[ VI. An Expression of Synchronicity ]

Present Day…

"—For there is nothing more noble than the act of helping those in need." The rumble of polite applause echoed throughout the grand ballroom of the Gotham Royal Hotel, interspersed by the sound of flashing cameras. Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham and the heart of its social elite, smiled from his podium at the front of the room. He raised his flute glass high in the air. "A toast!" He declared, sharp eyes scanning the crowd of old money, nouveau riche, and assorted celebrities and figureheads. "To the betterment of Gotham!"

"To the betterment of Gotham!" The crowd cheered.

With one last blinding smile, Bruce declared the Wayne Foundation charity gala open and stepped off the podium. A gaggle of people who insisted that they absolutely must talk to Bruce at that very moment swarmed him, complimenting him on the decorations or the speech or other such banal topics. With a grace and deftness born out of years in the spotlight, he politely extricated himself from the crowd and went off to find his sons.

Tim and Damian—in a rare show of brotherhood—huddled together by the buffet table. Tim leaned against the white column at the end of the dessert table, legs crossed at the ankles and idly munching on a small cup of raspberry sorbet. Damian was a bit further behind, back against the wall and arms crossed, his posture straight and dignified as he scanned the crowds.

"Father," Damian greeted, arms falling to his side. "An impeccable speech, as always."

"Thank you, Damian."

"The passive aggressive criticism on the miserly habits of the rich was a nice touch," Tim said. He scooped up another layer of sorbet. "People are gonna be wondering whether Bruce Wayne actually meant that or if he just accidentally implied it for weeks."

Bruce grinned and ruffled Tim's hair, who would've squawked at the action if he didn't have his spoon in his mouth. "Astute observations as always, Tim."

Tim pouted, combing his hair back to something sensible with his fingers before putting the spoon back in his cup. "It's not like I have much of a choice. Watching you subtly insult people was, like, the only thing that ever got me through these events,"

"Well, Drake, if you dislike it so much, why did you insist on coming? Your presence is hardly required as I, the blood heir, am more than enough to represent the Waynes alongside my father." Damian puffed his chest out in pride, chin tilted in some in some strange attempt to look down at Tim.

Ti rolled his eyes. "As frivolous as these people are—and I mean frivolous, did you hear about the time August Lupton dropped thousands on a custom water bottle? —the high society rumor mill can be an information goldmine."

"It is when it wants to be," Bruce said. "But you won't get anything just skulking around here. You need to actually mingle for that. Now, go on." He made little shoo-ing motions at Tim. "You can't hide by the buffet table forever. Trust me, I've tried."

Tim groaned and kicked himself off the pillar, setting the empty sorbet cup on the table before wandering out into the crowd. "Well, off to suffer the mortifying ordeal of being perceived, I guess."

"And Tim?"

Time pivoted on his heel to look at Bruce. "Yeah?"

"Try to enjoy yourself."

The corner of Tim's mouth curled in a soft smile. "Sure thing, Dad."

With Tim out in the fray Bruce turned to his youngest. "Well Damian, this'll be a long night. Feel free to stay here or wander around if you'd prefer. I know you're not too comfortable with large social gatherings just yet." At the sight of the crease between Damian's brows and the sudden lost look on his face, Bruce added "Though I'd certainly appreciate your company once I start making the rounds."

Damian regained his bearings, huffing with pride. "Of course. It is my duty as your son to assist you."

Making the rounds was a tedious affair of seeing and being seen. It meant shaking hands with people who came to greet him, laughing politely at people's stories, posing for a picture here or there, and overall making sure that people actually donate something instead of just imbibing themselves with thousands of dollars worth of alcohol and passing out in a hotel room.

Damian made the whole activity more bearable. He stuck to Bruce's side like a little guard dog, shielding him from the party's matchmaking matrons, or heiresses, or models that tried to cling to Bruce's arms. Most women—and the few men—had to keep their flirtations discreet with Damian around out of politeness to young ears and so as not to risk Bruce Wayne's scorn.

Though Damian bore the 'schmoozing' with grace, Bruce made sure to keep an eye out for his youngest nonetheless. Whenever the crowds got a bit too large, or more than one person tried to reach into Damian's space than he was comfortable with, Bruce would tactfully pull the two of them away for some breathing room.

It was during one of these breathing periods that father and son found themselves by one of the ballroom's bars. Bruce requested another flute of champagne for him and a mocktail for Damian. The latter actually insisted on getting champagne as well, but Bruce reminded him that Damian was still underaged.

"I've been trained against all sorts of poisons," Damian grumbled, just loud enough that only Bruce could hear. "Alcohol is hardly as bad."

"Not the point, chum." Bruce thanked the bartender for the drinks. He filed away the thing about poisons to unpack later. "Alright, one mock…tail."

Drinks in hand, Bruce paused at the sight of Damian's expression. His youngest's face was bleached white.

Bruce snapped his attention to whatever caught Damian's attention.

It was a girl. Small. Around Damian's height, so there was a good chance they were around the same age as well. Olive skin with a rounded face. Black hair arranged neatly in a low bun with long bangs framing her cheeks. Her eyes were blue, yes, but— that was Damian's face.

Discreetly, Bruce flashed a few quick hand signs. You-know?

Negative, Damian signed. You?

Negative.

The girl was standing half-turned away from them. She idly fidgeted with her bracelet—a thick cuff made up of segmented polished metal—looking for all the world inattentive to the conversation the adults were having around her. But when the man to her left—her guardian? —turned to speak to her, she responded with enthusiasm and a bright smile.

It took a few seconds for Bruce to place a name to her guardian's face; Vlad Masters, CEO of VladCo, Gotham Academy alumni, and the mayor of Amity Park.

That city again. And now there was the girl.

Bruce leaned down to give Damian his glass. "Damian," he murmured. "Do you know if Vlad Masters is affiliated with the League?"

"Masters?" Damian snapped his gaze to the man next to her. He shook his head, face clouded with an expression Bruce couldn't quite place. Some strange mix between curiosity and…anger? "No. No he is not."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. Even Damian denied it, there was something in the tone of his voice that suggested he knew Masters, nonetheless. Or perhaps, knew of him. "I see…"

He relaxed his posture, rolled back his shoulders and painted on one of his charming and affable Wayne ™ smiles. "Vlad Masters, is that you?"

At the sound of his name, Masters turned. The brief flash of annoyance at being interrupted mid-conversation was quickly smoothed away once he identified who called him. "Why, Bruce Wayne, it's been so long!" He quickly excused himself from his group before meeting Bruce halfway, the little girl trailing behind him.

The two of them shook hands. Bruce was slightly surprised at how cold to the touch Masters was; a health condition, perhaps?

"I didn't think I'd see you here."

"And turn down an invitation from Bruce Wayne himself? No, I would never be such a fool, and the funding of underprivileged public schools in Gotham is a worthy cause to come back to," Vlad said, swirling his glass of red wine. "I'm rather surprised you remembered to invite me; I know most people forget that I was once a Gothamite."

Bruce tucked a hand into his pocket and shifted his weight onto one leg, looking for all the world like an indolent cat. The Masters family, from what Bruce could remember, were old European money that immigrated and then married into new American money families after the Bolshevik Revolution. Vlad Masters' parents moved to Gotham some decades back, and while they were considered Old Money, they weren't considered Gotham Old Money. And to the fickle echelons of Gotham's glittering courts, that distinction was very important. Gotham cares for its own.

"My butler is really good at these things," Bruce replied.

"Of course, of course. Well, how has life treated you so far, Wayne?"

"Oh nothing too exciting. Just boring old board meetings, am I right?" Bruce said. "What about you? Last I heard, you were dipping your toes into politics or something. Are you a governor, yet?"

"Oh gracious, now!" Vlad chuckled, the sound falling flat. "Nothing so grand as that, I assure you. I'm only a small-town mayor."

Bruce nodded. "Right, right. So what's that like?"

"Oh dreadful work, really. So much paperwork, so many things to do or oversee, but rewarding in its own way." He puffed out his chest in pride. "Many of the people in Amity Park do rely on me, you know. Though I'm afraid my schedule's busy enough that I barely have time to go home!"

"Well, we're very happy that you made room enough to visit us here in Gotham." Taking a sip of his champagne, Bruce tilted his head to spy the mop of black hair standing in Masters' shadow. "And in such wonderful company as well! Vlad, you must introduce me to this young lady here."

Masters' face lit up. With a hand pressed between her shoulder blades, he guided the girl to stand beside him. "This here is Danielle, my daughter, and my pride and joy. Danielle, this is Bruce Wayne, our generous host."

Danielle beamed, face blooming into a lovely shade of pink. She held out her hand to Bruce. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Wayne. Thank you for inviting us to your gala."

Bruce stooped down and gingerly shook her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Miss Masters. I hope you're having a lovely time tonight.

Danielle nodded with enthusiasm. Vlad looked on at his daughter with pride."

"Congratulations, Vlad," Bruce said. "I didn't know that you had such a charming daughter. Does she take after her mother?"

Masters blinked, as if not knowing whether to register that statement as simple curiosity or some subtle backhanded compliment. "I wouldn't know," he replied apprehensively. "Danielle was adopted, you see, from a young age. She never had the chance to know her mother."

At least one of those statements was a lie. There was a slight stutter in the way Masters said 'adopted', as if he was unused to saying the word, and the eye contact was too prolonged to be natural.

"Since she was young?" Bruce pried. "I feel like I would remember hearing of her before."

"I like to keep my family life private, I'm sure you understand. Say, didn't some of your children come with you?"

Bruce allowed the change in subject. "Ah, yes!" He pretended to search through the crowd for Damian and called him over from his position next to the bar. Damian shut off his phone, tucking it away as he went to stand at Bruce's right. "Tim is somewhere over there with his friends but this here is my son, Damian. Damian, this is Vlad Masters, an old business partner and a, uh—" he scrunched his face, as if trying to remember what Vlad said a few minutes ago. "A mayor of some town somewhere. And beside him is his daughter, Danielle. She's around your age, I think."

Bruce turned to look at Masters, expecting to see some variation of 'insulted but trying to keep up a polite facade' at his dismissal—only to freeze.

Masters' face paled considerably. His beady eyes comically wide as he looked at Damian, the fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass in a vice grip. Damian, uncharacteristically wary, steadied his stance but shifted minutely closer to Bruce.

Well, this was interesting. "You alright, Vlad? You looked like you've just seen a ghost."

Masters jerked his head towards Bruce. Surprise—and fear? — contorted his features for a brief moment before it smoothed back down into a proper mask. "My apologies," he chuckled, though there was a shift in the way he looked at Bruce; as if Masters was dissecting him through a microscope. Masters shook hands with Damian. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, young man."

Then, quieter to Bruce, Masters asked a question that caught him off guard. "Say, Bruce, perhaps my memory is failing me, but do you remember how there was talk about you and a Ms. Tate some years back, yes? Is Damian perhaps the…?"

(White curtains and white sheets. The stench of antiseptic. The arch of Talia's back as she curled away from him, face buried into the pillow. "Beloved, I…")

It took more willpower than Bruce would like to admit to keep his facade from dropping. "No…No, nothing came out of that affair. Ms. Tate and I haven't been together for well over a decade." There are memories at the very depths of Bruce's mind that were trying to scratch their way to the surface. With careful, practiced precision, Bruce buried them deeper. "I didn't realize that you knew about that old piece of gossip."

"I happened to be in Gotham at the time," Masters explained. "And I happen to pride myself on having a very good memory, especially when it comes to faces." He scrutinized Damian once more. "Apologies for my staring. Young—Damian, was it? — only reminded me of someone I knew once."

Masters turned his head away, and beneath his breath, muttered, "The resemblance is rather uncanny."

"Are you certain that Vlad Masters has no connection with the League?"

"Yes, I'm certain."

At the gala's end, Bruce and Damian slipped into the car and had begun to comb through the information Oracle sent over on Damian's phone. Tim had already left an hour or so earlier, having found a lead on his case and impatient to see where it went.

Vlad Masters. Most well-known as the CEO of his multibillion dollar company VladCo., which specialized in weapons manufacturing and technology. Graduated summa cum laude at the University of Wisconsin with a double bachelor in business and, strangely enough, spectrology. According to his records, he was forced to drop out of college for a time after a lab accident during his second year landed him in the hospital. Originally based in his Wisconsin Mansion, about three years ago he made the decision to move to Amity Park, Illinois. Soon after, Masters ran for office, managing to oust the popular former Mayor Montez from his seat.

His daughter, Danielle, was in her last year of Casper Elementary; that was all anyone really knew about her.

"I texted Oracle earlier to focus on information on Danielle Masters, but this was the only truthful thing that she could find," Damian said. "There are paper trails, yes, but most of them either lead to nowhere or go in circles. As far as any kind of documentation goes, 'Danielle' only began existing about a year ago when she was enrolled into school."

Damian's phone buzzed, the Oracle logo taking over the screen. "Hope you boys haven't started the engine yet," Oracle said, once the call was accepted.

"We just left the hotel," Bruce answered. "What's the situation, Oracle?"

"Oh you're gonna love this. There's been a break-in in Masters' rooms at the Royal Hotel."

Bruce shifted gears. "Curiouser and curiouser."

It didn't take long to suit up, and with Oracle's help Batman and Robin made it just in time to see Danielle Masters get thrown out the door. The back of her head hit the wall with a sickening thud as she fell to the carpeted floor. Batman quickly ran to her side, assessing her injuries. The majority of injuries looked superficial; a scraped knee and a few hits on the arms that might form colorful bruises. Danielle remained conscious, though slightly dazed. Concussion was a possibility.

"Oracle, I need you to call an ambulance right away."

"Already on it, B."

"Robin, stay with Danielle—"

Robin bristled. "I want to fight!"

" —Stay with her to make sure she's safe and follow me once you're sure. Remember, civilians are our first priority." And with that, Batman shot up to his feet and kicked down the door. (The door was closed. How did Danielle get out?)

Immediately, he could pinpoint the sounds of a struggle further within and towards the left-hand side where the beds would be. A crash. The sharp sound of broken glass. A pained shout and the discharge of a weapon— not a regular gun by the sound, something more energy based. He swept into the living area, the room dark and lit by one LED lamp knocked to the ground. The coffee table was turned over. One of the couches was singed.

Masters burst from the doorway to the left, torso angled back as he shot a barrage of green energy from a strange weapon. (Small. Handheld. Shaped like a gun with a smoother body.)

Batman called out.

Masters jumped, white hair in disarray. "Batman? Is that—" He yelped as another figure surged into the room and tackled him to the ground. The gun clattered away, sliding underneath a waist-high table.

Batman leapt in action, shooting a line of his taser into the assailant's side and sending a shock of electricity. The attacker screeched— (Young male. Adolescent?) — releasing his grip long enough for Masters to scramble away towards the door. He shot his arm out to grapple Masters again only to be yanked back when Batman pulled on the line.

The attacker grunted, black gloved hand hovered around the hook dug into his side. In a split second he wrapped his hand around the still-live line, pulled Batman towards him, and launched a flurry of knives that forced Batman to let go of the taser to dodge. He ripped out the hook with a forceful tug, visceral chunks of green coming away and glistening in the lamplight. He crushed the hook in his fist. Malevolent green energy erupted from within, disintegrating the hook and the green flesh into nothing but ash.

Meta, Batman's mind supplied, hand hovering over the inhibitor cuffs in his belt.

The wound on the assassin's side slowly knitted itself back together.

Batman dashed forward, dropping smoke pellets on the ground that quickly filled the room. He grabbed the assassin's shoulders and slammed him against the window wall, reinforced glass shuddering at the impact.

The assassin snarled from beneath his featureless white mask, fingers scratching at Batman's wrist.

Batman growled. "What does the White Ghost want with Vlad Masters?"

The White Ghost said nothing. One of his hands suddenly went translucent and jabbed Batman's chest— only to miss by a hair's breadth as Batman whipped his body to the side. But that was enough for the White Ghost to wrench himself free from Batman's hold, dropping to the ground and surging upwards for a palm strike to the underside of Batman's chin.

Though momentarily stricken by the superhuman strength behind the strike, Batman rolled with the momentum, taking advantage of his greater size to recover quickly and go on the offensive.

They exchanged a flurry of blows. Quick. Precise. A skilled and brutal and nonlethal dance. It baffled Batman as he threw White Ghost against the hotel's television set, irreparable cracking the screen. The League of Shadows perfected the art of killing; their martial style was designed to take down any opponent with brutal efficiency. For the White Ghost to not only use primarily non-lethal attacks, but also forego using any more of his meta-abilities and weapons meant that either he wanted to keep his casualties low, or he'd been expressly ordered not to kill Batman.

Batman blocked a high kick with his forearm, shoving the leg away to jab at his opponent's chest.

But that was Talia. Always sentimental about what could have been.

The smoke began to clear just as Robin—having left the hallway— cut his way through the room, katana slicing between Batman and the White Ghost. But where Robin should have sliced upwards to catch the assassin, instead he hesitated.

Before Batman could pull Robin behind him, White Ghost grabbed Robin by the collar of his cape and threw him towards the front of the living room. A blue bolt of freezing energy shot from his hands and hit Robin in the chest. Thick, crystalline ice began to grow from Robin's chest, encasing everything from the chest down in ice and pinning him to the floor.

Robin roared, struggling against the ice.

Batman took advantage of the sudden pause by knocking White Ghost off balance, twisting their outstretched arm behind his back and slapping on the inhibitor cuffs. The two grappled, with Batman barely managing to slip the other cuff on.

White Ghost growled and—to Batman's shock—simply phased his hands through the cuffs. He twisted, slammed an outstretched palm against Batman's chest and fired an energy blast point blank, knocking Batman into the farthest wall. Batman winced as the back of his leg crashed against the bedside table, his head knocking over one of the large paintings hung above one of the beds.

Heaving a great breath, Batman kicked himself off the wall and skyrocketed towards his enemy, barely skidding to a halt when White Ghost summoned that bright blue energy again and blasted a wall of ice spikes that cut the room into half. Even beneath layers of body armor, Batman could feel the unnatural chill that emanated from the ice.

"Batman!" cried Robin.

Through the gaps between the spikes, he could see the White Ghost staring back at him, arms outstretched. Chest still as if he was hardly winded. (As if he did not even need to breathe.) Those green pinpricks scrutinized him for a moment before he pivoted back on his heel.

To Batman's short-lived relief, White Ghost avoided Damian, instead veering left towards the door to chase after Masters.

Suddenly, White Ghost stopped. Took a step back.

Standing beneath the doorway was Masters, one hand outstretched and the other bracing it. Danielle's cuff bracelet was stretched around his wrist, the segmented metal extending over and around the hand. The end result looked something similar to Cyborg's cannon blasters. The weapon began to hum as it gathered energy, a green light swirling at its barrel.

The White Ghost did not move.

Damian was stuck behind the White Ghost.

The White Ghost could phase. Could dodge.

Damian couldn't.

"Robin!" Batman yelled. He backed away across the room then shot forward, gaining enough momentum to vault over the ice wall. The ends of his cape caught against the spikes, forcing Batman to slow so he could yank it off. "Robin!"

The high pitched wine of the weapon began to crescendo. There was no guarantee Masters had sufficient firearms training. He could miss. He could hit Damian.

Masters fired.

White ghost conjured some sort of green shield in front of him, bracing himself against the energy blast. For a moment, it held.

Then it began to fracture.

Masters surged forward, forcing White Ghost back towards Damian.

In a split second decision, Batman threw a batarang at Masters' weapon, knocking the beam off course. The beam struck the ceiling, raining chunks of concrete down at them.

White Ghost released his shield and threw himself over Robin as slabs of the ceiling buried them.

Batman could barely breathe. He rushed over, jumping over fallen furniture and debris, shouting for Robin to respond.

There's a crackle in the comms. Voices— Robin's voice— though Batman could barely make out the words with all the blood rushing to his head.

"...o….need to…..lea—"

Beneath the rubble there was a brief flash of flight, and the pile of rocks and broken furniture almost collapsed further beneath them.

"...eave….jus…go…"

"Robin!" Batman dug through the debris. "I need you to respond to me, Robin!"

He pushed back a large slab of cement, uncovering a bright green dome. White Ghost had his hands braced against its surface, back bowed over Robin like a figure of Atlas holding up the world. Robin was free from the ice, body curled at an awkward angle. When Batman got enough of the debris out of the way, the dome fell, and White Ghost sank beneath the floor.

Batman—Bruce really didn't care at that moment. He wrapped his arms around Robin's shoulders for a quick hug before breaking away to assess his injuries. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, father," Robin assured him. "Unharmed. Though I may have some first degree frostbite."

Batman grabbed the front of Masters' shirt and slammed him against the wall. Masters wheezed, and through gritted teeth hissed "I am not one of your rogues, Batman, nor one of your Gothamites, so put me down."

Batman was well aware of that. He was also well aware that the only thing staying his hand was little Danielle who was anxiously waiting outside the door. Robin had volunteered to keep her busy while Batman interrogated her father. "Why were you targeted, Masters?"

"I don't know." Masters tried to kick against Batman's leg. It was a vain effort; leather dress shoes stood no chance against kevlar.

"You must have some idea," Batman groweld "The League of Shadows doesn't just go after anyone."

"The League of what—?" Vlad squawked. "I assure you Batman, the only League I associate myself with is the NFL."

Batman narrowed his eyes, unamused.

He held up the cuff bracelet—now deactivated—in front of Vlad's face. "And what is this?"

"What the—" Masters looked down, spotting his bare wrist. "When did you—?"

"It's an interesting gadget," Batman continued. "A miniature portable energy cannon. Is it one of VladCo.'s new inventions?"

"That's company secrets, sir."

"Not when you bring an unknown weapon into my city."

Masters glowered. "It is merely a habit." His voice had a sharp edge to it; the words spoken through gritted teeth as if he were holding back a growl. "My city has its own share of monsters, Batman, and as mayor I'm quite the target whenever they want to cause any trouble. Weapons like that—" he jerked his towards the bracelet "—are the only thing that can actually hurt them."

Batman released his grip on Masters, the latter dropping clumsily to the dust-covered floor with a grunt. Distantly, he could hear the hustle of GCPD officers rushing out of the elevator, Gordon's weary and commanding voice at the forefront. "You're talking about ghosts."

Masters stilled, his anxious features suddenly shutting down like shutters drawn closed. But the microexpressions in his eyes—slight twitches that most would miss—spoke more volumes. "So you do know about them."

A puzzle could not be completed without all its pieces; a solution unsolvable without all the needed variables; a knot unravelable without first finding its end. Batman looked down at the bracelet in his hand, scrutinizing the bright green detailing that ran between the segmented metal. A similar bright green to the force field that surrounded the White Ghost— the one that shielded Damian from the brunt of the debris

'...o….need to…..lea—'

You need to leave.

'...eave….jus…go…'

Leave. Just go.

"Not enough," Batman said, voice barely above a whisper. An ugly feeling of anger, of disappointment, coiled at the pit of his stomach.

Not nearly enough.

A/N: Massive thank you's to Dragon for helping me polish this chapter!

Gotham Royal Hotel - A location in the Batman Arkham games

VladCo. - The wiki listed them as specializing in ghost related technology, which is true, but to be honest I don't see the company actively advertising that everywhere, so I ended up just going for a general "weapons and technology" description for them. Fun fact: did you know that Vlad actually bought out Microsoft and changed its name to Mastersoft? That's wild, dudes

Vlad as a Gothamite - a headcanon that is strangely very compelling to me and provides a convenient excuse as to his invitation. Vlad wasn't born in Gotham though he was raised there for a good portion of his formative years. He left as soon as he graduated high school.

Danielle Masters - The unexpected but very fun outcome of the timeline deviation. Not gonna lie, she started out as a bit of a spite character but I did end up enjoying her character creation.

Bruce and Ms. Tate - Miranda Tate, as some of you may know, is the alias Talia al Ghul used during the Dark Knight trilogy. The trilogy isn't canon to this fic. Some years back in this universe, Bruce and Talia caused quite a stir with their public flirting and budding romance that there were a bunch of rumors being thrown around that the two of them were a lot more serious about each other than they let on in public. The rumor died soon after 'Miranda Tate' left Gotham and Bruce began attending every event with a new date on his arm.

The White Ghost - an alias of Dusan al Ghul. In the Red Robin comics another person takes up the mantle of White Ghost and implies that "the title of White Ghost is defined as a loyal figure that has been affiliated with the League for centuries" (comic vine). This title (and costume) is used a bit differently in this fic, but the core concept of it is the same.