Chapter Text
"Mister Wayne! Mister Wayne. If you could spare a few seconds - just a few seconds..." a nervous, twitchy smile. Hands fumbling on the clipboard. Bruce turned to the individual who had ambushed him on his way to a meeting in Wayne Tower, raising an eyebrow.
"Is everything alright?"
"Oh, uh," the man, clearly unprepared for Bruce to acknowledge his presence, sticks out a shaky hand, "Nathan Abidi, data analyst. And researcher. And anything to do with improving the company."
Bruce offered Nathan a light smile, shaking his hand, "Bruce Wayne. What do you need?"
"Uhm.. so. Right. I've been trying to get this message to you but my boss - not you, of course, my manager - wouldn't let me." He handed Bruce the clipboard. "This here is, uhm, data on various building projects done by Wayne enterprises. If you flick through, you will see a downward trend of build quality - all assessed by inspectors - of our buildings. This ranges from our big scrapers to the housing developments recently done."
Bruce's eyebrows furrowed. This man - Nathan - was right, there was a bar chart with a downward trend. "And this decrease in quality, is it a risk to anyone?"
He gave a grim smile, "At first, no, it was small enough to not be noticeable. You know, walls too thin or doors off-centre. But, if you look at the bottom, it crosses a threshold. There, it gets dangerous. This includes, yanno', anything from an unstable foundation to bad cement. These buildings all pose a risk of collapse."
"I never noticed..." Bruce mumbled, staring at the chart in disbelief. He glanced back up at Nathan, who was holding something back.
"And, well... this came to my attention after one of the developments collapsed. One of the social houses."
Bruce froze, hands gripping the clipboard a little tighter. He took a breath before asking, "Was anyone inside?"
"It was a, uh, family of five. Parents, two children, and their elderly grandfather. The collapse happened in the grandfather's bedroom. Ceiling caved in while he was asleep. His legs were broken." Nathan's voice grew low, sombre, as if it were a personal matter, "He needs a hip replacement and several surgeries."
He exhaled a shaky breath, suddenly feeling hot. He wiped a hand on his forehead before asking, "Did you know them?"
Nathan shifted his weight, "They are my sister in law's family, sir."
Concern and compassion laced his voice, "I'm sorry to hear that, Nathan. Wayne Enterprises will cover any costs, just send me an invoice."
Nathan's body went lax in relief, "Thank you! Thank you, Mister Wayne, I appreciate it. My sister in law will be thrilled - she has a third on the way, now."
"Of course." Bruce was a tad uncomfortable with the praise, so he changed the subject, "What do you propose I do?"
"You're... asking for my input?" He paused, a twinkle in his eye, "Well, I would change our contractors, first. Most of these are from Heritage Builders and Buawn, who have had new management in. And, well... I think we should change some of the engineers as well," Nathan blushed, ashamed at recommending laying people off, "some of the problems lay with the blueprints. We had complaints by other contractors that the buildings simply didn't work ergonomically-speaking."
Disappointed, but ultimately grateful, Bruce nodded at Nathan, "Thank you. This has been very insightful," He flicked his wrist, checking the time. "I'm late to my meeting, but again, thank you, Nathan. I'll send word to your supervisor about a promotion."
"Oh! Thank you, sir."
Clipboard in hand, Bruce sped away.
___
Bruce floated through the meeting in a blur: budgeting, profits, and initiatives... the list went on. He briefly considered firing the current board for their incompetence alone but then disgusted himself at his lack of compassion. These were still people, he reminded himself, even if they didn't consider the average working American a person.
Back at Wayne Manor, he sat in his father's study - his study - debating what Nathan said. He'd just gotten off the phone with the man's supervisor for a due promotion, which the supervisor was oddly opposed to. Bruce had insisted, under careful condescension and a reminder of his position. The supervisor soon relented quickly.
Bruce knew that Wayne Enterprises needed something outstanding - the company could not simply exist and survive under managers looking for profit over people. He was just one man, and while he adopted the company seamlessly when he turned 18, his presence alone wouldn't be enough. He needed someone else. Another company, another person... something that screamed unique or new. Reliable. Passionate. Preferably his own qualities.
His gaze drifted to the notes again—the graph dated back years, all the way back to when his father was CEO and thriving. Bruce was proud to see the bar set so high, both literally on the page and metaphorically. He looked at the highest bar: a build deemed perfect by inspectors. Nathan had scribbled a note beside it in red, with two simple words: Xander Wilde. A bell rang in his mind. The name was inconspicuous, if not a little artificial. Yet. Something clicked in his mind - a sixth sense, perhaps. The company listed was Meyer and Hayes, an engineering company. Bruce was familiar with the CEO, Allan Hayes. He'd met him briefly at a Charity Gala.
He felt an odd thread of connection to the name. Bruce was not religious but felt something like fate stirring in his gut. It was the same feeling he had when he met Jim Gordon. This man was important.
He would arrange a meeting with Allan Hayes, he decided.
It was more than the buildings, it was the people. They were marks of improvement - of a civil, progressive society. Of safety.
Bruce swallowed as he looked around his manor - the high, dark walls, the velvet cushions. Dust was collecting in the hard-to-reach areas. He picked up the phone to call Lucius Fox.
___
Allan Hayes was a humble man, Bruce found as he was offered a coffee in the other's office on the fiftieth floor of Wayne Enterprises. He noted the man's kindness in his mind, thinking that he should propose a business deal with him later on. He accepted the cup and saucer from the grey-bearded man. He sat across from Bruce, at his desk, stirring his own with a teaspoon. The smoke filtered up into the air.
"Xander Wilde," Allan began, taking a sip of his drink, "I know him."
"Who is he?"
"Well, he works for us," Bruce's heart sunk in disappointment, "and he also freelances here and there." And there, it rose.
Bruce took a sip before clarifying, "I saw that he worked with my father, is that true?"
Allan raised his eyebrows, "He did? Well, that wouldn't surpise me. I didn't know anything of it - he's only started working with us recently." He set his cup down, "Why do you ask? Just because he worked with your father?"
He was almost sheepish to admit, "Partially. I was looking through some data and saw that this Xander Wilde produced perfectly engineered buildings."
Allan smiled, "You're wanting to illicit his help? I don't blame you. He's not formally employed with us, if that's what you're worried about. He acts more like... a partner to us, I suppose. We employ him for projects, he gets paid, and we employ him for another."
"So, you wouldn't mind if I spoke to him?"
Allan laughed this time, "It would be a miracle if you could; I've never met him personally. Nobody has. All communication is done through his proxy."
Bruce blinked, shocked, "You've never seen him? Ever?"
"Not once. I couldn't tell you anything about him - physically or personality-wise. Well - aside from the fact he seems to be very private."
Bruce understood the need for privacy, he wasn't exactly the most interactive when it came to his colleagues, but this? This was... extreme. That mustn't be the only reason, he thought. He leaned forward, inquiring solemnly, "Can you tell me where to find him?"
The man, for what it was worth, looked apologetic, "I'm sorry, Mr Wayne. I can't give up that information - it's apart of the terms of my deal with Mr Wilde. If he were to find out, I would get a hefty lawsuit, or worse, he would never work with us again. We can't afford that, I hope you understand."
Dejected, but ultimately understanding, he nodded, "Okay, thank you, Mr Hayes. I appreciate what you've told me." He stood, downing his coffee and setting it down.
The man stood, too, and they shook hands. Instead of parting, however, Allan kept hold. With a pointed look, he said innocently, "If your father did work with him, he'll surely have records of it."
Bruce smiled, "Thank you, Mr Hayes."
And with that, he left.
As he walked down the hallway to the elevator, he passed a drawing. He paused mid-step and turned, the same bell ringing in his mind. It was a coloured illustration of Wayne Plaza, situated on the other side of the city. It was a tall, glorious thing, with a pointed spire and tall arch for an entrance - an equilibrium of modern and ancient. It looked the same as the Wayne Plaza that stood today. In the corner, the initials XW sat. Bruce stared so hard he could burn holes, then left.
___
"Is there something on your mind, Master Bruce?
Bruce forked a sausage, pushed it around the plate, and then left it. He looked up at Alfred, adorned in his apron at the stove, and said bluntly, "Wayne Enterprises funded a housing project that saw the collapse of a roof on an elderly man."
Alfred paused his cooking, turning to Bruce, "I'm... sorry to hear that, Bruce."
"I fired the construction company that built the houses. And the engineering company, too. We will have to knock them all down and start again."
"And... you are wanting to hire better ones?"
"Not just better. Exceptional ones." He pushed his chair out and stood, "Have you heard of a Xander Wilde?"
Alfred tilted his head, sensing where this was going, "No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Why do you ask?"
"He helped my father build Wayne Plaza, which is considered to be one of the strongest buildings in Gotham. I want to meet him."
"Well, then, you can go ahead. You don't need my permission, anymore."
"That's not it. There's no record of him anywhere - nobody has seen him in person. He's a ghost, except for father's old records."
"And you want help finding them."
"Please."
"Of course, Bruce." Alfred took off his apron and turned the hob off, bacon half-burnt and forgotten.
They walked to the study, where a myriad of bookcases lay. Bruce almost shivered at the thought of sifting through them; he didn't know where to start, or even what order they were in. He began to plan how he and Alfred were going to go about it when a scraping of the library ladder made him turn. Alfred scaled up it, scanning the spines of particular royal purple hardbacks. In less than 10 seconds, he pinched one out with an, "Ah yes, Wayne Plaza."
Bruce huffed. Of course, Alfred knew his way around the library. The man stepped down and rounded the table, flicking through it in quick succession. Bruce approached just as he found the page, which was thrust upon his hands.
"Look, here," Alfred said. "He was a meticulous note-taker, Thomas. He ordered everything by project."
Bruce's eyes scanned his father's neat handwriting. Xander Wilde, it said again. He mumbled as he read, "It said he met him to finalise the plans. No address, just the street name: Ainsley Drive."
"That's by the old Rock Port."
"This man must've been very important if my father went out of his way to meet him."
"Indeed."
"So. He's not a recluse hiding from the world. He's hiding from something. Someone."
"Shall I get your car ready, Master Bruce?"
"Yes, please, Alfred."
___
The drive up Ainsley Drive was a slow, careful one. The forest was a dark, foreboding place, with similarly dark birds to match it. Trees upon trees swallowed the area, rising to unattainable lengths. The sun hardly reached this area. Only the dirt road was lit up.
As he scaled the road, something white caught his eye. He chanced a look to the side and noticed an inconspicuous, if not shabby-looking, cement building. It was small - tiny, even. Not big enough to be a house, but perhaps an entrance. He slowed the car, the low purr of the engine going silent. He got out, pulling his gloves on amid the Autumn cold.
He approached the building in calculated steps, taking notice of a security camera sitting on top of the structure. It blinked red, then green. It moved down, following his movements. He was being watched. He approached the door and pressed a button on a panel beside it, agitation bubbling within him. Overgrown branches cradled the building. A click came - a muffle of a microphone. He was supposed to speak. Almost uncomfortably, he said, "This is Bruce Wayne. I'm looking for Xander Wilde?" It came out more as a question.
There was a whirring sound of electronics working, then slowly, the door opened inwards.
He glanced in suspiciously, then stepped inside. The door shut behind him, muffling the sounds of nature and enclosing him in a gentle hum of lights.
As he rounded the corner downstairs, a blonde woman startled him. She stood, silent, rigid. Waiting. Her hands were held behind her back. She looked at him with blank eyes as she asked, "Bruce Wayne?"
Bruce could only say, "Yes."
She began to walk. He could only follow. The halls were plain, blank cement. Not the decorating type, he thought. He couldn't help but ask, "This is all underground?"
"Mr Wilde values his privacy." She replied simply. She was professional, alarmingly so.
They rounded a myriad of corners before coming upon a door. Another CCTV camera lay in an inlet in the wall, blinking green again. This man was undoubtingly meticulous. He approached a panel, pressing a button and saying, "Ecco 496."
An electronic voice came from the panel, "Welcome, Miss Ecco."
She turned to him, "He'll see you now."
Bruce nodded gratefully to her, granting one last lingering look before stepping inside a low-lit room.