Well…this chapter kind of got away from me. Was a lot of fun writing this, drawing on two of my favorite scenes from Zero Year and Year One. Anyways, hope you guys enjoy.
Interlude: The Past
A young boy jogged eagerly across the grassy field, his prize clutched tightly to his chest. The light of day was slowly dying as the sun began to sink behind the treetops, its red-orange rays filtering through wind-tussled leaves. He had to be home soon; his parents would worry, he knew, but he was so close and it would only take a few minutes. At last, the child reached his destination. The old well had been long-since forgotten to all but the inquisitive child before it, the boards that had covered it rotted away and the mortar that held it together crumbling.
Beyond its weathered stone rim there was nothing but blackness, a stygian void that had set the child whom had discovered it imaging what manner of mysteries it held. Today, he had vowed to find out.
Tied to the end of a length of rope he had swiped from the garage, the boy had attached a hastily taped together contraption of a camera and flashlight. Flicking both devices on he gently lowered the device down, letting out slack slowly but steadily. What lurked beneath? What did the darkness hold? His mind raced at the possibilities, and impatient the boy leaned against the stone well's rim and peered down for a better look.
By the time he heard the groan of grinding stone and felt the mortar begin to give way, it was too late. With a cry the boy tumbled down the decrepit well, bits of mortar and brick trailing in his wake. Down, down, down he went, screaming and crying as brick and mortar eventually gave way to cold hard stone.
He landed roughly on his side and thought he heard a crack, and a heartbeat later a lance of pain from his arm confirmed it. Tears welled in his eyes, but he bit down his scream. With a groan he rose to his feet, squinting in the gloom. He found himself in a small stone chamber, the walls and floor smoothbore from countless decades of water flow, now dried and gone. The camera had shattered to pieces nearby but his flashlight soldiered on, casting the whole space in a wan light. A tiny pinprick of light that seemed impossibly far away was sky, and in that instance the boy felt incredibly small.
"Mom," he called out, voice shaky as he held his throbbing arm. The tears were coming in earnest now. "Dad? Alfred? Somebody, please help!"
That was when he heard it. From deeper in the gloom the came a faint screech. Then another. And then another. Countless more rose in a shrill symphony until they rolled like a whining thunder down towards him, ever closer and ever louder. He could feel the wind on his face whipped by innumerable leather wings as out from the shadows a writhing screeching black mass of bats poured forth and enveloped him. The boy screamed, screamed for his mother, his father, for anyone to hear him, but those screams were drowned out by the tide of bats that poured out from the gloom and up the well. The swirling shifting black mass whirled around him as the boy cried and sank to his knees, clenching his eyes shut and hoping, praying, willing for his ordeal to end. Just as quickly as it began, it was over. The bats were gone, their screeching a distant echo, and the terrified tear-stained boy was left completely and utterly alone.
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The Present
The storage yard was a dank and dingy place, made even more so by the twilight that had begun to stretch over Gotham. Tall stacks of shipping containers cast wild shadows about, backlight by flickering light posts and the dying sun. A small group of men stood in the middle of a weak corona of light that beat back the encroaching shadows as the sun sank ever lower in the sky.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be," a well-heeled man with graying hair and wrinkles spat to the group of newcomers entering the light. His voice bore the distinctive tinge of a Gotham accent, a local born and bred and clad in a fine Italian suit. He was flanked by two brutish looking men with scarred knuckles and noses that bore the trace of many a break, no mere novices to their trade. Finally, near the edge of the shadows stood their fourth companion, a man of near indeterminable age of dark sunglasses and heavy moustache, sitting atop a stack of sleek aluminum crates bearing the black seal of Wayne Enterprises. He surveyed the scene with a face like stone, seeming to all the world to be bored beyond measure.
"Mr. Luca Falcone," the Red Hood said drolly as he stepped out of the shadows, his own guards following in his wake with weapons drawn. "Truly a pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Red Hood One."
The Red Hood stood languidly with his hands together in front of him, the fingers of his white gloves interlaced and warped reflections of the scene before him rolling off his shining helmet.
Falcone looked unimpressed. "Red Hood One, eh? I'm not sure you understand the magnitude of the mistake you're making here, friend," he spat, "but my cousin Carmine will have your fingers and toes peeled for this, freak! We have men everywhere, and I mean everywhere!"
As Falcone shook with rage his two enforcers slowly reached into their jackets and withdrew twin red masks, which they promptly fixed over their heads. Red Hood One merely smiled.
"You don't say," the man answered coolly, with a grin like the Cheshire cat.
A second later the biting line of a garrote had been slipped under Luca Falcone's chin and the strong hands of his bodyguard quickly finished the job. The man kicked and sputtered and clawed in vain at his throat, but all to soon Luca Falcone had exited the land of the living.
"You didn't have to do that," the man atop the crates called casually. He reached into his brown suit and withdrew a book of matches and a pack of smokes. A second later he had struck a wan flame into existence and with the ease of practiced skill held it to the cigarette that hung loosely from his lips. He snuffed the match with two fingers then casually tossed it aside.
"No, friend I didn't," the Red Hood shot back, smile never leaving his lips. One of Falcone's turncoat guards leveled his pistol at the seated man. "Move," he growled.
Thoroughly encouraged, the man complied. He rose from his seat and casually made his way over to the Hood. As soon as he was out of the way, two of the Hood's thugs set about cracking open the crates that had served as his perch. A third assumed a position behind him, weapon trained at the back of his head.
"Now, now," the Hood chided. "There's no need for that. Let him go, boys. Can't fault a man for doing his job." The masked man shrugged. "Have to say, though, you certainly drew the short straw getting assigned this gig from Mr. Cobblepot. Real stroke of bad luck."
The terrorist sighed. "You know, there's something about shipyards like this that always caught my imagination. I think its all the boxes, you know? These vast mazes of box after box, never knowing what secrets lie inside them." He grinned once more and pointed to the stack of Wayne Enterprises crates with a flourish as one of his men brought over a sleek looking piece of equipment. At first glance it appeared to be a gun, but the whole piece was one smooth expanse of plastic, metal, and dials.
"Take these boxes, for instance," the Hood continued jubilantly as his thug handed him the sleek weapon. "The Wayne Sonic Rifle," he said excitedly as he caressed it. "Non-lethal, sadly, but rumor has it that with a little rejiggering one of these babies could liquefy a person's insides." He gave a little half chuckle. "Of course, I already asked Mr. Cobblepot's distribution team to rejigger them before they were given to you to sell to the late Mr. Falcone."
The Red Hood paced ever closer to the mustachioed arms dealer. "What do you think, friend," the Hood asked as he aimed down the sleek weapon's sights. "Try it out at a Knights game? Or maybe a library?" The killer laughed once more. "There's nothing quite like the sound of sirens where they shouldn't be on a sunny Sunday afternoon, is there?"
With a sudden and vicious speed the arms dealer lunged forward, hands clawing at the terrorist's helmet. Electricity crackled across the shining red surface where flesh met it and the bespectacled man withdrew with a scream of pain, falling to the ground.
"What the-" the Hood began as he recoiled, before breaking out into a deep belly laugh.
"Oh boy, its you in there, isn't it? Our little vigilante! Oh, you are good my friend!" He howled with laughter once more as he trained the rifle on prone form before him.
"Some padding around the stomach, and that heavy hunch? Hot damn, you had me eating it up. Fantastic!" The Hood shook his head and wore a grin that stretched across the entirety of his partially revealed face. "All right, you know what, sir? My feelings on you, despite my best efforts, they've changed. And as much as I hate to admit it, I like you! I think you're a piece of work!"
"Funny," the man on the ground before him spat as the last wracks of agony shook though his body. "I think you're a piece of-" A swift kick to the ribs silenced those final words, and the Hood only laughed further.
"You see? That's what I mean," the man exclaimed. "You're a man on a mission, like me. We might just be two of a kind, kid. So how about it?" The Hood hefted his weapon high. "How about you come work for me? I'm sure we could find you a place."
"Boss," one of the Hood's masked thugs cut in. "Have you lost your damn-"
He was cut off as the Red Hood leveled the sonic weapon's barrel at the offending goon and pulled the trigger. The weapon glowed softly from the lights and indicators across its stock, and a half a second later the air between the gun and its target seemed to warp. The masked man collapsed screaming, and a second pulse from the gun silenced him.
"Seems like we have an opening now," the Hood said calmly as he turned back to his guest, who had risen to his feet in the mean time. "So, what do you say?"
Bruce Wayne stood to his full height and shrugged off the heavy outer coat of his disguise. "I appreciate the offer," he snarled as he lunged once more for the enigmatic terrorist, "but I'll pass!"
His charge was cut short by a rough kick to the chest by one of the Hood's surviving goons, knocking him back into the waiting arms of Falcone's traitorous guards. The Hood clicked his tongue disapprovingly as the vigilante struggled against his holders, the latex of his mask beginning to ruffle and tear.
"Hmm. I don't think you heard me clearly the first time," the Red Hood said as he aimed his weapon towards the struggling captive. "So let's clear those big ol' ears of yours, shall we?"
He pulled the trigger and Bruce pulled free of the man's arms just in time to see them turned to a bloody pulp as the sonic pulse tore through his flesh. It set his ears ringing, and Bruce managed to land a vicious uppercut to another of his captors before the remaining three grabbed old of him once more.
"That's it," the Red Hood snarled as his captive's mask began to tear in earnest now. "Let's see who's hiding in there, shall we!"
"No!" the young man bellowed as he wormed free once more. Whirling from his captor's grip, he turned his momentum into a vicious kick that struck one thug in the head and left him poised to swing an elbow at another. As the last tatters of his mask fell from his face, Bruce hauled the final guard in between himself and the Hood, the man's fear palpable as he shook in the would-be-vigilante's grip.
"Aw, don't be shy," the Hood called out as he trained his weapon on the man. "You want me to toss you a spare red hood? Maybe show you my face?" As the madman spoke, Bruce slid two the shuriken he had been saving out from his pocket and into a gloved hand and prepared to strike. The guards he had previously dispatched had begun to stir. It was time to make his exit. "Hell," the gang leader continued, "come with me and I'll show you – shit!"
"Thanks," Bruce growled as he plowed forward, still using the thug as a shield as he closed the distance between himself and the Hood.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the young vigilante tossed his human shield aside and dove as the Hood took his shot and missed. Bruce pulled into a roll and hopped to his feet in front of the terrorist, knocking the weapon from his hands before he could pull off a second shot. Shuriken in hand, he raked the bladed throwing star against the man's abdomen as he sidestepped him, the blade rending cloth and skin to draw blood.
"But that won't be necessary now that I have your DNA!"
The Hood groaned in pain as the younger man sprinted into the shadowed labyrinth of shipping containers, prize clutched tightly in hand.
"After him!" the Hood howled to his henchmen as his finally rose to his feet, taking his weapon back and firing wildly down the corridor his captive had ran. A hail of bullets hurtled into the gloom, but their target was long gone.
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"I'm losing this war. The arms deal was a dead end," Bruce growled as he paced the living room of his Park Row hideout. Alfred stood unwavering to the side, looking on his charge with concern in his eyes. "The DNA sample I got off the Red Hood didn't match any known databases, and now that lunatic has started taking over other small gangs, almost as if just to prove that he can!"
"The police are spread too thin, and the mafias have started rounding up anyone and everyone they think might be connected. All its doing is spreading more fear, which is precisely what he wants." The young man sighed. "And now that he's got Wayne Enterprises weapons in his cache, he's just proven that nothing is outside his reach." Rubbing his temples with brows furrowed, Bruce Wayne turned to face the man who had raised him. "If you've got something to say, Alfred, say it," he said curtly to the older man. "I can practically feel the waves of disdain rolling off you."
"What is there to say, sir," the butler answered crisply. "Surely if you can't see the state of things now, then there's no point."
"Enlighten me," the younger man shot back tersely.
"You're right," Alfred replied coolly. "This war of yours…it's doomed. You will lose."
Bruce frowned sourly. "I said I was losing, not that it was lost," he said through clenched teeth. "I can still get him!"
"And if you do what then?" Alfred shot back. "Another like him will come."
Bruce Wayne sighed. "So be it then. I'll fight them too. The war might not be winnable, Alfred, but its mine." He clenched his fists as he fixed his former guardian with a level stare. "And frankly I'm getting tired of your damn skepticism."
The Brit's brow furrowed, and emotion at least pierced his steely mask. "It's not your war I take issue with, can't you see that? I've fought in wars far less noble, believe me. It's how you're fighting it, Bruce."
"What about?" the younger man shot back, exasperated. "Spit it out already!"
"I just did. If only you'd stop and listen," the butler said icily, crisply delivering each word. "I take issue with-"
A fist slammed down onto the rickety wooden table that held the would-be vigilante's surveillance cut the man off. "No," Bruce exclaimed. "Just say it, Alfred! For once in your life don't be so polite, just say it damn it!"
A pregnant pause hung in the air before the butler responded. "I take issue," he said in a low hiss, "with your cowardice, sir."
Bruce laughed, harsh as a crow. "My cowardice? Nice. I'm putting my life on the line to take down a gang that is rotting this city from the inside out, the city my parents loved and fought to protect."
"They fought for it in public, master Bruce." The Brit threw his hands in the air, flustered. "You fight as a ghost, and you let Bruce Wayne rot even as Wayne Enterprises, your family's legacy to this city, is being run by a sad and angry man with no purpose but his own glory." Alfred took a deep breath before continuing, his gloved hands returning to their place primly at his sides. "You refuse to return to your family home, thinking it is apart from Gotham, but the lifeblood of this city runs beneath that house. You know this!"
The rail thin man's eyes softened a fraction, pleading, but they still held the edge of anger and frustration that had been brewing for weeks. "I mean for God's sake," Alfred pleaded, "the Red Hood Gang is using WayneTech weapons. If that sentence alone doesn't open your eyes to your blunder here, then…" The butler sighed, shaking his head before fixing his gaze upon the young man he loved like a son. "Then I think that your parents would be ashamed."
Something snapped within Bruce Wayne. In an instant, all of the frustration he had held in for weeks, simmering and steeping ever stronger, found their release. He held the man who raised him by his necktie, pulling him in to face his snarling visage.
"Is that so?" the young man yelled. "And what about you, Mr. Pennyworth? What example have you set? Living in a mausoleum, polishing old silver. What good what you one in the world, who's the real coward-"
A harsh slap to the face killed whatever other poison words were brewing on the tongue of Bruce Wayne, and for a moment the two men simply stared at each other. The young man release his hold on the butler, and Alfred drew back delicately, hands quickly moving to fix his tie.
"Coming here was a mistake, sir," Alfred said crisply, voice wavering despite his best efforts. "I'm going back to the manor. I wish you the best."
There was a quiet that permeated the old brownstone until Bruce heard the creak of the hinges and prompt clamor of the front door closing. Then, with a cry of frustration, he slammed his fist into the moldering drywall, dull to the pain.
He sighed, still breathing heavily afterwards. He had to pull himself together, get back to the task at hand. The Hood had advanced WayneTech weapons, and he had to figure out how. For that, there was only one man he could go to.
Withdrawing the prepaid cell phone he had been using, the young man dialed a number he would've found inconceivable using only a few days prior.
"Uncle Philip," he said when the recipient finally picked up, doing his best to keep his voice level. "It's me, Bruce. Look, I need to talk to you. It's urgent."
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Long shadows stalked the halls of the Cyrus Pinkney Museum of Natural History and Art after closing hours, the bones of long-dead behemoths standing tall in the gloom. Bruce kept his hat low and his hands in his pockets as he walked through the dinosaur exhibit. Meet me at the museum tonight, his uncle had said. For old times' sake.
"Uncle Philip," Bruce called, spotting his uncle at last in the shadow of a tyrannosaur.
"Over here, Bruce," the older man answered in turn, smiling warmly at his nephew. "I'm glad you could meet me."
"I'm afraid I've got bad news," Bruce began. No sense in dancing around the issue, he thought. "A friend in the coast guard has told me that the Red Hood Gang has been seen using Wayne Tech sonic weaponry. They've got at least two crates worth off a load that was apparently stolen off a rival gang."
He watched as his uncle's face fell, an old weariness setting into well-worn wrinkles. "I've heard," Kane answered solemnly. "We're beefing up security at every stage of production and distribution."
Bruce paused for a moment, bracing himself for what he was going to say. After much brooding and several more holes in the wall, he had come to his senses; Alfred was right, he couldn't let his family name, his parents' legacy, be dragged through the mud.
"I don't think it's just a matter of security, Uncle Philip," he began. "This gang, they have people everywhere. You're going to have to stop operations until you find out who's been turned on the inside, or until someone stops this psychopath."
Kane raised a bushy eyebrow to that. "Stop operations," he started, voice slightly incredulous. "I'm sorry Bruce, but that's just not possible."
The young man felt an anger rising within him. "There are killers and thieves," Bruce retorted, raising his voice ever so slightly, "running around with weapons with the Wayne family name on them!"
"And we'll put a stop to that," Kane answered quickly before faltering. "Look, Bruce," his uncle continued with a sigh. "Come back to company, be a part of it. We can work this out." His voice was imploring, his age and exhaustion showing in his voice and face.
Biting his lip, his nephew turned away, unable to meet the older man's gaze. "I cant," he said softly at last.
"Bruce, I'll ask one more time, please-"
"I'm sorry, Uncle Philip," Bruce cut him off. "But I can't have a public face right now. I can't explain it, but…but for now Bruce Wayne has to stay dead."
There was a pregnant pause, and Kane slowly reached into his pocket with a sigh, withdrawing a small remote with a central red button. "If you insist, Bruce," he replied as he clicked the controller.
In an instant the lights of the wide hall flared to full intensity, revealing the small crowd of socialites and reporters gathered between the looming forms of long dead creatures. The lights twinkled off gaudy jewelry and flutes of champagne, and all the while a long banner unfurled against the back wall. Welcome Home Bruce, it proclaimed in bright red and blue script as the assembled court beneath it rang out their applause and cheers.
"But I'll have to disagree," Philip Kane finished with a smile. Clapping his stunned nephew on the back, Kane walked him forward and plastered on his most photogenic smile. "That's right everyone," he announced loudly as he pushed Bruce towards the crowd, "this is the surprise I've invited you all to share with me this evening. My dear nephew, Bruce Wayne, has returned to the city his family helped build, and continues to build through Wayne Enterprises!"
Bruce turned to his back to the crowd and faced his uncle, his wits finally returned after the shock. "Philip," he hissed," what the hell are you doing?"
"Bruce," his uncle answered him softly, away from the prying ears of Gotham's elite. "When my father came to me in that cave in Mexico, I didn't want to go." His face was solemn, eyes sympathetic but determined. "I didn't want to go, and we came to blows. Split my head open fighting with him, and I still have the metal plate in skull to prove it." He punctuated that story with a tap to his forehead before sighing and laying his hands on his nephews shoulders. "The point is, he was right. You have something to do, and this is me coming to your cave, and dragging you back out."
The paparazzi was upon him then, a hail of questions flashbulbs, and painted on smiles swirling around him until he thought he was going to be sick. Brusquely he brushed past a cluster of reporters and stormed out of the hall, deaf to the questions and accusations being hurled at him.
"Bruce," he heard his uncle call after him as he returned to the gloom of the unlit halls. "You can't keep hiding forever, Bruce!"
Long strides and swift feet carried the young man through the labyrinthine corridors of the museum and its many exhibits, passing by eras and epochs of history with hardly a parting glance. At last, by chance it seemed, he found himself in the Egyptian wing. Scaled models of the great desert monuments and a few authentic pieces of art and statuary sat arrayed about a wide chamber done up in faux sandstone, as if to evoke the soul of that ancient desert land. In the center of it all sat a replica of the Great Sphinx, scaled down but still thoroughly impressive. It was what sat next to the sphinx though that caught his attention. The emergency exit sign glowed like a beacon in the night, but the young man's elation quickly evaporated into further frustration when he found its door to be locked, a thick round of chain visible on its handle through the window.
"No way out through there I'm afraid, Mr. Wayne," came a voice out from the gloom.
Startled, Bruce whirled to face its source and mentally berated himself; he should've noticed the man. The night's events were starting to get to him.
"Do I know you?" the young man replied coolly, watching as the figure stepped out of the shadows and into the wan light of the exit sign's glow.
"Edward Nygma," a thin man who looked only a few years older than him replied. He gave a slightly predatory smile, reminding Bruce for all the world like a cat about to play with the mouse he had found. Nygma looked like he could've wandered out of the IT department of any firm in Gotham, his thick glasses, pocket protector, and long slender fingers giving him the look of a man familiar with a keyboard. "Have you ever seen the real one," Nygma asked casually, slipping his hands in the pockets of his corduroy pants.
"The real what," Bruce replied with a raised brow.
"Why, the Sphinx of course," his newfound companion said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Once, while I was…travelling. It was a long time ago." The young man was quiet for a while before fixing Nygma with a cold stare. "I take it this was your idea then, regarding me. The party?" He let a trace bit more of his frustration slip into his words than he had intended, and internally Bruce scolded himself once more; he had been taught better than this. Trained better than this.
"No, actually," Nygma answered with a coy smile. "I suggested," he paused here, as if tasting his words before speaking, "something else. Your uncle disagreed though." With a shrug, the man continued. "If you're looking for the exit, its up ahead. Through the aviary wing."
A frown fell upon Bruce Wayn's face and he began to pace away from the dead end of a door and the ramblings of Edward Nygma. "Was that supposed to be riddle?"
If he would've turned, Bruce Wayne could've seen the momentary grin that graced the thin man's pale face.
"What makes you say that?"
"This museum doesn't have an aviary wing," Wayne shot back, eyes scanning around for some new avenue of escape. "I don't have time for this."
Nygma gave a slight chuckle. "I'm sorry, Mr Wayne. I guess I just got caught up in the spirit of this room." The slender man strode back into Bruce's field of vision. "You know," he drawled as he fished his hands out from pockets ran his fingertips gingerly across the glass cases of treasures looted from tombs, "the ancient Egyptians were responsible for some of the first board games. Sometimes they even asked to be buried with their games above their riches." He smiled and shrugged. "I suppose they were worried the afterlife would be boring."
At last he settled before one case in particular, a wide stone relief of a coiled snake held behind its glass. "I've always liked this one in particular," Nygma continued, seeming to be thoroughly enjoying the sound of his own voice. "It reminds me of the oroboros, the circular snake that recreates itself by eating its own parts." The man chuckled again. "Not that different from what your uncle is trying to do, really. Though if he keeps going about things that way, he'll have no arms left."
That at last caught Bruce's interest, and he turned to fix Nygma in a stare once more. "No arms left," he said in a low voice. "Is that supposed to mean something, Nygma?"
"Everything means something, or should – I think," the thing man answered with a shrug and lazy smile. "Don't you?"
"You're saying my uncle is giving away arms," Bruce retorted, his mind racing at the implications. "To the Red Hood?"
"Say, you're clever, Mr. Wayne!" Nygma answered him with praise that oozed a smug sarcasm. "Are you sure you don't want to run this company?"
Bruce let Nygma's taunts roll off him like waves; he had a lead again, he was back to his mission. "Why would he give them away?" he demanded. "Those men are killers, terrorists!"
"I supposed he thinks, against my judgment," his companion added, "that he can give away some small pieces on the chessboard to keep Mr. Hood from coming after the bigger ones."
Bruce Wayne could only shake his head. The implications were staggering. "He let them in," the young man breathed. He trained his gaze on Nygma once more. "They won't stop, you know. What else did he give them?"
A smug silence was his only answer, and Bruce felt his frustration break at last.
"Tell me, damnit!" he screamed, and Nygma only smirked.
"I'm afraid we've no more room, Mr Wayne," he replied casually before sighing. "Or at least no more room to ourselves."
Voices were echoing down the halls; his uncle and the flock of reporters were getting closer. It was time to go. Fixing the thin pale man in a steely gaze, Bruce stepped in close and spoke in a low growl.
"You can tell Philip I'm coming for him, Mr. Nygma," he spat.
The other man simply shrugged. "I already did," he answered, tone bored. "He doesn't listen to me anymore."
With that the young heir made his way quickly over to the replica sphinx and began to clamber up its side.
"Where are you going, Mr. Wayne," Nygma called bemusedly after him.
"The exit," Bruce shot back as he found another handhold. "You said earlier it was up ahead, through the aviary wing." He found another crack from questing fingers to sink into, and continued his ascent. "Thing is though, that there is no aviary here. Egyptian sphinxes are some of the only sphinxes without wings; most other cultures depict them as part bird."
At last, the young man stood atop the human visage of the sphinx, and below the skylight that rested within reach above him. "Up a head," he answered as he unlatched the glass bubble that let in the pale moonlight. "Try harder next time, Nygma."
With that he was gone, and Edward Nygma let out a contented sigh. "Oh, if only there was going to be a next time," he murmured.
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"Alfred," Bruce began as he paced the brownstone with a nervous energy, holding the cell phone tightly to his ear. He heaved a heavy sigh and continued. "You were right, right about everything; Philip is going to ruin the family name. But," the young man bit his lip slightly as he searched his mind for the right words. "But it's worse than I could've imagined. He's giving weapons to the Red Hood, feeding them information to intercept shipments in some madcap scheme to keep the gang from targeting the company. If you're there," he faltered at this. "Alfred, please come meet me at the townhouse. I've got to do something about this, I can't just sit on my hands."
Pausing to shrug into his windbreaker, the young man cracked his neck and took a deep breath. "I'm going out to try and find a lead on how the two have been communicating. Smuggling pipelines, dead drops, anything. I'll meet you back here right after though." Bruce Wayne's mouth hung slightly agape as he ruminated upon his final words. "I'm sorry," he said at last in a quiet voice. "For what I said, for not listening to you. For everything."
"Please," he added before severing the call. "Give me another chance."
With that the young man shut the phone with a snap and tucked it away before heading to the bathroom to finish his get-up for the night. At heart, he had been taught, the art of disguise was deceptively simple. A few minor changes – a different hair color, colored contact lenses – combined with a change in behavior and one final distinguishing feature, and all but the most perceptive of observers could be fooled. His hands danced with practiced ease as cosmetics and a few latex prosthetics rendered him near unrecognizable.
A grizzled man looked back at him in the mirror, a long thin scar extending from eye to jawline down the one side of his face. A hat and scowl completed the ensemble. Cracking his knuckles, Bruce Wayne surveyed his work with a grudging nod; nowhere near the best he could do, but for tonight's purposes it would serve. Try as he might, though, he could not quiet his mind. The sting of his uncle's betrayal, the revelations of just what the man had been doing with his father's company – no, his company – it all was too much. The night air would clear his mind, he told himself. Opening this new front in his war would bring him the clarity he needed; it had to.
Dark thoughts clouding his mind, a man with a false face stepped out into the gloom of Crime Alley with hands buried into his pockets and mouth contorted into a snarl. It was time to get to work.
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The man with the false scar stalked the seedier streets of Gotham's East End with his hands in his pockets and hat turned low. It was a corner of town where men and women went to scratch any itch they were ashamed to have – girls, boys, drugs of every kind and quality; all could be found for the right price. It was a place of dark deals and questionable business, and a hub of the city's black market. Information was a commodity just like any other for the dealers here, and with a few greased palms he hoped he could find a lead, any lead, that might set him on the track of unraveling the connections between his uncle and the Red Hood. Failing that, a few broken bones would do the trick just as well.
He walked down the street with an appraising eye; it was as bustling as ever for a Friday night with flocks of streetwalkers at their respective corners, their pimps never far. Neon signs left the streets and alleys in a twilight glow, the air heavy with the smell of smoke, sex, and blood.
"Cheer you up, mister?"
A young girl's voice drew his attention to the corner he found himself standing by, and looking down he found a girl no older than twelve looking up at him with face that tried so hard at seduction, but barely hid her fear and uncertainty.
"How old are you?" he replied coolly, his night's anger only mounting as he saw firsthand the symptoms of his city's disease.
"As young as you want me to be," the girl replied with a quaver in her voice, flipping her hair and pushing her lips into a demure smile. It was the kind of smile that a woman used to whispered "come hither" yet promised nothing, but on the girl's cosmetic-caked face it simply added to Bruce's mounting rage and mingled with revulsion.
"Stupid little bitch!" a shadow growled as a scowling man in a cheap suit emerged from the nearby alley's gloom. Beady vengeful eyes fixed on the girl, he pulled her aside hard by her brown curls, a yank that sent her teetering on the oversized high heels she wore. "I'll deal with you later," the pimp spat as he loomed over her.
"No, " Bruce found himself saying as the thug standing before him eroded away the last piece of patience he had. It had been a long night; he was going to enjoy putting this man in his place. "I think you're done with her."
The pimp turned to face him and rolled is eyes with a smirk. "The tough veteran act again? That's getting old, pig," he spat. His eyes darkened as he continued. "I know a vice squad when I see one."
"I'm not the police," the man with the false face replied with a growl.
With a casual motion the pimp produced a switchblade from his jacket and let the steel gleam in the neon glow. "Even better, then. You want another scar, big man? Just point where!"
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"Selina," the man – John? Jeremy? She couldn't remember what his name was – whined from across the room. "I'm still waiting. Come back to bed!"
"Did I say you could talk?" the woman by the window answered in a dangerous tone as she glanced back at the bed in the dingy brothel room. The pudgy man lay prone, naked from the waist, and handcuffed to the bedframe, a blindfold fixed tightly over his eyes. Really should've put the ball gag on him already, she thought to herself with an internal sigh. "There's something going on outside. Now shut it!"
"Yes ma'am," she heard the masochist titter, barely containing the excitement in his voice. Rolling her eyes in disgust, Selina Kyle made her way back over to the window with the click-clack of the ridiculous stilettos heels she was wearing punctuating every step. Running her fingers through her pixie cut hair, the woman rubbed her temples as she watched the scene on the street below develop.
It was supposed to have been an easy grift; play the dominatrix for whichever pimp or madam that needed one, truss the clients up with however many whips and chains they wanted, then rob them blind. By the time anyone realized what was going on she would be gone, off to another group of suckers to con. She hadn't counted on Holly, though.
"Lefty" Levowich's ragtag group call girls should've just been another stop on her grand tour of Gotham's red light district, a weeklong stop at most. That'd been nearly a month ago. Against her better judgment and every instinct burned into her mind by years on the street, she had found herself caring for that girl, and for the life of her she couldn't figure out why. It wasn't the prostitution; Selina had seen child prostitutes before. Hell, she thought to herself, I almost was one. Perhaps it was some queer mixture of pity and admiration. More and more, she was seeing a piece of herself in the girl. She still had a spark of rebellion, of vigor and spunk that the world had yet to extinguish. Holly Robinson deserved a better future, and the fact that she cared was something Selina Kyle found deeply unnerving.
For now, though, she watched. Holly had messed up with her mark, it seemed, and Lefty had stepped in.
"It can't be the police," she murmured to herself. "We paid up last week."
The man on the bed whimpered once more, and with a frustrated sigh Selina took up the black bullwhip that completed her dominatrix ensemble. With the ease that came from practice on many a man like the one she currently held as her next victim, she flicked her arm and snapped the whip in midair with a resounding crack. That shut the poor idiot up. Turning her attention back to the scene outside, she fixed her eyes back on Lefty just in time to see him withdraw his switchblade and lunge. Uh oh, the grifter thought. This is going to get messy.
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The pimp's stab was sloppy, Bruce observed idly as he easily swung away from the straight thrust. Catching the man's wrist in his hands as he swung to the side, Bruce stood side-by-side with him before rocketing one elbow back to catch the man in the jaw, using his trapped arm as a guide. From there, the crunch of bones in the man's wrist sent the switchblade tumbling from his grasp to clatter down onto the pavement. A final roundhouse kick to the gut sent the battered pimp staggering back before finally toppling to the ground. Bruce surveyed his handiwork grimly; the man hadn't deserved so savage a treatment, but he would be lying if he said that he hadn't enjoyed handing it out. Whatever relief he had felt towards the night's frustration quickly evaporated a second later as a sharp pain bloomed in his thigh, and whirling his head about he came face-to-face with the girl who had propositioned him, her pimp's knife buried in his leg.
"Get him!" the girl cried with grim-faced determination and fire in her eyes. It was then that Bruce noticed some of the pimp's more irate associates emerging from the shadows, baseball bats and lengths of chain in hand. Internally screaming with frustration, he pushed the girl back as gently as he dared and plucked the knife form his thigh with grimace. Got lucky, he thought. Missed the artery. He hadn't pushed the girl hard, but already unsteady on her high heels the bump had been enough. She toppled hard onto one side, scraping her knee and crying out in pain in the process. A pang of guilt stabbed at Bruce Wayne's heart as he heard that, but he had larger concerns to attend to as he ducked beneath one lumbering swing of a baseball bat. Dropping into a crouch, he swung one leg out in a long low sweeping kick that cut his attacker's legs out from under him. Hopping back to his feet, Bruce surveyed the situation. His night was certainly not going as planned.
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She could stand Lefty getting knocked down a few pegs; hell, most nights she wanted to slap him herself. But no one was laying a hand on Holly if she had anything to say about it. With as much speed as she could muster, Selina slipped out of the stiletto heels her costume demanded and into something she could actually walk in. There was nothing she could do about the leather corset and leggings, but at the very least she'd be able to walk. One final whine from her would-be victim frayed her last nerve, however. Roughly, she jammed the cherry-red ball gag into his mouth, enjoying her brief reprieve of silence before heading back to the window. Hopping fences and single story drops were child's play to anyone who had grown up on the streets of Gotham, skills honed avoiding the police – or worse. Knowing how to throw a mean right hook was another lesson from her childhood. The man tearing through Lefty's goons obviously knew what he was doing, but no one was immune to a sucker punch. Hurtling over the windowsill, Selina dropped onto the awning below before making the short hop down to street level, landing on her feet with venom in her eyes.
The man had his back to her, preoccupied with smearing Lefty's hired muscle all over the pavement. She spared a glance for Holly; her knee was bleeding, and she didn't like the way she was holding her ankle. Damn high heels, she thought as she wound up, looking forward to relieving a good piece of her stress onto this man. She never got the chance.
As she swung at him with a snarl, the man with the scar caught her fist with an almost casual ease. Furious, she swung with the other arm, only for it to meet the same fate. Before she could make another move, the man pulled her inwards and slammed his knee into her gut. Dazed and breathless, she crumpled to the ground like a ragdoll.
Curled into the fetal position, she could only struggle to breathe as she watched the scene unfold around her from a worm's eye view.
"Freeze!"
There was a new voice, harsh as a crow. Cops, she thought, as she caught a glimpse of black boots and pressed uniform pants. Come on, Selina. Get up. This isn't the first time you've taken a hit.
"I said freeze! Hands in the air!"
Forcing herself to glance up, she saw the man with the scar tense. He's going to run, she realized, years of practice at the art of escaping the authorities serving her well.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The man bolted for the alley to his side just as the crack of a gunshot rent the night air of the East End. Two more shots followed as the pair of police officers chased him into the gloom, trigger fingers itching to let loose. Gotham's finest, she thought bitterly as she rose to her feet with a wince. Shoot first, ask questions later.
Selina Kyle surveyed the scene with dismay, hobbling over to help Holly to her feet. The girl looked thoroughly shaken, and Selina took her into a quick hug. Lefty and his thugs were still moaning piles of bruises on he pavement, having taken the brunt of the scarred man's fury. Things were an utter mess, she concluded sourly, and not even the fact that she had a trussed up masochist waiting to be robbed could improve her mood much. Time for a change, she resolved as she held Holly close. For both of us.
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Two hours later, a tired and bleeding Bruce Wayne staggered to the door of his brownstone in Park Row. His night had most certainly not gone according to plan. He braced himself against the door for a moment, holding the door knob tight as his closed his eyes and breathed deeply; Alfred would be waiting inside ready with all manner of I-told-you-so's, but after tonight he had most certainly earned them.
Heaving a sigh, he turned the knob and stepped inside, reaching a hand out to flick the lights on. What he saw froze him in his tracks. A string of gaudy plastic letters had been strung across the living room wall spelling out "Happy Birthday", clusters of balloons tied haphazard around the room. Pain bloomed with a crushing force that struck him in the back, and with a cry he fell to his knees. He saw the booted foot a half second before it connected with his head, and everything blurred as he went fully to the ground. The world spun for what seemed an eternity before slowly snapping back into focus on the figure that loomed above him.
"Hi there, Bruce," the Red Hood said with a casual air, twirling a crowbar in one hand. "Lovely place you've got here." The rest of the world began to focus, the forms of the Hood's masked henchmen solidifying. Six of them stood flanking their boss, cracking their knuckles or adjusting the grip on their makeshift weapons. The smell of gasoline found its way to Bruce's nose, and turning his head with an agonizing effort he caught sight of two more thugs armed with uncapped gas cans dutifully dousing anything they could with the stuff.
His mind screamed at him to do something, but his body was lethargic, slow. It was all he could muster to push himself to a kneeling position, fix a cold glare upon the Red Hood, and spit on his polished black leather shoes. The Hood clicked his tongue and shook his head, sending the shimmering scarlet helmet wobbling back and forth.
"You never should've came back, kid," he said simply before waving on his waiting henchmen.
The first blow caught him in the jaw and sent him sprawling back to the floor. The rest followed in furious succession, all six men doing their damnedest to grind him into a bloody pulp.
"It must've been the worst day of your life the day they died," the Hood drawled as one of his men seized Bruce by the hair and slammed his face back to the floor. "Well, besides today of course."
"You know it changed me to," the Hood continued as he reached into his jacket and withdrew a book of matches. "Your parents death, that is. Changed me forever." With a flourish he struck a match and tossed it towards the gasoline soaked couch. The sofa ignited with a roar, the heat of the flame and its greasy smoke rapidly filling the small room.
"Martha and Thomas Wayne, scions of the city, do-gooders and titans, gunned down by a nobody." He punctuated his statement with a sharp kick to Bruce's ribs. "Over nothing." Again the masked man struck. "For no reason." Bruce felt something crack on the third kick.
"I remember my foster parents buying a new lock the next day, the neighbors coming home with a new gun." The Hood paused to crouch down and meet Bruce's bloodied gaze with his own unreadable mask. "Because at the end of the day what people are afraid of is the nothingness of it, Bruce. The randomness. The empty center." He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Stare into it and try and find a meaning and you'll go mad. All you can do is fear it, and try and survive."
The flames were spreading fast now, old firetrap of a house creaking and groaning in protests as its structure was strained.
"That's what this gang is, Bruce," the Red Hood ranted on, his voice rising. "I came up with the idea in the wake of your parents' death, in that wonderful moment of clarity." The man stood now, reaching into his suit's jacket once more and retrieving a heavy pistol. "We wear the red hood to court the wolf, rather than hide from it. Eat us, we say, eat us all!"
The flames shimmered as reflection off the man's glossy helmet, wild shadows growing as fire consumed the room.
"Of course, every now and then someone will come along and bang their head off the futility of it all, so that's always exciting." The Hood's voice had returned to a casual conversational tone, seemingly oblivious to the inferno growing behind him. His men had ceased their beating and stood huddled near the exit, their mounting concern palpable even through their red masks. "For example there's this one man we've been fighting lately; a real card. You remind me of him, in a way. But in the end we'll get him, just like we got you."
"We got to go, boss!" hollered one of the thugs. "The whole place is coming down!"
"All right, all right," the Hood snapped before turning back the bleeding and broken form of Bruce Wayne with a heavy sigh. "It seems we have to be going," he said with disappointment in his voice. "But Bruce? Thank you for leaving that theater with your parents that night. You inspired me." He punctuated his statement by laying one hand gently over his heart. With his other arm, he raised his pistol.
"And now, let's hope my doing this to you tonight will inspire some other youngster out there!" He gave a rough, nasal laugh before leveling his weapon at the huddled mass on the floor before him. "Here's to symmetry."
The shot rang out amid the roar of the growing flames, and the men in the masks shuffled out of the brownstone without another word.
Pain was his entire universe, and Bruce did not know how long he lay still and bleeding on the floor, unable to feel anything but agony. Smoke burnt his nose and lungs, fire blistered his skin.
Get up, he thought at last, fury and pain forged into sheer will. He would not die here tonight. He would not let that maniac win. Get up!
Every fiber of his being screaming in protest, Bruce Wayne laid his hands on the bloodstained floor and drew his legs back beneath him. Knees buckling, he took two steps forward only to crash back to the ground, fire licking at his boots. His vision swam once more, the creeping embrace of unconsciousness tickling at the back of his skull.
For all his fury he could feel it growing ever closer, his will and strength sapped by smoke and pain and fire. He could see the door, so close yet still out of reach. Shapes and shadows danced in the smoke, memories and nightmares. He could see his teachers and mentors staring down at him in disgrace, their years of tutelage wasted. The Red Hood looked down at him with his impassive mask, contempt radiating out from his form. His parents laid unmoving on the floor next to him, his mother's pearls strewn about the stones of Crime Alley. He could see Alfred, horror in his eyes as he looked upon the battered body of his master.
"Alfred, he called out with voice raw to the mirage as it rushed towards him through the smoke. "I'm so sorry…"
His pain seemed to numb and the world went to black, the sorrow in eyes of the man who raised him the last thing he saw.
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