a symbol of hope

by ScreechTheMighty

Summary:

As Gotham struggles to heal, one man looks to a troubled past while another faces an uncertain future. - OR, I have emotions about Clark Kent and also Bruce Wayne being an ND icon, so here you go.

Chapter 1

  November 21:

There was a lot of work to do.

By day, the city still needed to be cleared. There wasn’t as much work for him now, but he kept an eye out. Went where an extra set of hands or a reassuring presence was needed.

The night was something different. His territory. What remained of the police were stretched thin, and the criminal element still cannibalized the city where they could. So he took to the shadows. Guarded the weak points. On good nights, it was simple: guiding the lost and displaced to safety, spooking a few opportunists who fled the second stealing became too difficult, following lines of supply trucks to confirm they met no resistance.

On bad nights, he confirmed his suit was still stab-proof.

It didn’t leave much time for sleep, but he tried. Staying rested kept him able to protect the city. Even if he was just lying down, it was something.

The mental hurdle was always there, though. The feeling that he could be doing more, that there wasn’t time to rest. It made the simple act of getting out of the suit and into a bed (or on the couch) nearly impossible.

But he managed. And, ironically, waking up was almost more difficult than falling asleep. Especially when the first thing he saw was...

Reminder: Interview, Daily Planet, 1:30 p.m.

Bruce groaned and pulled the pillow back over his head. It took him another fifteen minutes to drag himself out of bed.

Shower. Comfortable clothes. Kitchen for breakfast (more like early lunch, but he was eating). Back to the bathroom. Teeth. Check face for visible bruising. Shave. Stare at the closet and wonder which outfit would make him look...

That was the problem. He didn’t know how he was supposed to look.

Bruce had been a recluse his entire adult life. He might have stayed that way until he died, but...Riddler. Renewal. All of it proved that Gotham needed more than he could give while living in the shadows. It needed a two pronged approach. The Batman and Bruce Wayne.

But that meant an image overhaul. Hence the interview. Hence him staring at five similar white shirts and wondering what the difference was. If there was a difference. If wearing the wrong shirt meant giving off the wrong image. The right image was still a half-formed concept of a person: Bruce Wayne, penitent philanthropist. Trying to repair his family’s legacy. He didn’t know who that person should look like, but it probably wasn’t the face he saw whenever he glanced at the mirror.

But I don’t know how to be anyone else.

Bruce sighed and picked up the shirt he hated the least. That was how he picked pants, too. Easy choices.

The tie? Less so. He was still stuck on them when he heard the sound of footsteps, slow and hesitant, accompanied by the tapping of a cane. Bruce didn’t turn around, hoping to hide his concerned grimace for as long as possible. “You’re supposed to be resting,” he said.

He didn’t have to turn around to see Alfred’s skeptical expression. The man had been one of his only constants for two decades. Bruce knew his tones by now. “You really want to face the press alone?” Alfred asked.

No, Bruce thought. Aloud, he said, “It’s one interview. I won’t die.”

“I’m sure you won’t, sir, but I’d rather not risk it.” It took a few more steps for Alfred to reach Bruce’s side. He seemed to be moving more easily. That was good to see. “You’re over thinking it.”

Bruce sighed again. “I know, it’s just a tie...” He picked one at random. It was deep red, almost blood red. Too violent, or am I the only one who sees that? “I did find my cufflinks.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Alfred examined the scattered ties before selecting one. Royal blue, nothing especially unique about it as far as Bruce could tell. “This one, do you think?”

Bruce shrugged. All the same to him, really. Alfred seemed to take the gesture as agreement and sat down to tie the knot. “Your mother used to do this,” he said suddenly.

Bruce had expected to hear about his father, today of all days. He’d been bracing himself for the inevitable you look just like him ever since he got dressed. Bringing up his mother was...unexpected. “What do you mean?”

“She was the same way with jewelry. She always matched outfits with your father...” Alfred passed the tie off to Bruce. “...but she was on her own with accessories. She put quite a bit of thought into it.”

Bruce immediately knew what he was talking about. Their outfits had always been color coordinated. As he slipped the tie on, he remembered a different set of hands adjusting his lapels. Well, Dad’s wearing blue, so you can match him, or you can do...red or gold, I think. Whichever one you want.

He’d picked red because it matched her dress. He’d almost forgotten about that day.

It was just another way he was untethered. His parents knew what to do. Always had. He could mirror them socially and know it was the right answer. Now…

Well, he had Alfred, but he couldn’t exactly match outfits with his butler. Even if their relationship was more complicated than that. That would definitely come across as the wrong kind of eccentric.

Someone knocked at the door. “Master Wayne?” called Dory through the door. “The reporter is here. He said to take your time since he’s early, but I thought you should know.”

Bruce glanced at the clock. 1:20 p.m. Ten minutes. It felt like seconds. “Thank you,” Bruce called back, wincing at the sound of his own voice. This is going to be a long interview. He adjusted the tie one more time before going for the cufflinks. “You did vet this one, right?” he asked.

“Thoroughly,” said Alfred. “No criminal history, no family ties to organized crime. His parents are sorghum farmers from Kansas, nothing of real note there. The Daily Planet is well known for having high standards of integrity. He’s new to the paper, but all of his reporting seems fair.” Alfred hesitated. “He’s adopted. I hoped that a shared background might give him some additional empathy.”

Oh. “Good thinking.” Not that Bruce liked being reminded of it, but whatever worked. He scooped up the suit jacket (suit jackets always matched pants, it made that easy, at least) and put it on. “Be honest. How do I look?”

“Shoulders back,” Alfred instructed immediately. Bruce fought back the urge to roll his eyes as he forced his body more upright. Alfred stood carefully, examining Bruce’s appearance. The only thing he adjusted was Bruce’s hair, carefully smoothing it back into place. “You’ll do just fine,” Alfred said.

For the first time, Bruce felt even the smallest surge of confidence.

It withered and died the second he left the room and heard a strange voice in the study.

His stomach sank.  It’s fine, it’s fine, just breathe, it’s fine. “There’s nothing left from the Riddler investigation, right?” he whispered.

“I made sure it was covered,” Alfred whispered back. “Though next time you should choose a different paint. Or no paint at all.”

“Sorry...”

Alfred waved him off. “Just remember, they can’t tell if you’re looking at their nose.”

“I know.”

Bruce thought about trying to smile before he went in. He was sure it would look like a grimace, so he focused on looking calm instead. Breathe. Breathe. It’s fine. You have to get used to this.

Breathe.

Bruce opened the door.

He took in the scene carefully. The figure sitting in the chair: about his age, dark hair, medium olive skin, eyes maybe blue. He was wearing glasses, and the glare from the lights made it hard to tell. White shirt rolled up to the elbow. Red and blue tie. There was a splattering of drying water on his pants, from mid-shin upwards. If Bruce had to guess, he’d been wading his way through the downtown. Probably looking for another story, in case the interview wasn’t interesting enough. Shoes were dry, so he’d been smart enough to bring foots. His parents were farmers, he’d know a thing or two about dealing with wet weather. And he seemed...sociable, or at least able to fake it. He was chatting with Dory as if he’d known her his entire life.

“...does have me feeling a bit like my first day at MU, I won’t lie,” the man said. He glanced towards the door, and stood up almost instantly when he saw Bruce. “Oh! Mr. Wayne!”

That felt weird. The man didn’t look much older than Bruce, if he was any older at all. But you are Mr. Wayne, now. You have to get used to it. And he’d have to get used to handshakes, which the man crossed the room to offer. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Thank you so much for agreeing to this.”

Bruce was pleased with himself for not wincing when he shook Clark Kent’s hand. Helped that his hands weren’t too clammy or dry. He was expecting them to be calloused, but maybe Kent had been away from the farm long enough for them to soften. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” Bruce said.

“Oh, no, not at all, I know I was early,” Kent said. “I wasn’t sure how clogged the roads would be. And...Mr. Pennyworth?” Kent offered a hand to Alfred. “Glad to see you’re on your feet.”

Alfred accepted the handshake. “Thank you for your concern, sir.”

That made national news? Of course it did. I’m Bruce Wayne.

He’d never hated that fact more. But he pushed that to the back of his mind, along with everything else. He sat down on the other side of the desk, grateful for the distance. His hands strayed to the cufflinks, thumb tracing the W etched into it.

“So, what does the Daily Planet want to know?”

He just hoped it wasn’t anything too damning.

 

---

 

Bruce Wayne was infamous in Gotham, but no one knew anything about him. What they did know was tragic: parents killed in front of him at age ten, two decades of radio silence after that. The family butler and Bruce Wayne’s legal guardian, Alfred Pennyworth, had done an admirable job keeping him out of the spotlight, but even when he hit adulthood, it was radio silence. Gotham’s absent prince, never making public appearances, never showing up at the usual parties and outings that rich people went to.

Then the Riddler happened. He’d been targeted for assassination; it was only pure chance that the attempt failed. Now Bruce Wayne was out in public, making generous donations with promises of more to come, taking control of the Renewal fund. It was very noble of him.

Clark was starting to suspect that it was also incredibly painful for the guy.

Bruce Wayne didn’t project the kind of bravado that most people like him exuded. He wasn’t even, as some back at the Planet had suspected, the suave and mysterious type. He was shy. Soft spoken, careful grip during the handshake. He made eye contact, but perhaps just a bit too much eye contact, like it was something he had to think about doing.

Clark always recorded interviews and took notes. One for exact wording, one for broad strokes and impressions. He put a bit more focus into looking at the notepad this time. It might spare the guy some discomfort. “I just wanted to thank you again for agreeing to this. I understand you’re probably busy.”

“It’s no trouble. I wish you could have seen Gotham under better circumstances, Mr. Kent.”

Chooses his words carefully, Clark noted. “Maybe I’ll come back one day. I’ve never seen buildings like this,” he said. Establish rapport. Seem approachable. It might calm him down. “She’s an old city, right? And your family has been a part of it since...?”

“The beginning, more or less. My father always used to say there wouldn’t be a Wayne family without Gotham.”

“And that’s why giving back is so important for you?”

“I have the means. I have an obligation to use them well.”

Wayne’s voice stayed level, but there was something bitter in those last words. Regret. When Clark glanced up, Wayne was looking off to the side. “I take it the Riddler terrorist attacks put some things in perspective as well?” Clark asked. “Between the allegations against your father and your being targeted like that...”

That struck a nerve. Wayne’s jaw twitched, a barely-restrained grimace. Despite that, his voice stayed level and soft. “I’m learning from it,” he said. “Whatever mistakes my father may have made and whatever his intentions were...he loved this city. I know that.  I do, too.” He glanced towards the window. Gotham was foggy that day, but Clark had gotten a glimpse of the view before the interview started. It was still spectacular. “I want to help. And if it makes up for any mistakes my family has made, I’ll take that.”

Not a confirmation. Not a denial, either. That had pretty much been Bruce Wayne’s response to the allegations that Thomas Wayne had used mob connections to have a man murdered. Clark had wanted to look into that one, but the case was almost two decades old and one of the only men who could definitely confirm what had happened was dead. He’d need more time to research it properly. Besides, he’d been told, under no uncertain terms, that this wasn’t about the deceased Waynes. This was about the living ones.

It still took a lot of self-control on Clark’s part to brush past the allegations and keep the discussion going. “And shutting down Renewal was a part of that?”

“Restructuring,” Wayne corrected. “With more oversight. I’m in open talks with the mayor to ensure the money is used properly this time.”

“Is that why she hasn’t been answering her phone?” This time, when Clark glanced up, he realized Wayne was staring at him in confusion. “I’m kidding. She’s been a hard woman to reach. I know you’re only part of that.”

“...right.”

Oh, no, I embarrassed him. Time to redirect. “Were there any projects in particular you were hoping to focus on? And how do you plan to prioritize where the money is sent?”

Sometimes you didn’t know the right question until you asked it. And that was definitely the right question. Wayne didn’t magically loosen up and seem entirely comfortable, but he did start speaking more freely. It was clear he’d put a lot of thought into the matter; his speech didn’t seem so forced or rehearsed. Even his body language shifted. Ironically, he was making less eye contact, but he was looking towards Clark, his shoulders less tense, jaw unclenched.

He cared about this. He seemed especially focused on helping the displaced youth of Gotham, which made sense considering his history.  He spoke quickly enough that Clark counted on the recorder to pick up quotes and switched exclusively to mood notes.

Times of crisis bring out the best in people. They seem to be bringing out the best in Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s Crown Prince finally ascending to the throne. (Too much?) Leans forward more the longer he speaks. Wayne had clasped his hands on the table. His thumbs drummed a beat as he spoke. Weirdly, it looked like he’d sprained a finger recently. Clark was tempted to ask, just to keep the rapport going, but it might have been a sensitive question. Wayne seemed to embarrass easily.

Again. He’s shy. None of his business, anyway. Just his reporter nosiness shining through.

“...I’m sorry, I sure you had other questions...”

“Hmm?” Clark looked up from his notepad. Wayne had withdrawn unexpectedly, leaned back in his chair, hands back in his lap. “Oh, no, this is perfect. I’m sure you’ve been keeping your accountants busy.”

For a moment, Clark could’ve sworn he saw Wayne smile a bit. His eyes slid over to where Pennyworth sat. Clark had a feeling there was an inside joke there. “Yeah, I think they’re starting to get a little sick of me. Not what they were expecting when I finally started paying attention to the finances, I think.”

Oh, that was a good entry point, actually. “Speaking of...if you don’t mind my asking, what exactly does Bruce Wayne spend his money on, when he’s not spending it on Gotham?” Wait, maybe rephrase. “People don’t know much about what you’re like as a person. Of course, your philanthropic work is the most important thing right now, but...”

Clark had never seen a man’s brain so blatantly stall out as Wayne’s did in that moment. He didn’t even become closed off again, at least not like he had before. A slight crease of the eyebrows and wrinkle of the nose, that split-second frown accompanied by another confused glance towards Pennyworth. That did make Clark a little nervous about whatever Wayne was about to say, but...

“Nirvana,” Wayne mumbled. Then, a bit louder, “I have...a record collection.”

It didn’t sound like a deflection; more like he was embarrassed. He probably thought Clark was looking for a juicier answer, but honestly, Clark was relieved it was that normal. “Do you have a favorite...?”

It wasn’t quite the slam dunk question of earlier, but it did get Wayne to open up enough to explain the difference between grunge, post-grunge, and second-wave post-grunge, something Clark didn’t know existed. It must have showed on his face, because Wayne nearly started apologizing again. “It’s not you,” Clark said quickly. “It all makes sense. I’m just new to this. My parents just listened to a lot of Klezmer, if that gives you any idea of where I’m coming from.”

“Klezmer?”

“Yeah, it’s very Jewish. I learned a good chunk of Yiddish from that.”

Wayne perked up slightly. “It’s heavy metal, but...David Draiman from Disturbed is Jewish.”

“Okay, them I’ve heard of.” Not the Jewish part, though Clark made a mental note to tell Pa about that. “Do you play an instrument?”

“I took piano as a kid. I was...thinking of taking up guitar...”  Clark looked up in time to catch the tail end of another embarrassed wince. “Not to be that person...”

“No, no, it’s a good instrument! I hope you have better luck than I did,” Clark said. He was sure Wayne would. He didn’t have Clark’s very...unique set of concerns. He had learned to navigate the world with his strength levels pretty well, but guitar strings always broke on him no matter how careful he was.

The interview wound down not long after, leaving Clark with more than enough material. Combine it with the investigating he’d been doing around the city, and even if he didn’t get the chance to talk to the mayor...I can definitely write a good article with this. “Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said. “Really, thank you.”

“No trouble,” Wayne said, though the slight note of relief in his voice said otherwise. He did still hold out a hand for Clark to shake, so he hadn’t stressed the poor guy out that badly (he hoped). “Are you staying in the city?”

“For a little while,” Clark said. “There’s a lot of ground to cover now they’re letting people into the city. Anywhere I should avoid?”

“Southeast is still in rough shape,” Wayne said without hesitation. “And a lot of the displaced have moved into the train systems since they’re still not running.”

The sad thing was, that only made Clark want to go there more. Shining a light on the people of Gotham who still needed help—and many of them badly—was part of the reason he’d come. Besides, it’s not like I’m in any real danger...

But the only two people who knew about that were far away in Kansas, and they’d probably worry about him anyway. So Clark just smiled, thanked him, and went on his way. He pretended not to notice Wayne immediately sinking back into his office chair before the door was even closed, or how probing and protective Pennyworth’s gaze was.

It had certainly been an unusual interview, but honestly? Clark was used to unusual.

 

---

 

He expected to see the maps, the police reports, the eyecam footage of Gotham’s suffering splayed out on Bruce’s screens. What he didn’t expect to see was...

“You meant that earlier?” Alfred asked.

Bruce glanced up from the computer. He had a music store open in one window and a beginner’s guide to guitar purchasing in another. “I...didn’t,” Bruce admitted quietly. “But then I thought about it, and...”

He trailed off and leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t in the suit, not yet, but he’d draped one fo the capes over his shoulders, enveloping himself in it. The overall affect was...contradictory. Gotham’s protector and a lost child mixed together.

But he’s not a child anymore. He hasn’t been for years. Maybe not even since his parents died.

“It’s something people like me do, right?” Bruce finished. He nudged the spare chair in Alfred’s direction with his foot. “Play an instrument?”

“Do you mean people like Bruce Wayne?” Alfred asked as he sat down. “Or people like a young and single heir to his family’s fortune?”

“The second one.”

“In my experience, yes. And the good news is, if you don’t enjoy it, collecting instruments you don’t play is a hobby on its own.”

Bruce hummed. His eyes scanned the pages with the same quiet intensity he’d use a crime scene. “Might be worth the investment. I need something to talk about, and...I don’t think I can get away with having a robust Hot Wheels collection anymore.”

The Hot Wheels. Alfred had almost forgotten what having those bloody things underfoot had been like. “I think you’d be surprised,” Alfred said. “So long as you keep them in the box...”

“Why? They’re toys. They’re meant to be used.”

“Something about the value. I don’t understand it either.” Alfred shifted in his seat—damn hip was still aching after the explosion—and examined Bruce’s expression carefully. Some stress from the interview was still lingering in his eyes. “You did well earlier.”

Bruce finally looked directly at Alfred. In that moment, he looked like a halfway point between his parents. The coming-back-to-Earth crease in the brow his father got whenever he was interrupted from his work. The confused frown his mother wore whenever she was complimented, as if she were trying to figure out what she’d done that was worthy of praise. “Don’t say that yet,” Bruce said finally, a bit clumsily. “We haven’t read the article.”

“Well, you made it very difficult for him to say anything negative about you,” Alfred amended. "Nothing that will stick, anyway."

His mind briefly flashed back to Mrs. Wayne, fretting after another public appearance. I looked okay, right? Did I smile enough? She’d worried about people thought of her. And when they'd found out about the reporter…

I don't want everyone to look at me that way again.

She'd been so afraid of being seen as…fragile, unstable. Different. And now here was her son, contemplating which public facing hobby would best make him seem normal.

I'm sorry, Martha. I tried. I swear I did.

He just hoped Clark Kent had some mercy in him. Enough to leave Bruce be. Not for the sake of the family name, or covering for the Batman, but for his own sake.

The world was cruel enough as it was. Bruce didn't need to face that special brand of cruelty. Not with everything else he faced.

Bruce abruptly shut the window and stood, shrugging off the cape. "I might be out later than usual. There's another food convoy coming through. I want to be sure if gets to the right people." The single-minded focus had returned to his eyes. It pained Alfred to admit it, but he seemed so much more confident in those moments. "You rest."

Alfred shook his head, unable to hide the fond smile on his lips. "I'm supposed to tell you that."

"I know you're thinking it." Bruce glanced Alfred's way. For a moment, Alfred thought he saw Bruce smile. "I'll be okay."

Alfred felt his smile slip. He forced it to stay. "Of course you will, sir."

You'd better. I'll never forgive myself if you're not.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Oh shit I finally updated??? Sorry about the delay, Moon Knight happened and well. Y’know. As a quick CW, this chapter does include a hostage situation involving a gunman. No one gets hurt, but with America being...’Murica lately, I figured better safe than sorry with the warnings.

November 22

"What about this one?"

Clark leaned over to check the photo. “Oh, that one, definitely,” Clark said. The picture was from a press conference the day before Clark’s interview with Bruce Wayne. Bella Real stood at the podium, out of focus as she talked about Renewal. Bruce Wayne stood to her left, elevated slightly from the steps and the height difference, fully in focus. Looking at the reporters, but with a more somber expression. Almost mournful. I see your suffering, that look said. I want to help. It definitely fit the man Clark had spoken to the day before. “It’s perfect.”

Jimmy Olsen beamed. “I thought so! Still bummed I couldn’t go with you...”

“Interview was contingent on it just being me,” Clark said apologetically. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to get anything out of him if I had company. And I don’t think he would’ve been comfortable enough for a good photo.”

“Yeah, fair.” Jimmy flipped through a few more pictures before putting the camera away. “So, we’re hitting the food bank today?”

“Yeah, then trying again for the mayor. I’ll live if I can’t get a quote from her, but it’d be nice.” She’d definitely given enough press conferences to draw from. And he had managed to get an interview with Bruce Wayne. That was the impressive part. “Shoot, incoming!”

They barely got away from the road before a truck rolled by, sending up a splash of water where they’d just been standing. It had started raining again the night before, and the streets flooded by morning. It wasn’t as bad as it had been, ankle-deep at worst, but it gave Clark flashbacks to trying to shovel the driveway while it was still snowing. By the time you reached the end, there was already a good half inch covering up all your hard work.

“How is it that we only drove like, two hours to get here, and I feel like we’re on a different planet?” Jimmy asked. “Where’s all this rain coming from?”

“No idea,” Clark said, “but I get what you mean. We’re almost there, though.” He forged on ahead, checking the GPS on his phone to make sure they were actually going in the right direction. “And it shouldn’t rain again today. Hopefully.”

Jimmy looked doubtful. Clark didn’t blame him. Rain seemed to come and go in this place, regardless of what the weather man said.

The food bank wasn’t too busy when they arrived, though Clark had a feeling that would change soon. They checked in with the manager, just to be sure they were still okay to be there, before they started making their way around the room. Not everyone was willing to speak to them, but some were. It took a lot of courage, Clark knew…or a lot of desperation.

“The kids are managing okay,” said one woman, Eva Patterson. Her husband had been injured in the flooding. They didn’t know when he’d be back to work. “We were lucky. Our apartment is on the fourth floor and there wasn’t too much structural damage. We have friends staying with us until they find someplace else.”

“How many have left the city entirely?”

Mrs. Patterson laughed. “None. Where would we go? We can barely afford to live here. And even if we could...” She glanced between Clark and Jimmy nervously, as if expecting them to judge her. “Gotham is our home. Call us stubborn, but we don’t want to abandon it that easily.”

That was a common sentiment. And maybe they were stubborn, but Clark understood. He’d probably do the same if it were him and Smallville. “Well, thank you for talking to us, ma’am. Do you mind if we get a picture?”

That was usually the hardest sell, but fortunately, Mrs. Patterson didn’t seem to mind. The first shots were, to Clark’s eyes, really good. She looked tired, but strong. Bolstered by finally getting the help she needed. Then her face changed, the smile going confused.

Then horrified.

“Oh, fuck...”

Clark looked over his shoulder.

There was a man in the doorway. Damp. Face smeared with the dirt and grease of the city streets.

He was holding a gun.

There weren’t any guards in the room. Why would there be? Who would steal from a smaller place like this in the middle of the day? The police and national guard were busy elsewhere. That left a room with, by his count, maybe ten people, most of whom froze at the sight of a weapon. These were church volunteers, mothers trying to bring home food before their kids got back from school, a few homeless people too exhausted from last night’s rain to do anything but stare. Jimmy Olsen, who was a new hire photographer from a city with a shockingly low crime rate.

And him, Clark Kent.

Clark had seen guns before. Pa had walked him through the basics of gun safety, because there was a shotgun in the house in case a coyote got too bold, and just because Clark was indestructible didn’t mean he shouldn’t learn. He’d never actually used one—never had to, never wanted to. But he was probably more familiar with them than anyone else in the room. The sight still chilled him. Something about the modern sleekness of it felt more dangerous than even the shotgun had. The man holding it just stared at them all, as if he hadn’t expected to actually find himself there. “...take it easy...” Clark said. He tried to angle his body so Mrs. Patterson was behind him. Will it ricochet if it hits me? She won’t get hurt, but will someone else? “It’s okay. The food is free. You don’t have to...”

And now the gun was pointed directly at his head. Would that be easier or harder to play off as he missed? Headshots were hard, especially when your hands were shaking as badly as the gunman’s, but...

I can’t believe I’m thinking like this. There’s a gun pointed at my head. Someone could get hurt.

“Where is he?” asked the gunman, his voice hoarse.

“I don’t...”

The first shot hit one of the lights right behind Clark. He’d instinctively dodged, but he had a feeling it hadn’t been meant to hurt him. “Him! He’s still watching, right?! He has to be!” Someone stood up, only to find the gun pointed at them instead. “Don’t!”

Ten people. Technically they outnumbered this guy. But they were all tired, scared, just regular people. Rough as Gotham was, Clark doubted anyone was really ready for something like this. He knew he could’ve taken out the gunman without getting hurt, but could he do it without hurting the man?

Maybe I can talk him down. Maybe...

But not with everyone else here.

“It’s okay,” Clark said. “He’s just scared. There’s no need to escalate.”

“Nobody moves.”

“Okay.”

“Nobody goes anywhere until...” The gunman blinked heavily. He looked exhausted. “I want to talk to him.”

“Him who?”

“I need to talk to the Batman.”

Jimmy made a startled, strangled laughing noise. Fortunately, the noise didn’t set off the gunman further. “I don’t think he’s...” The gun moved back to Clark as he spoke. “...here. But if you just let me call...”

“No! No cops, no...they’ll just send me back. I can’t go back there. Put the fucking phone down!”

Clark heard the clatter of a phone hitting a tabletop as he scrambled to get between the gunman and whoever had tried to make the phone call. “Okay, okay, no cops.” Though he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be that easy for very long. “Okay. You want to talk to the Batman. So do I. I’m...” He slowly, carefully reached into his breast pocket for his press pass. “...I’m a reporter. I’m with the Daily Planet. Maybe we can help each other out.”

The man hesitated. He didn’t seem...opposed to the offer. Good. Take the opportunity. “How about this? Everyone else goes, and I’ll stay and help you figure this out. Okay?”

“Clark!” hissed Jimmy.

Sorry, buddy. Only one of us is bulletproof, and I’d rather be shot with only one witness around. “No tricks, I promise.”

The man hesitated again. Looked around his shoulder, then around the room. He gestured with the gun. “Kitchen. Kitchen, now.”

“Okay, okay.” Clark started backing up. “Jimmy, get everyone out of here.”

“Clark, I’m not...”

“I’ll be fine. Just get everyone out, okay? Try to...find me the Batman, I guess.” He felt ridiculous saying it out loud, but what else could he say? “Go. Please.”

He half-expected Jimmy to insist on staying. But Mrs. Patterson was clinging to his arm, and Jimmy Olsen wasn’t an idiot. He knew his best bet to help Clark would be out of the building. That didn’t stop him from looking guilty as he started guiding the people closest to him towards the door. “Go..go on..”

The gunman steered Clark into the kitchen, away from any windows. Everyone else fled. Jimmy was the last out the door.

“I’ll be fine,” Clark repeated after him.

Physically, anyway.

 

It wasn’t even 10 a.m. It wasn’t even 10 a.m., and he had a hostage situation. Single gunman holed up with a reporter from Metropolis in a food bank, asking for the Batman, at fucking 10 a.m. Didn’t help that the reporter’s buddy, a photographer named James Olsen, refused to leave the scene. “Sir, we’re doing everything we can to help your friend,” Jim said, for what felt like the millionth time. “You’ve done everything you can.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Olsen said. He was still trembling, clutching that camera like it was a lifeline, but the stubborn set of his jaw said he wouldn’t be talked out of this. “I go when he’s safe.”

Fucking hell. “Can you at least wait over there? Please?” He turned back to one of the other officer. “What’s the word from SWAT?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Shit.” SWAT was under equipped after the flooding got into their armory. Police were short staffed in general. Guard couldn’t spare anyone. His best bet probably was the Batman, but he didn’t come out during the day so much anymore now that the situation was stable. The hostage still had his phone on him. They didn’t have a hostage negotiator on call, but...it might be worth risking. “Let’s just try to keep this from blowing up until they get here.”

He’d gotten the reporter’s number from Olsen. Dialing it felt almost as risky as trying to storm the building, and Jim couldn’t help bracing himself for the sound of a gunshot. It rang. And rang. And...

“Clark Kent speaking,” said the voice on the other end. “You’re on speaker.”

So the gunman would hear. Better than nothing, he guessed. “Mr. Kent, this is Jim Gordon of the Gotham PD. Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m not hurt. Ben and I are just talking.”

Ben. The name didn’t immediately ring a bell. “I can’t see you from out here. Where are you?”

“Further back. He...”

“You send any officers in here, I’ll shoot him,” snapped a second voice. Male, trembling, slightly distant. That had to be the gunman. “Understand?!”

“We’re not sending anyone in. I just want to talk. What do you want the Batman for?”

The line was silent. Jim had to turn the volume up, but he thought he could hear...footsteps, pacing, mumbling. Hand over the mic. Someone else speaking in a hushed tone. The hand pulled away. “Ben wants a third party. He’s been having some trouble and he doesn’t trust the police to manage it.”

Of course not. Trust in the police was low as it was for law-abiding folks. “I’ll do what I can, but...until then, can we at least see you? Get a visual confirmation you’re unharmed?”

Again, a hand covered the mic. More muffled conversation. When Jim’s phone buzzed, it was with a request for a video call. He accepted.

Jim had a feeling he’d walked past five guys who looked exactly like Clark Kent on his way to work today. The vivid blue of his eyes was his most noteworthy feature. That, and the fact that he was remarkably calm. There was no sign of the gunman. “He didn’t want to be on-camera,” Clark Kent said. He glanced up briefly, then back at the screen. “Is Jimmy okay?”

“Worried about you. Won’t leave the scene, actually.”

Kent smiled briefly, almost fondly. “At least tell me he’s getting pictures.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m a journalist, sir. Might as well get something out of this other than a fun dinner story.” The amusement faded quickly from Kent’s face as the offscreen gunman hissed something. “He..really wants to talk to the Batman, sir. Not sure if there’s anything you can do about that, but...”

“Just get him down here!” snapped the voice before the screen abruptly shook. Jim heard Clark Kent try to protest, but the line went dead. No gun shots, no cries of pain, but...

Damn it.

“Don’t tell me that signal is the only way you can talk to him,” Martinez said skeptically.

Jim sighed heavily. He had asked the man about a phone number. Batman had just stared at him for a moment before turning back to the case files. He did that a lot. “New plan,” Jim said. He looked to his left, where a few TV news reporters had started setting up. It went against everything he’d usually do in a hostage situation, but if it was the only way... “Here’s hoping he’s not that nocturnal.”

Seriously, man. We’ve got to get you a phone.

 

“Master Wayne?”

Bruce flinched away from the hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what he’d been dreaming about, but it bled over into his half-awake state, flooding his body with the sense that he was in danger. He wasn’t. It was just Alfred. “What?” Bruce asked, his mind scrambling to catch up. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry to wake you sir, but you might want to see this.” He passed a phone off to Bruce. There was a livestream. News conference with a local channel. Jim Gordon speaking to a reporter. Talking about...

“...has made it clear that he wishes to communicate with the Batman. I’m not sure why he decided to come here for that, but...”

Hostage Situation in Downtown Gotham.

Bruce was suddenly very awake.

“Where?”

“Food bank. I’ve already got the address and...” Alfred stepped aside as Bruce scrambled out of bed. “Pot of coffee.”

Bruce wanted to turn it down, but...no, adrenaline would only go so far. He could multitask. “If anyone asks, I was up late doing...whatever it is people like me do at night. Won’t be able to return any calls.”

“Of course, sir.”

The coffee was still a bit too hot as he choked it down, but he powered through. The slight burn helped him wake up more. Suit on. Grab the bike. Check the address. He knew the location. It was one place he’d guarded during a food transport. Probably why the gunman had thought to look for him there. But in the middle of the day? He must have been desperate.

Desperate enough to take a hostage.

I hope I’m not too late.

 

Ma’s gonna kill me.

Of course, Ma would know that he wasn’t in any physical danger. But you tell any mother their son had decided to put himself in a life or death situation and she wasn’t going to take the news well. He’d be grounded for at least fifty years if she had any say.

At least the others are safe.

“So,” Clark said calmly. The recorder in his pocket was already running. The audio quality probably wouldn’t be the best, but it was better than nothing. “Why do you want to talk to him so badly?”

The gunman—Ben, no last name given—kept pacing back and forth in front of the back doorway. Clark probably could have bull rushed him by now, but something about the desperation in his eyes made Clark stay. There’s something more to this. I have to know. “I know you said you can’t trust the police. Is it because of what happened with Carmine Falconi?”

“No. No, not that. They don’t...they don’t care. They just send you back to that place, every single time. I try to tell them, but they don’t listen. It’s just the hole or the cell...”

“The cell where?”

Ken’s eyes narrowed. Stay calm. Redirect. “Look, I’m not from here, remember? I’m from Metropolis. I’m not in anyone’s pocket here in Gotham. Besides, if something is going on, I can make sure a lot of people know about it. We’ve got one of the biggest readerships on the Eastern seaboard. I’m pretty good, too. Managed to get an interview with Bruce Wayne yesterday.”

Ben still regarded him suspiciously. Clark couldn’t blame him, he really couldn’t, but it was a very scary few seconds. “Arkham,” Ben said finally.

Oh, boy. “The, uh...”

“Not that one. They’ve got other ones. Smaller ones. Places they stick you when they want you to just shut up. They move you around and no one notices and nobody cares...” Ben stopped pacing. The fear in his eyes was back, and worse. “He’ll care. He has to care. Someone’s gotta...”

He trailed off again, his eyes going distant. He had a persistent tic in his right eye. Honestly, Clark was wondering if the tremor in his hands was nerves or something neurological. Ben seemed acquainted with the mental health system in Gotham...not that Clark could armchair diagnose, not his place, but something was wrong. I’ll have to be careful. For his well-being if nothing else.

“Why don’t you want to go back to Arkham? Are you afraid they won’t believe you there?”

“They’re the ones that did it. They stuck it inside me.”

Oh, dear. Clark didn’t want to agitate the guy, but he didn’t want to accidentally play into any delusions either. That definitely wouldn’t help. “Stuck what inside where?” Clark asked carefully.

Ben didn’t answer. He started pacing again. Clark knew he should have been afraid, but he mostly felt...pity. The man was terrified. Desperate enough to point a gun at a room full of strangers and turn to a vigilante for help.

What happened to you, Ben?

“He’ll listen,” Ben whispered. “He’ll listen. He’s got to...” He stopped and looked at Clark. “You think I’m crazy.”

“No,” Clark said immediately. “I think...clearly something’s upset you. I think you want help. I know...” He breathed in and out slowly. “Whatever you’re experiencing...the fear is real. And I can’t imagine what that feels like. I’m sorry, Ben.”

“...fear.” Ben swallowed nervously. “That’s what...he always talked about. The doctor. Always going on about that.”

Interesting. “The doctor...your doctor at Arkham?”

“No. Yes. It’s...he wasn’t supposed to be. But he always just...butted in. Asking questions, giving me treatments I didn’t...I didn’t want them. Not just the meds, either. The surgery.”

“Surgery?”

“In my head.”

“Like...electroshock?”

“No. No, they carved out part of me and they stuck it in...they...” He abruptly pulled off his hat, turning his head just enough that Clark could see the side. “You see?”

Clark did see. The scar on his head was a tidy u-shape, almost on the direct back of the head. Clark wasn’t a neurosurgeon; that scar could’ve been from anything. But it did look too tidy to have been from an accident. “That looks...pretty fresh,” he said. “How long ago was this?”

“Before the flooding. A few weeks...months? I don’t know, time is all...” Ben turned to face him again. “I don’t know.”

He looked so distressed. Despite himself, Clark took a deep breath, blinked a few times, and focused on the man’s skull. He was just grateful the act didn’t change his eyes in any way. Far as Ben knew, Clark was just trying to steady himself after a very stressful day. He had no idea that Clark could see through his skull now. Into the eyes, the brain, and...

Wait.

Clark struggled to keep a straight face, to not to react to the solid lump of something nestled in the man’s skull. The shape was vague, partially obscured by the brain, but it wasn’t organic, that was for sure.

What is that?!

“This...doctor,” Clark said. He was impressed by how calm his own voice was. “What’s his name?”

Ben winced and looked around as if he expected the man to appear out of thin air. Even when he finally spoke, the name came out in a whisper, full of dread.

“Crane.”

 

The sound of the motorbike was probably the best thing he’d heard all day. Especially when it was accompanied by startled gasps and murmurs.

It’s him.

The Batman cut an entirely different figure in the daylight. You’d think he’d look ridiculous—and, honestly, he still kind of did. The effect was best in the shadows, at night. But he walked with such confidence that you couldn’t help feeling a bit intimidated. Everyone got out of the way pretty quickly as he walked towards Jim. “I’m getting you a phone,” Jim said.

“I can get my own phone,” Batman replied. His eyes slid to the food pantry. “Just one hostage?”

“And one gunman. We think they’re still in the kitchen. Hostage is Clark Kent, Metropolis boy here to do some reporting. We only got a first name for the gunman. Ben. Witnesses say he’s...forties, white, about 5’8”, gray eyes...”

“Broken nose,” said a quietly awed voice. Jimmy Olsen had snuck back over. “Uhm...his clothes were army surplus, I think. Kind of dirty. He had a hat on.”

Batman gave Olsen a once-over. “You were inside?”

“Yeah. With Clark. I wanted to get a picture, but I was worried if I tried...”

“You did the right thing.” Batman turned his gaze back to the building. “How long until SWAT gets here?”

“Couldn’t tell you. Once we hear from them, ten minutes? But that’s once we hear from them.” And who knew how long that would be when they had to scramble to recover equipment from other places and other people. “You want me to call, let them know you’re here?”

“...yeah. Might not take it well if I just walked in.”

That was for damn sure. Jim pulled out his phone and redialed Clark Kent’s number. He was briefly worried the man wouldn’t pick up, but after a few rings...

“What?!” snapped the voice on the other end.

Ben, not Kent. Damn it, could be a problem. “This is Jim Gordon again. Is Clark...?”

“’m fine,” called a voice, muffled, off-mic. “I’m not hurt.”

Thank God for that, at least. “I got what you asked for. The Batman’s right here. Do you want me to put him on?”

There was a pause. It sounded like the phone exchanged hands before another video call request came in. Taking a video call and having to check that the damn Batman was in view wasn’t how he expected today to go, but it wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d done this month. Not even the weirdest thing he’d done in the past two years. Clark Kent was visible on the other end, but again, not the gunman. Kent’s eyes went wide. “Oh, geez,” he said. “You actually...uh. Hi.” Kent glanced off-camera. “Yeah, that’s...definitely him. I think.”

A second face peered into the camera. Grey eyes, like Olsen had said. Skin battered and wrinkled. Bridge of the nose a bit misshapen. Ben leaned back out of camera just as quickly. “I want to talk to you,” he said.

“I heard,” Batman said calmly. “You send the reporter out and...”

“No, no, he stays until we’re done. I don’t trust the rest of them. You can come in. Just you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Kent added quickly. “Don’t worry about me, just...let’s hear him out, okay?”

Again, he was remarkably calm for someone who probably still had a gun pointed at him. How long had he been doing this? Jim glanced the Batman’s way. Their eyes met briefly. The Batman asking permission without saying anything.

“...just get the hostage out alive, okay?” Jim said quietly.

“I will.” Then, louder, “I’m coming in the front door.”

“Okay. Okay.”

The line went dead. Jim sighed. “I’m trusting your judgment on this, but once SWAT gets here...”

“Right.” The Batman nodded. “I’ll be quick.”

Well. That didn’t bode well for Ben. Jim almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.

Then again, he did ask for this.

Why would anyone do that?

 

The space was silent. Food left discarded on tables. The lingering scent of stress sweat. One light out. One casing on the floor. No one had been hurt yet.

Batman intended to keep it that way.

The kitchen door opened a crack as he approached it. Clark Kent stood on the other side. Eyes wide. Awed. “Hi, uh. Sir.” He opened the door wide enough to let Batman in. Wide enough to reveal the gun pointed at the back of his head. “Sorry to wake you, but Ben could use a hand.”

“...so I’ve heard.”

Ben, no last name. His eyes were bloodshot. The fact that he held eye contact with Batman, and the fact that his expression was one of relief, wary as it was, spoke volumes. The element didn’t look at him like that. Desperate, frightened people who needed help—or, at least, who thought they did—looked at him like that. That was good; it increased the chances they could get out of this without injuries. “Inside,” said Ben with a quiet, shaking voice. “Please, they might see.”

A nebulous they. Not the first time he’d heard something like that. Real or imagined, didn’t matter in that moment. It was real to Ben, influencing his decisions. So, Batman stepped inside. “Lower the gun,” he said calmly. “I’m here now. You can let the reporter go.”

Ben hesitated. A moment of clarity—too afraid to let the reporter go, but nervous about saying why. Probably thought he was pushing his luck as it was. Fortunately... “I think he’s a bit worried about the police,” Kent said. His voice was still level, still shockingly calm. “Tell you what, you put the gun down...I’ll stay of my own free will, okay? Do you mind if I take notes?”

Dedicated. Foolhardy. But his presence seemed to calm Ben, so Batman didn’t try to argue. “Okay,” Ben said. “Okay.”

He was shaking. Not just from fear. Coming down off a high, perhaps. “I need help,” Ben whispered. “They’re going to come for me. I can’t go back there.”

“Where?”

“Arkham. Satellite inpatient. The one...” Ben’s eye twitched. The twitch seemed to worsen as he struggled to remember. Neurological, maybe. “Near the bank. Down the street from the train station.”

He knew the one. It had been one of the worse hit buildings. Batman had been sure that many surviving patients had fled, become a part of the homeless population. This confirmed it. “Why can’t you go back?”

“The doctors hurt me. They hurt other people. They...” Ben turned his head. “He saw it. He knows.”

He was Clark Kent. “The scar,” Kent explained softly. “He said it was in the past months.”

It was an obvious mark on the man’s head. From a surgery, if Batman had to guess. He’d seen similar marks on cancer patients. Craniotomy, to remove a tumor. Possible that he’d had brain surgery, the stress of the situation contributed to a delusion...perhaps the tumor grew back...

“They put something in my head. Not just me, others. They’re out there, and they’ve been hunting us down. Trying to get us back. I can’t, I won’t...Crane will kill me this time, I know he will...”

“Crane. One of the doctors?”

“Yeah.” Ben stopped pacing. “Please. Help me get it out. I’ll tell you everything that I know, just get it out of me. Please.”

Feeding into the delusions of an unwell person could make things considerably worse. He knew this better than most. But taking him to the hospital could confirm the true nature of his injury–a tumor, brain damage incurred during the flooding, whatever it was. At the very least, it had a psychiatric ward not run by Arkham, a place where he might be able to find healing without the shadow (real or imagined) of the institution.

“I can speak to Detective Gordon,” Batman said carefully. “They may want armed guard around you, but we should be able to take you to Gotham General.” Perhaps not in an ambulance–they didn’t want to take more from the already strained emergency services–but he could think of something. “I can’t guarantee what treatment they’ll recommend, but I promise I will not let them send you back.”

Ben mulled over the words. The tremors in his hands made gauging his mood difficult, but after a long pause…

“Okay. Okay.” Without being prompted, he held out the gun, grip-first. “Okay. Thank you.”

Everything went smoothly from there.

They were, somehow, able to get a private ambulance out. Batman had no idea what strings Gordon had pulled for that, but he was truly grateful. It pulled up near the front door, blocking them from the prying eyes of journalists. Ben started trembling violently; Batman rested a hand on his shoulder, quietly trying to reassure the man. Still here. I keep my promises.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he said quietly. “I need to speak to Gordon first.”

Ben, despite his tremors, went without complaint, leaving Batman outside with a beleaguered James Gordon and a still-hovering Clark Kent. “Can’t wait to see what the HIPPA release forms are going to look like,” Gordon noted dryly. “Mr. Kent, we have a medical team ready for you as well if...”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” Kent said immediately. “Not in shock, I think.” He turned his attention to Batman as he reached into his breast pocket. “He didn’t really tell me anything different than what he told you, but if you want the recordings, transcripts...” He held out a business card. “If you think any of it will be useful, I can give you what you need.”

Interesting. Most would have dismissed Ben’s behavior as the actions of a delusional man—shown him some compassion, perhaps, but not taken it seriously. Kent, though...

“You think there’s something more to this?” Gordon asked as he intercepted the business card.

“I mean...” Kent adjusted his glasses. He seemed embarrassed. “I know, it probably sounds ridiculous, but...call it reporter’s intuition? I just don’t think he got spooked like that over nothing.”

He’s either naïve or he’s onto something. Difficult to say which. “We’ll reach out if we need any further statement,” Gordon said. “Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t need anything?”

“...is it too much to ask for an interview with the Batman?”

Batman was sure for a moment the man was serious. Kent eventually cracked a smile, sheepish, perhaps sensing the comment hadn’t landed. “Yeah, I know. Shot in the dark. I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you.”

He slipped off to join his friend, Olsen. The start of their conversation was just audible as they moved further back into the crowd. “Clark, you scared the shit out of me-”

“He’s gutsy, I’ll give him that,” Gordon noted. “Well, time to see if they have space for us at Gotham General. I just hope the roads are clear.”

They were clearer than they had been–clear enough that getting to the hospital was easy. It was a flurry of activity from there–doctors taking Ben off, trying to figure out how exactly they were supposed to handle the presence of a costumed vigilante, Ben loudly insisting he wasn’t going anywhere unless the Batman was there. It took a lot of conversation to convince him to let Gordon go instead. James Gordon, at least, existed as a legal entity. The Batman…not so much.

Hopefully this won’t be a recurring issue.

Batman waited nearby, as close as the orderlies would let him. He could feel a lot of eyes on him. It was difficult to gauge the reactions; there were a lot of unreadable stares, people looking away the second they felt he was staring back, inaudible whispers. Almost more alarming were the people who actually did speak to him.

Thank you for what you did.

My sister was in that apartment building on Fifth…she might have drowned if you hadn’t…

A lot of people are still alive because of you. I hope you know that.

He did know, academically. But there was something strange about hearing it. It made figuring out how to respond difficult (not that he’d ever been that good at speaking to people to begin with). Fortunately, most who spoke to him said their piece and left. The ones who did linger for longer than a few seconds didn’t seem to expect a response, and were content with a slight smile and a nod. It was the best he could manage.

He hoped that they knew what it really meant.

You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do. You don’t have to thank me.

He was not so caught up in the strange experience of being seen that he missed the slight commotion happening down the hallway. There was a cluster of hospital staff around one person–Gordon, he realized. They were all pushing to see something in his hands.

It wasn’t a tumor. It couldn’t have been. Not with the way they were reacting.

Not with the look on Gordon’s face as he approached. “Outside,” was all he said. Plausible deniability. Can’t show you these files in front of people.

Batman followed him outside. The second they were away from prying eyes, Gordon opened the folder. “Don’t suppose you have any idea what the hell this could be?” he asked, his tone weary.

The pictures were all of a man’s skull–and whatever it was that was nestled against his brain. It had too many right angles to be natural, and the bright glow of something metal under the x-rays.

He wasn’t delusional.

“The doctors don’t know?” he asked.

“They don’t have any idea. It’s like nothing they’ve ever seen before.” Gordon put the files away. “They’ve got Ben on some medication. Once he’s stabilized, I’m going to try interviewing him. But something tells me this is…going to need your unique expertise.”

He probably wasn’t wrong.

 

“It seems like your reporter friend had quite the interesting day,” Alfred noted.

“Not my friend,” Bruce replied wearily. He glanced at the screen. Clark Kent was on-camera, being filmed from a distance while speaking to someone else. He looked shaken, but eager. Of course he is, Alfred thought. He has just been saved by the Batman. “He asked for an interview when he was out.”

Alfred had to bite back a laugh. He may not have known the man for long, but that made sense with what he’d seen. “Dedicated to his work.”

“Yeah.” Bruce sat down heavily in a chair. “Do you know anything about brain implants?”

Brain implants. Alfred really thought he’d started getting used to the strange questions that came with this job. Now he’d lived through a terrorist who dealed in riddles and was staring down brain implants. “Nothing off the top of my head, no. Why?”

“The gunman was convinced that someone had put a device in his head.” Bruce cycled through the footage on his contact camera before stopping on one frame. “He wasn’t wrong.”

Alfred wasn’t sure what to make of the image. The camera’s quality combined with the lack of detail in an x-ray meant the device’s exact nature was lost, but it certainly wasn’t supposed to be there. “The doctors don’t know?”

Bruce shook his head. “They handed everything they had over to Gordon. The gunman said it was done to him against his will at one of Arkham’s inpatient facilities. Whatever this is, it’s not a standard treatment. And he was afraid. Afraid beyond…” Bruce stopped mid-sentence to yawn. “...whatever else is haunting him.”

Alfred hummed quietly and surveyed the work space. It was uncharacteristically messy. Granted, Bruce’s work system probably looked chaotic to an outsider, but Alfred knew the difference. At that moment, Bruce had too much open on the computer, a half-finished journal entry, and had moved several items without putting them back. He was unfocused. “Perhaps you should get some rest,” Alfred said. “I can look into the brain implants, but you need to sleep.”

Bruce looked towards Alfred, his jaw set in a stubborn line even as his body struggled to keep from slouching. Alfred sat down in a nearby chair with as much finality as he could. I might not be able to force you, Master Bruce, but I am not leaving you alone until you rest.

“...fine,” Bruce sighed. He didn’t seem to be in pain when he stood. That was a nice change of pace. “Whatever you can find.”

“Would you like me to start looking into the facilities as well?”

“If you have the time. He was staying at the one by the bank. Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course, sir.”

Alfred waited until Bruce had left before getting started. He was tempted to check the security feeds and make sure Bruce had truly gone to bed, but…no. he’s not a child. He doesn’t need you hovering.

Alfred looked at the still paused video feed again. He’d seen all manner of repairs to the human body during his time with the late Master Wayne, and had mates from the service with prosthetics, screws, metal plates in all parts of their bodies. If one person could appreciate the marvels of modern medical technology, it was him.

This was nothing like that. He might not know what it was, but seeing a foreign body secured to the organ that controlled the body, the self, with no indication of what it did made his skin crawl. This wasn’t right. And if Arkham was involved, heaven only knew what sort of secrets this could unearth.

Alfred just hoped none of those secrets hit too close to home.

Notes:

Clark when he has a gun pointed at him and has to figure out how to be a normal human about this:

Chapter 3

Notes:

Shorter chapter than last time, but I do have some wider DC-verse cameos to offer, so there's that!

November 22:

“You asked him for an interview?!”

“Lois…” Clark pointed at the woman on the other end of the video call. “Lois Lane, you look me in the eyes and tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

“Of course I would’ve, but this is different!”

“How? How is it any different?”

“Have you even been around a gun before?”

“I’m from rural Kansas!” Though, to be fair, Clark understood the misconception. He knew he had the aura of someone who’d only seen guns on TV. “Lois, I promise you, I’m fine. Jimmy, tell her I’m fine.”

“He’s fine,” Jimmy called from where he was editing photos. “He’s actually a little too fine. It’s freaking me out.”

Clark groaned. “Thank you, James.”

Lois laughed, then suddenly got serious again. “But seriously, I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “I know Gotham is rough, but I wasn’t expecting one of you to get into a hostage situation.”

Clark’s brain stalled out, just long enough to make things awkward. Say something. Say something!! “Thanks,” he said finally. “I mean…if I’m being honest, I’m more scared of how my mom is gonna react than I was of the gunman…”

Talking too much, stop now!

“Oh, you should definitely be worried about your mom,” Lois said. “I’m pretty sure the incident made national news.”

Well, on the plus side, Clark wasn’t drowning in his crush on Lois anymore. On the other hand, he was now drowning in dread that his parents would be hearing about this from the national news. “...I wasn’t, uh…in any of the video footage, was I?”

His personal phone rang. The caller ID said Home. At this time of day, it would probably be… “That her?” Lois guessed.

“...yeah, I’ve gotta go,” Clark said. “I’ll call you if I’m not being dragged onto a plane back to Kansas.”

“Tell her I said ‘hi.’”

“Will do. ‘Bye, Lois.” Clark ended the video call and answered his phone. “Hi, Ma…”

“What happened?! Are you okay?”

Whelp. He must’ve been in the video footage, then. “I’m fine, nothing happened.” There was a lot of weight to the word nothing. He might not have been at risk of being shot, but there were many, many ways that encounter could have ended badly. He knew it. His mother definitely knew it. “I met the Batman, though!”

“You asked him for an interview, didn’t you?”

“I…yeah.”

“And? Did you get an interview with the Batman?”

“No,” he said. “Well, I mean, he didn’t say no, but he did look at me like I had two heads, so I’m taking that as a no.”

His work phone buzzed again. Clark glanced at it. Unfamiliar number, but it was a Gotham area code. No way. “Sorry, can you hold on a second? Work…” It felt awful putting his own mother on hold to check his work phone, but such was adult life. And if this was who he hoped it was, he was sure she’d understand.

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet,” Clark said.

“Mr. Kent, this is Lieutenant Gordon of the Gotham Police Department.”

Clark sat up straight, only barely catching his personal phone before it was knocked off the bed. “Uh, good evening, Lieutenant. How can I help you?”

“I was hoping to speak to you about earlier. Do you have any time?”

“Give me half an hour and I’m all yours.” Clark’s mind was racing. He’d already wrapped up the Wayne story, so if he just finished transcribing that recording, he could make it before it got too dark. “Do you want me to meet you at the station?”

“Actually, I was thinking somewhere a little more private.”

Oh. So it was going to be like that. Something told Clark this wouldn’t just be a one on one meeting with the Lieutenant.

Fine by me. He’d just have to resist the urge to ask for another interview. He had a feeling the answer would be the same.

 

“The doctors are still trying to determine if the implant can be removed safely.” Gordon stared out over the city. Fog was starting to settle in. Forecast called for more rain, possibly a wintry mix. Wouldn’t be long before it was entirely snow.”Anything on your end?”

“Everything I’ve found is theoretical. One device started animal trials last year, but nothing since.” This wouldn’t stop some people, of course, but it made investigation more difficult. “I'll keep digging.”

Gordon sighed heavily and reached into his pockets. “You know, I was really hoping the insane riddle cult leader would be the worst of it.” He pulled out a box of cigarettes. “Do not tell my wife.”

I’ve never met your wife, the Batman thought, but no. Gordon was just making small talk. It was a thing people said to acknowledge they shouldn’t be doing something. The Batman hummed in response before asking, “How’s your daughter?”

The flash of a lighter illuminated Gordon’s face, revealing a less exhausted expression. “Barb’s doing good,” he said. “She’s been dismantling VCRs lately. She says ‘hi.’”

Barbara Gordon always said “hi.” She’d stopped sending crayon drawings along with her father, but she’d never stopped saying “hi.” The Batman had only seen her in glimpses since that night–Gordon had done her best to keep her out of the spotlight–but she seemed to be doing well.

He was glad.

The sound of an elevator drew him from his thoughts. It came to a stop at the top of the roof; Clark Kent stepped out, highly visible in his red windbreaker. His eyes darted from Gordon to the Batman and then out over the city. “Wow,” he said. “That’s a view.”

“Better when it’s not so miserable.” Gordon stepped forward to shake Clark Kent’s hand. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“No problem. Is Ben all right?”

“Comfortable and stabilizing. Very apologetic about you.”

Clark laughed a bit awkwardly. “Eh, I’m forgiving. Uhm.” He glanced towards the Batman, then held out a package to Gordon when the Batman didn’t approach. “Copies of the conversation, transcripts, uhm, everything I could remember. I wanted to look into what he was saying with brain implants, but…”

“We have people looking into that. You’ve done enough.” Gordon was polite, but the Batman had heard that tone before. It usually meant don’t get involved more. “You still have my number if anything comes up.”

“Right. Yeah, of course.” Again, Clark Kent’s eyes darted to the Batman. His stare lingered, calculating. “...okay, I’m sorry, one question. Completely off the record, just one question. If you don’t mind, uh, sir.”

The Batman gritted his teeth. He’d never been interviewed when he was like this. He made a point of avoiding it. Still, the interview with Clark Kent hadn’t been…horrible. Maybe he could learn something about the man. “What?”

Kent’s eyes widened, but the question came quickly. “Why start? I mean…” He gestured out over the city. “You’ve been doing this for…two years, if I’m not mistaken, but why did you decide to start at all?”

The Batman had heard that question many times. Gordon had even asked him once. “The city needed help,” the Batman said. It was a simple answer in his mind. “I could provide that help.”

“Right, I mean…fair, but why this kind of help? You’re doing a lot more than the average citizen would. How do you make that kind of decision?”

His tone was…interesting. Not the tone he’d used during the Wayne interview. What was that? “You said one question,” the Batman pointed out.

Kent hesitated, then smiled. “...guess I did, huh?” He blinked and looked up. “Rain again?”

“Always,” Gordon grumbled. He passed the envelope off to the Batman. “Well, thank you again, Mr. Kent. I’ll see you out.”

“Thank you, sir.” Kent offered the Batman a wave. “You have a good night.”

Good probably wasn’t going to be the word for it, but the Batman nodded anyway. He waited until the elevator had descended before checking the envelope’s contents. A jump drive and a carefully typed manuscript. Likely nothing new, but it could still be something.

Even if it wasn’t, the meeting had confirmed something very important: Clark Kent wasn’t going to let this go. The look on his face, the fact that he had expressed so much interest at all, confirmed that. Could be a liability.

Could be an asset.

 

Lieutenant Gordon looked like a man ripped right out of the pages of a crime novel. It didn’t exactly make for great small talk, but…Clark had to ask. He had to know.

“...so…”

“You want to know why an established police lieutenant is working with the Batman.”

Well, that made things easier, sort of. “Actually, yes,” Clark admitted. “I’m not criticizing you for it, it’s just…he is a vigilante. I think most would consider it a career risk.”

Gordon grunted. He gave Clark a long look, like he was trying to pick him apart. “You want the on the record answer or the off the record one?”

“Can I have both?”

“On the record, if we can’t stop him, we can at least keep an eye on him, and I’m the only one he puts up with. Off the record…”

The elevator came to a stop. Gordon didn’t say anything as they got off. Clark was worried for a moment that he’d changed his mind, but Gordon kept talking: “You hear about our clown incident a year ago?”

He had, actually. “Crime spree by a guy calling himself the Joker. Yeah, I heard. The Batman brought him in, right?”

“Yeah.” Gordon surveyed the street, eyes sharp, looking for danger. “We weren’t so close back then. He was doing his thing, we were doing ours, and it was causing a lot of aggravation higher-up. Especially since the Joker seemed to have a thing for him.” He scoffed. “But we kept trying. Thought we had the sick bastard cornered at one point, but he managed to get away, hijacked a car. It…” He stopped, took a deep breath. “My daughter was in that car.”

Clark felt his heart sink at those words, at the way they were said. Gordon did an admirable job holding it together, but some of the pain still bled through. Clark wasn’t sure if he should offer condolences or not, and he didn’t get the chance to try. Gordon pressed on: “The Batman joined the pursuit. Joker crashed the car, managed to get out without getting injured, fled the scene. He could’ve gone after him, I know a lot of guys would’ve, but he didn’t. He got Barbara out and stayed with her until we got there. Looked me dead in the eyes and promised me that son of a bitch wouldn’t get away with it.” Another huff, this one amused. “He had him in our custody two days later.”

Noted: do not piss off the Batman. “Is your daughter…?”

“She lived. Spent a lot of time in the hospital afterwards, still healing, really. But it would’ve been a lot worse if he hadn’t gotten her out of the car.” Gordon looked Clark in the eyes, his tone suddenly becoming very serious. “He’s a good man. One of the only people who actually gives a shit about this place and is willing to do something about it.” He broke eye contact, his shoulders slumping and his tone growing exasperated. “And if we’re gonna have to keep dealing with clowns, riddlers, and fuckin’ brain implants, might as well fight fire with fire.”

“You do seem to have some unique problems here, yeah,” Clark admitted. The kind of problems you’d need a specialist for. A specialist in a bat suit.

I wonder.

He dismissed the thought. Now wasn’t the time for his own existential crises. He had a story to investigate (while not interfering in police activity, of course, he would never). Whatever had been floating around his head ever since the arrival of the Batman could wait.

But that thought didn’t stop Clark from hesitating at the bottom of the building and glancing back up. A quick blink and a switch of vision confirmed that the Batman wasn’t up there anymore. He was off into the night, hopefully using Clark’s information for good.

Still, his presence lingered.

Chapter 4

November 22:

The displaced population of Gotham had been one of the first to accept the Batman's presence. Perhaps they were grateful someone was members of the element who preyed on their vulnerability. Perhaps they saw him as a lesser threat, considering the many other things they had to deal with. It had been an interesting change of pace early in his crusade, and now an increasingly welcome one. It was, if nothing else, novel to be treated as if he were simply part of the landscape.

“You got a light in those pouches?” said the man in front of him. He was an old-timer; been on the streets for as long as the Batman had been patrolling. He went by the Duke, though his real name was Thomas Putnam. The Batman had never informed the Duke that he knew this. It was better for the relationship if he just kept referring to the man as “the Duke.”

“Those things aren’t good for you,” the Batman replied.

“Neither is living on flooded streets.” The Duke waited patiently the Batman to produce a lighter, used it to light his cigarette, and kept talking. “Arkham patients, huh?”

“They may be in danger. I don’t want to bring them back. I just have some questions.”

“What kind of danger?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” It was possible that Ben had been the only one who had been targeted, but the Batman wasn’t so sure. At the very least, other patients may have been targeted for future implants, or perhaps they had heard something while they were staying in the facilities. Maybe someone else had an unpleasant encounter with whoever Doctor Crane was. He’d passed the name on to Alfred, but he likely wouldn’t have that information until the next day. It wouldn’t hurt to explore multiple sources of information.

“Well, people don’t usually share that kind of thing,” the Duke said. He took a long drag off his cigarette and let out a puff of smoke. The Batman carefully moved away from the cloud. “But I remember one. New kid. Might be able to scrounge up some more if you give me time. C’mon.”

Those living on the street had carved out whatever safety they could among the post-flooding ruins, often occupying fire escapes and makeshift wall forts like birds building their nests on the cliffside. The Batman wondered how many of them had been housed previously, how many were simply counting down the days until a shelter opened or their home was safe to live in again. He wondered if any of them had permanently joined the ranks of the unhoused and forgotten. He could keep them safe from gangs, criminals, even dirty and heavy-handed cops, but they faced many problems he couldn’t fight. Not like this.

I need to make sure the Renewal money is going to shelters. But that was a problem for Bruce Wayne. Now, it was the Batman’s turn.

“Hey, Suzanna!” the Duke called up into one of the nests. “Got a bat who wants a word! Might be able to help with your pest problem.”

A pair of blue eyes peered down at them. Suzanna looked younger than Ben, less worn down. She was still new to all of this, if he had to guess. “Were you followed?” she asked nervously.

The Duke glanced at the Batman, who shook his head. “The professional says we weren’t. C’mon down.”

Suzanna examined the Batman sharpply, disappeared, then reappeared as she climbed down a makeshift ladder. She was wearing multiple layers on her head, enough that her face was partially obscured. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.” What he could see of Suzanna’s face was marred with scabs in several places, scattered among older acne scars. “Did my brother send you?”

“No.” The Batman kept his tone calm. “I need to ask you some questions. Were in an Arham inpatient facility before the flooding?”

Suzanna’s eyes widened. Her hand flew towards the back of her head, as if on instinct, but quickly encountered fabric. “Y-yeah,” she stammered. “They’re not trying to round us up, are they?”

“No. You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to. I have some concerns about one of the doctors.’

“You mean Crane?”

There was that name again. He remembered how Ben had whispered it, as if he were convinced the man could still hear him. “Crane was your doctor?”

“Kinda?” Suzanna picked at her cuticles as she spoke. “They said he specialized in anxiety and phobias and stuff. We talked a few times. He’s the one who okay’d the procedure.”

“Procedure?”

“Yeah, he said it was, um…implants to help with some kind of therapy? My parents signed off on it. I don’t remember a lot of the details.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

Oh. Not the youngest person he’d seen on the streets, but still young. He didn’t have to wonder why she hadn’t gone back to her parents. The fact that they were okay with her going through an invasive procedure wasn’t the best sign.

“Anyway, they did it right before the flooding,” Suzanna continued. “I was still recovering when everything went all…” She gestured and made an explosion noise. “Never got the stitches out. It itches pretty bad.”

“Because you keep messing with it,” the Duke interjected as he put out his cigarette. “Took you how many hats to stop?”

 Nervous hands. Never a good thing for wound recovery. He knew that from experience. “May I see it?” the Batman asked.

“Sure.” She pulled down the hood of her coat, then a second hood from a sweater. First hat. Second hat. A thin scarf holding a piece of gauze in place. It looked decently clean, probably changed recently. When that final layer was removed, he knew instantly what he was looking at. Same shape, same spot on the head as Ben. Suzanna still had her stitches in, and had definitely been picking at them. She was lucky the wound didn’t look more infected.

“Suzanna, I need to take you to a doctor,” the Batman said bluntly. Suzanna’s eyes widened at the words, but he kept going. “We can help you, but you’ll need to come with me.”

“Is it bad?”

“It could get worse. And they may have lied to you about the nature of the procedure.”

Silence settled over the alley. It was broken by the Duke sucking on his teeth, then sighing heavily. “I was about to ask if anything is normal with you,” he said, “but then I remembered I’m talking to a man in a bat suit.”

The Batman felt like he should be offended, but the man had a point.

.

The rain finally let up, which was good. It let Clark get to the hotel roof to keep working. He could’ve stayed in the building, but he didn’t want to wake Jimmy and he needed the fresh air to think. The post-rain air smelled kind of nice, actually. Not like home, but better than the stale hotel air. He perched on one of the building’s gargoyles (they were a major selling point in the brochure) as he turned to the internet for information. He wasn’t sure what he’d find, but even a slight nudge in the right direction would be welcome.

The page for Arkham’s inpatient facilities was so sterile and unnerving that Clark wondered if the web designer had a grudge against them. They claimed to help a broad range of conditions, and had a charity program for low or no insurance patients. There were no immediate red flags that he could see, outside of the overly sanitized feeling of the site.

“Okay, let’s try…” He searched up the staff list. They seemed to have a lot of prestigious doctors, but no one by the name Crane. They did mention collaborations with “leaders in the field,” so he may not have been permanently in rotation. Clark switched to another tab. So, what do I know? Surname Crane. Psychologist or psychiatrist who talked a lot about fear…paranoia-based disorders, maybe? Or even something as simple as anxiety. He could start in the Gotham area and then expand outwards from there if he didn’t get a hit.

He always hoped for the best, but even he was a bit surprised how fast he got a hit.

Professor Jonathan Crane. Worked at Gotham University in their psychology department. His faculty bio featured a picture of a fair skinned, thin-faced man with severely short dark hair and light eyes that were just a little bit too calm. He had the face of a professor who was either shockingly fair and interesting, or exactly as terrifying as you’d expect. Clark was inclined to think it was the latter in this instance. Checking his Rate My Professor confirmed that gut instinct. Apparently, his classes were exceptionally hard, and there were multiple complaints of him asking very personal questions about his students’ fears.

It didn’t look like he was offering any classes. He could have been on sabbatical. That would definitely line up with him interacting with Arkham patients.

“Okay,” Clark muttered to himself. “Professor Crane is a real person. No definitive proof he’s been near Ben, but it’s possible. Could be worth looking into.” Or passing on to the police (slash the Batman), but he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that without more definitive proof. “What about Arkham on its own? Is that something we can follow?”

It might be. If they knew about what Crane was doing, then just exposing Crane wouldn’t actually solve much. They could just wash their hands of him and keep going.

I have to keep digging. Especially if…

He almost opened another tab. The mental image of Bruce Wayne’s wary expression made him hesitate. Pursuit of the truth, regardless of who it made uncomfortable, was part of his job. Clark knew that. But even if you removed those wounded eyes, something about the case had never sat right with him.

Martha Wayne, né Arkham, had been the sole survivor of a murder-suicide that destroyed her family. She had been institutionalized in her family’s own facilities in the wake of the loss. At some point she was released and married Thomas Waynes. The Arkhams had covered up the incident. It seemed that Thomas had wanted it to stay a secret, too.

But why? She was the victim here, a woman who had lived through unimaginable tragedy and received treatment (or, perhaps, been forced into the institute to keep her out of the public eye). Why was that so shameful that they had to cover it up? Why was it so shameful bringing it to light would risk ruining Thomas Wayne’s political prospects?

You know why, Clark. You of all people should know.

Clark’s eyes scanned the Gotham skyline. This city didn’t have the same sharp visible divide between its rich and poor that other cities had; even the wealthier areas had the same wear and tear, the same overcast eyes, the same risk of someone pulling a gun on you. But that didn’t stop people from pretending. It didn’t matter if it was in Gotham, Metropolis, or anywhere else: making it to the top meant following a set of rules. Use the right fork at dinner. Don’t marry the wrong people. Definitely don’t have a mental breakdown.

If that was the reason she’d been sent away–if her family had considered her a disgrace, if her ability to show her face around Gotham hinged entirely on no one knowing what had happened–maybe Thomas Wayne’s alleged actions had been about protecting her, not himself. Her and…

Clark didn’t want to assume. But he hadn’t missed the fact that Bruce Wayne stayed out of the public eye, that his eccentricities seemed to go beyond that of a rich shut-in. Bare minimum, there was no way you walked away from the murder of both your parents unscathed. And if anyone tried to use that against him…

He sighed and put his phone away.

Looking into the allegations against Thomas Wayne might be unavoidable one day. But for now, he decided to leave it be.

I just hope he’ll be all right out there.

.

November 23:

The article about Bruce was published in that morning’s edition. It had none of the lurid sensationalism Alfred had feared, nor did it engage in any needless fawning. It was straightforward and fair–in all honesty, the best outcome he could have hoped for. It was nice to have something crossed off his list of worrie.

Especially when Bruce was looking at medical files instead of eating breakfast again.

“Do I still have an invitation to the Gotham General charity gala?” Bruce asked without preamble.

Well, points to him. Alfred hadn’t expected him to ask about a social event. “I was going to decline today…unless you do have some interest after all?”

“I need a guest list if at all possible.”

Ah. There it is. “Hoping your Doctor Crane will make an appearance?”

It was the latest development in the case; Doctor Jonathan Crane. Professor of Psychology at Gotham University, currently on research sabbatical. Leader in the field when it came to anxiety based disorders. Ben claimed to have spoken to him, as had the second confirmed brain implant victim, Suzanna. It could have been a coincidence, but the doctor’s paper trail of search on medical intervention for multiple conditions painted a very interesting picture. The kind of picture worth pursuing…if you ate your bloody breakfast while you did it.

“He might be,” Bruce said as he flipped to another file. Alfred carefully nudged the bowl of yogurt closer to his charge’s arm. The sudden proximity seemed to flip a switch in Bruce’s brain, causing him to glance at it, do a double-take, and pick up the spoon to start eating. Sometimes the reminder was all it took. “Or someone who knows him, or someone who runs the facilities. The Arkham inpatient angle might be worth following, even if we can’t go after Crane.”

It was a valid point, but it still made Alfred nervous. So did Bruce’s next question: “I have a cousin in DC, right?”

“...you do. Katherine.” Alfred watched Bruce’s face carefully. “I don’t know much about her. Your mother only started speaking to Gabrielle again later in life.”

“Why?”

Bruce kept his eyes on his work, trying to look busy and casual. He was getting better at it, but he still couldn’t fool Alfred. “Gabrielle was something of a black sheep, as I understand it. Martha was forbidden to seek her out after she ran away.” It ended up being a blessing in disguise; Gabrielle may have had to disavow her family name, start over from nothing, but it had spared her life in the end. “Then after your grandparents died, Martha had other things to worry about.”

“You mean she was institutionalized.”

“Yes, that.” They hadn’t spoken about it since the story had been forced into the public. Alfred still didn’t know how much of that was avoidance versus them just not having the time. “And then she had to rebuild her life, met your father, had you…she didn’t feel ready to reach out until you were older.”

And then she’d been shot during a mugging behind a theater. Another layer of the tragedy.

“How much would Gabrielle know about all that?”

Alfred sighed. “Before I answer that question,” he said, “I want to know…how much of this case is about your mother?”

“It’s not.” Bruce finally looked his way. “It’s…not. This case needs to be solved. I just thought if I knew something more about how Arkham worked…”

Sometimes, Alfred could easily tell if Bruce was lying. Other times, it was harder. This was one of those times. He could have been lying, or he could have just been unsure or in denial. It would be easy to be in denial about something like this.

Guess I’ll have to keep an eye on that, too.

“...I doubt Gabrielle would know the specifics,” Alfred said finally. “She wasn’t there when it happened and as far as I know, they’d only made tentative contact before your mother died. She would be able to answer any questions you might have about the family, but I doubt she knows much of how the institution was run.”

Bruce nodded and turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. “Thanks.”

He went quiet. He didn’t finish his yogurt. Later, after examining the guest list, he announced his intention to go to the gala.

Definitely have to keep an eye on this.

Notes:

Ch. 1 notes for me to put into their own box later: Yes I know Bruce Wayne does actually have a guitar in his apartment in the movie, but I didn't learn that until literally the past 24 hours, by which point I'd already written the gag with him saying he's going to learn, and I was too attached to it to change. This is the timeline where he doesn't have a guitar I guess.

I'm on tumblr as screechthemighty where my queue is never ending and probably has a lot of Battinson content. Also, gaming stuff.