I despise this chapter. I wanted it to be much much shorter, but stuff I thought was necessary to make sense of the plot kept bubbling up and I kept feeling compelled to add it all, and you can only rewrite something so many times before going insane. But please stay seated my beautiful readers, because next up is the moment we've all been waiting for(; And by that I mean not much at all happens… but at least its batcat centered so I think you'll all like it! I'm happy to dive into some "fluff", because to me too much plot gets boring.
Anyways, I'd like to thank my wonderful, gorgeous reviewers Jak Pickens, guest 1, honeylove90, R3wind101, 4EverAGallagherGirl, angellcakes23, guest 2, and all the other followers, favoriters, and readers for sticking with me. Extra SO to KING011 for relentlessly encouraging me to update! I absolutely love the enthusiasm(:
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It Gets Worse
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Bruce leans forward to inspect the strange device. After a failed attempt at a nap and another brief hallucination of a nameless shadowy figure, he'd slowly been on his way to meet the others for the annex tours when he'd noticed it. Where the doorknob should be is instead a futuristic-looking sleek white circle, ringed with a thin light. It's affixed to an office door with the name CROWLEY etched into its opaque glass. He tilts his head in curiosity, having never seen something like it.
"Mister Wayne!" a man's voice calls out. Bruce looks away from the peculiar ring to see two people marching towards him, a man and a woman. The man is tall and in his mid-to-late thirties, and the woman wears a stylish forest-green suit with a silver camellia brooch on her lapel. Bruce recognizes the two board members from the employee dossiers, but their names escape him. "Hello Mister Wayne!" the woman, the President of Wayne Chemicals, greets, extending her hand to him, "My name is Molly Mathis."
Bruce shakes her hand and decides he likes her warm alto voice. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he replies, doing his best to give her a genuinely enthusiastic smile in spite of his exhaustion. "You've done great things with Wayne Chemicals."
Mathis's naturally curly pixie cut bounces as she bobs her head, smiling back gratefully. "Thank you, sir. And this is my associate—"
"Richard Crowley at your service," The man, the President of Wayne Construction, interrupts. He wipes his hand on his pant leg before offering it to Bruce, who accepts the handshake, but more hesitantly than he had Mathis's.
"Did you enjoy your lunch?" Mathis inquires politely, and guiltily Bruce thinks back to the untouched gourmet braised leeks and scallop sashimi he'd hidden beneath his napkin when Sid and Lucius were busy. Bruce hates wasting food, but his uneasy demeanor wouldn't allow him to stomach the rich food, and he couldn't not eat with his two new colleagues.
"Very much," he fibs with an uneven smile, "I can see why it's a company favorite." Mathis smiles back approvingly.
"I see you've noticed my door knob, or lack-there-of," Crowley notes with amusement, motioning toward the dark glass door Bruce had been studying. The younger man makes the connection that the Crowley in front of him is the Crowley whose name is on the door. "What is it?" Bruce asks.
Crowley grins. "Let me show you." He demonstrates by pushing his index finger against the white glass, causing the ring of light to glow green, followed by the click of his door unlocking. Crowley shoots Bruce a self-satisfied look. "Pretty cool, huh?"
"It's very…interesting," Bruce agrees undecidedly, wondering why it's the first one he's seen in the building, and why his own office key is so archaic that it's blackened.
Crowley nods enthusiastically. "I got it all the way from Sweden. Accidentally donated a big chunk of money to some kook with a SupplyMeMoney account, and I was like, how am I going to pay for my new Porsche now? But she really came through," Crowley continues theatrically, obviously delighted to have someone new to talk about the device with. Bruce ponders how one can donate to something "accidentally", but the flask peeking out of Crowley's inner jacket pocket instantly answers his question.
Mathis clears her throat. "Well, we were just coming to gather you. Are you ready to leave?" She asks, a hint of impatience in her voice. Clearly she'd heard about Crowley's high-tech doorknob before.
"Yes, I'm eager to get started," Bruce lies, wanting to sound professional and collected despite his field of vision suddenly becoming a dark, shadowy blur. It's like he's stuck in a nightmare, but with the added annoyance of having been dilated by an evil optometrist.
He's sick to the back teeth. The sleeping medication's lingering impact has affected Bruce to the point of being unable to trust himself, which is unacceptable to him both as the CEO of a multibillion dollar company and personally, simply just as himself. Trust doesn't come easily to the young man, usually being reserved for only himself and Alfred. Taking fifty percent of that group away has been detrimental to Bruce's confidence over the last couple days, because now his only anchor to reality is Alfred—and Alfred still keeps his stash of freeze-dried rations from his time in the military beneath his bed, alongside an emergency apocalypse kit. You never know, sir, he hears Alfred's mystified voice say, and the questionable wisdom echoes within Bruce's brain.
Bruce briefly shakes his head to attempt to gain focus through his foggy mind, wondering if this paper-thin façade will even last the day.
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"Welcome to the Wayne Constructions Annex, Mister Wayne," Crowley says proudly, stepping aside so Bruce can see the building in its entirety. It looks like any other functional grey warehouse in the area, besides the silver WAYNE ENTERPRISES logo displayed above the door and the massive barbed-wire fence surrounding the property. Hundreds of employees are waiting for him in the parking lot, and Bruce sincerely hopes that the large accumulations of staff he's seen are only there to impress him on the first day, and not a normal occurrence. Bruce is used to a one-man (Alfred) reception, and he'd be lying if he said the large crowds weren't unsettling to him. Especially today, when hallucinations are apparently ordinary for the young billionaire.
As he surveys the hundreds of welcoming faces, he feels something heavy sink into his stomach. His mouth becomes dry and his heart rate picks up slightly, just enough to alert him that something is off. Paradoxically, the odd part about the situation is that he doesn't see any apparitions, suspicious shadows, or ghoulish employees. Everyone, everything, looks ordinary to the point of being dull. His eyes narrow in confusion. Could it finally be his once-sharp intuition, breaking through his psychoses to warn him of something? Bruce's fingers curl into fists as he carefully studies the surroundings. The faces are friendly but tired, the sky is a cloudy grey, and the only noises detectable are the employees' chatter and a soft city-scape din. But wait—
The glimpse is just a fraction of a second, but it's enough. A flash of wild caramel curls atop a neighboring warehouse. The fresh memory of a girl, the girl, and her red-headed male companion hopping effortlessly through a maze of fire escapes and racing over the top of the building comes to mind, and Bruce's stomach does a flip. It isn't im-possible, Bruce thinks, excitement buzzing in his abdomen, replacing the previous dread near completely. But why would she be here?
Bruce has a sudden fantasy that the girl is wondering about him as much as he's been thinking about her, and his stomach does somersaults. Maybe he won't have to find her; maybe she's found him.
"Mister Wayne?" Crowley interrupts his distracted thoughts. Bruce tears his eyes away from the spot to frown at the Wayne construction president. "Are you ready?" Crowley asks, a practiced smile high on his cheeks.
Bruce glances back at the rooftop and nearly gasps when he sees another movement, but feels utterly embarrassed when he sees that the movement is from a pigeon flapping down onto the roof edge. His veins hum with declining adrenaline as disappointment wedges in his throat. Before coming back to Gotham if he were having these feelings, he would know, he would just know, that something is wrong, and would be able to act. He used to be able to trust his body's tells. But now? These apprehensive feelings could mean anything, or nothing. He could have seen the girl's halo of curls, or he could've seen another flying street rat. There's no way to know, now that his mind is useless. He is useless.
Interrupting Bruce's morose thoughts, Crowley unsubtly clears his throat. "Mister Wayne, if you'll follow me?"
Bruce turns back to his impatient host, his face a mask of indifference. He nods curtly and follows in step with Crowley and Mathis, their entourage of employees and security filing in behind.
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"And this is cement," Crowley announces, gesturing to an enormous stack of grey powder packages. Mathis stifles a yawn behind her fist beside Bruce, who is also having trouble paying attention. His sympathetic state in the parking lot has worn off, leaving him feeling irritable, exhausted, and uninterested in whatever-the-hell Crowley is talking about.
"Oh… um, e-excuse me folks," Crowley's new tone catches Bruce's attention. Bruce notes that Crowley looks decidedly paler than before, and he has a feverish sheen of sweat over his forehead. "I have to take a…a phone call," Crowley continues hurriedly, despite not even having a phone in his hand, "so I'll leave you in the capable hands of my first-in-command." Without waiting, Crowley rushes away with a walking-speed Bruce doubts even professional mall-walkers possess. It's peculiar, but he is too tired and his brain is too muddled for him to care. A man whose name Bruce had neglected to remember steps up, looking curiously after his boss.
"So," the man begins after a beat, "as Mister Crowley was saying, this is cement."
Bruce resists the urge to bash his head against the nearest wall.
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If Bruce had known that Richard Crowley was going to go missing, he might have paid more attention to the strange behavior of the board member.
"We have to look for him," Bruce insists, shrugging a security guard's hand off his shoulder. Mathis is already crawling into the town car.
"Our security is capable of dealing with this situation," Mathis says readily. "Shall we go on to Wayne Chemicals? I have much to show you."
Bruce's expression fills with confusion. "We can't leave," he says, floored that just leaving could even be an option. "We have to find Crowley."
Mathis's voice is honeyed as she says, "Mister Wayne, I understand your trepidation of the situation. However," she leans closer and discreetly says, "I must let you know that Crowley has substance abuse difficulties. This is not the first time he has left without warning."
Bruce feels a bit of hope spring up when she says this. "Then I'll call around the local places and ask them to watch for him."
Mathis's expression is neutral as she says, "I do not think Crowley would appreciate his name being thrown around the 'local watering holes', especially by his superior."
Bruce immediately thinks of a new idea. "The GCPD would be able to—"
"No!" Mathis stiffens. A nervous smile on her lips, she reasons, "You must understand what kind of scandal that would cause for us."
Bruce grinds his teeth. "We need to do something," he maintains stubbornly, looking around the parking lot at the confused employees that had gathered behind them. "I can lead a search party. This property isn't that large," he suggests, already counting people off into teams of four in his head.
"You are not hearing me," Mathis says tightly, her voice devoid of its previous warmth, "We cannot. Do. Anything."
The young man is surprised at her harsh tone, but isn't offended. People react to crisis in different ways. "I don't expect you to do anything," he says sincerely, lifting his chin, "But if he's in trouble, I have to help him. My employees are my responsibility."
"Mister Wayne," Miss Mathis starts, sounding exasperated, "You are so young, and you have little experience in matters like this. You do not want to make a reputation for yourself by acting so…so brashly on your very first day."
Bruce's expression hardens. "My age is irrelevant, and my reputation is inconsequential when a man is missing."
Mathis seems to understand her mistake. She places her dark hand on his shoulder. "Bruce," she says, her voice kind again, "I like you. I want more than anything for you to succeed here. Please come with me to Wayne Chemicals?" For a few tense moments Bruce and Mathis stare at each other, Mathis's expression pleading and Bruce's impossible to tell.
Mathis is stone-faced when Bruce turns around to shout emphatically, "Anyone who would like to join me in searching for Richard Crowley, meet in the warehouse in five minutes!"
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By Bruce's orchestration, he, the security guards, and a handful of Wayne Construction employees look for Crowley for nearly three hours with no reward. No note, no real evidence of a struggle; the Wayne Construction President has vanished. As twilight comes and goes, the security team bargains with the disheveled CEO to leave the area for the evening by promising to continue the search, anxious to prove to Bruce that company presidents going missing isn't commonplace and won't be overlooked.
As Bruce walks alone down the corridor leading to his office, loosening then yanking off his dirtied tie, he feels an empty sort of pride welling up in his chest. In the face of exhaustion and imaginary apparitions, Bruce's persevering sense of justice bridled his mind for the greater good. No, they haven't found Crowley yet, but the fact that Bruce was able to pull it together for the man's sake causes Bruce to feel deep relief for his own wellbeing, and therefore Crowley's. The sedative effects will eventually fade and his mind will be his own again. With Bruce at the helm of Wayne Enterprises, they will accomplish amazing things not only for Gotham, but for everyone. He drops the tie around his shoulders, his world suddenly brighter.
Coming up to his office, his eyes are drawn to Crowley's sleek white lock. Bruce's lips thin. Yes, the man is missing, but that doesn't make Crowley's attitude any less arrogant or annoying. Why Crowley is so proud of the door lock is beyond Bruce's thinking. But as he looks closer, he sees a peculiar rusty brown smudge against the pristine white technology. His eyes go wide. Ever since the night Alfred scrubbed his parents' dried blood from Bruce's thin hands and arms, he can recognize it nearly anywhere.
Dread builds in the pit of his stomach as he mentally lists off different possibilities, knowing but not accepting the truth. As he reaches to touch the stain, to feel its crusty texture and be sure of its presence, the shrill ring of a phone makes him pause. Oddly enough, he hears the phone ring within his own office. He unlocks the heavy black door as the phone continues to wail.
Bruce crosses the darkened room to his desk, grabbing the phone from its receiver. "This is Bruce Wayne," he answers, but the other end of the line only replies with static silence. "Hello? This is Bruce Wayne," he repeats, and his suspicion builds as the silence drags on.
A thought hits Bruce like a freight train. "Crowley? Crowley is that you?" he demands, cupping the receiver to his mouth. Instantly the line drops, and an obnoxious beeping sound cuts into Bruce ear. He winces and stares at the phone for a moment before slowly placing the phone back in its holder, his mind racing.
When a shadow flashes through the light from the hallway, Bruce's newfound self-assurance helps him to stay calm. A memory of that afternoon springs to mind, when a flicker of his previous intuition had revealed itself. It wasn't nothing; it wasn't just a pigeon. The girl had been there, maybe even because of him. He hadn't been crazy then, and he isn't crazy now. Bruce chooses this to be true and resolutely, he grabs the first dangerous looking implement on his desk.
Clutching the weaponized stapler, he quietly crosses the room to pause behind the ajar door, alert to any other sounds or movements. His fist curls tightly around the makeshift weapon, ready to react. A floorboard creaks in the hallway and Bruce instantly flings the door open, stapler raised to bludgeon.
"Lucius?" he exclaims, startled to see the kindly CFO standing in front of his door. Lucius jumps in surprise and Bruce immediately hides the stapler behind his back.
Lucius, hand to his chest, lets out an embarrassed laugh. "Mister Wayne! You startled me!"
Bruce smiles widely as his shoulders relax. "I could say the same," he says wryly, leaning against his doorway to more tactfully obscure the stapler he still awkwardly holds. "Do you sneak up on people often?"
Grinning, Lucius shakes his head. "Sorry 'bout that, sir. I've been told I have quiet steps—my brothers always said I had dancers' feet. Anyway, I just wanted to check in and see how the first day was?" He takes in Bruce's unkempt clothing and raises a brow. "It looks like it was interesting."
Bruce lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "It was…" he starts to reply, but then realizes he's at a loss for words. His first day has been full of terror and apprehension, ghouls and rude employees around every corner, obtrusive reporters stalking him from every window, and for god's sake, a man went missing! He can't possibly imagine a worse start to his career.
But today also reminded Bruce that he's a natural-born leader, no matter what the situation calls for. His instinctive confidence will stand out regardless of his state of mind, and to Bruce, gaining that knowledge was almost worth living through the horrific day. Almost. A man is still missing, after all.
He shakes his head. "It was… something," Bruce finally says, grinning apologetically for the lame response. And as his mind drifts back to thoughts of Crowley, the Wayne Construction president's door draws his gaze.
It's gone!
The smudge, the blood, is gone, and suddenly it's as if the floor is slipping out from underneath him. He steals in a large gasp, barely restraining himself from launching toward the door, instead digging his nails into the wall woodwork. No. No, no, no! This can't be happening!
Alarmed, Lucius glances behind his shoulder, of course seeing nothing. "Mister Wayne?" he prompts, worry creasing his forehead.
Bruce clutches the doorframe, his façade, his mask of indifference slipping, but not yet gone. He refuses to look away from the stupid white finger pad, but will not run at it like a madman in front of Lucius. From where he stands, he can see enough anyway. The blood smudge seemed so real, so unlike any of the other hallucinations. Yet no evidence of his sanity is visible on the white glass disc. He stares on desperately, willing the stain to come back. To tell him he isn't crazy.
"Are you okay, sir?" Lucius asks gently, catching Bruce's eyes and then glancing curiously at the stapler Bruce had let drift into his view.
"Yes. Have a good evening, Mister Fox," Bruce says tersely. He doesn't wait for Lucius's reply before retreating into his office, slamming the heavy, ornate door behind him. For a moment he just stands, letting his emotions roll over him freely. Confusion. Frustration. Regret. Fury. Rage. Self-Hatred. He hurls the stapler into the cocobolo desk, the metal shattering on impact from his excessive force. He drops to his knees among the scattered metal bits and rapidly hammers his fist into the ground, beyond caring if Lucius hears. Let the whole world hear! Let everyone know that Bruce Wayne has officially lost his fucking mind. When blood wets the floor, Bruce sits back on his haunches, shuddering, feeling as though the devil himself had just gargled his brain and spat it back into his cranium. His eyes prickle with unshed tears of devastation.
Crazy.
Useless.
And that's day one.
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"He is going to be a problem."
Lucius chucks the bloodied handkerchief into the trashcan. "You don't know that," he says steadily, declining to take a seat at the near-empty meeting room at the top of Wayne Enterprises.
"Of course I do," the person across from him sneers. "And anyway," they continue, "he resembles his father far too much. Obviously he needs to go."
"We can't lose Crowley and Bruce in the same week," Lucius points out, avoiding eye-contact with the other. He focuses on the clock affixed to the wall, which reads way too late for any of them to still be at the office. Idly, he wonders what excuse he'll give his wife this time.
The other person toys with the Rolex on their wrist. After some contemplation they say, "Crowley was a broken bit in an excellent machine. Bruce, however, is a thrown wrench, libel to break the machine. Therefore, he needs to be removed."
A retort is on the tip of Lucius's tongue, but he stares on in silence.
"Speaking of Crowley—" the person gestures to the trashcan where the rag hiding the smudge of his blood sits, "what ever happened to the junkie?"
Lucius's eyes bore into the carpet. "One of the gangsters must have got to him. He had that cut-" Lucius draws a line down the center of his palm "—so I just let him take the money, provided he stay away indefinitely."
"I cannot say he will be missed," the other muses, "He was a burden on the rest of us." Again, Lucius replies with silence, which the other matches. They stew in the quiet, the only noise being the wall clock's relentless ticking.
Lucius clears his throat, deciding the silence far too vexing. "Well-" he shuffles on his feet "—I have some books to cook now, thanks to him. I'd better get to it."
"Good evening, Mister Fox," the person dismisses. Lucius nods in response and exits the cavernous room, leaving the person by them-self. Their lips curl back in frustration and from a pocket they pull out a cell phone.
"Get me Fish Mooney," they say to the person who'd picked up.
After another few moments, Fish is on the other end. "What a lovely surprise to hear from you so soon," the kingpin gushes.
The person ignores Fish's platitudes. "Bruce Wayne is back. This child—" they spit, their poised veneer breaking slightly "—thinks himself a man. Thinks he can walk out of business school and run headlong into directing a multibillion dollar company. But he has no idea what goes on in the side lines, and this little boy should be afraid of the dark."
Fish thinks this rant is a bit vague, so hesitantly she replies, "I'm sorry hon, but what can I do for you?"
The other explains simply, "Oh? Hah. I thought it was obvious? I need you to kill him."
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I'm starting a summer class Monday, so I have to assume that the next update won't be up for a few weeks. Hopefully the class won't be too intense and I'll have enough time to keep the updates regular, but I like to plan for the worst.
Remember, BATCAT is up next! You all rock!
