Gotham City, 2039
The sun was setting in the western horizon as she pushed through the front door, dropping the suitcase with a thud. The house was dark and quiet and she wondered where Bruce could be this late. Probably taking a stroll with that mutt of his, she thought. She didn't exactly hate dogs, but when he brought the mangy half-starved creature home proclaiming it'd saved his life she'd had some severe reservations about keeping it; in the end though she didn't have the heart to refuse. So she and the large, menacing animal he'd named Ace had formed an uneasy relationship of avoidance, and she was certain he eyed her throat with a particularly hungry longing at times.
Wearily she grabbed her satchel and went upstairs to unpack, and perhaps have a lengthy, hot bath to wash away the tension of travel. It had been a long and stressful few days. Her father had finally died of heart failure after thirty years of living inside his own world of dementia. Funeral arrangements had been basic. His body was cremated and a small memorial service held in his honor at the chapel of the nursing home he'd spent his last days in. Most of her time had been spent dissolving his meager estate, which consisted mostly of the house she'd grown up in. The sale of the house had gone smoother than anticipated so she was able to return several days earlier, explaining why Bruce was nowhere to be found; she hadn't bothered to inform him of her change in itinerary.
She finished emptying the case and set it back in its place on the closet floor, within easy reach. Eighteen months ago she had been promoted to Vice-President of Finance at Wayne-Powers, and had been required to take several overseas trips to tour its international branches. She sat down at her vanity table and inspected her reflection in the mirror critically. At fifty she was the youngest member of the executive board. Small wrinkles were visible around her eyes, though frequent trips to the salon kept the gray hairs hidden. Reaching up, she loosened the clip that held her hair back and let it flow down her around her shoulders, brushing it out with her fingers and massaging her scalp.
Her eyes dropped from the mirror to a small silver-framed picture sitting on the corner of the table. Three people smiled into the camera. Correction, two people smiled broadly and one made an effort not to scowl. She chuckled and picked up the photo bringing it closer to her face. Isabella Martha Wayne sat between her parents with a huge, gap-toothed grin. She was six when they sat for the portrait, shortly before she was sent off to the school.
Mardi frowned at that thought. It was the best school money could buy. They visited often and she came home for a month in the summer, but it was difficult to be without their baby girl, who had Bruce's dark hair and her green eyes that may or may not darken when she got upset. They couldn't know because she never got upset. The girl went to bed with a smile and woke up laughing. Even after the ear infection stole away her hearing she never had a sad moment.
Isabella's sudden deafness almost seven years ago had devastated Mardi, but Bruce took in with characteristic aplomb. He immediately learned sign language, which he then taught to Isabella, and before she knew it the two of them were participating in silent, animated conversations she had no hope of keeping up with. They were like flip sides of the same coin, those two Waynes, different as night and day, but sharing a bond that was unequaled. Isabella was an extremely bright and curious girl, learning to read by the time she was three. Bruce began tutoring her daily in all manner of subjects, teaching the child a different language each week it seemed. Mardi remembered coming home one day and hearing her five-year-old daughter greet her in Latin. She was both impressed and concerned, but Bruce insisted the girl was like a sponge, soaking up every bit of information given to her.
And yet she had still enjoyed playing, often spending hours with her dolls or constructing a giant castle with her blocks in order to play as a beautiful princess. She was well rounded and happy, and loved everyone she came in contact with, but absolutely adored her father above all else, and the feeling was reciprocated two hundred percent. He would sit patiently for hours with her in his lap as she asked questions from 'why is the sky blue?' to 'how do they get the creamy stuff inside twinkies?' and he would give each answer the same serious consideration. He was the one who bought her first bicycle and held her tightly after she fell off and scraped her knee. It was he who told her she could be anything she wanted to be.
Then in her seventh year they had the two-fold problem of her hearing loss and above-average intelligence to contend with. The schools in Gotham simply could not meet her special needs, so they made the most difficult decision to send her away to a very exclusive school several hours away, where she was receiving the best possible education.
Mardi put the picture back on its place on the table and felt a sudden, urgent longing to see her husband. An important stockholders' meeting kept him from joining her in dealing with her father's death, but she didn't begrudge him that. She simply missed him.
Foregoing the bath, she changed out of her travel clothes and into a comfortable pair of sweat pants and shirt before heading downstairs to look for him, thinking of something simple she could make for supper, something that did not require a lot of ingredients. She'd reached the bottom of the stairs when she saw the young man, a boy really, walking from the kitchen towards the study with a mug in one hand and a sandwich on a plate in the other.
"Excuse me!" she spoke loudly to him, causing him to look up in startled surprise. "What are you doing in my house?"
"Your house?" he asked. "This is Mr. Wayne's house."
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Quite right." She decided on a different approach. "Do you happen to know where Mr. Wayne is?"
"Sure, he's downstairs," the boy replied. "I was just taking him down something to eat."
"Really?" she replied. "Considering this is the ground floor and there is no basement, I find that incredibly improbable."
"Well, I…" he sputtered.
"Why don't you take me to him," she said sharply.
"That might not be such a good idea."
"It's the best idea I've had all day. Or would you prefer I called the police?" He shook his head. "After you then."
"Okay," he replied dubiously and went into the study. She was beginning to question the boy's mental stability when she noticed the grandfather clock was at an odd angle to the wall. She watched as he went behind it…and disappeared. Swiftly she followed him through the hole in the wall that shouldn't be there, feeling her way along until the light grew bright enough for her to see. They immerged into a gigantic cavern. She could smell the damp sea air and heard the faint fluttering and small squeaks of what she assumed were bats. The entire space was filled with equipment and paraphernalia the likes of which she'd never seen. It was like stepping into a completely different world.
While she'd stopped halfway down to stare open-mouthed at the unusual surroundings, the young man continued to the bottom and walked over to an immense computer console with a high-backed executive chair facing it. "Here's your sandwich Mr. Wayne, and you've got a visitor." The chair revolved slowly around and she wasn't the least surprised to find her husband sitting upon it. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat, and then he simply said without emotion, "You're home early."
It was ironic that the man who planned for every contingency, who feared no one, who fought and defeated the deadliest criminals to walk the streets of Gotham, had no idea how to tell his wife that he was Batman. For fifteen years it simply hadn't mattered, it was a closed chapter of his life and bore no relevance to the current situation. But then a month ago when she'd been on a trip to Japan and he had taken a walk late one night to help him sleep, everything had changed. For a month he'd juggled the two lives as he had so many years ago, thinking perhaps he could actually get away with not telling her at all. But now here she was, there was no getting around it, and she did not look happy.
"You're home early."
"Well the house sold much faster than we thought it would and the weather was atrocious so I decided to come back a little earlier and just what the hell is going on here Bruce?!" Her voice bounced against the cave walls asking the question several more times before fading out. She came down the steps and he rose from the chair so that they formed a triangle with Terry who looked from one to the other with a baffled expression.
"Mardi," he said conversationally, "this is my new assistant, Terry McGinnis."
"What do you need an assistant for?"
He ignored the question and continued the introductions. "Terrance, I'd like you to meet my wife, Mardi."
Terry blinked at him. "Wife? I didn't know you were married."
She looked at Terry and rolled her eyes, then turned to inspect the vast cave, moving off towards his bizarre museum of crime. "Terry, don't you have something you need to be doing?" Bruce asked quietly.
"But what about her?"
"Go on. It's okay." Terry scooped up his knapsack and moved off to a private area to change. Bruce turned and saw she had discovered the glass cases holding the old uniforms of his and his allies. She moved down the line, stopping to stare at the old Batman suit, one finger pressed against the glass. He walked up to her. "Mardi." Gently he touched her shoulder.
"Where did you get all this stuff, Bruce? Is this some sort of eccentric collection? Some people collect coins, you collect old super-hero costumes, is that it?" She looked up at him, almost pleading with him to give her a plausible excuse for the insanity.
"Mardi," he repeated sternly. "You've always known there was something different about me, that part that scares you, the part you've done your best to ignore." She tried to shake her head and tell him no, but he reached out with his free hand and gripped her shoulder. "This is it, this is who I was, who I still am." He turned her to look back at the case.
"Why?"
"When my parents died I wanted - needed - justice, vengeance. This is what I did, and I did it well for thirty years, but I had to stop long before I met you."
"The heart attack," she murmured.
"Exactly."
"And the problem with your back isn't an old football injury, or those scars all over your body aren't from a motorcycle accident?"
"No."
"So what are you doing now?"
Before he could answer Terry stepped out in full suit, holding the mask in his hands. "I guess I'll leave you guys alone," he muttered, moving off towards the Batmobile.
"Wait one minute!" she called out sharply. "You! You're that terrorist who broke into Wayne-Powers last month. You did hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of damage." She looked back at Bruce "I want some answers now."
Terry stepped forward. "I was preventing the delivery of a lethal nerve gas. I'm no terrorist."
"Nerve gas? That's insane. Mr. Powers would never allow something like that to go on in the company."
"He didn't just allow it lady, he was behind the entire thing, and he had my father killed to cover it up!" He was growing visibly upset.
"Terry," Bruce cautioned quietly.
"How dare you spread such baseless accusations?"
"Baseless? Bruce, tell her! And why is she defending that maniac anyway?"
"Because he's my boss!" she exploded.
"What?" He looked at Bruce, who nodded to him.
"Mardi is a vice-president at Wayne-Powers," he explained.
Terry's face went from anger to astonishment to delight. "That's great! She can get the goods on Powers from the inside."
Bruce put a hand on the boy's back and maneuvered him away as Mardi turned an unhealthy shade of red. "Not he wisest thing for you to say," he advised, pushing Terry towards the car. "Get out on patrol. Contact me later."
Terry slipped on the mask and took one final look at Mardi before saying, "Did you lose a bet or something?"
"Go," Bruce growled and waited until the vehicle shot out of the cave before returning to his wife.
"I get it," she said holding her hands out. "You can't do it anymore so you send a child out to do it for you." she asked coldly.
"He's not a child."
"Well he's certainly not a man yet. What is he, 19? 20?"
"17," he grumbled.
"Oh god," she moaned. "What does his mother think about it?"
"She only knows that he's my personal assistant."
"He's not even old enough to join the military and you've got him out fighting in your own personal war?" She pointed behind her, at the Robin costume. "And he's not the first kid you've involved, is he?"
"Mardi, please don't do this."
"Tell me it wasn't Dick, tell me you didn't put your own son in danger." He simply stared at her. She rubbed her hands over her face. "This can't be real."
"I'm afraid it's all too real."
"I need to be away from you right now. I need some time to process this…situation." Slowly she walked away and went back up the steps.
"Mardi," he called out to her when she was at the top. She looked over her shoulder at him. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you this doesn't leave the house." She simply nodded and disappeared from sight.
He sat back down at his control center and resumed work on the program he was writing to gain access to a new government tracking satellite. A short time later he was hailed on the commlink.
"You still in one piece?" Terry asked.
"Of course."
"So that was the old lady, huh. Is she always so…pleasant?"
"Only when she finds out I've kept a major secret from her for fifteen years."
"Yeah, well, I guess I can understand that. So you got any kids I should know about?"
"One daughter. Isabella."
"Oh? Where's she at?"
"At a private school for the deaf."
"She's deaf? I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't feel sorry for her. She doesn't." An alarm sounded on the computer and a feed from the police department's emergency signal was patched through. "Terry, there's a prison riot at the Gotham Penitentiary. Several guards are being held hostage. Go see what you can do."
"On my way."
