of them had addressed it. They didn't want to. Lee had initially been very shocked at the reveal. At first, she thought it might have been some sort of costume—that he had imitated the vigilante for some reason. Once she saw the multiple latent scars on his body, the nature of it seemed to become more evident. She had to wrap her mind around Bruce and the vigilante being the same. The playboy she had met weeks earlier at the Wayne Tower opening seemed so different from the man sitting in her room. She felt that, if she questioned it, she wouldn't like the answer. Lee sighed. She needed to know.
She set her tools down and looked at him, "Bruce, what the hell are you doing?"
He didn't answer. He looked down at his hands for a moment.
"Let me rephrase," Lee sighed as she tried to organize her thoughts into a coherent question. "Why are you, Bruce Wayne, someone I've known since he was barely a teenager, dressed like the vigilante, shot up, and in my office?"
"Penguin has been stockpiling weapons for sale. I found what would have been a promising bust. I decided that something needed to be done." He said it matter-of-factly. It reminded her of Jim when he was explaining cases to his subordinates. But Bruce wasn't Jim.
"So, you just waltzed in there and took them on as a vigilante?" Lee cut in quickly. "In what way does this seem like a feasible—sane thing to even consider?"
"Dr. Tompkins, I—"
She held her hands up, "That was dangerous, Bruce. You should have called the police. You should have—no. You're the vigilante; you've been doing this for a while." She took a moment to look off deep in thought. Bruce was in way over his head. She needed him to know that. She'd heard all about the vigilante, how much he inspired fear in the underworld. She couldn't believe that he would go to such lengths. . .
"Lee."
Lee realized, "Gordon was complaining the other night about how he thought he hadn't rubbed off on you. Now that I see you, I know that too much of him has rubbed off on you."
"It's not the worst thing that could have happened," Bruce smiled a little.
"I should have caught this," Lee rambled. "You used to be a very different child. You used to rush out into danger, constantly try to solve your own problems. We put way too much responsibility on your shoulders during No Man's Land. I should have seen the path that you were going down and stopped you. Now, you're bleeding out in my office. I have your blood on my hands, literally." She held up her blood-stained gloves. "This is just a new chink in a pattern of self-destructive behavior!"
"What else would you have me do?"
"I don't know! Fund a charity, campaign for mayor, become a cop, anything but this!" Lee took a breath as she realized how frazzled she was becoming. She tried to speak in a calmer tone, "Bruce, in my opinion as a medical professional and a trained therapist, this is not healthy behavior. I highly recommend that you find another more constructive outlet for your tendencies."
"Thank you for the recommendation Dr. Tompkins," Bruce nodded sincerely, "but I don't think I'll take it."
"So, your big plan is to—what—fight crime as a vigilante? It's really working out for you!" She nodded towards the wounds. "You were this close to rupturing your axillary artery."
"At least I'm doing something to help," He insisted. "Gordon is a good man, but the crime in the city isn't going away. I think I can do something about it."
"Bruce," Lee sighed. "Gordon's just as frustrated as you with the crime, but it's the same in every major city. Nothing gets better when we take the law into our hands."
"I'm not sure the people would agree with that 'Doc.'"
"Don't compare this to my past. I was definitely not in my right mind. I don't even remember half of it. I dated Nygma for crying out loud. But that's not the point. I was unable to help them effectively. I changed tactics," she gestured around. "This place was my new tactic, and it's working, Bruce. Find something like this where you can really help people. It doesn't help to take the criminals on your own. There will always be another bad guy."
"Then, I will always be there to stop them."
"Bruce, do you hear yourself? That is an ego talking, an ego that you can't possibly hope to satiate with this kind of behavior," Lee looked distraught suddenly. "Bruce, please, for the love of God, don't do this. I cannot bear to see you dead in the papers. That would kill Alfred; it'd kill Gordon to find out. Please stop this."
"I can't until I've been able to make Gotham safe."
"And when will that be accomplished?" Lee asked.
"Perhaps, never," Bruce acknowledged.
"So, that's it? You're just never going to stop doing this?"
"I can't afford to stop. This city—"
"Bruce, there are several ways to fix the city! Don't pick the one that's going to lead you down a path that you won't return from."
"I'm sorry, Lee. But I don't think I will stop."
"Damn it, Bruce!" She realized she was raising her voice. She slammed her hand on the mayo table as she tried desperately to knock some sense into the young man. She heard a noise from the closet area. In a second, the door popped itself open.
"Aunt Lee?" Lee whirled to see Barbara peering out of the closet. There was worry in her voice. "Are you ok?"
"Barbara don't look," Lee commanded as she realized the situation and stuck a hand in front of Bruce's face to hide his identity.
"It's fine," Bruce nodded to Lee with a bit of concern. "She's heard you say my name several times already."
Lee sighed and gestured for Barbara to come out of the closet. The young girl stepped out with a look of worried confusion. When she saw Bruce, a look of recognition crossed her face before she glanced over to Lee for confirmation.
Lee just nodded and sighed. "I guess I'll call Alfred—assuming he knows."
"He knows," Bruce nodded. "He's already on his way."
"Figures, I'll just," She almost ran her fingers through her hair before remembering the blood. "I'll just clean up. I don't need your blood in here." She stood up and went to the sink in the room.
There was a moment of silence. Barbara examined the vigilante with an analytical eye. She didn't seem afraid—Bruce thought. Instead, he felt like she was sizing him up. She seemed to come to a conclusion and stepped in his direction.
"You're the guy from the TV," Barbara nodded as she stepped cautiously closer to him.
"Yes." Bruce was unsure of what she meant, but she supposedly recognized him.
"You're a pretty big deal despite being gone for ten years," Barbara shrugged. "Not as big a deal as my mom, though."
Bruce smirked, "I heard. Wayne tower won't be the tallest building when she's done."
"That was her goal. She set out from the beginning to do so once she found out how tall you were building yours." Yeah, that sounded like Barbara Kean. "Dad says you're a pretty good guy, said he knew you when you were a kid. I've seen photos of him and you." She paused for a moment as she examined him, "But you're also the vigilante bat-guy, right?"
"And what does your dad say about him?"
Barbara screwed up her face, "He doesn't know what to think, honestly. He rarely talks to me about work, but he's not great when it comes to creating a password to his computer."
"Barb, I've told you not to snoop." Lee sighed. "There are all sorts of things in the police database that are not supposed to be seen by sixths graders."
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Barbara said dismissively before she turned back to Bruce. "Dad's unsure of you. He doesn't know if he can trust you, but I don't think that you're priority targeting right now. He said that you saved him during the gala night. So I think that's demotivated their search a little."
Lee paused for a moment. She hadn't immediately thought of it, but Barbara brought up a good point. Bruce had saved Jim. According to Jim, Anarky was milliseconds away from blowing away him and the rest of the guests at Bruce's manor. However, he was saved by the Batman. Lee lowered her gaze. If Batman hadn't existed, Jim would have been dead, no doubt.
" Well, that's nice to know," Bruce smiled a little. He sat up but grunted in pain.
"Here, this should dull the pain," Lee handed him a pill bottle. Bruce looked up at her, "Don't worry, I'm not going to drug you and turn you in, alright. Just take two."
Bruce took the bottle but didn't take the pills. Suddenly, there was a loud knock coming from the door leading to the side alleyway; the knock was patterned and synchronized.
"Alfred," Bruce said and strained to sit up. The room spun around him.
"I'll go get him," Lee said as she exited the room. "You stay seated."
She opened the alleyway door to find the butler standing there along with a black car. They exchanged a brief hello before Alfred came in to retrieve Bruce. Lee found herself chastising the billionaire as he pulled out the IV and tried to stand on his own. Several moments later, Alfred was helping Bruce off of the table and out the door. Lee grabbed the armor that Bruce had taken off; it was surprisingly light for what it had been able to deflect. Alfred quickly threw his coat over Bruce's figure to disguise him from any potential onlookers, which were unlikely at this hour. They quickly shuffled to the back door and escorted him out into the night air.
"The car," Bruce gestured down the alleyway. Lee looked over to see a dark—almost invisibly dark—vehicle parked in an indent of the alley.
"We'll worry about that later," Alfred assured him.
"I've got a tarp," Lee said. "I can cover it for you."
"No need, I will get it out of here before the night is over."
Bruce glanced back at her for a moment before putting his head down and moving towards the car. She couldn't help but feel like Bruce was worried about something. Again, the gala came to mind.
"Bruce?" He turned to look at her. "Thank you for what you did at the gala. You saved Jim's life. . . I won't tell him about tonight or anything. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all."
"Never doubted it for a minute," Bruce flashed her a smile. "You're a good doctor, Lee."
Alfred settled Bruce into the car and closed the door. As he rounded his way around the vehicle, he nodded politely to Lee. Lee gave him some antibiotics and a prescription for Bruce to prevent any kind of infection.
"Thank you for what you've been able to do, Dr. Tompkins," There was gratitude in his voice.
"Is Bruce doing alright, Alfred?" Lee asked. "Like honestly, alright?"
Alfred gave her a small smile, "He's doing just fine."
"Alfred."
"I'm keeping a good watch over him, Dr. Tompkins. Despite tonight's events, he's rather good at keeping himself from being too gravely injured. Don't concern yourself with him."
Lee put a hand to her head, "Just. . . take care of him, Alfred. I can. . . if he needs my help, he doesn't need to ask twice. But I'm not a miracle worker, so he can't come in with his arm half-blown-off."
Lee was suddenly pushed from behind, and Barbara stepped forward.
"Almost forgot this," She said as she handed Alfred the cowl that Bruce had dropped to the floor.
"Thank you, Ms. Gordon," Alfred smiled at the young girl. He said goodbye to Lee and entered the car. In a moment, the small black car peeled off into the streets and into the night. Lee let out a long sigh.
Lee turned to Barbara, "Not a word to anyone about this. Not your mom, not your friends, and especially not your father."
Barbara mimicked zipping her lip and throwing away the key.
Lee sighed, "Good girl."
"And then I caught that bastard right in the arm!" Oswald waved his hands around along with the remains of the umbrella as he told his story.
The man paced the room in a furious ecstasy leaving the worried medical attendant playing a game of catch up as he followed him around the room. Edward had been suddenly subjected to the tale as Oswald had stormed down the stairs not ten minutes prior. The man had immediately launched into a recount of the evening's events. It was a wild and invigorated tale, but Ed found it rather off-putting that Oswald's nose was broken at a distractingly horrifying angle.
"He was sent tumbling to the floor; I saw the pain in his eyes!" Oswald obliviously swung his arm back, almost slamming the assistant in the face. The medical assistant flashed Ed an exasperated glance after what had to have been the thirtieth attempt to set the broken nose. Ed nodded and stepped forward.
"Hey, Oswald," He said as he flexed his fingers.
Oswald glanced over. In a swift movement, Ed grabbed the stubby man's broken nose and tweaked it harshly back into place. A high-pitched whine escaped the Penguin's throat, and his hand flicked to his nose. It was more shock than anything. He inhaled slowly. Then exhaled.
"Thank you," He mustered through the involuntary tears.
"You're welcome," Ed shrugged, and the physician finally had the Penguin's attention. He took a seat in a small chair, and the physician started to prod Oswald. "Continue."
"Then the coward escaped," Oswald winced as the attendant started to dab away the blood on his face. "But I got him. I got that bastard," He hissed as the swab cleared some of the dried blood with alcohol. "I got him good."
The Riddler's face fell as he realized something, "So, you didn't kill him?"
"No, he got away but—"
"Oh," Ed seemed a mixture of elated and disappointed. "Well, that's . . . since you're here anyway, I have a few questions to ask then."
A little confused but thinking Ed was going to ask about his triumph, Penguin smiled, "Ask away."
"When you were 'interrogating' him, did he happen to say anything, something that could reveal his background?"
Oswald smirked, "Nothing but the usual diatribe you would expect. Justice, the law, protecting the city. He doesn't seem to be working for anyone—which is baffling. He must be completely nuts."
"So, a fascination with justice," Ed started to pace as the thoughts went through his mind like a well-oiled machine. "Perhaps he's a past police officer who became disillusioned with the system. What was his build?"
"My men slightly exaggerated with the ten-foot claim," Oswald rocked his head side to side. "But at least six foot. Not skinny, not really giant or bulky either."
"That'll bring the list down a bit," Ed mumbled as he turned towards his corkboard and started removing pictures. "Any distinguishing features?"
Becoming annoyed at the line of questioning, Oswald answered sarcastically, "The cape and bat ears were distinguishing."
"You know what I mean. A mark, some skin, something—"
"Ed, stop." Oswald waved his hand to dismiss the line of questioning. He glanced at the medical attendant with a look that said 'scram' and the attendant left. "What's this about? You should be glad. Tonight, I proved the Bat can bleed."
"But he's not dead," the Riddler said simply.
"Edward," Penguin shot him a dejected look, "you have to take some joy in the little things!" He reached out and patted his friend on the shoulder with a smile. "Come on, Ed. Enjoy the moment of victory."
Edward blinked and straightened at the gesture, "I admit I can be a little task-oriented—"
"A little?"
"Ok," Edward admitted. "I am rather obtuse in the field of revelry. I often don't celebrate things that I should. But he is not beaten, so I will not celebrate."
Oswald's frowned suddenly, "I bet if the Riddler had shot Batman, you would be just teeming with enthusiasm."
Ed turned back to Oswald, "That's not fair. I—" he paused for a moment as he thought. "Well, I would celebrate, but only because I would plan circles around him. This would have been just step one. Maybe I could have had a bottle of champagne for part one going right, but I wouldn't go too far. I'd still have the rest of my plan to look forward to."
"So, you don't think I have a plan," Oswald felt like he came to the crux of the matter. "I'll have you know that I have my men checking through the hospitals for anyone suffering from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. He couldn't have gone far with such an injury without medical help."
"That doesn't sound like him—he's gotten this far without being caught. He can't have gone through all the fights he has gone through without help. He's either got connections or is the world's greatest one-handed surgeon. It's unlikely you'll find him at a hospital, even in disguise."
"Sure, you just know how he thinks, don't you," Oswald sniped. "You forget that I'm the one winning that I'm the one who shot him."
"Yet, you forget that you shot him with my umbrella!" Ed emphasized. "Tell me, if you didn't have my gift, would you be talking to Jim Gordon or me right now?" Ed sighed. "I'm saying that you might not be thinking about this from every angle. You need to find a way to corner him."
"So, you think you're better than me," Penguin hissed. "You think you could do a better job?"
"I believe that I've evolved as a criminal. I've been places Oswald—I've worked through the inner workings of multiple underworlds."
"What am I? Chopped liver?"
"No, but you might be rusty."
"Rusty! I've been maintaining my empire through prison bars. Tell me you would do as well against the constant threat of Thorne or other parties? I am an establishment, and I don't plan on being treated with any less respect just because I've been locked up for a decade." He huffed and limped towards the staircase. "I thought I would come and share my victory with a friend. I'm sorry I tried."
"Oswald, it's just." But the man was gone.
In retrospect, Ed thought maybe he was a little critical of Oswald. Maybe it was the time spent away from one another that made it hard for them to communicate sometimes. Maybe the competition drove a wedge between them. He pushed the thought to the side as a headache started to form. Oswald and his emotions. Ed sighed and turned back to his corkboard.
"Connections, justice—hmm. Who does that sound like?" Ed tapped his chin.
"There we are, easy now," Alfred said as he helped Bruce ease into the sofa in the parlor. As he set the man down, he let out a small grunt in exertion. Bruce sat back into the sofa and allowed a bit of rest into his expression. "Are you sure that the bed wouldn't be a better spot to rest?"
"I don't think I'm ready for sleep just yet, Alfred," Bruce said with an almost apologetic expression. He knew how much he had probably stressed Alfred out in the last couple of hours.
"Ah, thought I'd finally roped you into using the bed for once," Alfred sighed; he went over to start the fireplace and add some warmth to the room. "Blood loss does not deter you one bit."
"I'll go to bed in a bit Alfred," Bruce nodded with a weak smile. "I just need to think over what Lee said." Plus, the pain medication hadn't kicked in yet, he knew he probably wouldn't be able to sleep without it.
Alfred nodded, "I'll go make some tea then, nothing better to allow for clear-headed brooding."
Alfred left the room, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts and the crackling fire. It wasn't like Lee's sentiment was new. He had had his doubts at first about the cause and wondered if it was the best course of action. However, he would always go back to Gordon—how he had always been at the forefront of any and all conflict. How many lives would have been lost if Gordon hadn't been as proactive in his work? How many more would have been saved if he wasn't held back by the rules of the corrupt police force? He was only set in his findings with every person he shielded from potential danger. He couldn't abandon the Batman—not now, not when everything was just starting. But that didn't mean that she was completely wrong. Lee had proposed alternative ways to help Gotham. These things weren't the work of Batman, but maybe they could be the work of someone else. Bruce liked the idea. Finally, Bruce Wayne would have a use if he dedicated his time to philanthropy.
Suddenly, his thoughts were disrupted by a slight breeze in the room. He glanced over to see the window open. Strange. Bruce stiffened a bit as he started to focus. He forced himself with a great effort off of the sofa and to his feet. Bruce slowly made his way over to the fireplace. The new flame was welcoming to his rather stiff body, but that was not the reason he went there. In a swift motion, Bruce reached with his good arm and pulled out the fire poker from its holder and whirled around.
"Come on out!" Bruce called into the darkness of the room. "I know you're here."
There was a moment of hesitation. The breeze seemed to stop, and the room froze with only the fire to light one side. Bruce had an idea—a hope—as to who it was, but he didn't want to underestimate them if he was wrong. From the dark corner of the room, a figure stepped out. She was in the same black cat-suit she had been in during the robbery several nights ago.
"Where's the kid?" She asked directly.
"Selina," Bruce breathed at the sight of her; he allowed the poker's tip to drop. A genuine smile threatened to cross his face. There was a moments pause before he spoke again, "It's good to see—"
"Yeah, no chit-chat, Bruce," Selina waved him off with a hand. "I just want to know where you've put the kid."
Bruce's eyebrows knitted together, "Selina I'm just—"
"Didn't I make myself clear?" Selina stopped him as a scowl crossed her expression. "Where the hell is the kid? I know you took him."
There was a pause, then Bruce put the poker back into its holder, "You mean the child you hired to rob a museum." There was a hint of disapproval in his voice. He hadn't assumed he was that important to her.
"Yeah. Don't pretend that it's shocking to you. They start younger every day," She glared at him and held her hand so that her claws glinted in the low light. "If you're not going to tell me, then I'm going to— "
"He's at the Falcone Orphanage," Bruce held up his hands in peace. "I put him there after I found him, and he should still be there if his injury hasn't healed yet."
She raised a brow at "injury" and huffed, "Really, you had to put him there?" She rolled her eyes and made her way over to the window. "Whatever, bye."
"Selina," Bruce stepped forward to stop her, "Wait."
She stopped and glared back at him, "Why?"
"We need to talk," Bruce said with a sense of seriousness. Then he softened, "Can't we just talk?"
"Talk?" Selina huffed with annoyance. "What do you want to talk about, Bruce?" Selina raised an eyebrow. "Want to start with your new hobby: parading around in a costume in the middle of the night?" She growled again. "Let's keep this short: stay out of my way, don't touch the kid again, and there won't be a reason to talk."
"Then return the diamond," Selina stopped again. She thought that it would have been her final stinger before leaving—but Bruce had a way of reeling her back in. He was demanding that she give up her steal. Oh, well, if he wanted a talk, she was going to give him one.
"No, you don't get to do that," Selina whipped around. "You don't get to just show up and expect everything to go your way. You don't get to order me around and demand my prize. I've spent ten years prying Bruce Wayne out of my life. You can't just come back in and expect to call the shots."
"Then I won't," Bruce said in an almost infuriatingly calm demeanor. "Just return the diamond."
"Not a chance in hell," Selina grit her teeth.
Bruce paused for a moment, "Selina, if you need the money, I can help—"
God, he could be so patronizing!
"It's not about the money, Bruce," Selina cocked her head to the side.
"Then, why?"
"Maybe I just like stealing things, Bruce. Just like you seem to enjoy pummeling criminals."
Bruce seemed to set his jaw. He knew that was a possible motive. With what he had been able to find, she probably had enough to set her up for the rest of her life. She enjoyed the game, the chase. He was glad to hear she wasn't being extorted or otherwise indebted to someone, but another part didn't like that it was apart of her nature. It was something that was eventually going to get her caught when she got sloppy. Worse still, it could get her killed.
Selina tsked as she saw the discontent in his eyes, "You're just disappointed I didn't stay at the manor and wait for you like a good little girl. You don't like that I've made my own way in the underworld, that's why you're getting on my case."
"It doesn't matter whether or not I like it. It's my duty."
"Oh, duty? We're bringing out the big guns already." She didn't hide that he was annoying her. Every self-serious line that came from him just made her blood boil. He acted like he had some grandiose purpose to hide his selfish desires. "Your duty includes protecting the rich fops that owned the diamond? What is it exactly that you think you do?"
"I have to protect the city from criminal elements," He said it with such flat seriousness. "No matter who they are or what they do."
"Oh? You protect the city," Selina rolled her eyes. "Well, color me surprised. You've done a fine job of that the past ten years. You've just been protecting it all over the place. Don't kid yourself. You left on the first plane out of this dump and never looked back."
"Of course not," Bruce insisted. "I would have never left unless it was absolutely necessary."
Absolutely necessary—whatever that meant. Bruce had always been the type to switch priorities. One minute, they were doing fine, enjoying the Gotham scenery and hanging out in her newest crib, the next, Bruce was cut off, distant, in Switzerland. He was with her; then, he wasn't. His "absolutely necessary" just never made sense to her. What was "absolutely necessary" about leaving Gotham? She knew, if she never asked, she would never know the answer.
"Then . . . Why'd you leave?" There was more emotion in her voice then she would admit. "Why'd you leave if the city was so damn important to you?"
Bruce was quiet for several moments before looking out the window towards the city in the distance, "I saw Gotham burn, and I couldn't stop it." He turned towards the window. "People starved. I saw the house that my parents built get blown to smithereens. Gotham was bombarded by the military. Everything was destroyed."
Selina scoffed, "So, you had nothing tying you here."
"No, I had everything tying me here," Bruce shook his head and looked back at her. "I saw the city destroyed, and I realized that I had not even begun to lose everything that I cared about. There was Bane's assault; we could have all died in an instant. Jeremiah decided to demonstrate that I still had so much more to lose still, and he almost took it all away: Gordon, Alfred, Lee, you. Worst of all, it happened because some psychopaths saw something in me that I couldn't understand." Bruce looked down. "I couldn't let it happen again."
Selina felt like she knew what he was talking about; it was all so terrifying when it had happened. Bruce did seem to have the worst luck when it came to the deranged criminals in the city. They were like moths to Bruce's flame. Part of her always blamed his "do-gooder" attitude, but sometimes she just wondered if there was some universal conspiracy against him. It explained his almost paranoid personality shift. But, when everything settled and nothing more came to haunt them, he decided to leave everyone regardless. He left her with the damages that had been done. He made a selfish decision. He didn't care how it affected everyone around him. He was just using his hang-ups as an excuse. No, she couldn't let him off that easily.
"Oh yes, you're just special, Bruce. Come on, there was crazy before you were here, and there was plenty of crazy after you left."
"But No Man's Land, that was my fault. It happened because of me. That event has scarred this city for years. The blast marks from military missiles are still evident on the walls. No one was able to contain what happened—especially me. Even with my training from Alfred, even with the new gadgets Lucius was giving me, I knew that I had so much I had to learn. I needed to be better, stronger! I needed to make sure that no one got hurt ever again, that No Man's Land was a thing of the past." He sighed. "That's why I left, to become someone who could stop something like that from happening ever again—someone who could strike fear into the hearts of criminals and send them back into the holes from which they came."
"And that someone just so happened to have a Bat-themed costume involved?" Selina huffed. "There are people with issues, and then there's you, Bruce."
Bruce knew she was hiding her true hurt under snide comments, "I don't expect anyone to understand."
"Oh yeah, you're just so complicated and sophisticated. We mere mortals could never feel the way you do, Bruce. It's never simple."
"Do you have another theory?" Bruce countered with a hint of agitation.
"As a matter of fact, I do," Selina stepped forward. "You couldn't be content with winning for once. You couldn't be satisfied with everything being resolved. Every bad guy had led to another, and you didn't like that there was a pretty little bow on the whole affair. You had to find some other problem to distract you because the truth would never be good enough. And... You couldn't be content with me—or anyone else for that matter." She huffed. "So, no, I'm not going to return your diamond. You're going to just have to take it, just like you took away everything else away from me."
Bruce paused for a moment. She hid it well, but he knew her well enough to tell that he had caused her a lot of pain. He knew he had not handled the incident with grace (that was an understatement—he mused gloomily). She was hurt by him. It was the kind of wound that had been festering in silence and bitterness; it couldn't be healed in a few words. She was different, harder. It wasn't hard to imagine that it was his fault. But the least he could do was apologize to her.
"Selina," Bruce started to say. "I'm sorry—"
"I don't want to hear it." Selina scoffed. "I'm going."
She walked over to the open window and stepped on the ledge. Bruce let out a defeated sigh. Selina turned back to look at him one last time. He was already taking the poker and stoking the fire. If she had it her way, she would want this to be the last time they ever met. If that were the case, she knew she couldn't have any regrets, nothing that would force her to come back and question him again. As she pondered the reality, a final question boiled up in her.
"Why didn't you say goodbye?" She paused for a moment before adding. "You said goodbye to Gordon and Alfred, but you said nothing to me. All I got was a letter. Why?"
There was a long silence before he answered.
"If I had told you face to face, I wouldn't have had the will to leave."
Bruce felt the words catch in his throat. What else could he say? That she was on his mind almost every day after he had left? That he had considered many times giving up and going home to find her? Even now, the thought of reaching out to her and expressing what he felt. No, he couldn't. He couldn't reel her in again; it would be selfish. He knew she was a thief. He knew she wasn't going to give that up with a simple confession. He couldn't compromise his burden for his own personal feelings. He knew it wouldn't be fair to either of them. It was too complicated. He couldn't have her hurt again.
"Selina," He turned back around to see if she was still there, but she had disappeared. Somehow, her disappearance felt worse. He bit back some disappointment as she left. Honestly, if he had a choice between the two, he wished he had gotten shot again.
She vaulted out the window and landed on the manor grounds. She didn't look back up at the window. She wouldn't look back, just like he hadn't. She'd vanish without a trace. Before she could disappear into the night, she saw a figure standing stoically a few feet away from her. She simply lowered her head and strode past him.
"Ms. Kyle," Alfred greeted as she walked past him. "I figured the front door wasn't going to be your choice of exit."
"Alfred," She just nodded as she passed him. "Still need that cane?"
"Only on the longer walks," he smiled and trailed after her. She slowed her pace so that he could follow her.
"I'm not apologizing," Selina tried to route off any potential conversation before she reached the gate.
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of an apology," Alfred said. "I just don't think both sides are being equally represented. Bruce tends to hide away his feelings."
"You sure you're not mistaking 'hiding away' for 'doesn't care,' Alfred? He's got more feelings for his 'duty' than anything else."
"He's a bit . . . difficult at the moment," Alfred admitted. "I believe that he's on guard. For what, I couldn't tell you, but I know that he has more to say then what he allowed out during his conversation with you."
"How do you figure that?" Selina chided.
She was surprised when the butler presented a wad of letters and postcards. She glanced down at them; she could barely make out the scrawling in the moon-aided dim lighting. Paris, Kyoto, Minsk, Hong Kong, Delhi, Rio—hell even Timbuktu were just a few of the places that were on the postcards. Among them were short, almost telegraph-like messages.
I'm sorry I won't be home for Christmas, Alfred.
I miss you, Al.
Let Gordon know that he was a great inspiration to me.
There were a few about Selina.
Can you make sure Selina knows that I'm thinking about her?
I know you can't write back, but I hope she's doing alright.
She raised an eyebrow at one of them. Finally, they arrived at the wall dividing Wayne Manor from the rest of the world.
"He's a bit more straightforward when he's writing," Alfred shrugged as Selina inspected the postcards. "He'd been sending them to me for the entire course of his travels. These are just a few. I have more, longer letters in the manor."
Alfred found the postcards suddenly handed back to him.
"Keep 'em. I don't need his excuses," She sighed before saying with a softer tone. "See you, Alfred."
With that, she vaulted over the Wayne manor exterior wall. She landed on the other side and started down the road towards the city. As she walked, she took a glance at her hand at the one thing she stole, one of the postcards. It was crinkly, rough around the edges. Some random picture of a mountain was on the other side. It was dated about seven years after Bruce had left. It was the message that had caught her eye.
If you can find her, tell Selina I love her.
She sighed, "This is stupid." She tucked the postcard under her catsuit and continued down the road.
Selina found Jason in a rather pathetic state. She had gone immediately to the Falcone Orphanage. On her way, she was thinking about the best course of action to rescue the boy. She was surprised when a string of lights was found illuminating the rooftop of the orphanage. She went to the roof for a closer look. For some reason, Christmas lights were strung around a small poll. Jason was sitting asleep while leaned up against the poll. The soft glow of the Christmas lights illuminated him in a tiny cocoon of blankets. He seemed to shiver a bit as she approached; he obviously hadn't intended to end up asleep on the rooftop.
"Come on, kid, get up," Selina shook him a bit.
"Batman?" Jason mumbled as he slowly started to wake. "I'm here to warn you. I-I have to tell you something. Penguin, he's planning something bi—" he looked up and was met with familiar eyes.
"No, kid," Selina sighed. "Sorry to disappoint."
Jason, now more awake, just looked down at his hands; he seemed upset about something. She figured he was disappointed. Damn it, Bruce. Disappointing us both. He's too quiet. What did you do to the kid?
"Come on, Jay," Selina sighed. "Let's go home."
Two men stood outside the theatre. They took a moment, one, a blonde man, looked down at the note in his hand before crumpling it up and heading towards the door.
"So, you sure it's here?" The other man, one with a nasty scar on his cheek, muttered as they pushed through the front door.
"Sure, it's what the letter says," the blonde man huffed as they entered the old theater. The Monarch Theater had seen better days. The seat coverings were torn, and the red carpet that had once lined the floor was in a shaggy uprooted form. The beams supporting the balcony had a worrying number of cracks in it, and there were water stains from the leaks in the ceiling. Despite the nature of the dark building at that time of night, they weren't alone. Three other men were in the room. They were crowded at the center of the theater in the central aisle.
"Anyone try the light switch?" One of the newcomers asked at the general darkness of the room.
"Yeah," one of them, a man with a pencil mustache, said. "No power. I found these flashlights at the entrance."
"I thought we were here for a job, not flashlight tag," The blonde huffed.
"You guys get the message?" A man with a star tattoo on a neck asked as he rubbed his cigarette into his shoe. "Seems really weird to me." He pulled up the letter, which looked like a store-bought invitation card to a child's birthday.
"Yeah," the blonde shrugged. "You see the guy who sent it?"
"Nah, been waiting for 'bout ten minutes. He better show up, I tell you what."
"He can make me wait all day," the newcomer shrugged. "Got nothin' to do."
"This better be one hell of a job." The star tattoo man shook his head. "Ever since Penguin's been back, you either work for him, Thorne, or someone else in the big leagues. There's nobody left in town who's just a normal crook."
A recruit wearing glasses glanced around, "Damn it, it better be soon. If my parole officer found out I was here—"
"Nobody's gonna' be skulking around here," Pencil-stache huffed. "Nothin' here but old ghosts."
Suddenly, there was a sound, like a generator starting. The flashlights darted around the room. There was a sputter of light, and part of the room lit up. The projector turned on and cast its light on the far wall and highlighted the dust in the air. A reel started to play, but it only played a loop of a countdown. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Then again across the screen.
"The hell?"
"What was that you said, 'bout ghosts?" The spectacled man gulped.
A figure suddenly stepped onto the stage and stood in the light of the projector. He was wearing a tacky, brightly colored suit, and gloves covered his hands. He carried a large yellow carry-on bag with him. He wore a red ski mast that stood out on the background, leaving his identity concealed.
"Ghosts? I don't know about that. I'm very much alive. I think," The figure called from the stage of the theater with a bit of a laugh. "Gentlemen, I see you received my message. Here I am." With that, he took a little bow.
They were all in awed, confused silence. This was by far the strangest job offer they had ever received in their lives.
"Not talkative, are we?" the man said disappointedly. "Ah, well," he waved it off. "I'm not hiring you for your elocution; I just need a few hired guns."
Suddenly, the man reached into the bag and pulled out something. That something was unexpectedly flung at one of them. The blonde caught it and looked at what he was given as the same thing was thrown to the other men. It was a thick wad of fifty-dollar bills. A buzz seemed to come from them as they looked at the unexpected gift.
"What's the money for?" The star-tattoo man questioned.
"Ah, you do speak," The man spoke with a humorous condescension. "Well, I thought I would pay you upfront to show that I am very serious about doing business with you. A courtesy, if you will. If anything, you won't complain about the pay."
Pencil-stache asked, "And what's the job exactly?"
"Do what you do best: crime! Rob a few grocery stores, a bank or two, maybe an armored vehicle if you feel like it. Just go out there and have a grand old time of it. The only difference is you work for me, do what I say. Go when I say go. Later, we'll get more serious, but for now, make some noise."
"Make some noise? What about the other guys? They're not going to like us muscling in on their turf," the spectacled man asked.
"Penguin: lost his touch. Thorne: he's as vanilla as they come! No one knows how to do things anymore. No one knows how to plan an operation or carry it out since," there was a pause, then the man said with a certain reminiscing, "since he came back."
There was an uncomfortable silence as the man on stage seemed to drift off into thought.
"Anyway, don't worry, they'll fall by the wayside soon enough," the man said. "My plan will succeed, we will take Gotham by storm, and we will put Penguin, Thorne, and whoever else stands in our way in their place at the bottom of the totem pole." He extended a hand out towards them. "So, what do you say, my r-ravishing r-roguish r-ruffians?"
There was a moment of confused silence. Some of the would-be-recruits glanced at one another to gauge their response. Star-tattoo tilted his head to the side.
"I'm out." He huffed. "I've seen freak before, and I don't work for freaks. They always burn bright, burn out, and burn everyone down with them."
The colorful man gasped in mocking horror, "Surely, I can make you reconsider."
The guy puffed, "No chances, freak." He turned to the rest of them. "You guys want to live, take a hint—get out now."
There was a small murmur among the initiates, and all eyes fell on the hooded man for answers. There was a moment of stillness. They could feel his eyes on them in the dark. There was a chill in the air. Despite not seeing his expression, they could almost feel the anger radiating off of him. Suddenly a chuckle came from him.
"Well," he finally declared boisterously and jumped down into the aisle to approach them, "no harm, no foul. I bid you farewell with a handshake." The man held his hand out for the other to take. "I assure you. I am a man of manners, and I wish you the best of luck."
The man scowled at him, glared at the hand, and a cocky smirk crossed his face as he thought about crushing the freak's hand in his grip, "Sure, see you freak."
He gripped the colorful man's hand. Suddenly, the star-tattooed man stiffened, and his short hair stood on end. His eyes bugged out, his muscles spasmed, and his body shook uncontrollably. The group of recruits stepped back at the sight of smoke coming from the handshake. The colorful man looked like he didn't notice.
"Quiet the grip you've got," the man in the ski mask said simply as burn marks appeared on the flesh of the man's hand. "But, my hand is getting warm."
The colorful man relieved his grip, and the other man fell to the ground with a thud. His body kept spasming, causing his teeth to clack together. The rest of the group cursed and retreated backward. The man with the scar drew a handgun and pointed it at the red ski mask.
"You all look rather shocked," A gurgling laugh emanated from his throat. He took a look around at them. They could see the glint of pure glee in his eyes. "Oh, calm down, I just don't like rude people." When they didn't move, he looked over to the man with the scar. "You can kill me, or you can make something along the lines of—say—twenty times what I gave you." The man shrugged. "The choice is yours."
There was a long, tense silence. The eerie, calm demeanor of the man, set all of them on edge. A small bout of laughter entered the room. This time, it wasn't from the colorful man. The spectacled recruit was chuckling as he looked down at the still smoking corpse and the aghast expression it had. The others looked on with disbelief.
"He does look shocked," The man with glasses muttered as an explanation for his outburst.
"See," the colorful man clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm not the only one with a sense of humor. What say the rest of you?"
There was one final glance between them all, and then, the one with the gun lowered his arm.
"Yeah, sure, what the hell," The scarred one huffed. "The pay's good. No one's getting this much from Penguin."
"He was an asshole anyway," sighed pencil-stache as he looked at the corpse.
"I could use the cash," the blonde muttered.
The hooded man clapped his hands together in delight, "Excellent! That's the gung-ho spirit of the Gotham criminal that I love!"
"So, where do we hit first, er, boss?" A nervous smile crossed the blonde's face.
"Well," he kicked the foot of the corpse in the room. "First thing's first, dump him. And then—" The man reached into his suit pocket and tossed another red ski-mask at the man.
"What the hell is this for?" He asked as he took the red mask.
The colorful man laughed, "We're going to make some headlines."
Ha-ha! I am alive! My last term killed my free time; this term might too. I'll try and update when I can.
Thank's for reading!