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Wayne Manor, Gotham
Bruce adjusted the master strap on his harness and descended slowly into the abyss of the underground cave located deep beneath the manor.
Lighting a flare, he dropped the stick to see how much further it went. Down and down the little red glare of light went, startling the great swarms of bats on its way to the cavern floor. They started flying off in all directions, creating a powerful rush of air that caused Bruce to sway precariously in a pendulum motion.
That got him gripping the harness straps a little tighter.
Slowly, steadily, he reached the bottom. Just in time to pick up the flare and hold it up. A smile crept along the lines of his mouth. He liked what he saw. The cavern stretched along the dark expanse, almost as big as the manor itself. The chaotic network of rock formations formed a sturdy base, holding up the hill and the surrounding cliffs that bordered the Wayne estate. Besides the old well hidden in the dense overgrown thicket behind the groundskeeper's shed, which he fastened the entire harness system to, the only entrance to the cave was a large mouth obscured by a thick curtain of waterfall cascading from the river running through the crust of the land.
It would serve his needs just fine.
A few hours into his explorations later, Alfred's voice came buzzing through the little device in Bruce's ear. "Master Bruce!"
He tapped the tiny circular button on the device, "Go ahead, Alfred."
"Sir, you have a visitor. A certain Jason Todd. He said, I quote- 'Regards, from the 227th'. He refuses to elaborate further."
"Relax, I know him." Bruce sighed, putting a halt to his work for the moment. "Keep him in the antechamber, I'll be up shortly. And Alfred?"
"Sir?"
"Make sure he doesn't touch anything, alright?"
Bruce climbed back up through the well, ascending from the darkness of the cave and into the light. He squinted, momentarily blinded by the brilliance of the sun that late morning. He'd been working on the cave since the crack of dawn, trying to map it out- trying to fit it all into the designs he'd already put in his head. He wasn't expecting visitors, but Jason?
Jason was a whole other thing.
The Waynes had a lot of stuff decorating the manor interior. From the fancy chandeliers to the shimmering Chinaware, collected from numerous trips throughout the world, they became a testament to the elitist nature of the family. For people like Jason, the plebs of society, it was like stepping into another world. The young man, despite Alfred's firm warnings not to handle the master's property, boldly walked over to the shiny brass knight standing guard at one of the pillars.
Bored with waiting, he plucked the helmet and flipped it about in his hands.
"I thought you were going full-on career, corporal." He heard Bruce's hard grating voice echo through the halls, the sternness in his tone giving Jason flashbacks. Some were good, others were just downright awful.
"Thought that too, LT." Jason replied, turning to face his host. "Thought about a lot of things- like how ridiculous your nickname was. That it couldn't possibly mean that you're just like your richboy namesake. Guess I'm wrong on both accounts."
"I'm not your lieutenant anymore."
"I'm not a corporal anymore either."
Bruce tilted his head to the side, ever so slightly, like a wolf sizing up another wolf. Broad-shouldered, his muscles bulging through his crimson shirt and jacket- Jason looked young, full of that volatile youthful spirit. But in those eyes of his, Bruce could see that he aged a great deal on the battlefields of the Middle East. "Put it back. Follow me."
Jason twirled the helm a bit like a basketball, then plopped it back onto the suit. As soon as they left the antechamber, the helmet fell off along with the armor. Alfred heaved a sigh, hearing the crash. Bruce led Jason to the kitchen, which was bigger than it should've been. The young man smirked as he took in the sights. Long counters tiled with expensive white ceramics, the cutlery snugly fitted into wooden blocks, and the tall refrigerators stocked with all manner of food and drinks. Bruce got out some beer, chilled at just the right temperature, then handed one to his guest. "Why are you in Gotham, Jason?"
"Same reason you're here." He said, popping the lid with a crisp pop. "Went home."
Bruce's brows furrowed, "You weren't born in Gotham."
"Maybe not, but my first memories came from this place." Jason took a sip and drummed his fingers on the counter, "Also, I heard things are getting bad here. And... I wanted to take you up on your offer."
"Are you sure?"
"Don't start with that... please. I've heard enough of it from all the wrong people." Jason knew Bruce was offering him a way out. The man held emphasis on commitments, and this one was probably going to be for life. "I've had a lot of time to think about it, tried to avoid it by getting a job somewhere. Didn't work out. I guess it's true what you said... that once you see evil in its true form and know that there's something you can do about it- you just have to do it."
Bruce set aside his can and leaned in closer, "You know my methods, Jason. You know that once you step into my world, you're never getting out."
"Rich." Jason declared, "I stepped into it a long time ago, I'm just waking up."
"Good." The big man said, "We start now."
Jason crushed his can in glee, following his former commander out into the thicket to resume work on the cave. He knew, the moment he roped down along with Bruce, what the place was going to become in the next few months. That hollowed out dwelling for the nasty little winged critters, stinking of guano and methane, was going to be their main base of operations.
Bruce had made a lot of friends in his time abroad. He made a lot more after getting his affairs in order. Before settling into the manor, Bruce took the time to straighten things out at Wayne Enterprises. The company had become a major contender in the corporate world, and although outwardly it seemed that the prodigal shareholder had returned to secure his future in the business- Bruce had other ideas for the company's resources. Slowly and discreetly, crates and boxes started to appear at the manor. Later, the work continued under the supervision of a handful of contractors. Bruce didn't elaborate on the reasons why they seemed so devoted to finishing their job, but Jason assumed it was because they owed him a debt in one way or another.
They laid the foundations and reinforced it with sturdy steel. A stairway leading into the manor interior, of Bruce's own design, was built to afford him access. Concrete multilevel platforms embedded into the hard rocky surroundings, separated by panels of plexiglass formed a heavily industrialized environment touched with elements from Bruce's and Jason's shared experience in the military bases they've come across.
One platform served as the housing for the armory, doubling as a workshop complete with its own reloading bench and assortment of tools. Another, stretched across the underground stream, was the shooting range. Still another, roofed and encased by a protective glass wall, would serve as the computer room- with the final component still pending arrival. When the last crate of construction equipment was emptied, crates of a different kind started to turn up.
Guns. Lots and lots of guns, of every size and make. Toys for the big boys, it was an eclectic collection judging from how quickly each crate jumped from one manufacturer to another. Barrett, Browning, Colt, Smith and Wesson, Kimber and Remington. There were international ones too, like H&K, but not too many. Bruce kept the parameters of selection within the familiar, and the familiar only.
He had Jason sort out their stock while he gathered intel. Even before he started prying those lids open with a crowbar, the younger soldier knew it was serious. Bruce was going analog, old fashion, for the moment. He had nothing to put in one of the platforms, no computer to sort it all out or even a bulletin to make one of those crazy walls in the movies, so he used the platform as a temporary war room. Papers, folders and dossiers were piled up on the floor as Bruce went through them by hand. He was going after the big fish, the crime families that held total sway over Gotham City. The Triads, the Cartels, the Russians and the Mafias. He was also going after the little fish, and the list of names was long and overarching.
In its own special twisted way, everything in that list was connected in some form or other. Murderers, racketeers, drug-manufacturers and distributers, the common thug... all of it. And pulling the strings were the big fish- the top dogs who weren't afraid to come out in the light. Jason had no idea what Bruce did in the time they hadn't seen each other. He could only guess that he'd gone dark, waded through all the shit piled up between the cracks of the world. His assumptions were not that far off. Bruce went out to get a good look at the face of evil and what he saw changed him.
Compared to that, all the things Jason had seen combined were nothing. But he had the feeling that somewhere along the course of this crusade Bruce was building up, he'd see plenty.
"Armory's stocked." He said to Bruce some days later. "I sorted out the excess."
"Good." The big man grunted, setting aside a set of papers for Jason to read. He tapped at the monochrome faces staring up through the paper, "Now, get familiar. Know this by heart."
Jason picked up a few and connected their names with the big one. His eyes went wide when he saw it. "Holy shit. You're going after Falcone?"
"We're going after Falcone." Bruce corrected him, "We start at the bottom, work our way up. Standard cage-rattling procedure, we get them running scared or better yet- get them to come out for a fight."
"What's..." Jason's eyes scanned each dossier, "What's the ROE, Rich?"
"Check fire, no civvies. We're heading in there to cause mayhem, but no one undeserving dies. Clear?"
"Solid."
They go after the Falcone empire, everything starts to unravel. The other families looked up to Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone, whose fingers placed a stranglehold on Gotham's organized crime. He couldn't afford to show weakness. But like all empires, they end.
Combat Outpost Mesha, Eastern Afghanistan
Twelve Years Ago
The debriefing didn't go as he thought it would.
There wasn't any ruthless chewing out, no blame thrown his way- only praise for a job well done. As far as the brass was concerned, they could chalk it up to damage control. Ambushes happened every day all over the country. One could prepare for the worst as much as one could, but the factor of the unknown always came around with a mean right hook. The brutal reality of that part of the war was simply accepted. Bruce left the barracks feeling rather despondent. He couldn't face his peers, those that were left from the mission. He couldn't find the courage to say anything, about what really happened in Landai Sin. That heavy weight in his chest had returned, the guilt of knowing that he could've done something.
A couple of close air-support evacuation helicopters landed in Outpost Mesha, bearing a dozen wounded US Army soldiers.
They were from the 227th, Bruce's 227th. They were being brought in from the convoy ambush to be thrust into the care of the outpost's medical teams. It didn't look pretty. Men, half-dead from blood loss and fatigue, were being hauled on stretchers to the triage tent. Some of them had missing limbs, their stumps bound in bandages long turned crimson.
There were bodybags too. A lot more than those on stretchers.
Bruce forced himself to watch as they carried them all from the helicopters, and he followed them into the flap entrance where the medics were stationed. He was stopped when one of the medics blocked his path, "Hey back off, buddy. It's crowded enough in here. You wanna help, get stowed away and paste those hajji fuckers soon as you can. Copy?"
Bruce nodded slowly and reluctantly stepped away to let the professionals do their work. But, he didn't leave. He couldn't.
He didn't report to the barracks for the latter part of the day, hovering by the tent alongside a few other concerned soldiers. He wasn't the only one feeling the sting of the attack. Bruce, like most soldiers, had formed that inexplicably unique bond with his peers. They were, as Barney the Nam Vet would say years later, his family. When they got hurt, he felt it too. A blow against one of them was a blow against all of them.
"Hey, you're the guy they call Rich." A pained raspy voice caused Bruce to turn around.
A tall guy, still in gear, stood at arm's length from the sniper. The left half of his face was covered in thick gauze bound by medical tape. He was one of the survivors of the bombing, a captain from another unit that attached itself to the convoy of the 227th.
"That's me." Bruce replied, standing at attention and saluting his superior. "Sgt. Bruce Wayne, 227th. They call me Rich, 'cause the DI called me 'Richie-Rich' in basic. Name stuck."
"Pleased to meet you, sergeant. You can put your hand down now." The captain said, "I'm Capt. Harvey Dent from the 122nd. That was some fine shooting you did for me and my boys."
"Not fine enough." Bruce confessed, unable to keep his guilt locked away any longer. "I had him, sir. I had the bomber in my killzone... and I failed to pull the trigger. All this is my-"
"Stow it, sergeant!" Harvey said firmly, catching the man off guard. "That kind of thinking is a no-no here, you copy?"
"Solid."
"Good. Because if I thought like you did, I'd be beating myself up for ordering the convoy to make that detour. I made the call, you provided overwatch. We did our jobs."
Bruce swallowed audibly, letting the captain's words sink in. Harvey leaned in and pressed the bottom of his fist firmly onto the man's vest, "My fight, as far as the war is concerned, is over. But yours isn't. I want you to keep fighting, help bring as many of our boys home. Sound off!"
"I'll keep fighting!" Bruce declared, "I'll bring them home, sir!"
"Hoo-fucking-ah." Harvey grinned, wincing slightly in pain from his injuries. "As you were."
Bruce watched the captain limp off towards the mess to get some coffee, despite not being cleared to move around the outpost in his condition. Harvey was stubborn, and pulled rank whenever someone tried to stop him. His next fight would come in the road to recovery, and a forced adjustment to civilian life in the mainland. As for the promise, Bruce was going to make good on it.
The next time he saw someone with a detonator or a gun aimed to kill his men, he wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger.
Gotham, USA
Present Day
Three weeks later, Bruce and Jason got the opening they were looking for. The godfather of the Falcone crime family was hosting a grand party at one of his estates in the Gotham Boroughs, to strengthen the delicate loyalties of his lieutenants and the made men further down the family hierarchy. Also, it was a show of power. Falcone made sure that all of Gotham knew he was throwing it, to make them understand that he and his kin were untouchable.
It was quite the start to the dynamic duo's crusade.
Bruce and Jason were geared in ballistic vests, painted black and grey to deny any hint of affiliations. They wore matching black shirts, and each a crossbody harness to hold up extra magazines. Jason suggested once that they ought to use full-face balaclava masks, but Bruce had something in mind that was more practical.
"Here." He handed the younger man a ballistic mask, tailored in a way to protect his identity as well as protect him from stray rounds or shrapnel.
"That's pretty badass." Jason remarked upon donning the mask. He bent down to unveil his weapon from the black bag. The M4A1 carbine, chambered for 5.56 and the standard weapon of choice for any US soldier. Jason smiled as his fingers brushed against its surface, feeling the familiar grooves and smooth shaft that he'd come to know so intimately overseas. It was like being back in the arms of an ex-girlfriend.
A very temperamental and deadly ex-girlfriend.
Bruce hefted a heavy hook-launcher and fired the projectile across the gap between their rooftop and the fancy estate building some one hundred meters away. They had exactly two minutes before someone had the brains to look up. Bruce and Jason zipped across the gap, trusting in the noisy fanfare of the party below to mask the audible hiss of the weight of two men scraping against a wire. The incline was perfect, the crossing even more so. They got to the estate rooftop without a problem.
Jason felt his heart beating fast, pumping adrenaline through his entire body. He and Bruce got into position, prepared the lengths of rope and fastened it into one of the chimneys. Smoke was rising up from the brick structure, indicative of someone having a meeting behind closed doors and in the comfort of a firelit room. Jason could feel the warmth of that fire, which was a welcome change in the chilly mid-summer air.
Bruce peered over the fancy skylight and smiled under his mask. Carmine Falcone was sitting in the dining room with all the heads of the other crime families, close allies and rivals alike.
"Jackpot." Jason sneered.
"Ready up." The big man said.
They tested the strength of the rope with a few firm tugs, then each put one foot on the glass. Below them, the men of power conversed heartily while they dined on succulent roast and sweet wine. Falcone managed to air our their grievances without starting a fight, a hopeful situation that promised long years of cooperation between the families. It was the peak of his life as godfather, and he felt like it couldn't get any better.
There was truth in that. It could only get worse.
The ceiling came down on them, followed by a storm of bullets that cut through the falling glass and riddled everyone into ruins. Carmine Falcone was saved when in his fright he flew back into his chair and rolled onto the floor. Two men roped down into the private dining room, clad in pure black and brandishing barking guns. The godfather's capo, his bodyguards and henchmen, were subsequently cut down over the short course of five minutes.
The big one stomped over the broken plates and swung over to the side of the table, hauling 'The Roman' to his feet.
"Porca Puttana! Did he send you?" Falcone snarled, angry over a perceived betrayal. "Are you Sionis' man?"
"No." Bruce growled through the mask, staring deep into his soul. "I'm the consequence."
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