An Editorial From the Sunday, September 14, 2008 edition of the Gotham Gazette, Society Column, Section B2,
The Fur Will Fly: Bruce Wayne's Latest Gaffe
The scene was perfect: the elegant VIP room of the Top of Gotham Restaurant, the locale for the 2008 Annual Fundraiser of the Gotham City Humane Society. The crowds were just as elegant, with many of the city's top politicians, celebrities, and businessmen and -women dressed in haute couture and eager to advocate for millions of exploited, abused, and neglected animals. These were good people turning out for a good cause.
One guest in particular stood out above the rest: the Prince of Gotham, Bruce Wayne, along with his companion for the evening, actress Willa Sorrentino. While the wayward billionaire-turned-misguided-philanthropist's presence was not in itself remarkable, Ms. Sorrentiono's taste in accessories was: she sported a vintage Donald Brooks seal fur coat, gifted to her by her doting date.
"Brucie knew it would be a chilly evening," Sorrentino smiled when questioned on the appropriateness of her attire. "I'm sure no one would mind me snuggled into the coat of an animal killed way before we knew killing seals was wrong."
When faced with such an outrageous faux-paus, one must question not only the common sense of Gotham's Prince, but his taste in women as well. Perhaps Mr. Wayne should turn his attention from philanthropy and focus on a concern closer to his own heart: selecting more suitable company, and lbringing honor to Gotham City, rather than disgracing us with his antics.
"Bruce."
He glanced up from the novel he had been reading, a trashy bodice-ripper that he had found lying around the library at Safe Haven. He had been whiling away the time before Marjane arrived for her English lesson, and the lurid cover had caught his eye. He had absently picked it up, initially ignorant of its contents, and began to read—and an hour later, disturbed fascination was still compelling him to turn page after page. Women actually read stuff like this?
Although, who was he to judge a person's extracurricular activities?
"Bruce."
Annabeth was standing in the doorway, actually smiling at him. Smiling at him, without an obvious reason.
"I'm so sorry," she told him as she walked in and over to him. She knelt down by his seat, looking up into his eyes. She actually placed a gentle hand on his arm."I'm so sorry."
Her sympathy was confusing, but he wasn't going to complain. Anything other than her habitual irritation, scorn, and ire was a rather pleasant change. "You're sorry?" he repeated. "Sorry for what?"
"I've been so mean to you, all this time." She looked stricken. "I've been picking on you, making fun of you...how could I know you couldn't help how you are?"
"How I am?" Now he was really confused.
"I mean, how awful! I had no idea someone dropped you on your head as a baby! Was it Alfred? Was he tippling a little too much sherry one night?"
She stood up abruptly, and the motion enabled him to see the Sunday newspaper she clutched in her hand. Whoops.
"Whoops?"
"A seal fur coat, Bruce? Really? Really?"
He couldn't tell if she was angry or amused. Knowing Annabeth, though, it was likely the former.
"I'm sorry?" He hadn't meant for it to come out with such timidity, but she was standing over him, her arms crossed over her chest, her brown eyes shooting him daggers. "I didn't realize. I wasn't thinking." He had been thinking, actually-it was the latest prank Alfred had cooked up in their endless pursuit to preserve his image as Bruce Wayne, Champion Idiot. He had done it deliberately, and he could not, would not explain that to her. But he decided to clue Annabeth into his saving grace.
"I've got a secret," he told her. He crooked his finger, beckoned her close to him. Reluctantly, she obeyed, leaned in, heard his amused whisper:
"It was a fake."
Annabeth stepped back, quickly. She hadn't seen that coming. His sense of humor was getting more twisted by the day. That disturbed her, but what disturbed her more was that she found herself appreciating it.
Bruce was trying his best to look sheepish. He didn't have to try very hard, however, when Annabeth's gaze shifted away from him and fell away to the book on his lap.
"What the hell are you reading?"
An Excerpt From the Tuesday, September 16, 2008 edition of the Gotham Gazette, Business Section, C1:
Wayne Enterprises Stocks Drop In Wake of Most Recent Scandal
At the close of the markets Monday evening, Gotham City's business elite were reeling when they that Wayne Enterprise Inc.'s stock droppe $34, to close at $163. While this is not nearly as drastic a drop as what occurred during the Depression, it is nevertheless significant, and will cause many investors to stand to attention. There is speculation that Wayne Enterprise's Chair and heir, Bruce Wayne, may have contributed to the company's loss in the wake of his most recent social gaffes. (See Society Section, B2, September 14). Investors are aware of the role Wayne plays in the running of his company, and such direct involvement on the part of Wayne may make some anxious for the stability of the company and their finances. However, while Media Relations at Wayne Enterprises could not be reached immediately for comment, most investors seem unfazed by the most recent hiccup, and Wayne Enterprises is expected to experience a resurgence at the opening of tomorrow's stock markets.
"Mr. Wayne?" His executive assistant, Jessica, called through on his intercom. "Do you have time for a phone call? I think this might be one that you'll want to take."
Bruce picked up the phone. "Sure, patch it through." He trusted Jessica's instincts, didn't even bother to ask who it was calling. She was one of the few people in his life that actually made things a little easier for him, and her salary certainly reflected his appreciation. As he waited for the phone call to ring through, he leaned back in his chair, gazing out of the panorama that was Gotham.
The phone rang again, and he took his time answering in a lazy drawl. "Bruce Wayne here."
"Mr. Wayne."
He sat bolt upright, completely alert and attentive. "Lucius!"
Months had passed since they had last spoken; months had passed since the day that Lucius Fox had left behind Wayne Enterprises and his powerful position there. Bruce hadn't blamed him; he had understood and respected Lucius' position, even as he knew that what he, Bruce, had done was necessary. He had made sure his invention—his brilliant invention, his best brainchild—was programmed to be destroyed by Lucius, but that hadn't been enough for Lucius, and he had stuck by his resignation. Bruce had respected that, too, and they had parted amicably enough. But the CEO position remained unfilled. Several Board members and even Jessica once or twice had tentatively suggested that they attempt to fill it, but each time Bruce Wayne had turned uncharacteristically curt, even sharp, and rejected the suggestion immediately.
"You certainly have been doing your best to reverse Wayne Enterprise's fortunes, haven't you, Mr. Wayne?" Lucius sounded amused. "I know you. You're an astute businessman in your own right. So what's going wrong?"
"Not really sure, Lucius. You know me and business. I'm just here for the fun." Jessica had come in with a stack of mail and a mug of coffee; he winked at her as she passed his desk, and she pointedly ignored him. As soon as she left, Bruce's tone became more serious. "In all honesty, Lucius...this is a big company, and my time is somewhat...limited. I can't oversee everything, not the way you did."
"Your social gaffes aren't helping matters." The amusement remained in Lucius' voice as he began to gently lecture. "People can develop a surprising sense of morality when it suits their pocketbooks. Your stocks take a slight dive, and your reputation might be the added incentive people need to redirect their resources. People are very twitchy right now."
Both men had been cautiously dancing around the subject, sticking to the roles that most expected each of them to fill; neither of them could be absolutely certain the phone lines were safe. But now it was time to go firmly back into "Brucie" mode.
"Awww, c'mon, Lucius. You know me. It's all just fun." Bruce began to wheedle. "I can't help it. People just don't know how to take a joke."
"I'm sure, Mr. Wayne. A pity not everyone gets your sense of humor." Lucius paused. "I hope you know what you're doing. A lot relies on the continued successes of Wayne Enterprises."
"Hey, Lucius?" Now Bruce was all seriousness once more. "Do you think...maybe...we could meet for lunch sometime? Discuss business?"
Lucius was silent for a moment, thinking. "Maybe sometime, Mr. Wayne. But not now...it's too soon."
It wasn't unlike two parted lovers tentatively trying to reach a reconciliation, Bruce mused as he hung up the phone. Not that he could base that observation on any sort of experience.
Excerpt from the Friday, September 19, 2008 edition of the Gotham Gazette, Society Column, Section B1:
FUNDRAISER GALA EVENT ANNOUNCED FOR GOTHAM CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT
While the Wayne Foundation invests millions of dollars each year into various charitable, philanthropic, governmental, and non-profit organizations, so too does Gotham's Golden Boy, Mr. Bruce Wayne. In addition to his family's charitable foundation, Mr. Wayne diverts millions of his personal income into what he refers to off-handedly as "worthy causes."
In a phone conversation with Mr. Wayne on September 18, the Gazette learned that one of his recently-acquired "worthy causes" is the Gotham City Police Department.
"The police of our city certainly have been doing a fine job of cleaning up our streets," Mr. Wayne stated. "Commissioner Gordon in particular has perfected the art of combining justice with mercy-he sure did go easy on me when I ran that red light a while back and caused an accident. But when it comes to serious crimes and corruption, you won't find anyone more honest and dedicated to fighting it, which is why our city needs to put our entire weight behind the police."
To this end, Mr. Wayne announced that he will be holding a fundraising gala event at his family home on Saturday, October 25. In addition to the usual suspects of Gotham's elite, it is anticipated that several national and international celebrities and politicians will be in attendance, as well as Gotham's finest and their families. According to Wayne, the fundraiser will include a carnival and food vendors for the children, and the more typical entertainment for the adults. Given the prolific nature of the attendees and the guests of honor, security will be very tight, and attendance is by engraved invitation only.
"A carnival, huh? Complete with toothless carnies?"
Annabeth and Bruce were sitting in one of the window booths of Annabeth's favorite diner, each of them engrossed in their own diversions: Annabeth was reading the current morning's newspaper, and Bruce was poring over some blueprints for the new Safe Haven facilities-ostensibly the reason that Bruce had lured her away from the office. It had been a madhouse when they left. A new family had come in the night before, and the children weren't adjusting well. In addition, it was Marjane's last day, and she was having a difficult time saying goodbye to the clients, and some of them had decided to arrange a last-minute farewell party for that evening. The place had been in an uproar, and when, in a moment of distracted exasperation, Annabeth had threatened to throw her shoe at Bruce, he suggested they remove themselves to a saner location.
Although, since Madison Rose was in the next booth, talking to her unseen companions, sanity was a rather relative concept.
"Carnies?" Bruce repeated Annabeth's amused query. "Hadn't thought about that. Toothless carnies would kind of diminish the aura of upper-class superiority typical of these things-"
"But we'd be denying those kids a traditional rite of passage." Annabeth's smile was genuine. "Even I remember the carnies-one of my foster families took me to a carnival over in Blüdhaven when I was eleven. I remember one of the carnies looked a lot like my foster father. It was enough to scare me into good behavior for a month."
Bruce's ears perked up; this was the first time he had heard Annabeth refer to her past. Better tread carefully, though, he reminded himself. It had only been in the last week or two that Annabeth had begun to let her guarded exterior slip a little, and she still retreated into her shell from time to time, with amazing speed. "Good behavior, huh? Were you a hellraiser?" He kept his tone offhand, casual, and didn't even look up from his blueprints.
"I had issues." Annabeth clearly was not eager to pursue the subject. "I think the carnival's a good idea. It certainly has a little more taste than some of your past fundraisers. Didn't you have some Roman-themed party that went awry, a while back?"
"Ugh." Bruce grimaced at the memory. "I don't know what was the worst idea-the togas or the vomitorium."
Annabeth's smirk was the only answer he got.
Both of them returned to their tasks in companionable silence-and both were unaware of the small crowd of people gathering outside the diner by their window, until a bright flash caught the attention of both of them. Bruce looked up to see the all-too-familiar view of several retreating papparazzi.
"Oh boy." He looked over at Annabeth and gave her a weak smile. "How do you feel about tabloids?"
Over by the register, Sara was chatting up several of the regulars when the mid-morning peace of the diner was shattered by Annabeth, swearing loudly, colorfully, and at great length, presumably at her table companion. Sara squinted and quickly identified Annabeth's companion-Bruce Wayne, a glutton for punishment if ever there was one. He was currently hunkering down in his seat, obviously amused and a little chagrined, too. Sara smiled and turned back to the regulars. "Don't mind her. You know Annabeth-she's not happy unless she's unhappy with something."
"...not funny! For the holy scrotum of christ, Bruce! Stop laughing. Goddammit!" Annabeth paused, more from lack of breath than mercy. She glared at Bruce. "Why the hell are you laughing?"
He choked back another chortle and shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, I really am. I guess I'm just used to the press. I'm sorry...I forgot, this isn't something you've really dealt with before. It requires an entire shift in perspective. It can take some adjusting."
Annabeth was not yet appeased. "What if they identify me? Link me back to Safe Haven?"
"Is public awareness and press coverage really a bad thing?"
"It can be, if the wrong people find out. Some of our clients are in hiding,Bruce. A certain amount of secrecy and discretion is necessary."
The merriment left his face at once, and Annabeth found herself struck once more by the mercurial nature of Bruce Wayne. She had long since ceased to be surprised when he donned his "serious face", and she knew it was the face he wore when he was about to get something done. "You're right. I didn't think about that." He pulled his cell out of his suit jacket and began dialing.
"Who are you calling?"
"A friend over at the Gazette...I won't be able to get them to pull the pictures, but I can make sure they're selective in the information they print..." He paused. "Bruce Wayne, here, for Vicki Vale, please. Yes, I'll hold."
As he waited to begin pulling his strings, Annabeth suddenly laughed. "Well, look at it like this, Bruce. It's about the most innocent thing that they've caught you doing in a very long time. It might actually repair your reputation."
Her laughter stopped abruptly as an unusually calculating look came into Bruce Wayne's eyes. Annabeth had given him an idea...
Headlines From the Thursday, Sepetember 18, 2008 edition of the Gotham Gazette:
2 MORE DEAD, POLICE BAFFLED; CAUTION URGED
In what has become an alarming trend, two more people were murdered in this morning's early hours, in a manner consistent with that of the previous several victims. Gotham City Police MCU are withholding the current victims' names and identities until more evidence has been gathered.
Commissioner Gordon released the following press statement earlier today:
"While we hesitate to verify that this recent rash of murders is the work of a serial killer, more evidence is beginning to point to this likelihood. We would like to assure the citizens of our city that the full weight of the Gotham City Police is being brought to bear in the task of locating the party or parties responsible for these crimes and bringing them to justice. In the meantime, we wish to urge all citizens to exercise extreme caution when in public after dark. Be alert for suspicious behavior, and do not assume that because you are not located in an unsafe neighborhood, you are safe..."
As September progressed, the humid summer began to wane. Already, the days were beginning to lose the last of their warmth, and the nights were already downright chilly. Jim Gordon knew this for a fact, because he was sitting out on the rooftop of MCU once more, shivering in the biting night air. Even with his jacket, the chill permeated through to his skin. Detective Montoya had thoughtfully provided him with a thermos of coffee, for which Gordon was grateful-it looked as though he might be up here for a while.
"Too cold for a picnic."
Or not.
The Batman emerged out of the shadows and approached his comrade. The two men stared at each other for a moment, and finally, Gordon spoke.
"I've been doing some thinking. About these murders." He glanced over at the Batman, who nodded for him to continue. "What if it's not completely random? What if these people are being chosen and killed for a specific purpose?"
"What purpose?"
"A message." Gordon was struggling to articulate the hunch that he had been nurturing for almost ten days. "We're not picking up nearly as many prostitutes and pimps as we normally do."
"Murdering them is bad for business. They're probably scared for the moment."
Gordon shook his head. "No. I don't think you understand the nature of that business. It gets pretty hand-to-mouth; they can't afford not to do business for more than a few days. This is different-it's like they've got protection. Different protection. And the prostitutes we are arresting, they're not owning up to their pimps. It's like they don't have pimps anymore."
"That's unlikely."
"I know. So where the hell are they? Who's running these prostitution rings?"
The Batman was beginning to see where Gordon was going with this. "You think that those murders were a message to the prostitutes?"
"And the call girls, and the pimps. I think someone's trying to consolidate control over Gotham's sex industry."
The two men moved closer, and Gordon lowered his voice, almost afraid to say what he was thinking. "If that's the case, we're never going to find this killer. No one gives a damn who runs the sex trade in this city. Whether it's a thousand pimps, or none, it won't make a difference. The only way we're going to solve these murders is if they're tied in to something bigger."
The Batman stood completely still, his head lowered in thought. When he spoke, his voice was as gruff as ever, but somewhat hesitant and contemplative, too. "Do you think they are?"
Gordon nodded decisively. "I think it's all tied back in with the Arrows. I don't know how, yet...but I'm almost positive. I think they're consolidating, about to pull something big. I don't know what, and I don't know how to prove it. One of the women that was killed today...she wasn't a prostitute."
"Who was she?"
"Mary Adamo. She's a former girlfriend of Jones le Blanc."
"Was she in hiding?"
"She had initiated contact with us through Safe Haven, but she hadn't gone into hiding yet." Gordon wasn't happy to be delivering this news. "She had gone to them in the past, after she left le Blanc. This was about eighteen months back-she never squealed on him, but a few weeks back, she piped up. Contacted us after she spoke with Annabeth de Burgh-Annabeth was the person who contacted me to give me the heads-up."
Annabeth again.The Batman had hoped that all of that had passed. He knew her well enough now to know that her integrity and courage were unimpeachable. "I investigated Annabeth de Burgh." His voice deepened, grew even more threatening. "She's clean. She's not involved with them."
Gordon was no longer intimidated by the voice and demeanor of the Batman. He was still impressed, just a little, but definitely not intimidated. "I know she's not involved. But that's a lot of coincidence." He began pacing the roof. "We didn't have a chance to talk with Mary Adamo after she contacted us...she went silent. Decided not to say anything. But apparently, that was enough for someone."
"I'll find out who's behind all this." This had long since ceased to be "just business" for the Batman. Not only were horrible deaths occurring, not only was something big about to go down—that that much both he and Jim Gordon knew, instinctively—but it was also affecting Annabeth. Her reputation, her job, her very peace of mind had all taken a thrashing because of this. He was willing to bet his Batpod that she was out there in the Narrows right now, conducting her own investigation, trying to protect unknowing victims, trying to save countless women. She was at risk in any number of ways, and it unnerved his as he imagined her there, not knowing of how much danger truly stalked her.
And stalked him, too-every second he thought about Annabeth while he was in Batman mode, he was distracted and weakened, and he endangered himself. And if he fell, how soon would Gotham fall, too?
Apparently Gordon was thinking along the same lines. As the Batman prepared to vault himself off the roof, he glanced back at his friend. The Commissioner was looking at him with eyes that had seen too many good soldiers fall. "Be careful," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I hate to say it, but we need you now more than ever."
And then he was gone, and once more, Gordon was left alone, with his thoughts and doubts and misgivings, but more than anything, his ever-strengthening belief that he had somehow, single-handedly, placed Gotham City's future in the hands of an enigmatic, possibly unstable man whose name he would likely never know. He could only pray the Batman was worthy.
So far, he knew his prayers had been answered.
The Batman was hard at work.
It had been a busy night, in the best sense: he had prevented several petty thefts, mainly, and broken up one street brawl-hardly major crimes. He'd spent a fair amount of time listening to the police frequencies, and lurking some of the seedier red-light districts, keeping an eye out in vain for any activity that might help his investigation. As the night marched on towards dawn, the Batman steadily marched on as well, putting in another night in the endless battle.
All the while, however, as he roamed the streets and lurked in the shadows, he hadn't been alone. His thoughts had been crowded, jumbled, filled with the image of a woman's face, ringing with the stern voice of a woman that he could not expel from his mind, whether he was in Kevlar or Armani. It hadn't distracted him yet; only provided a continuous white noise that was not entirely unwelcome.
For the first time, he felt as though he were fighting for something other than the deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne.
Now he was silently following a group of thugs. He'd overheard a couple of 911 calls on them, and figured that they were some young punks looking for a reason to be out at this time of night, looking for some sort of havoc to wreak.
As far as the Batman was concerned, they were simply looking for someone obliging enough to jerk a knot in their collective tail.
So, with his characteristic stealth, he followed them, keeping close as they roved through Old Gotham, every now and then knocking over a trash can, or breaking into rowdy yells and howls of laughter. So far, no major trouble...
But then, one of them caught sight of a stray cat, skulking by a dumpster, and with the uncalculated cruelty that somehow seemed to breed only in large groups of lazy and unintelligent people, the group cornerd the cat, their intent to torment written clearly on their dull faces. With so many against one, the cat had no chance of escaping-one of the men kicked it, caught it in its belly, and stunned it.
Silently, the Batman observed the scene. The group had fallen silent, each of them waiting for one of the others to make the next move.
The cat meowed once, piteously.
One of the largest young men shuffled forward then, swinging his foot and catching the cat on one of its hind legs. The cat screamed, its feline voice sounding eerily like a female in distress. A couple of the men laughed, and one started to say something-
-and fell silent in abject terror as the Batman dropped down into their midst.
He had designed his suit with any number of purposes in mind: function, of course, and even a certain amount of aesthetics, but above all, its intent was to inspire fear. If your enemies are afraid, they will run, and if they run, there's a few less you have to take out in the fight. Simple and efficient, and even expedient—a psychological weapon that worked when fighting crime. And it worked now, as the Batman watched in satisfaction as the majority of the group scattered, leaving only a few of the older, larger, and dumber males behind, staring at him in silence.
"Cat got your tongue?" he taunted them, and that was enough for the largest to lunge towards him. He wanted to wrestle, the Batman could see, and was going to try to tackle him at the torso. He remained his casual fighter's stance until the last possible moment, and as the wrestler closed in the last foot, the Batman crouched down quickly and rammed his cowled head into the wrestler's midsection. A deep, pained grunt was the confirmation the Batman needed to know that he'd knocked the wind out of his opponent, and a gloved fist smashed into his chin rendered him unconscious.
The other two moved in at the same time, intending to gang up on him. It didn't deter him in the slightest, however; he'd gone up against a lot more, a lot worse than two punks with a hankering for trouble. His movements were lightning-fast. Crouching down once more, he shifted his weight to his right leg while kicking out with his left, catching one of the men's legs and taking him down immediately. The Batman heard a distinct thud and crack; one of the man's legs was broken.
The Batman turned and looked at the third opponent, who had, at some point in watching his two friends get pummeled, decided to rethink his strategy. Slowly he backed off, not turning his back. He stared at the Batman through wide, terrified eyes.
Time to deliver the message. "Next time you want to hurt something," he told the kid, "try each other."
The kid took off, and the Batman was left with two incapacitated opponents and one very unhappy cat.
After a quick and anonymous trip to the Gotham City Humane Society-the same one he had thumbed his nose at, under another identity-the Batman noticed a distinct lightening of the sky, from inky black to dark blue. Soon the blue would fade to gray, and then to more brilliant colors as the sun began to rise. It was time to go home.
It had been a good night, yes-reasonably productive in crime-fighting. While it was always nice to stop something major from going down, it was even better to know that sometimes, some nights, there simply wasn't anything major happening. It was the calm before the storm, however, and he had gotten no closer to figuring out what was going on with the Arrows, or who was killing the women, or why, suddenly, so many of the sex workers were keeping such a low profile. Gordon was beginning to take it hard—although the Batman suspected that this was not the only thing plaguing the man he was beginning to consider a friend. Perhaps it was time for Bruce Wayne to step up and become a friend, too.
The Tumbler made its way through the city and freeways, and the Batman was free to rest, reflect, and consider his strategies. Sometimes, he felt as though this were his favorite time of the entire day, this time when he could remain still and inactive, yet alert. He could enjoy the feeling of a job (hopefully) well done, and not yet worry about what might be waiting for him when he returned to the Batcave. This was the time of day when he felt the most at peace. As Batman, he felt energized, adrenalized, driven; as "Brucie" Wayne, he felt stultified and smothered by his self-imposed fake identity, as Bruce Wayne he simply felt lost and alone, never quite sure how to act or what to say. But when he was in the Tumbler, driving away from one identity and heading towards another, he didn't feel the need to be either of them.
Alfred was waiting for him in the Batcave upon his return. Whether his butler had just arisen from sleep, or never went to bed the night before, the Batman was never certain. Alfred was an extraordinarily gifted actor, and knew how to hide any fatigue he might be feeling. He stood there, quietly, posture proudly erect, yet ready to spring into action if the Batman emerged from the Tumbler with injuries.
Fortunately, tonight wasn't one of those times. Alfred watched as the Batman rose from the Tumbler, intact and whole, and began to make his way deeper into the Batcave. Alfred followed silently, keeping an eye out for any hidden injuries that his charge might be too proud to mention. "Quiet night, Master Wayne?"
"Yes, Alfred." The Batman pulled the cowl off, and Bruce Wayne's face emerged, his expression carefully arranged into a stoic mask. Nonetheless, Alfred didn't fail to notice that something was on Bruce Wayne's mind. "It was fairly quiet. Although, Lucius was right-the suit does hold up against cats." The stray cat he had rescued and brought to the Humane Society hadn't particularly appreciated the gesture, and although he had captured it easily enough, it had done its best to scratch him up. When that failed, it resorted to spraying the interior of the Tumbler. "Are you any good at getting cat urine out of upholstery?"
With a look of deep distaste settling onto his patrician face, Alfred sighed and headed towards the vehicle. "The things that will go on my resume..."
Half an hour later, when he returned to the work area, he found the Batman hunched over his work table, reading over a stack of files. Alfred peered over his shoulder, and saw that once more, Annabeth de Burgh was the object of the Batman's attention.
"Perhaps you'd be able to focus better after a few hours' rest, sir?" Alfred gently hinted. "It's almost six-thirty in the morning, and you have a busy day ahead of you."
The Batman didn't respond.
Alfred sat down at his own workspace, a few feet away, and quietly waited. Fifteen minutes passed before the Batman looked up from the meager contents of the file and turned to him. "What did you find out about her, Alfred? Tell me."
The older man shifted his eyes away from the Batman. "I told you, sir...I wish I hadn't done it, now. It isn't the kind of thing that one should learn about without her having the choice to tell whom she wishes."
The Batman frowned. "I could find it on my own, you know." It wasn't a threat, merely a statement of the obvious.
"I know you could, Master Wayne. But just because you can and you want to doesn't mean you should. Remember when I talked about limits, before Miss Rachel died?" He ignored the look that the Batman gave him and plunged on. "I was not just speaking of physical limits, I was talking of ethical limits, too. What is easy, and what is possible, is not always right, even if it is for the greater good. Torturing people, violating their privacy, taking away their free will and right to decide-those are limits, and ones that you should respect." Alfred paused, and went on in a gentler voice, "And violating Annabeth de Burgh's privacy wouldn't be for any greater good. It would be to satisfy your own curiosity and fascination."
There. Alfred had hit the nail on the head, without even intending to, and had provided Bruce with the word he had been struggling to find. Fascination. The Batman and Bruce Wayne were fascinated by Annabeth. It was something Alfred sensed, too, for a moment later, he continued. "...And how do explain your desire to know more about Miss de Burgh, sir? You've determined she is playing no role in these murders."
The Batman didn't answer, but did have the grace to look slightly sheepish.
"If you like her, sir, there is no shame in that." Alfred smiled, a thought occurring to him. "It merely underscores your humanity. But you must learn to like her, and get to know her as Bruce Wayne would. Not as the Batman can."
The Batman's mind was racing, dancing back and forth between memories of Rachel and images of Annabeth. So similar, yet so essentially different-with Rachel, there was a past, a history between them, a camaraderie forged through years together and an estrangement forced by years apart. She had neither understood nor approved of the Batman, and it had been her disapproval that had driven the final wedge between them. But she would have waited for him. With Annabeth, he knew so little, yet enough to keep him enthralled; she was her own woman, seemingly a life buoy, isolated, yet always trying to save another drowning person, and living a strange life alone, apart, with only enough warmth to give the people she helped.
He saw himself in Annabeth. Yes, that was it-he saw himself in her, isolated, adrift, driven by unseen demons and pain. And yet, there was something else...in Annabeth's sharp antagonism, her quiet courage, her carefully-constructed walls, he had found someone who coaxed out the real Bruce Wayne.
"Alfred." He spoke in his normal voice, deep but not gruff, only a little hesitant. "It's like this...I feel like my identity is a scale, a spectrum. At one end, there's the Batman...at the other end, there's 'Brucie' Wayne." He spat out these last words, his distaste ringing through in every syllable.
"Neither is a particularly desirable identity to take on all the time, sir."
"No. Neither causes me great happiness, neither gives me particular release." He paused, then reconsidered. "No—not quite true. Being the Batman gives me some purpose, some fulfillment. But I would be insane if I were to say that's all I need. I have to believe that I am more than that suit, that will, that anger, that purpose. And I have to believe that I am more than a vapid, womanizing wastrel."
"To hear you say these things, sir, reassures me that you are still well in control of your sanity," Alfred chuckled. "But in all seriousness, Master Wayne, the day that you embrace your night-time identity to the total neglect and rejection of all else is the day that I fear you have begun to lose your grip on reality."
"That's just it, Alfred. I know all of this. But how do I keep it from happening? How do I keep a grasp on my identity? I'm not even truly sure of what my identity is!" He glanced around at the Batcave, at the machinery and electronics and weaponry and files and medical supplies. "It's more than this, but somehow...it's buried. I thought Rachel knew what it was, knew how to bring it out...you know she was going to wait for me, wait for me to relinquish this identity and embrace the 'real' me. But I don't know who that is."
Many, many times, Alfred had questioned whether or not he had been right to burn Rachel's letter. He would never, ever tell Bruce what he had done...but he could give a variation of the story.
"Master Bruce...I want you to listen to me." Alfred's tone compelled the younger man to raise his head and pay attention. "Miss Rachel...I know she loved you, in her own way. But it wouldn't have been enough. Before...before she died, she told me...she told me that she had decided to marry Harvey Dent. It would have been too much for her, I think. I don't think she could have handled you, loved you, accepted you as you deserved. And I think she knew that."
Bruce had comepletely abandoned The Batman identity, despite the fact that he still wore the suit. "Alfred...why? Why now? Why are you telling me this?" To his own surprise, Bruce was beginning to feel a tightening in his throat and a stinging in his eyes. He hadn't cried since the week after Rachel's death, when he had fallen into a deep depression and mourned as obsessively as he could.
Alfred held out his hands, a gesture of helplessness. "Mea culpa." He looked hard at Bruce. "I didn't know if it was right to tell you. You were...broken. We all were. We all mourned, we all questioned our role in what happened." For a moment, he wondered if he was going to cry, too, and cleared his throat gruffly. "But you were already so angry with yourself, and you needed no more reasons. You needed to believe that others believed in you, and loved you."
"And now?"
"Time has passed. You must still believe that...but believe it based on what might happen in the future, and not what has happened in the past. Master Wayne, you must decide who you want to be. You must find someone who will accept all facets of your character, not make you choose which one you will be."
Bruce laughed then, a harsh, bitter laugh. "I don't know if that's possible."
"I don't know, either, sir, but that doesn't excuse you from trying to find out. Cautiously, of course."
"Alfred...how can I expect someone to accept me when I barely know who I am, myself?" Bruce didn't wait for an answer. "I said a little while ago, that it felt like my personality is on a spectrum, and I'm constantly living my life at one extreme or the other. It's exhausting. And I know, deep down, long term, that neither will be enough." He was struggling to articulate a thought, and knew that as soon as he voiced it, it would have power, exist, and he could not take it back. "When I'm with Annabeth, it feels like she brings me more to the center of that spectrum-where I should be. Where I want to be."
The two men sat in silence, each regarding the other. Bruce looked apprehensive, as though he expected Alfred to judge him and find him lacking. And Alfred looked infinitely pleased.
Finally, Bruce turned back to the files, to his work. He was on the verge of becoming the Batman once more-and then Alfred spoke, and his voice had a lilting merriment to it that had been absent for a very long time. "
"Even when you speak of her, Master Bruce, you sound as though you are in the center of that spectrum." He paused to give his words the dramatic effect. "And I think I'd like to get to know that person who you say is there."
Enough. Bruce was well and truly exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to make his way to his bedroom for a shower, some breakfast, and a few hours' sleep. He rose and began to make his way towards the stairs that would take him up to Wayne Manor, 'Brucie' Wayne, and all of the burdens entailed with both. Alfred followed behind him, carefully picking up the armor as Bruce shed each piece. Just before they began the ascent, the butler spoke.
"Pardon my asking, sir...but is this all a rather moot point? Doesn't Miss Annabeth harbor some...antipathy towards you?"
"Antipathy, Alfred, would be putting it mildly. But I'm working on her...after all, I need a crusade during my daylight hours, too." The smile that Bruce gave him was cocky, confident, and even a little bit hopeful-just a little more evidence that he was moving ever-closer to the center of that spectrum.
When Alfred continued on with his morning chores and duties, it was with a heart that was very light indeed.