This is a place of solitude. A place where I can do my work. The work I should be doing. All because of one night.
Years ago.
How do I do it? How do I face tragedy and overcome. People ask me this…and I answer. When a fox gets in the henhouse, you have to kill it unless you want to lose your stock. You have to insure yourself against the tragedy.
There are forces in the world that wish you ill. And they're aggressively pursuing that dream. They want to destroy you. They want you to face the tragedy they have. Or just to face tragedy. Because of your name; because of who you are.
Who you were.
I have wealth. Training. The means to accomplish my goals, and avenge my mother and father. And it's still not enough. It never will be.
Despite everything I have, despite all my training…it's still not enough. One of these days, I'm going to die. My body will fail me. My bones will crush from years of strain, and I'll be relegated to the darkness of my home—like some invalid.
My goals will go unfinished.
I didn't have the power to save my mother and father as a boy. I can't save them now—it's been too long. But I can fight for them.
I won't stop fighting. I won't relent, and I won't hesitate.
Hesitation kills. Especially when you're covering your tracks. Especially then, you've got to do a foolproof job. Something no one can draw back to you except by familiarity. It couldn't have been anyone else but you, naturally, so they bring you downtown in handcuffs and you spend your days in some prison cell.
You get caught when you leave a loophole…ten minutes of unaccounted time…
Someone figures you out, because you were too stupid to cover your tracks. Your mistake is an invitation to exposure. And once you're out, there's no going back.
Your mistake is on display for the world. They can see it, feel it. It's pervasive. Frightening, even, though not necessarily. But it doesn't have to be frightening.
Awareness is the first step to restitution. Once you're aware of a problem, you can start to fix things.
Life seems easier when I'm fixing things.
"Bruce?"
Dick Grayson—Nightwing. Hanging upside-down from the stalactites in the cave above us.
"What?"
"I've been talking to you for twenty minutes."
"I'm listening."
"No you're not," he presses. "You're off in your little dream world."
I turn to him. "So?"
"Now I am scared," he says with a smirk. "Mister Reality here has daydreams."
"Not daydreams," I say distantly, turning back to the computer. Press a button on the keyboard, and the screen flickers to life. "This is very much reality."
Dick lets go of the de-cel cables and flips himself to the ground, landing in a crouch. He rights himself, and takes a place at my side. He's lost in the glow of the computer. The main screen displays the technical readouts of the Brother Mark One satellite.
"So that's it," he says.
"Yes."
A pause. "I don't like this. Spying on them."
"I'm not asking for your approval."
"I know, but that's never stopped me from voicing my opinions, has it? This seems…reckless, Bruce. Even for you."
"You make it sounds like this is an addiction."
"I know it isn't, though. Your only addiction is work."
"Fair enough," I say. "The League took my mind, Dick, and I was powerless to stop them. I won't be powerless anymore."
"So you're compensating for something, then? Whatever happened to forgive and forget?"
I turn to Dick and stare at him for a moment. He's perched on the edge of the computer terminal next to the main array.
"Did you forgive Tarantula for what she did to you?"
Silence.
"This is different," he says tightly. "You're invading their lives. Spying on them from orbit! For one thing, why doesn't NASA know about your satellite? Wouldn't they…see it? Where do you get the money for that kind of operation?"
"A line-item snuck into Wayne Enterprises quarterly report."
"That's clever. But what if Lucius finds out? What are you going to tell him?
"I don't owe an explanation to Lucius."
"But you owe me one," Dick says coolly. "Tell me Bruce, why are you doing this? Your memories are back. Shouldn't that be enough?"
"It's not about stolen memories," I say, turning to Dick. "This was bigger than me. It was the League using their powers for the wrong reasons. They were selfish…and they failed to see the consequences."
"So you're teaching them a lesson."
I give a silent nod.
"It's a hell of a lesson, Bruce. As long as you don't vaporize them from orbit, though—"
"I don't intend to use the Brother Mark as a first strike. It wouldn't accomplish anything, and I'm in no position to start a war with the League. But I've been locked out of the system. I no longer have control over the satellite."
"So who does?""Max."
"How did you get this number?"
"Oh, I have my ways. The world's too small for someone like Maxwell Lord to disappear."
"You could at least signify me by rank."
"What are you, twelve? This is triple-encrypted channel," I deride. "I think your secret's safe."
"Fine. What do you people want now?"
"Attack Plan Delta. Project Superboy is ready to go online." There's a tinge of pride in my voice. It's satisfying—therapeutic—to be in a position where my talents are valued; a position where I can serve as emissary to gods. Satisfying to the point that I'm doing it pro bono.
"Uh-huh, so what do you want from me?"
"Just your permission to use the Brother Mark One for a special operation," I say, yawning and stretching my arms back in a wide arc. "Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't give you a chance to think it over."
"No," Lord says.
"You owe us. We've done a lot for you—and Checkmate—in the past year and a half. And we're calling in our marker."
Silence. Static that can only be a sigh crackles across the line.
"Fine," Lord says quickly. "But I don't want that satellite damaged."
"Don't worry," I say in a reassuring effete. "When this is all over, you'll still be a King."
"Good," he replies, and disconnects.
Moron.
Continued...
and a hat tip to Proponent of EVO for his Checkmate guess.