A/N: I'm having some trouble with sleep at the moment, which will no doubt bite me in the ass at school tomorrow morning, but you know. Live it up. I hope the last chapter was okay, and hopefully this one will be as well. This is a slow paced story, but I promise you I know what I'm doing with it. The whole story takes place, (or is going to) over the course of about two to three days, and I'm covering the sides of multiple characters, so yes, it may drag in places. I'm sorry.
Thank you as usual :) You're all the best.
Wayne manor was barren, cold, quiet.
It was five in the morning, the kind of five that dusts the sky in a soft purple, swirling wispy clouds around the sleeping sun, illuminated fog pulling upward from the plush lawn as the low set moon watched it off with a beaming, yet exhausted face.
This five in the morning was seldom seen by many.
There were a few who graced the streets of Gotham at this time, off to their labor jobs with smudged shirts and torn collars, with darkened under eyes and heavy, stuttering boot steps. They thudded through the barren sidewalks with yawns and grunts, watching their shadows stretch across the streetlamp adorned pavement as they questioned their choice of career like they did every morning, every week, every year.
They saw five in the morning, and they wished that they didn't.
The next bundle to see five in the morning clutched bound sting in their wiry grasps, swinging wrapped stacks of print at their sides as they shot glances to the sky with artificial pep.
They traveled quickly to the bent wire shelves on the corners of tall buildings, dropping their packages and slicing the strings with practiced ease. They straitened the piles carefully, swiveled their heads to either side, taking in the groups of approaching customers, pulled the glass casings snuck over their papers, and skittered off into the shadows, gone today but back tomorrow.
They saw five in the morning, and it was just another paycheck.
The final group to see five in the morning did not see it today, but the grizzled group of pounding steps saw them as they shoved quarters into the Gotham Gazette and pulled out stacks of freshly inked news print.
They threw on their hardened hats, slung on their leather pressed utility belts, slipped harnesses over their shoulders.
But one hand gripped steadily to the folded text in their grasps, pulling on gear with trained ease that left their eyes to scan the headline with morbid curiosity.
…
Wayne manor was barren, cold, quiet.
But the Batcave was alight and blazing sound.
Pulling the latched clock from the wall to swing open a hidden lift, one would keep oblivion, as he had done, stepping gracefully into the metal casing and pressing the blackened arrow down.
But this oblivion soon dissipated, as he had felt it would.
Because he always knew, somewhere in the chilling pit of his stomach, whenever something was very wrong, and this sinking sensation gained confirmation when the screeching blare of emergency alarms met his trained ears halfway down his short ride.
Pulling the metal gate open swiftly when the floor of the Batcave met the elevator, Alfred stepped out quickly, before turning to pause.
The normally darkened space was ablaze in flashing red, casting crimson shadows across the man's weathered face.
His polished shoes sent sharp echoes across the empty space, filling the interval spaces in which the shrill Beep Beep Beep ceased and started.
Gracefully, the man stumbled towards the wide planes of slate desk stretching across one pillar of stalagmites, lifting an unshaking hand to grasp the back of one tall swivel chair.
Carefully placing his feathered duster onto the surface of the table, the resident butler allowed his sharp eyes to slide over the cluttered screen that illuminated the cave and mixed into the horribly red glow.
Across the top of the screen, the outline of a robin filled in red, lead a line of clear type text, sending a flutter of words to a blackened bat at the other end of the sentence.
Robin- Emergency signal. Requested response- Batman.
This was a common sight, as Batman had ordered his young charge long ago to request for help whenever he felt he would need it, and even if he didn't. It was the same drill in which Batgirl had learned herself: Don't take any chances. Call Batman.
However, this morning was different.
Because Alfred had only ever seen the emergency signal flash for minutes, seconds, before his paranoid charge picked up and demanded answers.
Littering the computer's screen were dozens of windows, slabbed across the space and blinking various shades of colors.
Superman to Batman
Flash to Batman
Black Canary to Batman
Wonder Woman to Batman
They went on and on, each hero accounted for and labeled on their own, unanswered call window, glowing frantically and without hesitation.
Sighing heavily, Alfred pulled the empty chair out and sat down quietly, knowing that Bruce spend five in the morning here, tying up loose ends before he shed Batman and became himself.
But he wasn't here.
Maneuvering the mouse with ease, Alfred swung over to the media folder, buried under call boxes from Roy Harper and his Mentor, and pulled it open.
The morning's paper filled the screen first, bathing the space in big bold lettering.
After, the voice of a practiced announcer filled the air, talking quickly over the continuous noise of the cave.
Officials state that our resident Batclan is in rough shape this morning, Gotham. Batgirl was reported to be in critical condition at this point in time, after suffering a near fatal gunshot wound to the abdomen. Robin, who had been with Batgirl at the time, had been removed from the scene in a state of emotional distraught and was last known to be staying at the Gotham city precinct. Batman, as far as we have been notified, is currently missing. There is one apprehended suspect in custody.
The butler set his lips in a thinly pressed line, as crisp as his carefully ironed suit, and pulled his slender fingers into tight fists.
He drowned out the peppy voice, and the flashing lights, and the siren-esque blaze that pounded his head ominously, and allowed himself a shaky sign.
In other news, get ready for a cold one, Gotham! Make sure you bundle up-
Alfred set himself in struggling composure, before allow his knotted fingers to skitter across the keyboard as he readied himself to answer the on slot of confused questions.
'Oh, Master Wayne. What have we gotten ourselves into…'
"Agent A, speaking."
…
Across the oil stained streets, a group of steel workers shuffled together to peer at the newsprint held by one of the others. Their eyes scanned the small text quickly, and many of them shook their heads with downcast eyes.
"It's a shame." The holder stated solemnly, folding the paper up carefully and tossing it into a can as they passed.
"Those bats were the best things we had in this city. A damn shame."
They all agreed.
xXxX
"Words getting out, it seems."
Barbara, in a newly acquainted automatic response, lifted her light eyes to the sky, waiting for the sky to morph into Gotham's skyline or the clouds to trace out tragic words, but she found nothing strange, just a dusted sky of purple hues.
She looked back to the girl with her bandaged hands twisting in knots, and gave her a quiet look of confusion.
They had known each other for merely hours, but it seemed that they had already worked out the art of silent communication.
"I can feel it." The vanilla clad teen stated, her brow puckered in distress as she rubbed her forehead roughly.
"The vibrations. The waves of sadness. I can feel it."
She turned quietly, sending Barbara a look that didn't seem to fit her face at all. It was completely out of character. It looked too…wrong, for such a young, vibrant face.
Babs took a step forward, without realizing, to place a hand upon the honey haired girl's shoulder, but the teen jerked back quickly, seemingly without realizing.
Dropping her small hand, she shuddered a careful sigh, before forcing a small smile to dress her pale face.
"It looks like you've shaken up a city."
XxXx
Rays of light leeched through smudged glass, cracked in places, shattered in others, laced with rusted lattice and sparkling with early morning light.
Heavy industrial grooves criss crossed the far away ceiling. The walls crumbled as they shed their rosy bricks. The floor was a slab, coated in stains of dark oil that morphed its natural shade of charcoal into something more grotesque. There were sounds in every corner, bursting through the fragile windows and exposed places where weather had torn the building away. The incessant blare of construction machinery rang far off, the rumble of vehicles just past that. Under his feet, which scraped against the coarseness of the wall in their struggle, water lurched and slushed about, dark and cold and twisting with motion.
The pier was creaking as it shed layers of ice. Cargo boats trumpeted noise as they emerged from the lingering fog of dawn.
His cape was snagging across the gritty mortar pressed across his back, pulling thread from the sweeping fabric. His body was on a constant twist of motion, Kevlar cracking with the strain of his restricted muscles.
Heels sliding, fingers compressing into fists, arms flexing with force.
The floor was too far away.
Dusk had swept over the man's brain during drug induced unconsciousness, and he was having trouble shaking it off.
He was aware that he had been drugged, because it had happened before, and Gotham's unground preferred a very specific cocktail of poison. He recognized it now by the taste that burned the back of his throat, like metal and brine.
Pushing past the potency, he next was aware that he was suspended. Something was trapping him to the wall, locked onto his wrists, his ankles, slathered across his torso. It crumbled in flakes when he tugged hard enough, but it still held the property of tacky glue in enough places to force a struggle.
He was aware of who he was, why he was here, and roughly where he was.
He knew it was very early in the morning, and that he should not be who he currently is right now.
His head throbbed with pressure. His eardrums pounded with noise, and sheens of red were thrown across the surface as his belt blared on and on and on.
The pulses of light and sound were irregular, but with each start his gloved fingers twitched and his body lurched against restraint.
Emergency. Need to answer.
And then he was supplied with a thought- a thought that induced panic with the sheer force of it, knocking through him like a wrecking ball of sobriety.
Batman snapped to attention- he could almost feel the remainder of the drug seeping out of his skin- and tugged his limbs through the weakening effect of the muscle relaxants.
Muck and mud scattered across the floor in pebble like form, littering the floor beneath his kicking boots but it wasn't enough. It stretched like goo, but held tight.
He kept pulling with trembling bones, shaking with the effort.
Robin. Batgirl. Alfred. Trouble. Hurt. Danger. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.
When his belt began to sing once more, the man roared. He seethed and struggled and pounded against brick, but he was not freed.
The water under the docks came to life, roaring over his turmoil and laughing in the face of it.
BatShitCrazy21- Hey yourself! Oh, please don't forgive me. That will give me a chance to be a slow poster again haha. The roles are totally reversed with the reviewing on my side- I still can't believe people actually write to me. Its probably one of the coolest feelings out there. So thank you! Mm yes. The slowness. Its deliberate, but I'm glad you're okay with it. That worries me constantly. Haha, limbo. That's interesting. No, she's there for quite a bit. You'll see why :) The team is next chapter, promise. The unmasking question is interesting as well, and I'm glad you asked. I tend to write with the notion that the Commish already knows the identities of both Batman and Robin, and, seeing as he is both in charge of the Gotham city police department and working rather closely with the two, unmasking would be off limits to his team. If Commissioner Gordon is okay with them, then his team is as well. Plus, they have someone in custody, and Robin is a wreck so, at the moment I think he's clear. Thank you very much for the review! Here, take this ridiculous paragraph of a reply. I hope it was at least semi- coherent. Its midnight on a Wed/Thursday and I just..the words. They happen. I don't know.
Icelinaoc- Awh, wow. That is so nice. Thank you! I didn't know my return was something to celebrate! I was expecting more yelling and aggressive wordplay honestly. Hah. Ah, no, stop. The compliments, they are too amazing for someone like me. Thank you so much, I don't even know what to say that could match that. You have left me speechless, which is a feat in itself. Just..thank you. Infinity thank yous. xD
TheImaginativeFox- Hi! Thank you! The main focus of this story is the aftermath and the dealing with things that aren't the most fun. I'm really glad you like it! Ah yes. I hope you don't mind cursing, because I don't know how to articulate it any better than "Shit's about to get real." Robin is about to become that determined hero we've all grown to love, and Babs is going to live it up on her forced vacation for a bit. Thank you for being here! I really appreciate your support of this little dragging story. Many hugs your way my friend.
Guys. The reviews are amazing. Thank you all.
The next update will be here the Wednesday after next. Hope to see you there!
Until then,
-Arrow.