Bruce Wayne was also no stranger to solitude. He had arguably been alone since he infamously watched his parents die outside that theatre when he was ten years old. On paper, though, he wasn't. As determined by Thomas and Martha's will, Alfred, their head of house and security, was granted guardianship of Gotham's orphaned Prince. Alfred wasn't just the Waynes' most trusted confidant; he was their oldest friend.
Growing up, Bruce had always adored Alfred. The former British intelligence officer had been with the Waynes for almost all of Bruce's life, guarding their safety, guiding their schedule and ensuring all of their affairs ran smoothly. Alfred was present for every event, every trip in and out of the country, every business deal, and practically all the days in-between. The Head of House didn't have any family of his own and chose to spend the majority of his time working. Because of this, he was always around. Alfred played this game where he'd sneak candy into Bruce's pockets, book bags, and car seats. Occasionally he'd drive Bruce to school, leaving the usual driver to stay on guard for Martha.
When Bruce's parents died, he clung to Alfred before, during, and after the funeral.
But the months following the Waynes' murder were extremely difficult for the both of them.
The press was ruthless, Alfred had to meticulously oversee the execution of the Waynes' will for both their personal lives and for Wayne Enterprises, and Bruce's trauma morphed him into someone unrecognizable.
The rambunctious, inquisitive, and sweet child Alfred once knew had seemingly died along with his parents. In his place was a broken boy who woke up every night screaming.
Bruce didn't speak for almost fifteen weeks. He barely ate. The little boy suffered brutal panic attacks that left him choking and gasping while hot tears streaked down his face. There were times he'd drown so deeply in his anxiety that he'd rip his hair out, slam his head into walls, or break things.
And Alfred, going through his own grief and extreme sense of guilt, found himself completely lost and overwhelmed. Not sure what else to do, Alfred would restrain Bruce against his chest, commanding the boy to calm himself, begging him to breath, just breathe with me .
The child's heartbreaking wails and screeches reverberated throughout the tower was haunting.
They'd sit on the ground—sometimes for hours— with Bruce's back pressed against Alfred's chest, and his small wrists held firmly in Alfred's unbreakable grip. Eventually succumbing to his exhaustion, the boy would fall asleep. And Alfred would often just continue to sit there like that, holding Bruce, their bodies gently rocking to Alfred's silent sobs.
The grieving orphan soon found himself forced to in front of a shrink every single day. When he had to, Alfred would haul Bruce over his shoulder kicking,biting, punching, and sobbing; tantrum or not, he was going to therapy.
Sometimes in these sessions, he'd sit completely still. Other times he'd be shaking so hard his teeth rattled. But either way, Bruce continued to remain completely silent.
The agonizing weeks dragged on with this routine in place.
Until Alfred entered his office one day, startled by a scowling, pouting young boy sitting on his desk.
Bruce promised he'd start speaking again if he didn't have to go therapy anymore. Alfred was so relieved just to hear his voice again, he nearly cried.
They reached a compromise; if the child started talking again and participated in a structured physical activity of his choice to help work through his grief, he no longer had to see his shrink. Bruce chose mixed martial arts and trained with Alfred every day in replacement of therapy. The rest is history.
By his twelfth birthday, Bruce had improved enough to be sent off to the best boarding school in the country. And though he went home every holiday and summer break, outside of training and eating together, Bruce's relationship with Alfred was all but estranged.
The one constant entity that surrounded him, shaped him, defined him...was his anger at Gotham.
Because his city had betrayed him. It created an environment so littered with criminals that his parents could be gunned down without a clue of who did it.
After the first wave of grief, Bruce was left with nothing but rage . An all-consuming rage that stays with him even now... especially now. It was always bubbling below the surface of his hollow, quiet, withdrawn demeanor. The rage gave him drive, demanded him to utilize his brilliant mind and his inherited fortune to become quicker, stronger, smarter. He needed to be fearless. But most importantly, he needed to be feared.
By them.
The monsters that were still infecting his city. He made it his mission to hunt down and break them. Break them like they broke him. Every fucking night if he had to. He wouldn't rest, wouldn't sleep, wouldn't eat until he left their mangled bodies to rot behind bars. All of them. Because he vowed his parents wouldn't die in vain.
He vowed to wreak vengeance. He needed to. It consumed his entire life, fueled by his rage and mourning. It became his identity. Nothing else mattered to him. Nothing.
Until Alfred almost died and he realized how much they care for one another.
Until he woke up to Selina's soft lips and watery eyes boring into his with worry and...and something else, something that rumbled a part of him he didn't know was there. Something he kept buried inside, hidden in the darkness of his shadows.
Until the Riddler burned Gotham to the ground, and believed The Batman helped him do it. And the words of Riddler's goon, spoken through smiling lips on his recently bashed-in face, shook him to his core.
Me? I'm Vengeance.
The Batman had invoked a change in his city, but not the one he intended. To his horror, the opposite had happened. Bruce was fast approaching Year Three of The Gotham project, and the crime trends have steadily increased since day one. For every sick, twisted snake he beat down, five more were waiting to strike. His mission had inspired these sinister, psychopathic motherfuckers to avenge their own injustices by massacring hundreds of civilians
This was all his fault, his doing.
So, for the past six months, The Batman ran himself into the ground every night. He spent the first several weeks scourging the wreckage, helping the rescue efforts finds survivors from the flood. The Dark Knight kept the element in check with brutal force, his surging fury instilling a new level of fear in criminal's unfortunate enough to see him materialize from the shadows. He worked with Gordon on new cases that spread through Gotham like a virus, determined to stay ahead of the chaos, driven to never let a catastrophe like that happen again.
And in the morning, Bruce Wayne rolled up his sleeves, threw on his sunglasses, and got to work repairing the financial damages that left thousands of citizens struggling to live. With Alfred providing the backbone, the public was delighted to see the reclusive billionaire sparingly step into the spot light to support the relief effort. Bruce put on a tie, cut the ribbons, and wrote the checks. Thanks to Alfred's insistent nagging, there were even pictures of Bruce Wayne sporting a faded smile.
There was no time to rest, and time began to blur together. Bruce forced himself to trudged forward like a ghost, ignoring the exhaustion gnawing away at his muscles, his brain.
Because every time he felt himself slowing down to take a quick breath, to close his eyes for just a second, he hears the Riddler's menacing voice whisper in his ear.
You're a part of this too.
Thunder grumbles over Gotham, dark gray clouds covering the city like a blanket. The only visible thing in the gloomy night sky is the muted yellow light of the bat symbol, cutting sharply through the downpour.
Another flash of lightning rips through the atmosphere. It reflects off the droplets bleeding down the Batman's mask as he emerges from the shadows of the rooftop.
Lieutenant Jim Gordon turns towards the sudden movement, his hand instinctively moving to the pistol on his waist, but he relaxes when he recognizes the vigilante. He nods in greeting before flipping the kill switch on the buzzing search light that has a metal bat jammed into its frame. Bruce stops a few feet away from Gordon, silently studying the grim look on the tired cop's face. Gotham's best cop was working almost as diligently as his vigilante comrade. It's evident in his darkened under-eyes and his slower-then-usual movements.
"We can't get him to talk," Gordon starts with a heavy sigh, pushing his glasses up as he rubs his temples. He hands Bruce a manila folder, catching him up on the case they've recently been working on.
Last week, the caped crusader intercepted a U-Haul truck as part of a drug bust. As predicted, there was a blood bath in the underground as crime lords fought for control of the market after Falcone's downfall. The Batman and Gordon were working over-time to stay ahead of the element, nip the problem in the bud before it could grow into something uncontrollable.
But when they went through the contents of the U-Haul, it wasn't just drugs they found. Two young women were bound, gagged, and stuffed in a secret compartment at the base of the vehicle.
"The girls are scared shitless, still won't say a word. We got one of them to consent to a rape kit. Forensics confirmed more than one assailant. It's definitely a trafficking case, like we suspected. But that's all we got. We've got no idea if this guy was working with anyone else, or if this is his solo gig. The fucker won't talk."
Gordon watches as the Batman studies the information from the file, the air in-between them heavy with the weight of the situation. One man kidnapping and trafficking out his victims was horrific enough. If they find out this wasn't just a one-man show, they could be looking at an entire human trafficking operation. And that meant more victims still out there. More women bound and gagged and God knows what else. Vengeance's eyes darken with what Gordon can only guess is anger, his appearance suddenly looking dangerous . The older man finds himself being grateful he and the Vigilante were on the same side. Especially with what he had in mind.
"It leaves us at a dead end. So, I was hoping you could."
The Batman's eyes flick upwards to lock with Gordon's. The police lieutenant's stony expression tells Bruce two things: how atrocious of a shit-show could be brewing for them, and how worried he was about that happening.
"What?"
"Get him to talk. We got 'em in interrogation, and none of us got anything outta him other than a 'fuck you.'"
Bruce snaps the folder shut and hands it back to Gordon, his shoulders square and his back ram-rod straight. He nods once, his deep, gravelly voice having a finality to it that was frightening.
"I'll make him talk."
Gordon gives him a returning nod, tucking the folder under his arm. He heaves in a slow breath, exhales noisily through his nose and glances at his watch.
"We better go. Before the dumb son-of-a-bitch asks for a lawyer."
They both head briskly towards the elevator before Gordon stops abruptly in his tracks, reaching into the inside pocket of his blue blazer.
"Shit, I almost forgot. I found this laying on the light when I was here earlier tonight."
Bruce turns to face the policeman, watching as he digs around for a second before finding what he's looking for. Gordon holds out a piece of black fabric, and the Batman's eyes knit together in confusion before he reaches out to take it. And then he recognizes it immediately.
It's Selina's mask.
Bruce's expression is unreadable, especially through the cowl. He rubs the material in his hand through his thick gloves, still as stone. It's quiet for a moment and Gordon clears his throat, his tone taking on concern.
"Everything alright?"
The Batman, in his usual fashion, doesn't answer. He tucks the mask into his suit, and without a word, starts towards the elevator once again.
" Up , you piece of shit."
Officer Martinez grabs the hand-cuffed man in front of him, yanking him up from his seat so forcefully that the chair hits the floor. Officer Locke grabs the suspect from the side opposite Martinez before they make their way out of the room and down one of the hallways of the precinct.
"Hey! Get your goddamn hands off me!"
Matt Williams, the kidnapper in the Trafficking case, flails around as he's practically dragged forward.
"Where are you taking me?!"
"Shut the fuck up," Officer Martinez growls, yanking Williams into a dim room in a secluded corner of the building.
There, Gordon stands waiting in front of an old, rectangular metal table and matching chair. Martinez and Locke shove Williams roughly in the seat. A rusted lamp sways overhead, producing only enough light for the table and Gordon to be visible.
"Sir," both cops greet the lieutenant in unison.
"Thank you, officers," Gordon says in return, nodding his head towards the door. Both men obey quietly, moving to stand guard outside the room, watching through the two-way mirror.
Williams sneers up at Gordon, indignantly straightening himself in the chair he was thrown in. "What the fuck is this?!"
"I thought I'd give you one more shot to update your horseshit statement," Gordon answers, shoving his hands in his pocket as he shrugs nonchalantly.
"I already told you, motherfucker," William spits, "I don't have 'nothin' else to say."
"And I'm telling you, motherfucker," Gordon steps closer to the tall, lanky man seated across him. "This is your last chance to tell me who you work with and where the other girls are-"
"There's no other goddamn girls!"
Gordon ignores the interruption. "Otherwise, I'm gonna have to let a buddy of mine come in here and ask you himself. You see, he really wants to know who helped you do this. And where those other girls are. Because, the thing is, Matt, we know you're not smart enough to have done this on your own. As dumb a piece of shit like you is? No way. And my buddy, he's not a very patient guy. I promise you. You don't want him to have to ask you himself."
The assailant scrunches his face up, glaring at the detective as makes his hands into fists under the table. Gordon takes one last step closer to Williams and tilts his head to the side in a challenge.
"So, last chance, pal. Who do you work with, and where are the other girls?"
"What the fuck are you talkin' about, a buddy of yours," Williams says through his teeth, but Gordon catches the nervous edge suddenly in his voice. "I don't give a fuck whether it's you, or them, or any other pig. I don't have shit to tell you."
Gordon clicks his tongue with a shake of his head and sighs. "That's too bad."
There's a sudden movement from the back of the room. Williams' eyes automatically shift to the mirror behind Gordon, and he watches as a dark figure steps silently out of the shadows.
Vengeance looms over Williams, the two making eye contact through the mirror.
Gordon watches the handcuffed man as his eyes widen. Williams' expression quickly morphs from anger into fear. The perpetrator whips around to confirm The Batman is standing behind him.
"What the hell?!"
Sure enough, the Batman is there to glare down at him. Swimming in that glare is an undeniable rage. Gordon recognizes the returning look in Williams'.
He's terrified.
"I'm gonna go grab a coffee," Gordon throws Williams one last withering look before moving to leave the room.
"Hey! Wait, you can't do this! You can't leave me in here with him! HEY! HEYYY!"
From behind the two-way mirror, Martinez and Locke watch as Gordon shuts the door as he exits the room and the Batman lifts Williams by the front of his shirt like he's nothing more than a ragdoll.
Gordon waits in one of the nearby empty interrogation rooms, sipping on his shitty coffee. There's a rap at the door and he stands when the Batman enters and closes the door behind himself.
Just as he had ignored the screams of agony echoing through the halls for the past half hour, Gordon ignores the blood staining Bruce's black gloves.
"That was quick," Gordon observes dryly. Again, he was grateful they were on the same side.
"There are others," Bruce begins, his quiet voice still gruff with anger. "We were right. He couldn't give me names, or anything that'd trace back to him talking. Said he'd be as good as dead. But he gave us some leads."
"Shit," Gordon leans against the table, throwing his empty coffee cup into the trash with more force then needed. "What do we got?"
"Williams was transport. Helped kidnap the victims, and drove them from A to B. He worked with what he called 'fishers.' They're the ones who choose the victims, and then convince those girls to leave with them. Said there's one working 44 Below. The other one...he's working one of the Foster System centers, the group home off Molden Street."
"Jesus," Gordon huffs, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. "Okay, so we do a stakeout. Flush out the fishers."
"I'm going to do some digging and see if there's any connections to those missing person cases we pulled. Identify a pattern. And then yes. We find the fishers; we find who they work for."
Gordon nods slowly, letting the new information sink into his exhausted brain. He purses his lips, fighting the urge to yawn.
"You should go home," Bruce comments after a few moments of silence. He opens the door and steps aside to let Gordon go before him. "Get some rest."
"You're one to talk. Do you even sleep, man? Whenever you fly off to during the day, I bet money it isn't to hang upside down and snooze," Gordon shoots at him half-heartedly, but he picks up his brief case and walks with The Batman the rest of the way out of the building and to the detective's car. Before they part ways, Gordon pats his unofficial season partner on the back.
"Thanks for the assist, man. For everything, actually. I'll do some digging on my end too, and we can reconvene."
The two men share a look and a nod before Gordon slides into his car and disappears down the road. Bruce stares after him for a second, the rain from earlier having all but stopped. His cape sways gently with the wind behind him as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the black material buried inside.
The Batman studies Selina's mask for a moment longer. And then he mounts his bike.
