"Bruce? You still alive out here?"
Sunlight was streaming through the windows, offering a gorgeous midday view of Upper Gotham below. Bruce grunted, then shuffled to his feet. He was on the top floor of the Wayne Enterprises Building, a frumpy, utilitarian high-rise from the early 1970s that the company had bought shortly after Thomas Wayne died. The gray-haired man speaking to him was his Uncle Phillip, who had been serving as CEO in place of his father ever since. In Bruce's youth he only met him a few times; Phillip was often traveling around the world doing one thing or another. Now his face was creased with age but his eyes still possessed a keen spark.
"Still here. Thanks for meeting with me on short notice, Phillip. How have you been? Alfred tells me you're set to receive a humanitarian award next weekend."
"Ah yes, at the Gotham Mint. Industrialist of the Year, or some sort. A fun little honor, to be sure."
They moved through a set of doors into the penthouse office. The space was as sparse as the rest of the building, but Phillip had dressed it up nicely with plants and photos from his adventures.
"You look terrible, kid. Pull an all-nighter?"
"I was at the circus last night. You might have heard how that turned out."
"Oh that! Terrible what happened to those folks. I'm sorry you had to go through something like that again."
Phillip put his hand on Bruce's shoulder and nodded sympathetically.
"I really miss them this time of year."
"Yeah, the holidays are… rough."
"Well, let's not dwell on such things. What brings the prince to his castle today?"
He crossed the room to his desk. Bruce exhaled lightly.
"Everything that's happened in the last year, I'm thinking it might be time. For me to take an active role in the company. It's… uh, been a while since I've used my degree, but it's what my dad would have wanted, and I've been avoiding it for too long."
"The family legacy," Phillip closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
"Not much left of that, is there?"
"There's still us."
He chuckled.
"There's still you. I'm at the head of this company but you're the only Wayne left in Gotham. And… how to put this… you've been through a lot."
"You don't think I'm capable?"
"I don't know if you're ready for that sort of responsibility. It's one thing to think about jumping feet-first into the world after years away. It's another entirely to actually do it."
Bruce bowed his head.
"I see."
"I'm actually thinking it might be time to look towards a more… hands-off future for the company. I'm planning on selling Wayne Enterprises to Powers International. The board is supporting the acquisition. We start moving forward after the first of the year."
Bruce frowned, not believing what he was hearing.
"Dereck Powers? You can't be serious."
"I'm very serious. Look, Bruce. I'm… not cut out for this sort of thing. This was only ever going to be a band-aid solution. I'm not the leader your father was. Why, just last week I had to cut ties with an employee for embezzlement, misappropriation of company resources. If your average hourly schmuck won't give you the respect you're due, what will the folks who really matter think of you?"
Bruce's face twisted uncomfortably. But before he could raise any questions about his uncle's comment, a reedy, spectacled man burst through the door.
"Mr. Kane, we really need to discuss those assets you had transferred to - oh, hello there."
"Lucius," Phillip spread out his arms and cocked his head in a show of disbelief.
"I'm busy?"
"I'm sorry Mr. Kane, you don't usually take meetings this late in the afternoon."
"That's actually my fault," Bruce said, shaking the man's hand gingerly. "I'm something of a night owl. Bruce Wayne, I'm still technically a part of the company."
He glanced at Phillip as he said the last part.
"This is Lucius Fox," Phillip said, jaw set. "He's worked here longer than I have, despite his lack of familiarity with appointment policies. If he had a better head on his shoulders he might have been promoted out of the R&D bunker by now."
"Well, I hate to run out on you, Uncle, but I do have another appointment to be getting to. Lucius, it was nice to meet you. We'll continue this conversation later, Phillip."
"Phillip. That bastard."
Alfred Pennyworth drummed on the steering wheel impatiently as he waited at the light.
"Quite literally picking his own family for scraps at this point, he is. But… this interest in the family business, it's rather new isn't it?"
"I suppose I took it for granted before," Bruce said from the back of the vehicle.
"Now it's something in jeopardy and-"
"And you want to swoop down and save it. How very Batman of Bruce Wayne, sir."
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Then Alfred spoke up again.
"Tell me something. Is the plight of that young Grayson boy troubling you as much as it troubles me?"
"Heh. It is a bit close to home, isn't it?"
"I didn't sleep a wink last night. In almost 4 years of doing this I've never wanted to be there when the Batman catches a criminal more."
"Is MI6 Alfred making a comeback?" Bruce cracked a rare smile. "That would be something to see."
Alfred looked sheepish.
"Hm. Perhaps a comforting word would be more appropriate."
"He's being held at the Gotham Children's Hospital until he gets processed into the foster care system. But… perhaps they would let Bruce Wayne pay him a visit."
"The Children's Hospital? I believe Leslie Thompkins is still practicing there."
"Leslie? There's a name I haven't heard in a while."
"We send each other posts from time to time. She still asks after you."
"Hm."
"The Children's Hospital is about 15 minutes from here. I'll pull around the back."
The hospital was noisy, in a quiet sort of way. Phones ringing at distant stations, the chatter of nurses, the occasional cough. But Dick Grayson didn't really hear any of it. He was sitting on a chair in the hallway, looking at his shoes, when Doctor Thompkins and two other men came around the corner. He watched the younger, more sullen man take a seat next to him.
"Hello, Dick. Do you know who I am?"
"You're Bruce Wayne."
"That's right. And this is my friend Alfred.
"Good morning," the butler said cheerfully.
"So," Bruce continued. "If you know who I am, you know why I'm here."
He leaned a bit closer.
"Did they talk to you about the stages of grief? Show you the little chart?"
"Uh-huh."
"Me too. I got past the first stage pretty quickly. It's hard to deny something that happens right in front of you. Or maybe it was just how easy the anger came to me. How… lost you can get in it."
"I feel… I don't know if it's angry. Sometimes it's like I want to throw up, but there's nothing there."
"Just emptiness," Bruce nodded.
"Mr. Wayne… If you could have, would you have gone after the guy who did it?"
Bruce stared at something in the distance. Alfred stepped in for a moment.
"I'm afraid they never found the person who killed the Waynes."
Bruce sighed.
"I thought I could do better, that the police must have missed something, or that there was some kind of greater conspiracy. I thought I could play detective, make sense of a senseless crime. And do you know what happened?"
"Bruce…" Alfred cautioned.
"What?" Dick asked.
"I went snooping around an abandoned building and got stuck for almost a week. Nearly starved to death. Because I was just a kid, thinking with my heart instead of my brain. The police in this town were corrupt. For all I know, one of them did it on some mob boss's orders, and then covered it up. They couldn't find the culprit because they didn't want to."
"But I saw him! Mr. Alfred, I know he's out there!"
"Then let the police do their job. There are trustworthy people on the force now, who weren't there on that day. If he's still in Gotham, he'll be found."
"And if he isn't?"
"Try not to think that way," Alfred said softly. The older man placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"I'm sorry we riled you up. We thought it might be a good idea to give you some perspective, from two men who have been through this before. If you do want to talk to Bruce or I about anything, Doctor Thompkins can put us in touch."
"Sorry I yelled. I… I guess I am angry."
"It's no trouble. I deal with this one's grumpiness all the time," he added quietly with a wink.
Leslie led Bruce and Alfred back to the elevator.
"I'll make sure he's taken care of, but a hospital can be a lonely place for a child. Especially over the holidays."
She looked at the young man, his usually dour expression seeming especially pronounced.
"Are you alright, Bruce? I know this is probably stirring up some bad memories."
"It's just… Isn't there anything that can be done?"
Alfred thought about it for a moment.
"A good family can adopt him. A proper adoption, outside the Foster System."
Leslie smiled and shook her head.
"I would caution you - as I caution many people in your position - that a child is not a pet, and cannot simply be discarded if they do not make you feel better as you intend."
Bruce and Alfred looked bewildered.
"You don't think I-" the older man stammered.
"Leslie," Bruce chuckled shortly. "Look at me. Do I seem like I'm equipped to handle a kid?"
"What a very normal response," she said drily.
"Look. I see the obvious parallels between you two. I don't even necessarily oppose the idea. But Bruce, you shut yourself away for so long. Your heart is in the right place, but I don't know if you understand the sort of undertaking that would be."
"You're right," Bruce said, stepping into the elevator. "Which is why it isn't even worth considering. It was good to see you again, Leslie. Happy holidays."
"Take care of yourself, Bruce."
As night fell, the cold became more acute. Dick Grayson shivered as soon as his sneakers splashed into the puddle beneath the fire escape. The police sent to protect him were guarding the doors, not the windows.
He paid for bus fare with the pocket change he had managed to scrounge up around the hospital, and trudged into the Bowery. The slouching warehouses of the old rail depot frowned from within the shadows of the newer elevated train tracks. But there were still signs of activity - a few of the inactive warehouses had been converted into restaurants and bars. It was into the warm and inviting doorway of one of these places that the boy eventually sheltered from the approaching storm.
The inside was rowdy. Now outfitted as a country western saloon, revelers tromped across former factory floors now covered in sawdust, and mason jars full of lights hung from the industrial ducting. Most of the patrons were wearing denim jackets with the words "Bowery Bulldogs" across the back via matching patches. Those who weren't were giving the bar a wide berth.
A large, squat man was holding court there, eliciting raucous laughter from his friends. Nobody saw Dick approach him.
"Are you in charge here?"
The large man turned towards Dick and flashes a gap-toothed grin.
"What's the matter, kid? Lost your mommy?"
The other gang members snickered. Dick gulped, then stood up straight.
"Yeah. I have. Do you know the guy who killed her?"
Everyone stopped laughing. The bald man stood from his stool and looked down to face Dick.
"Now who the hell taught you to talk to strangers like that, little boy?"
"Answer the question!" Dick shouted.
The other Bulldogs began fanning out behind their leader. The din of the bar suddenly fades as the other patrons decided it might be best to try another bar.
"I don't know who you are, and I don't care if your mother is dead. She still wouldn't be able to recognize you after we're done with you."
Dick Grayson now found himself in way over his head. He slid across the sawdust and hopped over a table, putting some distance between himself and the gang. But he was only one person, and they were several. It wasn't long before he was surrounded.
That was when the door slammed open, and a dark shape entered.
The lead Bulldog, seething with rage, looked to the Batman in confusion. Of all the places he could show up...
"Let's make this easy," the masked figure said matter-of-factly. "The two of us are going to walk out of here. And you're going to let us."
The leader stepped away from Dick and moved between Batman and the others.
"We're just wrapping up some business, pal," he said, attempting some sort of calm.
"Just let us deal with it, and nobody else has to get hurt."
Batman cracked his neck.
"Nobody except the kid."
"What if the kid has it coming?"
The leader moved for something in his pocket. Batman was faster, flicking a spinning metal object into his wrist.
The leader groaned in pain, and the others rushed forward. The twangy Christmas music echoing through the bar now underscored a savage bar brawl. Batman slammed one thug into a wooden pillar, causing it to splinter. Another gang member was thrown headlong over the bar. Someone managed to crack a glass bottle over Batman's head, and was rewarded with the cracking sound of his own ribs as the vigilante's elbow propelled itself into his chest.
"Go," he ordered as he made eye contact with Dick, now largely forgotten in the melee. He pointed to a side door into the alleyway.
Dick broke for the door, but was grabbed by a thug who had already been knocked to the ground.
Batman bellowed as he charged through two more men, scooping up Dick along the way.
They burst through the door, into an alleyway.
"Where do we go now?" Dick asked.
The sound of dozens of footfalls directed them to turn around, where the remaining Bowery Bulldogs were filing outside.
The leader grinned wickedly.
"Well, you got your wish. You walked out of my bar. Now we're going to drag you out of this alley."
A burst of light behind them briefly distracted him from Batman and the boy. It was the headlights of a vehicle, engine screaming a terrible high-pitched wail, crouched aggressively at the end of the alley. There was no one behind the wheel, which made it all the more distressing to watch it begin thundering towards them, sparks flying as its sides scraped against the bricks.
The Bulldogs screamed, steamrolling one another to get back through the door. Dick recoiled, ready to run for himself, but he felt Batman's grip tighten on his shoulder.
A couple stragglers who didn't make it inside in time were now hyperventilating and clutching at Batman's cape, all thoughts of the fight or the boy flown from their heads.
The roar climbed in pitch as the vehicle reached the doorway in the alley. But before it got to its owner it slammed on the brakes and crashed to a halt. One of the thugs fainted dead away, the other one looked back and forth between Batman and the car in confusion before the masked figure kicked him in the chest, subduing him.
He walked over to the car and opened the passenger side door.
"Get in."
Dick looked at the phantom black vehicle.
"How did it…?"
"Stop? The car has remote anti-collision sensing. It stops short of any pedestrian it encounters."
Dick looked up at the vigilante incredulously.
"So they were never really going to get hit?"
"No. But they didn't know that."
Falling snow blew through the open window to the brownstone. It didn't look like they had been here yet. Good, he thought. He fastened another ice pack around his chest and busied himself with his work.
IV tubing. Respiration helmet. Oxygen tanks. That would handle the hardware. He pulled back the rug in the living room and unlatched the hidden compartment in the floor. Inside was a refrigerated container of blue vials, each of them meticulously labeled.
"I am what they made me."
He began writing out equations, measuring out fluids dropwise into his device. Once he was satisfied, he jabbed himself in the forearm and turned the machine on. He felt his breathing even out as the serum entered his bloodstream, and began removing the ice packs. Sighing, he turned towards the picture frame on his desk. A young blonde woman smiles at him from behind the glass pane.
"I will survive, for the time being, Nora. Now I can turn my thoughts to more pressing matters."
He grabbed the frame and watched the frost gather over the photo within.
"To retribution."
