Karma

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"Hey… Hey kid, don't cry."

12-year-old Bruce Wayne looks up from his tear soaked palms to see a set of troubled green eyes peering back at him.

Embarrassedly he sniffles and quickly glances away, unwilling to show off his reddened face to this stranger. Tucking his chin into his coat collar, Bruce stares into his lap, wishing for Alfred to appear. He's waiting for his butler-turned-guardian to emerge from the morgue. The coroner needed a second party to identify the bodies, because apparently watching his parents die in his arms hadn't been good enough testimony. Beneath his cuff, Bruce rubs the pads of his fingers together, still feeling their hot, sticky blood on his skin.

"I'm sorry 'bout your parents," the person suddenly says.

With a dour expression Bruce reluctantly picks up his head to accept the plaintive statement, but is taken aback to see a girl, who can't be much older than him, sitting beside him on the uncomfortable GCPD bench. Bruce studies her curiously, his tears belayed. The girl looks rough, from her worn black combat boots to the cracked binocular goggles nestled in her wispy caramel hair. She sits on her partially gloved hands, and restlessly she swings her legs below. Her eyes flit around the station, occasionally landing back on him.

I'm sorry. He'd heard the sentiment a thousand times over the last couple days, but this girl's tone is different. She sounds truly remorseful, and Bruce can't imagine why.

"Thank you," he says uncomfortably, turning away from her then. Bruce doesn't want to talk. Talking just makes it worse.

Instead, Bruce surveys the chaotic police department. The level of noise is almost unbearable, and the officers run around like ants whose hill has been stirred with a stick. He's idly looking for Alfred or Jim Gordon in the crowd when Bruce sees his bench-mate move in his periphery. She holds her hand outstretched toward him, like she's going to touch his shoulder, but then flinches back in hesitation. Bruce holds his breath, unsure of what he'll do if her fingers actually make contact with his sleeve. Luckily he doesn't find out, because her hand goes back underneath her, and her legs begin to swing anxiously again. Good. He doesn't want her pity.

She breaks their silence again. "Hey, um, my name's Cat, by the way," the girl offers weakly, and Bruce confusedly glances back at her, perturbed that she's still trying to make conversation. But when he connects with her striking green eyes, and takes in her imploring expression, he has the foreign sensation of something catching in his throat; something not at all unpleasant.

An introduction on his part seems unnecessary, seeing as she knew about his parents. "I'm Bruce Wayne," he mutters anyway.

Cat smiles lopsidedly, and the smallest ghost of a smile appears on Bruce's lips. A few days ago, he never thought he'd use those facial muscles again.

"Bruce!"

The young billionaire snaps up to notice Jim Gordon making a beeline across the department floor toward them. Even though Bruce stands to meet him, Jim crouches to be at his eye level. He comfortingly takes hold of Bruce's shoulder with his large, warm hand, immediately asking, "Are you okay? Why are you here?"

"I'm fine. Alfred had to..." Bruce pauses, swallowing back the anguish that suddenly overcomes him, "…go to the morgue."

Jim concernedly holds his stare for a few moments, searching for a hint of anything else in Bruce's forced neutral expression, before slowly nodding and straightening up. He taps the radio on his hip and says, "I'll page Ed and tell him to hurry up." His gaze shifts to behind Bruce at Cat, who had been watching the exchange intently, and Jim's expression deflates. "I'm sorry, Bruce," Jim says, suddenly looking like a man with a terminal headache, "but I have some work I need to do right now, if you don't need me for anything?"

"I'm alright, detective. Thank you," Bruce says politely and Jim nods in response, surprising Bruce by waving Cat forward.

"Let's go, Selina," Jim says warily. Bruce's eyes go wide, darting from his bench-mate to the detective.

"It's Cat," she insists, jumping to her feet. "And it's 'bout time you got here."

Jim shrugs. "As you can see, we're a little swamped today." He gives her a pointed look and adds, "And it took me awhile to find my cuffs after you dropped them in the sewer."

Cat purses her lips, fighting a smile. "Com'on," Jim says humorlessly, gesturing for her to follow.

"Just a sec'," she replies, turning to Bruce, who looks like he has a thousand questions waiting on the tip of his tongue. She doesn't hesitate this time when she grabs his shoulder, and Bruce is astonished at the energy he suddenly feels. She squeezes his shoulder lightly, staring into his eyes with a serious expression, and all he can think of is how different this simple gesture is coming from her, rather than Jim Gordon. He feels warm and cold all at once when she sweeps her thumb over his coat sleeve, telling him sincerely, "Have a good life, kid."

And after one last look, Cat disappears into the crowd.

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Bruce. Fucking. Wayne.

She'd made the connection while waiting for Crowley at Wayne Construction, when she'd seen him standing in the parking lot, and the horrible, guilt-ridden memories hadn't stopped recycling in her mind since then. But it hadn't been until her meeting with Fish that the full revulsion of the situation finally hit her.

Selina is perched on a sturdy oak branch, rhythmically driving her small throwing knife into the tree trunk beside her. Her gaze is fixed on his window, on him. He hasn't moved in hours. Alfred, the other guy from the Maniax alley fight, will occasionally walk into the room carrying a tray of assorted food. He will refuse, the two men will argue, and the butler will storm back out, only to come back again later and have the same events occur. Wash, rinse, repeat. Selina doesn't know what it is that they're fighting about; she hasn't gathered the courage to breach the mansion yet, preferring to skitter around the perimeter of the property, pretending she's surveilling anyone but Bruce Wayne.

Selina stabs at the tree bark, her blank stare never wavering from his window where he sits. She never thought she'd have to see him again, much less stake-out his house—indefinably.

"They wanted him dead, but I suggested we try it this way first. He doesn't need to die if he isn't a threat," Fish had explained, Fish's own responsibility for Bruce influencing this request.

At the time of the Wayne murders, Fish was fairly new at holding the title of Gotham's most influential crime boss / kingpin. She had a lot to live up to after Carmine Falcone's not-so-mysterious assassination, so to show her newfound power Fish decided to solve the tragic Wayne murders—quickly. Fish framed Mario Pepper, local wife-beating degenerate who no one could miss, by planting Martha Wayne's broken pearls in his shoddy apartment and tipping off the GCPD.

It was by mere chance that her foster daughter, Selina Kyle, had seen the real shooting.

Even though a conviction was impossible, seeing as Detective Harvey Bullock had shot Pepper dead in the alley behind his apartment, the case hadn't been dismissed. The city clambered for justice, for closure. This made Selina's testimony inestimable to the case, as she could describe exactly how things had happened: how Thomas Wayne's wallet had been pitched into the sewer; how Bruce's heart-wrenching screams had bounced off the walls of the empty alleyway as he collapsed beside his dying parents; how she'd heard their last gurgling, agonal breaths.

It didn't matter that Pepper hadn't been the real killer. All that mattered was that Selina said it was, because only she had the credibility to confirm it.

Fish had told her that they'd be doing the Wayne boy a favor by neatly wrapping up the murders, allotting him, and more importantly the city, a fast and satisfying resolution to the case. She wouldn't, couldn't, disobey Fish, so Selina had agreed. Neither of the two women had ever really believed that their lies benefitted Bruce, both knowing they'd robbed him of the justice he deserved, but for nearly a decade they were allowed to forget about it.

But now?

Selina rams her knife into the bark.

It wasn't just that she'd taken away his opportunity to confront his parents' real killer. It was that she'd indirectly helped whomever it was escape scot-free, able to live another day, to birth another orphan for Gotham. For Fish. Selina's lips twist, her face hardened. Everything horrible that she's done in her life has been because of Fish. Everything! But for however much it seems like she belongs to Fish, ultimately her actions are still her own. How is she supposed to live with that? Furiously Selina stabs at the tree, sending shards of bark flying in all directions, but she doesn't notice. She wants nothing more than to hide from her past, to start anew. No Fish, no Waynes, no mistakes.

The knife drives into the tree so deeply then that it stays lodged in the wood as she yanks her fist away. Shocked, she glances away from her empty palm to give the stuck knife an angry look. After some prying and much branch wobbling, the knife remains wedged. She exhales sharply through her nose. Stupid, stubborn, phloem. Defeated, she rests her forehead beside the hilt of her weapon against the splintered tree bark, squeezing her eyes shut and weighing her options. Sure, on paper it seems like she can always run away, start anew and all that. But in reality she knows that no matter the distance she puts between herself and Gotham, she'll never escape Fish Mooney.

Selina's eyes pop open, a realization striking her. She may never escape Fish, but perhaps the universe is allowing her to escape Bruce Wayne. The opportunity to save the life of the boy she'd betrayed has dropped into her lap, at minimal personal effort to her. All she has to do is watch and report, and surveillance has always been her cup of tea. It'll be easy work. Yes, it might sting seeing him and reliving the past, but surely she owes him that?

Pointlessly Selina grabs the knife hilt and pulls, but she's amusedly surprised when it remarkably slides out of the tree with ease. She smirks and shakes her head. Allowing herself a final fierce jab to the wounded tree, she gracefully slinks down from the large oak and resolutely stalks toward the manor. Time to face the past.

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"I'm not going back," Bruce mutters, burying his face beneath a pillow. Without response, Alfred limps over to the window and flings open the thick curtains, letting the sharp morning sun cut into the musty room. Bruce groans and compresses himself further into his luxurious bedding, hoping he'll disappear completely.

"Master Bruce, it's been days," Alfred announces impatiently. When Bruce doesn't stir, he sibilantly stresses, "Days, mind you. Work will not wait for you."

"It will have to," Bruce mumbles back, "because I quit."

Alfred wrenches the blankets from the bed, leaving the billionaire with only a pillow and an exposed set of muscular, pale legs beneath a pair of wrinkled boxers. Bruce shivers and curls up into a ball, straining to keep his pillow tight against his face. Tossing Bruce's blankets aside, Alfred shakes his head and tuts, "My, my, my. I've never seen such a sorry sight."

Bruce grunts and rolls to his other side, unbothered by his butler's comments. In turn, Alfred rolls his eyes. "Blankets are not camouflage, sir. I can see you, and so can Gotham." He pitches the newspaper he'd brought in at Bruce's ankles. Warily, Bruce peeps out from underneath his lone cushion, ungracefully fumbles to pinch the paper between forefinger and thumb, and retracts it back up to where he can see it.

"Bruce Wayne? More like GIANT JOKE?" He exclaims, pushing his pillow aside and sitting up in bed. His bedhead causes his dark locks to stick out in funny angles. He looks up at Alfred. "This isn't even clever," he notes.

Alfred snorts contemptuously, moving to pick through Bruce's wardrobe. Bruce purses his lips and tosses the print aside, swinging his legs over the bed's edge. "Who cares," he mutters, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.

"You're only proving them right," Alfred comments, sending him a sour look.

Bruce stands and stretches his arms lazily overhead. "What if they are right?" he asks blithely.

Alfred turns and groans, "Oh stop feeling sorry for yourself and quit actin' like a spoilt infant!" The butler quickly snatches up some clothes from the drawer and pummels the items at Bruce, who barely dodges the projectiles. "You're goin' to stop all this foolishness right now!" Alfred demands in full dad-mode voice. "Get dressed and go run your company!"

Bruce casually selects a t-shirt from Alfred's weaponized clothing pile and pulls it over his head. "You wouldn't understand," he mutters, sounding for all the world like an angst-ridden teenager.

"You're bloody right I don't understand!" Alfred explodes, his face stained red, "This is not the Bruce Wayne I know!"

Bruce collapses back onto the mattress and stares up at the lofty ceiling. "I don't care," he deadpans, absently rubbing at the slight stubble on his chin.

The butler gives him an exasperated look. "How can you give up so quickly? After the endless blood sweat'n tears you've poured out into getting here!"

Bruce lolls his head to look back at Alfred. "I just need time," he explains quietly, wishing he could tell Alfred what's been going through his mind. The hallucinogenic effects of the mutinous sleeping pills have finally worn off, but the insomnia, and the tragic uncertainty of his character remain. How can he possibly go back?

Alfred gives him a hard look. "Well, time is not a luxury you have, sir," he says gravely, "Gotham is waiting."

After Alfred leaves, Bruce finds himself staring blankly at the ceiling again, considering his options. He tries to remember why he'd worked so hard to take over the business so quickly. What had been the rush? His mouth screws into a frown. At the time he had thought that with each second he was learning, he was contributing to something much bigger than himself. He'd become a great leader, and accomplish great things, blah, blah, blah. This plan would have been great, had he not been building a house on shifting sand the entire time. Well now the sand has certainly shifted, rocking his foundation to the core and making him wonder what his future could possibly hold, if not being the picture-perfect business man he'd always aspired to be.

He gropes around the sheets until his fingers touch paper and draws the offending newspaper to him, holding it above his head to glare at the headline again. Outside, a tiny smirk touches Selina's lips as she reads the ham-fisted paper title hovering over Bruce's head and sips her morning coffee. Surveillance is off to a good start; a giant joke doesn't seem like much of a threat to her.

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Still with me? You're all so awesome.

I have to thank my beautiful reviewers for their supportive and insightful comments: Swift Bolt99, Jak Pickens, Itzel Lightwood, Nexus, and angellcakes 23, you guys rock. I'd also like to thank any favoriters, followers, and of course, the lovely readers.

So in my head, I know everything that's happening, on the surface and behind the scenes. My intent is to deliver surgically precise bits of information to lead you all to satisfying "aha" moments as more of the story comes to light. But if it's all landing at your feet like a convoluted sack of warm potatoes, I want to know. Plot longevity is not a strong suit of mine, but with each chapter completed I can see more of my "plan" coming together.

I wrote this chapter in only a couple days (maybe you can tell) so hopefully that trend will stick. Up next, Selina gets into shenanigans at the manor. Until we meet again~

(Update 9/7/18: Well, I'm back in real school. I've got a lot on the back burner for this story, nothing is ready yet, but since Gotham is coming back soon I'm going to try my best to scrape something together asap. But honestly I'm really just not feeling motivated to continue right now. This story doesn't seem to be getting attention anymore and I think it's because it really is the convoluted sack of warm potatoes mentioned above—though no one has confirmed nor denied this. Please send words of encouragement if you feel so inclined, I could really use them. Thanks again for being awesome.)