Hey there everybody. So, not as much action in this chapter after the rather long entry last time, but I think it carries with it some important scenes the move the plot forward. Anyways, hope you enjoy it.
The night was never quiet in Gotham, the frenetic pulse of the city beating strong beneath both sun and moon. Looming like skeletal fingers scratching the stars, the skyscrapers of the financial district shone as beacons in the night and at their center sat the greatest of them all; the headquarters of Wayne Enterprises. Light poured forth from its many windows, the building a marriage of classical Gotham gothic masonry and modern steel and glass sensibilities. High above, where its upper stories surpassed all but its most ambitious neighbors, there came sharp crack and the tinkling of broken glass.
Crystalline shards plummeted in a deadly hail and in their wake trailed the source of the crash; a gilded green statuette in the form of question mark, wreathed in a web of yarn that shed paper notes like leaves as it fell. Higher still was the source of the fall. Hair whipped to a frenzy by the wind now entering through the shattered window, Philip Kane stood with rage in his eyes and a gun in his hand. The tattered ruins of the spider's web of yarn, pins, and notes that once had spanned the room laid limply on the ground, and at the center of it all stood the spider himself, hands nonchalantly in the air.
"You killed him," Philip spat, shaking his head as he aimed the pistol at the thin man before him. "I barely knew my nephew, but I can tell you he was a better man than both of us! And you let that maniac torch half of a block to kill him!"
"You'll get no argument from me on that front," Edward Nygma answered coolly. "But it had to be done. You said it yourself; he was too stubborn."
"I could've convinced him," Kane shot back, as much to convince himself as it was for his companion. "He would've come around!"
"No," Nygma answered simply. "He wouldn't have."
With a snarl, Kane cocked his pistol and leveled it once more at his strategist's chest. "I could kill you," Kane continued, hands shaking. "Right here, right now, and no one would ever know!"
"Come now, Philip," Nygma began to reply with a cat-like languidness. "We both know you're not capable of-"
"Don't you tell me what I am capable of!" The older man was shouting now, eyes wild. "You have no idea what I'm capable of, what my family has done, has sacrificed!"
"All of this," he continued, gesturing about the ruins of the web and the banks of computers they weaved about. "I'm the only other person who knows about it."
"What about all of my data?" the strategist replied in a conversational tone. "Surely you don't believe you'd be able to purge all of my backups before the police come asking questions, do you?"
A dark smile played across Philip Kane's lips. "Well that would be would be a problem, wouldn't it, unless I had had you working on a closed loop system, nothing leaving the servers in this room." His brows narrowed. "And if those servers just happened to sitting atop a powerful electromagnet placed beneath the floor, well that would certainly make deleting their contents easy, wouldn't it?"
Nygma arched a brow at this. "Electromagnet you say? I'd imagine you would have primed such a device before charging in here, maybe linked it to a password of some sorts?"
The smile faded from Philip's face. "Wait, what are you-"
Edward Nygma simply smiled.
"Cain and Abel."
There came a click and a hum, and a heartbeat later Philip Kane was on his knees, holding his head in agony as the gun tumbled to the ground.
"You know its funny," Nygma continued as he dropped his hands and paced over to his former employer, delicately scooping up the pistol from where it had fallen. "If you'd gotten that plate put in your skull only a year later, it would've been nonmagnetic."
"How," Kane managed to croak as he fell to all fours, barely managing to hold himself up.
"You overplayed your hand Philip, " the thinner man lectured as he paced. "And you tried to outwit someone light-years out of your league!" He punctuated that statement with a swift kick to the older man's ribs.
Breathing heavily, Nygma struggled to regain his cool composure. "You know," he said at last, "we had a chance to make something special, to really take this company to the next level. But you just lacked the resolve to follow through."
Hurrying about the room, Nygma tossed a handful of his belongings from each corner of the room into a box before tucking the gun away as well.
"I'll consider this my severance package then, Mr. Kane," the thinner man continued with a smile. "Perhaps I'll give economics another go with the Powers family, try my luck there. Either way, goodbye, Philip."
As he turned for the door however a harsh laugh stopped Edward Nygma in his tracks.
"Go ahead, skitter back to the shadows, Nygma," Philip Kane spat, voice harsh as a crow. "For all your schemes and riddles, you're still nothing. A nobody. No one will remember you or any of your plots once you're gone."
Silence hung in the air for a pregnant moment as Edward Nygma twitched ever so slightly, his composure shattering for a split second before reassembling.
"Don't bother looking for me, Mr. Kane," Nygma said at last, softly. "We both know you won't find me unless I want you too."
With that, Edward Nygma exited the room in silence, leaving Philip Kane alone in his misery and pain.
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The parking garage was quiet as Jim Gordon made his way over to his well-worn sedan. I've requested off this damn night shift three times, he thought to himself. Loeb can rot, trying to wear me down like this. He rooted through his pockets until he found the keys, adjusting his glasses as he reached in to unlock the door.
"Going to work, lieutenant?"
Flass. He'd know that smug bastard's voice anywhere. The man had been nothing but trouble since being assigned to his unit, not so subtly pressuring him to "be a team player" at the commissioner's behest. He had been unusually quiet since the hostage incident nearly a week back, though, and turning to face the voice's owner Jim Gordon saw why.
The large-framed man before him wore a ski mask over his entire face, but Jim knew his build, his voice, and the smug smile that peeked out from the mask's mouth-hole. Flass idly twirled a baseball bat in his hands, four other similarly dressed and armed men flanking him. More of Flass's crooked friends, Jim hypothesized. Corrigan, maybe. He was sure he'd have been able to recognize and name them without the masks.
"Looks like you're going to be late," Flass continued with a predatory smile as he advanced. "May even have toe cancel the whole shift."
The first man's swing was sloppy and slow; easy to duck under and catch the goon with an uppercut. He caught the second dirty cop with a left hook before he could even get a hit in. The third bat connected though, a strike to the back that threw him to his knees and the world blurred as his glasses tumbled to the pavement with a crunch. This is going to hurt, Jim Gordon thought with a sudden moment of clarity. Then the pain started.
If nothing else, Flass and his boys were thorough. He knew the feel of bruised and broken ribs, of a fractured nose and broken fingers, the swell that would become a black eye; lessons learned form a rough childhood. Nothing crippling though, that wasn't their goal.
"Consider this a warning, Jimmy," the Flass-shaped blur that stood above him intoned, any and all detail of the world around him lost with his glasses. "Think about that daughter of yours." With a laugh, Flass and his cronies left the bleeding form of Jim Gordon on the pavement,
Face bloodied and limbs burning, Jim Gordon quested blindly until his hands curled around his cracked glasses and pulled them back to his swollen eye. He grabbed his keys and limped back to his car, a grim line for a mouth. He was a man of the law, but sometimes justice needed to be taken man to man. There would be a reckoning with Flass; no one threatened his Barabara.
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"Bruce? I…I'm sorry."
Alfred's voice guided him back to the waking world. Shapes and blurs of color gave way to concrete forms slowly but steadily, and eventually the stalwart Brit's countenance faded into focus, a bit more haggard than usual though. He was in a bedroom, he noted, the embrace of a feather mattress and thick sheets nearly trapping him in place. He was in his parents' room, he realized, in his parents' bed; the master bedroom of Wayne Manor complete with its four poster bed, rich mahogany furnishings and wide draped windows.
"Alfred," Bruce croaked. "What…"
"Hush, my boy," the older man answered softly, gently laying a hand on his former charge's shoulder. "Save your strength. You've lost too much blood. I did the best I could, but…I'm rusty."
Pain filled Alfred's well worn face, but when the younger man moved to speak the butler hushed him once again. "Bruce, everything I said the last time we spoke I, well," Alfred paused and sighed. "Just know that whatever happens I'll always be here to patch you up, and that's a promise." The butler forced a small smile. "And failing that Dr. Thompkins will be there too."
A second figure entered his frame of view, a woman near Alfred's age in the early years of middle age, her eyes kind and her hair close cropped; Dr. Leslie Thompkins, his mother's confidante, his father's colleague, and his own godmother.
"Hello, Bruce," she said with a small smile. "It's good to see you awake."
"Dr. Thompkins," the young man managed. "How did you-"
"I brought her," Alfred interjected, meeting the worried young man's eyes with a knowing gaze. "Your injuries were beyond my skills so I told her the truth; you had returned to Gotham in secret, hoping to learn more about what your uncle was doing with the company, and the Red Hood had targeted you." Alfred released his charge's shoulder and fixed Dr. Thompkins with a wan smile. "With the number of agents that madman has I knew we couldn't trust the hospitals, so I went to the one doctor I knew I could."
I he hadn't known better, Bruce would've sworn he'd seen the doctor blush.
"Your injuries were…extensive," she said at last, fixing her hair. "Fortunately the bullet missed anything vital, and Alfred was kind enough to volunteer himself for blood transfusions."
"O blood type," the Brit offered quietly. "Universal donor."
"Your broken ribs and bruising however will take time to heal," the doctor continued face stern as she eyed her patient.. "I'll be back tomorrow, but in the mean time you're to stay in bed. Doctor's orders."
"Thank you, Dr. Thompkins," the younger man forced as his godmother moved to leave. Every word seemed to hurt.
"Get some rest, Bruce," the doctor answered him with a small smile, a weary hand laid on his bare shoulder. "You're going to need it." With that the woman left, medical bag in hand, leaving servant and master alone in the capacious chamber.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said at last. "When I found you lying there in that, that hovel, I saw my worst nightmares come to life." The older man reached out and gingerly took Bruce's hand into his own, half of the younger man's fingers held in splints. "But I also saw firsthand what the Red Hood is doing to this city. What he's doing to my family, and countless others across the city." He paused, blinking, and swallowed hard before continuing. "I know now what you've been trying to fight for, and I know that once you're well again you'll be the one to stop that lunatic. And that'll be there at your side to help you do it."
"Alfred," Bruce answered him weakly, the weight of sleep closely encroaching.
"Hush, Master Bruce," the butler answered, silencing him. "You heard the doctor; you need your sleep. Leave the rest to me."
As he slipped back to unconsciousness, Bruce Wayne watched the slim figure of the man who raised him leave his bedside and retreat to a kitchen chair that had been dragged up to the room. An antique double-barreled shotgun lay across it, and in one smooth motion the butler scooped up the weapon before settling into the seat and draping it across his lap.
Bruce Wayne would rest well tonight; anyone who argued otherwise would need answer to Alfred Pennyworth.
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Flass was a creature of habit. James Gordon knew this, just as he knew that every Friday night Flass and a number of his cronies all partook in a weekly poker game in the suburbs beyond the city limits. He sat patiently in his car three houses down from where he knew his target currently debauched, his eye swollen and his bruises aching. That was fine, the policeman though. He'd return the pains to Flass all in good time.
He watched as the unmistakably broad figure of Detective Arnold Flass left the house, a drunken stagger to his step, and headed towards his car, key finally finding ignition after what appeared to be a half a dozen attempts. He was drunk Gordon noted, pleased. That would make his job easier.
He let the crooked bastard drive some ways down the highway, out into a pocket of forest away from prying eyes. Headlights and a clouded moon gave the only light as Gordon tailed the man who had left him bleeding on the parking garage floor mere hours ago. Finally, he struck.
Jamming his foot down on the pedal, Gordon slammed his car against the rear bumper of Flass's, sending the second vehicle into a wild fishtail. Flass teetered and tottered across the pavement before the car finally went headlong into a ditch along the side of the road, bucking wildly over the rough terrain before slamming into a tree. Gordon slammed on his brakes and pulled over, watching as steam trailed out from the crumpled wreck of the hood of Flass's sedan, and the man himself tumbled out from the driver's side door shaken but seemingly unharmed.
Good, Gordon noted as he left the car. Have to give him a sporting chance.
Arnold Flass wobbled on his feet, his world thoroughly rocked and still spinning from the crash and the whisky he had drank before it. The harsh glare of car headlights settled upon him, and he shielded his eyes as he squinted towards their source, a shadowed figure slowly but deliberately making its way down the hill towards him; the bastard who had run him off the road. Fuming, the drunk detective fumbled for his gun, only to freeze in his tracks when the figure before him came into focus.
"Hello, Jimmy," he said ruefully, slowly withdrawing his gun before laying it gently on the ground.
James Gordon, battered and bloodied, stood before him with his service pistol in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.
"Hello, Flass," Gordon answered flatly before holstering his gun, shrugging off his coat, and tossing the bigger man the bat.
"I believe we have a score to settle."
Flass grinned wolfishly as he caught the baseball bat and tested its weight. Gordon removed is holster and kicked it aside. After all, he had to make it fair.
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Detective Arnold Flass would be found in the early hours of the morning badly beaten, stripped of his clothes, and handcuffed to the wreck of his car. He would go on to claim it to be the actions of a drug ring who's leader he jailed and how ten of the man's underlings had ambushed him. But deep in his heart Arnold Flass knew the truth. James Gordon would little trouble from him fro the rest of his tenure.
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Selina Kyle frowned as she looked from the newspaper classified clipping in her hand to the building before her; there had to be a mistake. The ad had spoken of apartments for rent, and yet the address it listed had brought them here; Wildcat Boxing Academy.
The building itself seemed like it had seen better days, the gym's painted panther mascot faded along with its sign. Still, the place had a second and third story that could very well contain the alleged apartment, and at this point she wasn't spoiled for options.
"Selina," Holly asked meekly from behind her. "Is this the place?"
The girl still bore the last bruise Lefty would ever leave her, a black eye that she tried and failed to keep covered with her hair. She was limping slightly too, and for that Selina felt a slight pang of guilt; they had been walking all day. They needed a place to stay, though, and she had burned a bridge or two after knocking out Lefty and loading up two backpacks with everything of his that hadn't been nailed down.
"Let's hope so, Holly," she answered, forcing herself to smile. Taking the younger girl's hand in her own she strode with false confidence towards the front door.
The smell of sweat, old leather, and blood assaulted the noses of the gym's visitors as they entered, all weakly laid over with the scent of antiseptic cleaner. The audial assault was just as intense, the rapid thrum and thump of jump ropes in cacophonic tangent with resounding thwack of a half a dozen different punching bags, all overlaid wit the grunting and panting of the gym's many patrons. What had appeared a derelict from the outside had given way to a hive of activity as men and women of all ages buzzed from exercise to exercise and equipment to equipment. A small and cluttered office sat to their right with a wide window overlooking the gym floor, its owner nowhere to be found, but as Selina looked out into the expanse of the Wildcat Boxing Academy her focus fell on a single mountain of a man who paced from station to station, barking out instructions and encouragement alike. His hair was a close and clean-cut shock of salt and pepper, a heavy moustache resting on his lip. If his apparent age had slowed him at all it didn't show; the man meandered from student to student, jumping in and out of practice bouts and stationary exercises alike with a measured and contagious energy. At last he seemed to notice his guests, and with final parting words to his last student headed towards the office.
"Keep those hands up, Bradley! We'll make a fighter out of you yet!"
Shaking his head slightly, the man made his way over to the entrance and as he approached Selina gained an appreciation for just how large he truly was.
"Ted Grant," the man said in a gravelly tone as he extended one massive hand. "Proprietor. Can I help you?"
Composing herself, Selina put on her best smile and returned the gesture.
"Selina Kyle. This here is Holly. We're here about the ad?"
Holly was doing her best to make herself scare, and Selina offered the newspaper clipping with a silent hopefulness. Grant took it, stroking his moustache, and grunted as he did.
"The apartments," he answered, seemingly amused. "Damn near forgot I had put the ads out. The units are on the second and third floors, rent covers all utilities plus membership to the gym here." Grant met the young woman's eyes once again after that, shrugging. "That's about all there is to say," he continued. "Rent is as listed in the ad. Still interested?"
His bluntness caught her off guard, but Selina recovered in time to stutter out a quick yes.
Grant nodded approvingly. "Step into my office then and we'll settle all the paperwork." The man started to turn, but then paused and frowned as his eyes fixed on Holly's bruises.
"Be down here at 7 tomorrow morning," he intoned, folding his arms before fixing his gaze on Selina once again. "Both of you. Anyone living under my roof is going to know how to defend themselves."
With that, Ted Grant turned heel and headed towards his desk, leaving Selina Kyle and Holly Robinson to wonder just what they had gotten themselves into.
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Bruce laid in his bed, mind wandering. The days were beginning to blur together, his sleep interrupted only by the meals Alfred brought him or Dr. Thompkins ministrations. Slowly he found himself waking, his eyes flitting about the room. His parents' room, he reminded himself. Alfred sat with the shotgun in his hands, his head dropping as the stalwart butler finally surrendered to sleep. Slivers of moonlight cut the shadows of the room as they slipped in through the crack of the drapes. With arduous effort, the young man forced himself to sit up, wincing in pain as his body protested. He swung his legs out from under the covers, eyes trailing over the bandages and sutures that covered his body as his sheets fell away. With a deep breath, Bruce Wayne stood up.
It took a deep measure of self-control not to let a sound pass his lips as his legs screamed in agony. Bracing himself against the bedpost, Bruce slipped into his bathrobe and took his first trembling step towards the door, nearly losing his balance. Gritting his teeth, the young man tried once more and stubbornly set one foot in front of the other, nearly collapsing against the far wall and breathing heavily. Catching his breath, Bruce spared a glance back towards the chair; Alfred still slept soundly.
The shadows hung long in the halls of Wayne Manor as the last scion of its builders limped his way through them, leaning heavily against the wall. Bruce Wayne meandered past portraits of his ancestors, their eyes glaring down in perceived disdain as he wandered the cold passageways of his ancestral home. Sheets had been thrown over furnishings here and there to preserve them from the dust, greyed and lumpy ghosts casting their abhorrent shadows in the dark with only scant rays of moonlight to fight them. Eventually, the young master of the mansion found himself in the study; his father's study.
A wide window looked out over the manor grounds letting in the full wan illumination of the moon. Bookcases stacked with musty tomes long since read lined the walls and backed the heavy mahogany desk he remembered his father stooping over, scribbling out patient reports or reviewing company files. The steady tick of the antique grandfather clock in the corner beat like a drum in the silence of the room as Bruce limped towards the armchair his father had kept near the desk, collapsing into its cushioned embrace. On the wall high above the study sat a portrait of the manor's last owners, peering out across the room. Thomas and Martha Wayne stood memorialized in paint and canvas; their dead stare boring into their progeny as he sat before them, limp and aching.
"Mother," Bruce croaked aloud, to no one and everyone. "Father. I've failed you. Failed everyone."
The canvas was silent, and Bruce shook his head with a rueful and bitter laugh. "Alfred was right; I've squandered everything you left me," he continued, head lolling weakly. " I threw myself into a fool's crusade, and I'm losing it." Bruce fixed the painted faces with a pleading gaze, his voice broken. "It, it's not enough to just stop them. I need them to fear me," the young man said, voice rising and frustration mounting. "I need them to fear me, but how?"
The shattering of glass broke the silence of the room, and whirling his head with a pained grimace Bruce watched the shards of the window pane tumble to the floor, a dark furred form in their midst.
The bat screeched like a banshee as it whirled through the office, pained and disoriented, before finally landing upon the long since used desk, its tiny chest heaving as it skittered across the polished wood.
Bruce watched the creature in silence for a moment, old memories and nightmares dredged back forth to the surface of his mind.
"Yes, father," the young man murmured, a singular idea taking shape in his head. "I see it now."
"I will become the bat."
Well, there you have it. Things are going to really start moving along now that Bruce has had his epiphany. As I've said before this arc draws ehaviy on Zero Years and Batman Year One for Bruce, Alfred, and Gordon's progression, but they don't deal too heavily with Selina's. As such, what I did here and will be doing moving forward with her will largely be my own invention, so I'm interested to see what you all think. I felt Ted Grant (Wildcat) just made such a perfect mentor figure for her, so we'll see where things go. Anyways, please review and comment!