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“I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Wayne,” Jim Gordon said, glancing around the room, “I have no idea where your kids are.”
Across from the overturned drink table, and half-hidden in the shadows of the ballroom’s far corner, six -- no, seven? -- vigilantes stood awkwardly, weapons at their sides and blood splattered haphazardly on their bat and bird themed-costumes.
Every single one of them was watching Wayne like a hawk, eyes locked onto the knife still protruding from the billionaire’s abdomen.
Jim sighed. They weren’t even pretending to be subtle.
“They must be here somewhere,” Wayne said, half-sprawled across the stretcher as the EMT pushed him back down, “Can’t someone look for them?”
“We have officers clearing the rooms,” Jim said, as kindly as he could -- which wasn’t very, considering how late it was, “I’m sure they’ll…turn up.”
Across the room, Red Hood accidentally nudged a wine glass, sending it skittering across the floor. He, like the other bats, was still keyed up from the fight, caught somewhere between adrenaline and exhaustion as they hovered in the corner.
Not one of the bats or birds moved, still watching Wayne intently. Waiting, when the last thing Batman would want was them lingering at an active crime scene.
“What kind of police work is this,” Wayne breathed, staring at Jim unflinchingly as the EMT inserted an IV into his arm, “There could be injured children nearby and you’re just… standing around?”
It was a valiant effort at covering for his children’s disappearance. Jim gave Wayne points on his acting performance; if he was anyone else, the panic in the man’s eyes and the hysteria in his voice would be more than convincing.
“--and you’re just letting dangerous vigilantes contaminate crime scenes now, too?” Wayne continued, waving at his kids across the room, “Why aren’t you arresting them?”
A few gala attendees -- still lingering nearby to observe Wayne’s possible demise -- nodded along.
“Is the GCPD endorsing the use of vigilantism in Gotham?” a stocky man in a suit asked, puffing his chest out. “Hell, they nearly caused as much damage as those gunmen did!”
Jim sighed. “No, we’re not.”
“If so much as a hair on their heads is harmed,” Wayne warned, pointing a shaking, pale hand at Jim, “I will sue the entire GCPD, mark my words.”
“Okay,” Jim said, “Why don’t we get you loaded up in the ambulance, Mr. Wayne?” he nodded at Wayne’s abdomen, “I’m sure you’ll want to get that looked at.”
Above Wayne’s head, the EMT sent him a grateful look, in the middle of batting Wayne’s free hand away from the IV tubes.
“This? This is just a scratch,” Wayne said, gesturing at the knife -- several inches long, at least -- embedded just under his ribs on the right, “It’s nothing compared to the injuries my poor children could be suffering from right now!”
His voice rose in both pitch and volume, ending on a note of perfectly crafted hysteria that made the hair on the back of Jim’s neck stand up.
Damn, but the bats were creepy when they tried to blend. He’d never been reminded of that so acutely, before now. Wayne was an actor, and a stunning one, in the right light.
“Maybe your kids will show up at the ER,” Jim said, raising his voice so it carried across the room, “We’re headed to Gotham General, right?”
The EMT nodded, now resorting to holding the IV bag out of Wayne’s reach entirely.
“That would be a great place for your kids to meet you,” Jim said, enunciating carefully, “At Gotham General’s ER. Where you will be, in a few minutes.”
Over by the drinks table, one of the bats -- Nightwing -- turned to Red Hood, whispering something in the vigilante’s ear. Both nodded after a moment, turning to the other birds and bats.
The youngest -- Robin -- was still staring at Wayne, eyes wide under his mask. His hands were clenched into bloodless fists, twitching slightly as his gaze never wavered.
It was telling that no further protest emerged from Wayne. Jim turned back to the billionaire, something not quite like fear surging through him.
On the stretcher, Wayne was suddenly much paler than he’d been a few seconds ago. The entire right side of his shirt had brightened with the vivid red of fresh, oxygenated blood.
Jim glanced at the EMT, who was eyeing the still-embedded knife with obvious concern.
“We need to go,” the EMT said to Jim, “Can I take him in the bus, or do you need him for anything else?”
“Get him out of here,” Jim replied, “I’ll follow up at the hospital for a statement.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bats and birds, despite looking antsy, still refused to budge from their position in the shadows of the far corner. Unerringly, their gazes followed the EMT as she began to prep the stretcher to roll out of the ballroom.
“Oh wow,” Jim said loudly, pretending to check his watch, “I bet the ambulance will get to Gotham General in about ten minutes with the sirens, won’t it?”
“Sure,” the EMT said, frowning slightly, “Maybe eight, depends on traffic.”
“Eight minutes,” Jim repeated, looking pointedly at the corner of the ballroom still full of vigilante children, “That’s very fast, isn’t it?”
“Uh huh.”
“You would probably need a car to beat us there,” Jim said, with great enunciation, “Or a bike.”
“Right,” the EMT spared him a withering look, locking down the last clip on the stretcher. “Ready to move if you are, sir.”
Jim gestured toward the door. “Be my guest.”
Wayne’s head rolled on the stretcher as it passed, slumping toward his chest. He was worryingly pale under his fake tan, a hint of crimson reddening his slack, open mouth.
Jim swallowed down the lurching, insidious anxiety tied to Wayne’s possible death. If anyone was going to survive a stab wound…
“Is Bruce going to be okay,” one of the society wives sobbed dramatically as the stretcher passed her, dredging up tears from god knows where, “He looks awful!”
In the corner, one of the Robins -- Red Robin? -- twitched, like he’d been woken from a trance.
“I’m sure he’s going to be just fine,” Jim said, again raising his voice, even though it seemed to be lost on the birds and bats, “Mr. Wayne’s a strong man. He’ll pull through.”
He’s a tough son of a bitch, he tried to convey to the darkened corner, He’s not going to take this one lying down. If anyone can pull through this, it’s him.
Wayne’s stretcher finally disappeared into the hallway. Jim glanced down at his watch, making a note on the time.
When he turned around, the shadowed corner of the ballroom was suspiciously empty.
Finally, Jim thought, fingers twitching for a cigarette.
He waited until he got the all clear from a patrolman at the hospital later -- nothing more than the words, pulled through, ready for statement -- before giving in to the urge.
He lit the cigarette on the rooftop, exhaling his relief across the Gotham night in plumes of murky, bitter nicotine.