Chapter Text
Sitting at his desk, Bruce had a firm look of focus as he laid colored pencils down on a lone piece of paper. The dank, echoey ambiance of the cave always put him in a clear-thinking headspace. Bats lived in this cave. They slept way above, clanged to the spiky ceilings with their talons dug into the stone and their wings slung over their bodies like blankets.
Alfred insisted on having them removed in case they proved a nuisance, but they merely added to the feeling that Bruce seemed to draw from the cave. The door to the stairs nearby swung open and Alfred came walking in. Bruce didn’t even need to turn his head to see who it was, as he’d heard the sound of Alfred’s fine dress shoes hitting the stone ground enough times to recognize his walking pattern when he came in, getting Bruce’s attention and causing him to turn around.
“Good evening, Master Bruce,” Alfred said as he approached the desk and Bruce didn’t turn around, keeping his attention studiously on the plans, comparing them to the schematics on his computer. “You have a meeting with the board at nine.”
“That can wait.” Bruce looked up from the screen and sighed. “They don’t expect me to be on time.”
“You’re always busy, sir,” the butler conceded, though the hint of mockery in his voice was clear.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Bruce let the amusement fade and focused back on the screen as he sighed in frustration.
”Mr. Earle would probably take advantage of your punctuality,” Alfred studied him, in that way he often did, which made him seem like a small child. “But since you’re here, I’d like to discuss something with you, Master Bruce. Wayne Enterprises is hosting a fundraiser later tonight.”
“I’d forgotten about that,” Bruce was taken aback for a moment. While spending his time down here, time seemed to stand still, especially when he spent a few days recovering.
“Yes, well, I know it’s been some time since you’ve been seen in the public eye, but this feels like the perfect time for Bruce Wayne to make his appearance and reveal himself.”
“Mmm,” Bruce’s distracted glance meant he was thinking about something else, and it likely wasn’t anything to do with the event tonight. Most likely, it was something to do with his latest outing as Batman uncovering Falcone’s latest operation and studying the police response times since the SWAT team. “I’m not sure, Alfred. There’s more important things to do.”
“If I may, sir, I think this is important,” Alfred knew he had brought this up before; he felt like he needed to reiterate it. “While I understand that your nightly activities are important, you are Bruce Wayne. This is your company’s event, and it would be in poor taste for you not to go.”
Bruce turned to face the butler. “I know what I’m doing, Alfred. This is all that matters.”
“But they’re not, sir. Bruce Wayne is not the kind of person to miss this event. If nothing else, at least come for an hour. Make yourself known, let people see you there. It would help with your reputation.”
“And to do what?” Bruce kept his gaze on the screens in front of him, anger boiling in his veins, something less useful sitting in the center of his chest.
”To truly make a difference, taking these opportunities by attacking the problem from every single angle available.”
Bruce didn’t say anything, instead just taking the invitation out of Alfred’s hand and slowly stumbling away. Likely, to either shower or lie down once more. Either way, he could only watch Bruce and frown. The fact he took it was a good sign.
“This won’t involve you risking your life,” Alfred shrugged a little at Bruce. “It’s one night, meant to donate a little bit of money. Please, Master Bruce. All I want for you is to consider going.”
“Okay, I’ll try to attend,” Bruce shut the monitors down and prepared to descend up the stairs. The nonchalance was now firmly back in place, though it would never fool Alfred, not in a million years. “You’re right. It’s bound to be noticeable if Bruce Wayne doesn’t show up when they need him there.”
She was enjoying herself. It was obvious by the smile on her face. She loved it all, the crystal glass of champagne in her thin pale hand, the deep red evening gown that never seemed to surface from her closet, even the black suit that hung loosely on him. The two of them stood off to the side of the ballroom, opposite the exquisite buffet table. As her eyes darted about the room in awe, his hardly ever averted from the wide open door on his watch.
“Oh, honey, look at this, isn’t it breathtaking?” She gasped. He tugged his sleeve up, checking his watch once again.
“Yeah, yeah, very nice,” he muttered absently. With a scowl, she looked back at her husband.
”Will you stop that?” His gaze lifted to his wife. Her arms were crossed with the champagne glass still clutched in her fingers.
“Stop what?” he shrugged.
”Acting like a jerk,” she stated tersely.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he said consolingly. “But how much longer do you want to stay?” He inquired with almost a plea.
“Why are you so eager to leave?”
“Look at me,” he scoffed. “Do I look like I fit in with these people?” he mumbled with an uncomfortable glance around the cliques of A-listers huddled across the ballroom. Stepping back, she gave a mocking look up and down her husband wearing a suit slightly too large for him. He certainly wasn’t as polished as those around them but he certainly had the potential, and she knew it deep down in her heart.
“Like it or not, yes you do,” she answered with a smirk. “Look, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, so enjoy it.”
“You and I both know that the only reason we were even invited to this thing is because my face has been in the news,” he stated stiffly with a lowered tone. “Do these pompous gas bags know why? Of course not, they’re a bunch of socialites with their heads far up each other’s asses to care.”
“Harvey!” She gasped with a scornful look, smacking his arm with her hand. From behind a broad man dressed in a fine black suit with slick dark hair stepped mere inches from the couple.
“Well, it does pay to see things from their point of view, as long as you resurface at the end.” Harvey’s eyes squeezed shut as his face turned scarlet, though no worse than his wife’s. Slowly, he turned to face his eavesdropper. Harvey groaned, instantly recognizing their host standing right next to them.
Bruce Wayne stood with his hands in his pockets and piercing blue eyes. “ADA Dent, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Bruce said with an outstretched hand. Sheepishly, Harvey accepted it.
“Well, the pleasure’s all mine,” Harvey said with an uncharacteristically embarrassed smile. “Mr. Wayne, this is my wife Gilda.”
“Please, Harvey, call me Bruce,” Bruce said as he gently grasped Gilda’s hand. “Gilda,” he greeted warmly. “I am very glad you both came here tonight.”
“Oh?” Harvey inquired with a raised eyebrow.
“I’ve been interested in your work on the Anderson case,” Bruce said as he placed his hands back in his pockets. Harvey hid his utter surprise well, yet remained as skeptical as ever. It was simply in his nature and what made him such a good lawyer.
“Really,” Harvey remarked, refraining from crossing his arms defensively over his chest.
“Carl Anderson was a,” Bruce paused for the best word. “A business partner. His father and mine did some business together.”
“You’re not gonna try and tell me he’s innocent, are you?” Harvey asked. Gilda fired another glare his way. Bruce shook his head and waved his hand with emphasis.
“Not at all. He was a crook even then.” Harvey felt his face relax as his eyebrow lowered back in place and a grin washed away his skepticism. “No, I think that you fighting to put Anderson behind bars is exactly what Gotham needs. We have enough criminals, and we need more decent people like you.”
“Back in town for only a few months and already you’ve got a clear idea of what Gotham needs,” Harvey mused. “I had no idea you were so interested in city affairs. I mistook you for-“
”Another brainless socialite?” Bruce chuckled with a teasing smirk. Again Harvey’s face dipped into scarlet. Gilda suppressed a chuckle behind her hand as Harvey laughed along.
”I apologize for that.”
”No need,” Bruce waved away the apology. “I am simply interested in the good of Gotham City,” he explained. “And I believe someone like you in a position with more weight is just the thing.”
“Then I can count on your vote for DA next year?” Harvey mused. Bruce nodded as he dipped his hand into his suit jacket and retrieved a burgundy leather bound checkbook and golden pen.
”More than that,” Bruce replied. Using a nearby table as a surface, he scrawled the pen in the checkbook then tore it free. Bruce handed the check to Harvey with a sincere look in his sharp blue eyes. With wide dark brown, eyes, Harvey read the amount.
”This is,” Harvey stammered. ‘Bruce, I can’t accept this.”
”Yes you can. Think of it as an investment for Gotham’s bright future,” Bruce said proudly with a cheesy grin. Everything he did was intentional, playing towards his motive. Bruce shook hands again as Harvey carefully slipped the check into his pocket.
”Bruce, I insist you have dinner in our home sometime,” Gilda beamed.
“I’d be happy to,” Bruce smiled. “Be sure to leave your contact information with Alfred, my butler.” Everyone knew the stiff, pristinely suited man who was Wayne’s legal guardian.
With a final goodbye, Bruce excused himself. It seemed that he could finally breathe freely again. Ten years of training his mind and body in the furthest reaches of the globe and none of it prepared him from the exhaustion of pretending to be a spoiled, bachelor socialite, ever in the spotlight, the kind of person everyone expected him to be. He had taken a big risk with the Dents, allowing his truer self to show, only time would tell whether it would be for the best. Bruce sighed in relief.
His cell phone tinkered quietly in his pocket, and he apologized quickly in a conversation before retrieving it. The only person that would bother him would be Alfred, so he moved to answer it.
”Alfred?” Bruce asked, excusing himself from a conversation, hoping he was out of earshot.
”I am terribly sorry to disturb you, Master Bruce,” Alfred stuttered.
“Tell me what happened,” Bruce said, getting in his car. “Alfred?” There was a significant pause on the line.
“Maybe this can wait,” Alfred drawled into his ear, a faint rough edge indicating that his clipped tone as Bruce turned right.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bruce asked frantically. Alfred hid his alarm well.
“There appears to be some activity on the police scanners. Possible homicide.”
“Alfred, tell me,” Bruce tried to find the words. “How bad is it?” The silence on the line made Bruce suspicious.
“No one of the characters we’ve seen around here,” Alfred said. Bruce nodded, patching himself through to the police band. “The chap responsible escaped to the Iceberg Lounge, owned by an Oswald Cobblepot.” Bruce arrived at the Manor.
“I’ll call you back with my location in fifteen minutes.” Alfred watched the feed turn off with a sigh of his own. He hated to drag Bruce away from some semblance of a normal life.
Bruce sighed and went through the police report that Alfred had sent over on his way back from the event. He had also tapped into the police scanner, but the GCPD didn’t consider this to be a priority. Although Bruce had been out by the time of the murder, Alfred had been following the situation closely- and tapped into the surveillance cameras.
The trail had started in the Bowery- a piece of the city so carved up by Falcone and Maroni, even the smaller gangs like Zucco and Throne got in on the act, that it was often referred to as Saint’s Row. Two men were arguing in the middle of Conway Street, and witnesses weren’t sure what it was about, only that one of them had a gun, reports varied about whether it was one or two shots. Either way, the victim had a solid wound to the chest, and it was fatal. Tracking down the victim’s identity was only a matter of minutes. His name was Bertie Crowne, twenty one years old, a distant nephew of Arnold Stromwell’s who had only recently fallen into his late uncle’s gang.
“Did you find a name for the shooter?” Bruce asked Alfred.
“Yes, sir. His name is Johnny Stromwell, age twenty-six, but the police have not done anything-“
”They’re probably paid off,” Bruce interrupted darkly.
“-but the firearm on his possession was given to his bodyguard away from prying eyes. Then the two of them made their way to the Diamond District, where the Iceberg Lounge was located.”
Bruce glanced at Alfred. “I don’t recognize the driver. But my money’s on him working for Falcone, or Maroni.”
“I believe several people in this city do, sir.”
“Have you heard of the Iceberg Lounge before?”
“Last I heard of it, it was the fastest growing club in Gotham, and the Diamond District is old money.. they would want a new business, sir.”
“And the owner…” Bruce highlighted some information. “Oswald Cobblepot. I haven’t seen him since we were teenagers, but I heard rumors from the police that he’s also connected to the Falcone’s. But they could never prove it.”
“I thought Oswald’s record was clean, sir?”
Bruce frowned. “He does have enough money for it to be. Even if he’s clean, it’s likely someone in his club was involved. I’m going to need to look into this myself.”
“He returned a few years before you did, sir, and regained some of his family’s lost wealth.”
“Does he still live in the Pallisades?”
“I don’t believe so, Sir,” Alfred answered. “The mansion’s deed is still likely owned by his mother, but the both of them abandoned it not long after his return. They even had the family graves on the land exhumed and cremated, as I recall.”
“And he moved into a penthouse downtown in the Bowery,” Bruce said, reading the information from the screen. “Looks like he purchased the old Gotham Natural History Museum too. Looks like he owns some sort of nightclub or lounge annexed to the building. The Iceberg Lounge.”
“Apparently, sir, he calls himself the Penguin. A bit of a cruel pseudonym, considering Oswald’s… condition. Perverse, even.”
“I can’t get in as Batman. Maybe Bruce Wayne can pay him a visit at his club.”
“I will make the arrangements, sir,” Alfred told him, shrugging as he turned around. Bruce marched towards the computer, and Alfred tried not to roll his eyes. “I would recommend you getting some rest. If you need anything else, I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Alfred.”
”Of course, sir. Always.”
When Gordon entered the Commissioner’s office, Loeb was impatiently tapping his desk.
”Gordon!” Loeb yelled. “I don’t know how things worked at Chicago, but interfering with Branden’s sting operation?”
“Yes, sir,“ Gordon said. “I understand that. However-“
Loeb held up a hand. “The only reason you aren’t suspended so soon is because of the good press you got saving those kids. All I care about is catching that bastard. You updated your team, then?”
Gordon suppressed his scowl. “Yes, sir.”
“What were you thinking, disrupting our operation? We almost got the bastard! We were so close!”
“Sir, Branden was going to murder everyone in that building. He set it on fire just to lure out Batman.”
“Well, I’m hoping this conversation helped you realize that’s how we do things, right? Haven’t you noticed that no one’s come against us with grievances? It’s because those people didn’t matter.”
Gordon fought the urge to slap the commissioner’s hand off his shoulder. He bit back every insult he could.
“I’ll be perfectly honest, Gordon. You’re worrying some of the other men. Just consider your future here. That’s all.”
“Of course, sir.”
Gordon slammed the door as Detective Essen waited for him.
“Something I can help you with, Detective? There’s only so many arguments I can handle in one day.”
Essen shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe you could be doing something else instead of taking Batman down.”
“We’ll get him eventually, Essen.”
“We’d have found him sooner if it didn’t take a personal visit to get Loeb’s attention. Now we’ve got trigger-happy boys.”
“I don’t like it either, but he has been helpful.”
“Whose side are you on, Detective?”
“Jim, I obviously don’t want a violent vigilante running around Gotham beating up everyone. But even you’ve got to admit that it’s been a nice week.”
”That’s not the point. We aren’t letting him get away with beating up criminals.”
Essen rolled her eyes and followed Gordon outside the building.
Sunlight was streaming through the windows, offering a gorgeous midday view of Upper Gotham below. Bruce grunted, then shuffled to his feet. He was on the top floor of the Wayne Enterprises Building, a frumpy, utilitarian high-rise from the early 1970s that the company had bought shortly after Thomas Wayne died, now replaced with a cold efficiency.
As Bruce stood up from his seat, he ignored Earle’s crisp handshake and the deceiving smile from the CEO. His face was creased with age but his eyes still possessed a keen spark, probably one of the reasons his career in business had advanced.
They moved through a set of doors into the penthouse office. The space was as sparse as the rest of the building, but Earle had dressed it up nicely with plants and photos from his adventures.
“Bruce,” Earle said smoothly, stroking his chin. “You look terrible. Pull another all-nighter?”
Bruce forced a polite nod, stepping forward. "You could say that."
Earle gestured for him to sit, but Bruce remained standing.
“I’m pleased to see you getting more involved,” Earle continued, his voice smooth. “Your parents would be very proud of you. I don’t know if they’d approve of this. But we’re doing what makes us proud.”
Bruce met his gaze. “I’d like to start doing more.”
Earle chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “The family legacy. But unfortunately, there isn’t much of it left. I'm at the head of this company but you're the only Wayne left in Gotham. And… how to put this… you've been through a lot.” He folded his hands. “I don't know if you're ready for that sort of responsibility.”
Bruce took a slow breath, suppressing the irritation creeping up his spine. He could see the greed behind Earle’s carefully chosen words.
“I see,” Bruce said evenly. “Anything else?”
Earle’s smile faltered for just a second—barely noticeable, but Bruce caught it.
“There is something, yes,” Earle admitted. “I’m planning on selling Wayne Enterprises to Janus Cosmetics. The board is supporting that acquisition.”
Bruce frowned. “Roman Sionis? You can’t be serious.”
Earle cleared his throat, his irritation evident. “I am, Bruce. We aren’t cut out for this sort of thing.”
Before Earle could answer, a reedy, spectacled man burst through the door.
Bruce turned, surprised to see Lucius Fox stepping into the office. The older man’s presence was commanding yet calm, his wise eyes holding a quiet amusement as he glanced between Bruce and Earle.
“Bill, we really need to discuss the assets you had us transfer into… oh, Bruce!”
“Lucius,” Earle spread out his arms and cocked his head in a show of disbelief. "I'm busy?"
“I’m sorry, Bill,” Lucius said quickly. “You don't usually take meetings this late in the afternoon."
“That’s actually my fault, Lucius,” Bruce said, shaking his friend’s hand gingerly. “I’m something of a night owl. I’d like to talk with you about something for R&D, since apparently I’m not part of the company.”
He glanced at Earle as he said the last part.
“I suspect you two will, Mr. Fox,” Earle cut in, before either of them could reply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some urgent business to attend to with the shareholders. Jessica will see both of you out.”
Eventually, they entered an elevator, descending several floors until they reached a heavily restricted area. Security personnel stood at the entrance, but they nodded at Lucius, granting them access.
“What can we do about him?” Bruce asked before taking a seat across from him, inside the minimal office lined with shelves full of blueprints, prototypes, and classified files. This was the heart of innovation at Wayne Enterprises.
Lucius nodded, lacing his fingers together. “Sionis is moving in for a takeover bid, Bruce. And Earle is smart enough to see the opportunity after he managed to take the company public.”
Bruce frowned. “What else is happening?”
Lucius exhaled. “The company’s profits would increase, undoubtedly, but under Sionis, the Wayne Foundation would likely fold. Also the R&D budget for engineering would be cut in half and redirected to the development of arms and pharmaceuticals – which besides being directly contradictory to your parents would make your nightly activities more difficult.”
“No more base-jumping?” Bruce asked without any real conviction.
“Entirely uninterested. He’s not particularly keen on polo either.”
Lucius hummed knowingly, standing up and gesturing for Bruce to follow him. They walked over to a large, reinforced cabinet. With a press of his hand against a biometric scanner, the lock clicked open, revealing shelves filled with military-grade prototypes.
“I’m more worried about the general business practice,” Lucius continued, leading the way over to his workbench. “There have been many, myself included, who have long suspected that some of Roman’s enterprises are illegal.”
“Do you want me to look into him?” Bruce lowered his voice slightly.
“It would be an abuse of my position to ask you to investigate a potential business partner,” Fox said firmly. He sat down, tilting his head to one side as if further considering the matter. “However, maybe I didn’t hear anything.”
Bruce grinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Wayne,” Lucius said mildly. He clasped his hands on the desk, leaning forward and the tone of the conversation instantly lightened. “Now, is there anything I can do for you today?”
“As a matter of fact,” Bruce said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I was wondering if you had anything that would help counteract the effects of pepper spray.”
“Pepper spray?” Lucius echoed.
“Or mace. Any sort of aerosol irritant to the face.”
The older man’s eyebrows inched upwards in question.
“Somebody get the wrong impression of a Friday night?” he asked lightly.
“Let’s just say some girls don’t know how to say thank you after you stop a mugging,” Bruce muttered darkly, unable to suppress a grimace of remembered pain. Lucius’ face broke into a broad grin.
“Reckon I could come up with something, Mr. Wayne.”
Harvey returned home, tired. Another day of failing to prosecute a bunch of thugs, though he was unable to dig up anything. The system was supposed to work, but now it seemed like it didn’t. Harvey looked into the mirror.
His reflection was flawed, and uncertain. He always felt like he was split in two. With one side believing in serving the system of Justice, the other side wanting to start working outside the law because it wasn’t helping to make a difference.
Harvey went into the living room, where Gilda was still curled up on the couch, looking at another arms dealer being taken out by “The Batman.” Her eyes flicked to Harvey as he entered, tension clear in his posture.
“You’ve been off ever since Bruce got back, Harvey. Feels like you’ve been carrying a lot of weight on your own.”
“It’s almost like being Assistant DA’s a tough job.”
“Oh, look at you.” She smiled back. “Something’s bothering you, and I’d really like to know what it is.”
“What do you think about him?” Harvey sighed. He stared at the picture of the vigilante there, and ran a hand through his hair. “The Batman. What’s your overall opinion?”
Gilda pretended not to notice the change in topic as she quickly looked at the screen and back at Harvey. “I think he’s trying to help, but there’s something else inside. Some sort of darkness that he’s got and doesn’t want to change it.”
“But it’s working….right?”
Gilda turned to face him, seeing how upset he was. “Are you okay, Harvey?” She leaned up and kissed him. When she pulled away, he finally looked at her in the eyes, brushing her hair behind her ears and smiled wearily.
Harvey took a second and breathed out. “Do you ever feel like… the law just isn’t enough?”
Gilda put her hand over his. Her touch was soft, and genuine, instantly keeping him at ease and making him sane.
“You’re not a little kid anymore, Harvey. You’re making a difference.”
“I wanted to go to law school- because I thought it could help people. But now things are different- people need someone else to protect them, and I want in. I want in with whatever he’s been doing now.”
Gilda threw an arm around Harvey’s shoulders. “Whatever you’re planning to do….I know it’s the right choice.
Harvey lopped his own around Gilda’s waist, bringing her closer to him. “Just promise that if I work outside the law, you’ll support me with this one.”
“Of course.”
Bruce Wayne moved through the heavy black curtain that led to a circular oak door through which he could hear the thrum of a bouncy bass line. The clientele was mostly men in suits being served by women in little black dresses, men clumped in groups of six to ten, smoking over whiskey and beer, exchanging murmurs or looking at the lone sax player.
Eyes followed Bruce as he entered – some conversations died out, others continued. He was led to the back, with excellent view of the stage, to one of the booths which was untypically dark – most others had an ornate table lamp to bathe it in golden light (nice accent colour, gold), but this one was turned off. Still, Bruce could see the sole occupant of the booth in the back.
Still, Bruce could clearly see the sole occupant of the spacious booth- a short man men dressed from head to toe in the black with a top hat like a magician. In one hand, he clutched an umbrella with a tight grip, and held a champagne glass in the other hand. One eye glistened as the glow from the nearby lights shimmered from the surface of his monocle.
“Well, well, i'’s qui'e a honor to serve you, Wayne.” Cobblepot’s polite, modulated voice permeated the large area, holding a hint of amusement. He had a fat, squalid form and was lounging on a couch, a very attractive woman at his side. “'ad i known you were coming, why, i’d 'idy up 'he place mawe.”
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Cobblepot. And please, call me Bruce,” he corrected, turning to the other man, noticing the four bodyguards who surrounded him.
“Then I insist on being Oswald.”
“You seem to be doing well for yourself,” Bruce began in a tone he could not ignore. “How did you do it?”
Cobblepot stepped closer. “I spen' a few years in london. I’m a legi' businessman, Wayne, an' 'his, is my place ov business. Don’' ge' me wrong, wayne, bu' you’ve made a repu'a'ion faw yourself. Wayne en'erprises is always in 'he news.”
“Indeed,” Bruce replied, bristling. “And I am very grateful that I’m able to take the company to new heights.”
“I bet you are, Wayne,” Cobblepot loaded his tone with sympathy as he tapped the chair next to him. Bruce eyed the man sitting at the bar. “Since it’s of your best interest to keep Wayne’s legacy.”
“My legacy is beyond money, Oswald. The greatest legacy is which benefits the widest number of people for a long time. That’s what my ancestors did for this city for generations. And it’s what Wayne Enterprises is trying to keep,” Bruce said as he sat across the table from Oswald.
“You just spoke like a true old money heir.”
“I admit that my fortune’s the work of others. But in the end, I’m a custodian, not an owner, but a proud one.” Bruce threw up his hands slightly. “Surely a man coming from one of Gotham’s most influential families can understand.”
That seemed to hit a nerve in Oswald, who lost his calmness and grace. “I don‘' rely on my family’s faw'une aw name because i was always ou' 'here, makin a name faw myself. Thanks 'o 'he wayne’s i no longer belong 'ere.”
“I hope you don’t have any hard feelings. Enough time has passed to put aside our differences,” Bruce leaned back in the chair, more relaxed now. “Our generation should look to the future.”
”Tha'’s why i came back 'o go'ham- 'o shape 'his ci'y’s fu'ure, an' restawe 'he name ov Cobblepot,” he declared proudly.
Bruce leaned forward, closer. “Looks like you have a big task ahead of you.”
“That's a right proper bit of guv'nor from a bloke who's got the knack for nicking stuff.” A scowl cracked Oswald’s face as his hand returned to the drink. Bruce leaned back and raised his hands.
Tension filled the air as Bruce smirked and looked Oswald in the eye. “It sounds ambitious for someone with a large rap sheet.”
Oswald laughed, and all the other men in the room joined him. “Oh, yes. My more rambunctious days.” He eyed Bruce like a predator consuming its prey. “Oi, if you 'ad a butcher's at me files, all you'd find is a young lad growin' up in a right dodgy manor. An' I 'eard you got a few skeletons in your cupboard, Wayne.”
“The media would never let me keep a secret,” Bruce said without hesitation.
”Don't fret your plates o' meat, Wayne. Ain't brick lane meself over me past, I ain't.” The other men tensed up, but Oswald laughed. “But if you come in here unannounced and ask these kinds of questions, I will be worried, and you don’t want me to be worried.”
“It was good to see you, Oswald,” Bruce muttered between his teeth, shutting the door.
When Harvey Dent pushed open the door of his apartment at about ten minutes before nine, he was freezing and felt exhausted from his day. Gilda would be asleep in the bedroom by now, and he wanted to try his best not to wake her. Slowly, he shut the door behind him, locked it, and began creeping over to the kitchen to have a glass of water, and perhaps a snack. These late nights were not uncommon for him, so it was pretty likely that Gilda wouldn’t question where he’d been.
At least he wasn’t out cheating on her, like a lot of his office seemed to be in the habit of doing. He wasn’t looking forward to going back to work tomorrow. Gil Mason was the District Attorney, and liked to make sure that everyone knew it. But he had an advantage that resonated in the political echelons of Gotham: he could be bought.
A brief knock on the window snapped him out of his senses, causing Harvey to open the sliding door as a freezing breath of air rushed in. He stepped aside and rubbed his hands on his arms to keep warm as a dark, massive silhouette appeared in the frame, then proceeded to step into the glass frame. Harvey coughed.
“I take it this isn’t a social call,” Harvey said, saying the first words that came to mind. “And are you here to turn yourself in?”
”No.”
“So why did you want to see me?” Harvey asked. “You could have just called.” Why was he being so glib? This person could pulverize him within a few seconds.
“You need help, Dent.”
“I need a lot of things. What makes you think I need your help?”
Dent started towards him. Batman made no attempt to step backward. Harvey took a few steps, and then stopped.
“As an officer of the court, I must advise you to report to the nearest police station and submit yourself to arrest. Vigilantism is illegal, and I’m obligated to bring you in.”
“You’re one of the last honest people in Gotham, Dent. That’s why I want to help you.”
“I’m listening.”
Batman reached into his cape and felt around for a compartment on his belt, before handing Harvey some photos. Harvey held them close to his eyes, trying to read them.
“These are of Mason,” Harvey continued until he came upon a set of documents next to the few photos. “How the hell did you get this?”
”Keep reading,” Batman lurched forward, making Harvey back up against the wall.
“What can I even do about this? Mason never listens to me, not to mention he won’t prosecute anyone who I need him to, but I’m guessing this is good news for you, right?”
Harvey continued until he came upon a transcript of a conversation, and his eyes widened. This was a meeting between Maroni and Carmine Falcone. “Holy shit, this is real.”
“I'm sure you can figure out how to make use of this. If you manage to leverage your boss, he’ll allow you to arrest some of Falcone’s people, even though you can’t go after the head. Mason won’t be able to keep prosecuting Falcone’s competition.”
“Well, I appreciate this,” Harvey nodded, unable to take his eyes off of the photos. “But you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. But what’s to stop Falcone or Maroni from silencing me?”
”I won’t let that happen,” Batman said. “They won’t be able to stop me. Next time we meet, I’ll have something more concrete for us to use.”
Harvey looked down for a second, taking his eyes off the figure. “How do I know you can be trusted?”
The vigilante nodded to him. “Because I’m the only friend you’ve got.”
Harvey raised his eyebrows and looked up, moving to the kitchen. “Friend?”
The attorney had to do a double-take. The figure had disappeared.
After making a quick reconnaissance of the area, Batman had alighted on the warehouse building opposite the Iceberg Lounge and was now perched on a convenient fire escape overlooking the side exit of the club. He settled a little more comfortably on the fire escape, wrapping his cape around him as protection against the snow, and waited – because in this case it would simply be a waiting game, dictated by human biology and a little local knowledge. An hour went by and men came and went.
Another half an hour later and the side door opened to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a thin mustache plastered across his upper lip. He was wearing a disgustingly loud plaid suit and a pair of aviator sunglasses and, though he was perched high up, even at this distance Batman could make out the matchstick clenched between his teeth. Two storeys above him Batman shifted on his perch, shaking the snow from where it had settled about his shoulders and readied a grapple beneath his cape. Showtime.
He dropped silently and landed in a conveniently dense patch of shadows a few yards away from the dumpster. Quick as lightening he covered the sparse distance between him and the thug, grabbed the man by the scruff of his suit jacket and yanked him back into the shadows, away from his buddies.
The thug barely had time to let out a startled yelp before he was slammed against the wall, all the breath knocked out of him, and pinned there by two heavy black-gloved hands fisted in his lapels. Batman leaned forward until they were practically nose-to-cowl, baring his teeth in a bestial snarl and grabbed his neck.
”The password,” he growled, slamming the man back against the wall once more, not even wincing when he heard the back of the gangster’s head connect with the brickwork.
A few minutes later, Batman stepped into the dark office. The air smelled of cigarette smoke, a liquor cabinet to the left, bathroom to the right. Behind the desk ahead of him was a painting of Cobblepot as a young boy, with his mother and father. He and his father were wearing suits, his mother a dark green dress. On Oswald’s shoulder sat a raven.
He reached behind him and attached the router into the computer. He hacked the password, before accessing his private files. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. Batman pressed his fingers to his ear. Cobblepot had been involved in destroying evidence, moving illegal gash and firearms across the city. The gun, shot by a Johnny Stromwell and delivered to the club by his driver, a Michael Oleson, not even the latest crime on the list. Murders and rapes went by this place from some of the most influential names in the city – CEOs, cops, the mayor. He was reaching into a pouch on his belt when the light turned on.
Three men stood in the doorway. One of them was a tall man with round glasses, the two on either side of him brawny, and brandishing guns. They stared anxiously at the figure before them.
”You don’t want to try anything,” Batman growled, moving low. He needed the information on the computer, but now there’s no time.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" The first man announced as he entered the office and one of the men shut the door. "The 'Batman' himself, I presume. And what do you have there?” He questioned, motioning towards the drawer of files. Batman simply gave the man a defiant glare, one that made the henchmen a bit nervous.
Batman simultaneously threw a bat-shuriken at the men's guns, knocking the guns out of their hands, disabling them as well while diving behind the desk. The first man shot the gun at the desk, creating a spray of holes in it. Batman looked at the glass, seeing the gunman's reflection. He aimed his projectile carefully, before throwing it.
The thugs ran up to Batman and tried throwing a hook to his face but Batman was too fast and ducked under it before delivering a quick vertical fisted strike to his ribs.
“We aren’t gonna tell you anything!” the thug gasped, pressing the button to call for backup on his phone. If he wanted to put Stromwell away, he needed to get that information on the computer, but he needed to move.
He hurled the smoke pellets at the ground and sheltered himself under his cape in protection for the upcoming storm. The pellets burst and submerged the club in a cloud of dense, black smoke. The thugs coughed under the thickness and obeyed the order to open fire. Through the blindness, the sprinkler system sprang to life and cleared the shrouded room. Glass shattered, creating an opening to further diminish the cloaked atmosphere. There was no sign of Batman, just shattered pieces of glass.