There were few things that gave Alfred hope, nowadays. However, this week had certainly marked an improvement from the previous. The haunted house was a smashing success. People from all over were able to come and enjoy the festivities, and, for once in so many years, Wayne Manor felt more alive than ever. However, what really had gotten Alfred's spirits up was the newspaper before him.

Bruce Wayne: The Man Behind the Money

By Vicki Vale

The article in question had been written by a rather… committed reporter who had evidently taken quite some time to get an interview with Bruce, from what Alfred had been told. It was enough that she had apparently managed to sneak onto the property, using the haunted house as a means to get a quote from Bruce himself.

Alfred wasn't sure whether to be impressed with her ingenuity, or aghast at the fact that the haunted house had been used in such a way. Of course the cameras had caught her, and someone was already moving to intercept the intrepid Miss Vale, but Bruce had found her first, and charmed her away from anything truly dangerous.

He did have to give credit where it was due. For a woman who had been essentially blacklisted from most if not all sources of the press, to get back on her feet so quickly was something to commend. That is, even if she did tell some tall tales in order to get a few words from Bruce.

While it certainly was not the way that Alfred would have gotten an interview to the world at large, at least it was progress. Bruce had been spending far too much time with his nightly activities, and not enough time with the company that his parents had fought so much for. Martha had committed enough blood, sweat and tears from her clinics, and Thomas? God, Thomas had done wonders in pushing the company, and the city into a better tomorrow. A brighter tomorrow. But that was gone now, leaving only a husk in it's place.

Even if Bruce did not want to admit it, the Wayne name and legacy was here with him, and Alfred would be damned if he was going to let that foolish boy get himself killed. So here Alfred was, sitting in front of a massive computer monitor, keeping an eye on the foolish boy in question getting into yet another patrol.

A small part of Alfred — much to his shame — was honestly impressed with how Bruce carried himself, underneath the mask that he had put on, each and every night. The feats of acrobatics and strength that he had slowly been managing to accomplish almost reminded Alfred of his younger years, back when he was in the Circus, or as most people had known it, MI6. And 'circus' was an apt comparison, considering the ways that Bruce was leaping and throwing himself, or the theatrics that he managed to conjure up to scare the people he fought against.

Alfred found himself frowning as the images in front of him shifted, showing Bruce taking on yet another group of ruffians. Lucius Fox was a man of many talents, and designing a camera that could be fit over a person's eyes and capturing a real time image was nothing short of remarkable.

In this instance, however, Alfred found himself seeing the world through Bruce's eyes, and all he was seeing was rage. Sheer, and utter fury. More akin to hellfire than anything else, especially in the instances where Bruce lingered, putting a bit more force into his blows than what was likely needed.

The man that Bruce was staring down at was a great example of that. Red hair, dressed in a sensible long coat, and armed with a pistol. He was in the middle of a drug deal, and had taken a shot at Bruce, when he had chosen to intervene.

Instead of trying to move out of the way of the bullet like any reasonable man, Bruce merely decided to laugh and let the bullet hit him in the chest. Then he proceeded to beat the man senseless, ignoring all the other people for a moment. What had followed was a beating that almost reminded Alfred of how certain prisoners of war looked after a few hours of 'interrogation'.

As Bruce had finally moved to focus on the rest of the group, Alfred had taken it upon himself to see if the first man was on any of the files that Bruce had been slowly building up. His face was certainly familiar enough to Alfred, and that could mean something, even as he leaned forward to look through a series of folders stacked to the side.

Two years of hard labor and investigation, but it was clear in Bruce's mind that his work was barely beginning. Alfred made a small sound of recognition upon finding the file he was searching for.

Detective Edward Grogan. He had been in the Gotham City Police Department for a number of years, and spent quite a long time undercover. That, it seems, was responsible for the substance abuse that the man was suffering from, based on the numerous photos that Bruce had clearly been able to acquire.

Several notes were scrawled alongside the file itself, which listed both a detailed look into Grogan's life, and a list of accomplishments that the man had acquired. If anything, Alfred's frown deepened upon reading what Bruce had figured out.

Grogan's addiction is only getting worse. What money he isn't spending on his next high is going into barely keeping him alive. The only real constant in his life is Detective Arnold Flass, but that's changing. His addiction is slowly turning into obsession, and it's going to be his undoing.

It was cold, calculating and methodical. It also reminded Alfred of a certain someone else, the more he kept reading. Letting out a tired sigh, Alfred found himself looking back up at the computer screen. What a shame, he really hadn't wanted to start an argument tonight.

Alfred had to admit that the waiting was the worst part, when it came to handling Bruce's nightly occurrences. Every night, unsure if his ward was going to come back or not. Every night, waiting to see if the camera feed he kept watching would suddenly turn off because someone had finally gotten a lucky hit.

The pit forming in Alfred's stomach vanished as the roar of that ghastly beast that Bruce called a car drove into the cave. It rumbled to a halt, the black armor coating the car in question fresh with new scorch marks.

Bruce exited the car, and Alfred could only stare at him for a moment. It was so hard to recognize the man in front of him. Each and every time he tried to find the boy he helped raise, but now Alfred could only see the urban legend that was taking Gotham by storm.

Black armor that almost seemed to swallow the light when Bruce moved, segmented and bulletproof in all the places that mattered. A long black cape, that certainly added to the frightful nature of Bruce's current attire. But it was the face that honestly unnerved Alfred the most. Fully covering his face was a black, unfeeling mask that turned his eyes into mere pinpricks. Dried blood covered the gauntlets he wore, remnants of his newest outing.

It was as if a dark wraith had taken form, and was hellbent on wrecking as much fury as it could manage.

"Good evening, Master Bruce. Eventful night?" Alfred asked, waiting to see just how Bruce would react to the question.

Bruce said nothing, not as he stomped forward towards the computer Alfred had spent the better half of a night in front of. Pausing for a moment, Bruce took off his mask and set it aside, before practically collapsing in a nearby seat.

"Fine, Alfred."

"Oh, is that so? Well that's delightful to hear. The same as always then?" Alfred asked, doing his best to keep the dull surprise out of his voice as he walked forward. Bruce let out a short grunt, and instead began to take off the upper half of his suit.

Taking a moment to get a bottle of water, Alfred placed it beside Bruce, not saying anything as the younger man kept removing pieces of armor. As he reached over for something and winced, Alfred reached for a nearby medical kit.

Already bruises were forming, next to the ones that should have been healing at this point. However, aside from those, it seemed that Bruce had managed to sustain a few cuts on patrol. Those would likely be the worst things to worry about, and so Alfred got to work. Fishing out a bottle of antiseptic, he quickly began to clean off the wounds. Bruce barely flinched, having taken time to finally remove his gauntlets, and the large belt full of gadgets at his waist.

Neither said anything for a moment, with Bruce taking small sips of water and Alfred finishing his work of cleaning off the wound. When that was sorted out, and as Alfred reached for the sterile sewing kit, he decided it was finally time to discuss the elephant in the room.

"So, Master Bruce," Alfred finally said, his hands unflinching as he began to apply some stitches. "You're targeting the police now? Seems like a leap from the usual ruffians."

Bruce turned, giving Alfred a short glance. "Detective Grogan happened to be in the line of fire, Alfred. I wouldn't call it targeting."

Alfred only raised an eyebrow, having finished stitching up the first cut. "The beating you gave him convinced me otherwise, sir. What changed, if I might ask?"

"... He's the first one I found that was blatantly getting a bribe from criminals. He's the first link. I get to him, I might get to the others. Make them scared. Desperate."

The reasoning was admittedly sound. But there was more to it, there always was.

"Considering the files I found, I would have figured you had enough evidence to get them taken off the streets, though. Why not send it anonymously?"

Bruce gave a short grunt. Those were becoming a large part of his vocabulary, it seemed.

"Grogan's just one detective. The others I have files on are beat cops. I need more, Alfred, before I can make my move. I think the Commissioner's dirty. Maybe even some of the captains. If I hit them now, it's only stopping a small leak. All the evidence I've gathered would get thrown out, if the wrong people are still in power. If I take my time, it gives them more chances to slip up. Until then? I just make sure they can't get back on the streets."

"Sir. While I do compliment taking initiative… This is going to be met with force. Escalation on the police's side of things, especially once they notice that you're going after them. You'll be made a priority target in return. You know that, right?"

Bruce nodded, barely. Alfred began to attend to his other cut while they spoke. "I know. It seems they've already got a group dedicated to tracking me down. It's been led by a newcomer. Detective James Gordon. He's an interesting case."

Alfred let out a short hum, nodding along at Bruce's statement. Internally, he couldn't help but sigh. Bruce couldn't see that this sort of attention was the worst case scenario. He shouldn't have to have expected this. It shouldn't have gotten this far.

"Interesting, you say? Why?"

"He's got a clean record. Seems to have transferred over from Chicago after uncovering some corruption on his end. So he stands out, compared to half of the GCPD. I'll have to find out more, but he's someone to make a note about."

"If you say so, sir." Alfred said, letting out a short sigh as he pulled away. "I would recommend not pushing yourself, considering the work I put into those stitches, but I'm sure you'll find a way to tear them anyway," he blandly said, wiping off his hands.

Bruce let out a bitter chuckle. "I'll try my best, Alfred."

"I just want to reiterate, perhaps some caution next time? I understand that you want to get to the bottom of this, but you're only one man. Everyone has their limits."

Bruce turned to face Alfred, sighing. "Maybe. But I haven't found mine yet. I'll be careful, Alfred, but I still have to try."

"It's all I ask of you, sir." Alfred told him, shrugging as he turned around. Bruce marched towards the computer, and it took all Alfred had to not roll his eyes. "I would recommend you getting some rest. Your dinner's already in the oven. I'll set it to warm. If you need anything else, you know where to find me."

"Thank you, Alfred."

"Of course, sir. Always."

Next Chapter: 23rd January