Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dick, Cassandra, and Duke were having a little too much fun while Alfred was out of the country on holiday with Leslie Thompkins.

Under Bruce’s supervision, they were getting away with things Alfred simply wouldn’t allow. Prepackaged, processed lunch meals with candy, breakfast for dinner, takeout—totally fine. Playing video games all day, climbing the pillars of the penthouse and using the ceiling arches as monkey bars, Bruce and Duke jamming out to ear-shatteringly loud, not always age appropriate music for a five-year-old​​—completely okay. Leaving nearly the entire penthouse a mess with a sink full of dishes, pillow forts, toys, and other items everywhere—not a big deal.

But as their days of unrestricted, rambunctious fun continued, they noticed Bruce’s demeanor changing. He wasn’t taking them out in public to places like the park in front of Wayne Tower anymore, and if he had to take them somewhere, he was strict about them staying near him and in his line of sight. He wasn’t allowing them to watch the news or hangout with him in the subway terminal anymore either.

They knew after they fell asleep at night he would leave to patrol Gotham or work on a case, but each time he came home he seemed more withdrawn and stuck in his own head. It was harder to get his attention when he was thinking and to get him to engage in their fantastical, make-believe activities or even to have a conversation with him that was beyond him responding with short sounds or one syllable sentences. He was struggling to keep up with just the basics.

Bruce was obsessive of every case, but whatever one he was currently working on was evidently getting to him. It consumed him day and night. They hadn’t seen him sleep for a while, not even during the daytime like he usually tried to do.

Instead, he’d formed a habit of sitting in the hallway near their bedrooms each night until they dozed off to sleep, and after returning from his work as The Batman, he would be waiting there again in the morning before they woke up.

What had sparked the habit, they didn’t know.

They hoped though for him to be able to have some more unbridled fun with them again like before.

“Bruce?” Dick said with foamy toothpaste all over his mouth. He was brushing his teeth while standing on one of the step stools in front of the sink of Bruce’s ensuite bathroom.

Bruce didn’t turn his attention away from trying to brush out Duke’s hair. He had on the bathroom counter his laptop which was playing a video tutorial of how to put Duke’s voluminous afro into a protective style. To say he was struggling with the task would be an understatement.

Duke paused from reciting his ABCs while he brushed his teeth to tug on the frayed sleeve of Bruce's gray, long-sleeve shirt. “Dick’s talkin’ to you.”

Bruce glanced over at Dick. “Sorry.”

“We’re still going to the gala tomorrow, right? You’re not gonna bail this time? ‘Cause I really wanna go to this one. You said there’d be other kids there and we haven’t been out of the tower in ages!”

“Gala! Gala! Gala!” Duke repeatedly pounded his fist on the counter.

“Thanks to someone I apparently promised the mayor we would go.”

Cass smiled to herself. She climbed onto the counter and began brushing out her freshly washed hair.

“Pinky promise?” Dick said, offering Bruce his pinky.

Cass stopped brushing her hair momentarily to offer Bruce her pinky finger as well.

Bruce hooked his pinky fingers around theirs.

“Promise,” he said, his voice devoid of enthusiasm.

Bruce resumed trying to follow the cornrowing tutorial, but he only seemed to be severely tangling and frizzing Duke’s hair.

Duke winced as Bruce tried to brush through his hair and start over on the cornrow.

“Alfred does my hair better.”

“Finish your ABCs,” Bruce said, sounding slightly offended.

If he could design high tech gadgets and computer programs, build a supercar from the ground up, and design and sew his batsuit, he could learn to cornrow hair. It couldn’t be that much harder. He wasn’t going to give up.

“I think you should give up,” Dick said. “You majorly suck at doing Duke’s hair.”

Cass nodded. She began braiding a tiny section of her own hair.

“You’re not even using the same stuff the lady’s using in the video.”

Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to tune Dick out.

“You know I’m right.” Dick spat out his toothpaste into the sink, hopped off the step stool, and left the bathroom.

Cass showed off her tiny braid to Bruce, illustrating that braiding was simple.

Feeling defeated, Bruce finally conceded and stopped trying to cornrow Duke’s hair.

“Finally.” Duke leaped off the step stool and rubbed his sore scalp. “Can you read the Gray Ghost story now?”

Bruce’s shoulders fell but he nodded.

Bruce lingered over the sight of them sleeping soundly. A small smile spread across his lips for only a moment before it disappeared.

He closed the Gray Ghost book.

He stood from the armchair and began to tuck Duke and Cass into bed.

Although there were numerous bedrooms in the penthouse, Cass had insisted on sharing the same bedroom with Duke. She was profoundly protective of everyone in the family, but she was especially protective of Duke and always seemed to know what he needed before he even asked. One of the things she knew he needed was to have someone close by while he slept.

Bruce’s heart swelled as he thought about how much of a comfort Dick and Cass continued to be for Duke after everything he'd been through.

Bruce lifted Dick from the bean chair he’d fallen asleep in, carried him against his chest to his bedroom, and snugly tucked Dick into bed with his elephant-themed blankets, making sure he was as comfortable as possible. Before Bruce left Dick’s bedroom, he switched on the elephant night-light beside Dick's bed and placed a communicator device on the dresser near the door.

He paused in the hallway to take in the reassuring sound of all three of them softly snoring.

To ensure they didn’t get themselves into trouble while he was away, he went down to the kitchen, removed and hid all the knobs of the stove, child-locked the microwave, refrigerator, dishwasher, and oven, and put away anything else that could potentially be hazardous or combustible or cause flooding. After so many incidents, he'd learned his lesson with them.

A device in his pocket vibrated.

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes—steeling himself for what was ahead.

He pulled an earpiece case from his pocket and put the earpiece in his ear.

“I’m on my way.”

“It worked. I’m inside.” Catwoman said.

“I’ll keep the Jokerz away,” Bruce said through the comms as he rounded the street corner.

Several men were tailing him. He kept enough distance from them that they could still follow him, but since he was dressed as a drifter he blended into the shadows.

Bruce passed by dumpster fires, dropheads, people rummaging through trash, and a small bodega that looked like it’s been robbed one too many times.

A store with flashing, bright neon signs caught his eye:

Hair Shop.

He stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder.

The bell over the door jingled as he entered.

Only in Gotham would a hair shop like this be open past midnight. He searched the aisles for the items he could remember from the tutorial video: deep conditioning mask, edge control, wide-tooth comb, rat-tail comb, twisting gel, silk bonnet, durag—the works.

He carried the items in his arms to the checkout counter.

A teenager begrudgingly got off their phone and came over to ring him up.

Bruce could clearly make out the music they were listening to because of how worn out the retro headsets over their ears were. A foam earpad was missing on one side, tape was holding together the headband, and the aux cable was hanging on for dear life. The things looked ancient. The teen had good taste in music nonetheless.

“Nice eyeshadow, dude. Diggin’ the grunge look,” they said, smacking on gum as they spoke. “That’ll be $75.82.”

Bruce handed over a wad of cash and put the items in his backpack.

The teen counted the money. “You’ve overpaid. Here’s the extra back.”

“The extra is for you...”

“Huh?”

“...for new headphones.”

Bruce noticed the Jokerz pass by the store in search of him, so he put his backpack over his shoulders and left the store.

The teen laughed. “Rad.”

The blaring noise of emergency vehicles echoed through the streets and alleyways. Firefighters rushed to get the industrial building which was ablaze and exploding under control.

Batman and Catwoman stood side by side atop a building and watched as the police arrested a large gang of Jokerz who were conveniently tied up or knocked out on the outskirts of the building. Officers were also guiding a small number of people with blankets over their shoulders to the safety of an ambulance.

Batman looked at Catwoman and could see she was trying to hold herself together. The way her eyes welled up with tears told him everything; reminding him too much of when they’d listened to the audio recording of Annika being strangled.

“Thank you... for helping me.”

She gave him a half-smile. “Well... I couldn’t refuse to help on something like this. I’m just glad we were able to save some of them. I hope you find the sick son of a @#&$% who’s really behind all this and not just these Jokerz.”

“I will.”

“Let me know when you do,” she said, a venomous edge in her voice. “I’d like to have a part in making the killer pay for what he’s done.”

She could sense the look of disapproval under his mask. She scoffed and pulled her cowl back, revealing her intricate micro braids.

Catwoman noticed how his eyes lit up.

“What?”

“...Did you braid your hair?”

Her eyes narrowed. “No, I went somewhere to get it done… Why?”

“It’s for a case.”

She looked at him incredulously.

“Where did you go?”

“A salon in Park Row near the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic. Woman named Amoy owns it. Hole-in-the-wall kind of place, but she can braid like no one else. My mother would always take me there...” She looked him over, trying to read him. “Why are you really asking?”

He merely stared at her, allowing the silence that passed between them be his response.

She shook her head. Why she bothered trying to get anything out of him she didn’t know.

“Are you staying in Gotham?”

“I need to get out of here. This whole situation...” She stopped herself, trying to prevent her emotions from taking over. “…This city has a way of getting to you. I don’t understand why you’re still trying to change it.”

Another explosion from the burning building erupted, diverting his attention back to it.

She stepped closer to him and fixed his cape as if it was a collar to a suit to get him to look at her again.

She searched his eyes. “Do you want me to stay?”

He wasn’t going to remain silent this time. He knew what he wanted to say. He was going to tell her—

—The communicator on the back of his glove buzzed.

His eyes widened and he quickly looked down at it.

She chuckled, a rueful look on her face as she turned away from him, feeling näive for getting her hopes up again and thinking he’d ever really respond to that question. When she looked back at him, she was surprised by the worried look in his eyes as he read the communicator and silently mouthed the word “help”.

Before she could ask him about it, he swiftly turned to the edge of the building and propelled off it.

She sighed and watched him disappear into the shadows.

“See you, Bat...”

Batman's vintage motorcycle came to a squealing halt inside the subway terminal. He ripped off his cowl and backpack and rushed to the elevator. Once the elevator reached the penthouse and the doors opened, he bolted straight towards the double staircase.

Duke was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

“Are you all okay?!” Bruce said, looking up at Duke from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m thirsty,” Duke said.

Bruce blinked. “The communicator is for emergencies.”

“Thirst is an emergency!”

Bruce groaned in frustration and ran his gloved fingers through his hair. He climbed the stairs, took Duke’s small hand into his own, and led him to the kitchen.

He sat Duke on the counter and handed him a juice pouch from the refrigerator.

“Thank you,” Duke said with a big smile that revealed the gaps between his baby teeth.

Bruce grumbled, trying to keep the façade of being angry and annoyed with Duke to emphasize that he couldn’t use the communicator for something that wasn't a real emergency, but he had to turn away from that smile. His reaction to it was going to give him away.

He retrieved painkillers for himself from the top shelf of a cabinet. Alfred kept telling him he needed to eat before taking painkillers, but sometimes he just wanted something quick to take away some of the pain from fighting. He removed his gloves and then began unwrapping the boxing bandages from his aching, swollen hands.

Duke swung his legs from the counter as he happily sipped on his juice pouch. He let out a big “Ahh” when he finished drinking.

“Very refreshing,” Duke said, trying to mimic Alfred’s accent.

Bruce couldn’t suppress a soft chuckle.

Duke hadn’t seen Bruce amused for a long while, so he was pleased he was able to get a reaction out of him.

But Bruce’s expression turned somber with concern when he looked back at Duke.

“Are you sleeping okay?” Bruce said, his voice quiet and soft.

Duke shrugged.

“Still having the laughing nightmares?”

“…Sometimes...”

Bruce looked away from him. ”I’m sorry… I wish I could make it stop...”

Duke hopped off the counter and took Bruce’s hand.

“Can we go get waffles?”

“Right now?”

Duke excitedly nodded.

“No.”

Duke glanced over at the entryway of the kitchen.

“Pretty please!” he said, drawing out his words and staring up at Bruce with the biggest, most pleading eyes he could muster.

Bruce concentrated his hearing in the direction Duke had glanced towards.

“I know you two are there.”

Dick and Cass slowly revealed themselves.

“Did you two put him up to this?”

Cass smiled.

“He’s too adorable!” Dick said, sounding defensive. “You can’t say no to that face. He’s gotta be the one to ask you!”

Duke tugged on Bruce’s cape to get him to look into his eyes. ”Please!”

Bruce closed his eyes and rubbed his temple.

He sighed. “Find my keys...”

Cass pulled out his car keys from the pocket of her pajamas and dangled them in the air.

Bruce gave her an angry look of disapproval, but she knew his facial expression wasn’t genuine.

He snatched the keys from her as he walked past.

“Give me a minute to shower,” he said before leaving the kitchen.

Dick high-fived Duke, and Cass hugged him with her cheek squished against his.

“Nice job, Duke!” Dick said.

He giggled. “Thanks.”

Now that Bruce was taking a more active role in Wayne Enterprises after the revealed misuse of the Renewal fund, Alfred was especially encouraging him to keep up appearances like the billionaire he was: to convince the board members that the Prince of Gotham was no longer a recluse who joined meetings with accountants while wearing oversized clothes he bought from the thrift store, and to show the Gotham’s citizens that Thomas Wayne’s only heir could provide trustworthy charitable funds that would actually benefit the city.

To Alfred’s dismay, instead of Bruce showing off his wealth and status in the things he bought, he had purchased a minivan. Bruce didn’t think there was anything wrong with it, especially since it had plenty of room for car seats and booster seats—but that was exactly what worried Alfred most.

On the drive to Goth’s Waffle House, Dick endlessly talked of the new things he had learned from books, his homeschooling, and educational animal documentaries; he loved all animals but his current animal obsession was robins, and he was having fun drawing them and giving his masterpieces to Bruce. He tried to talk to Bruce about robins, but Bruce was silent for most of the drive. So instead, Dick entertained Duke with corny jokes that he hoped, for once, Duke wouldn’t know the answers to, while Duke simultaneously worked on his crossword puzzles.

Cass messed around with her collection of stickers she’d stuck on to the backseat window of the van. Occasionally, she would read Bruce’s eyes from just the reflection of the rear-view mirror; she noticed how hollowed his eyes were, how dark the circles under his eyes had become, and how distant his stare was.

“Bruce, did you hear me?” Dick said.

Bruce snapped himself out of it and glanced up to see Dick from the rear-view mirror.

“Did you fight bad guys tonight?”

Bruce slowly nodded.

“What kind of bad guys?”

“Ooh! Ooh! A bank robber?” Duke said, sitting up taller in his car seat.

“Or! A cat burglar!?” Dick said.

“Nuh-uh! How ‘bout a bad guy that blasts people with mustard and ketchup?”

Cass smiled.

“What? No! That’s silly,” Dick said, each word intertwined with giggles. “Who’s right, B? Which bad guy?”

Bruce didn’t seem to be listening to them and just appeared focused on driving.

Dick looked at Cass, but she could only give him a worried expression.

“...B?” Dick said softer.

”…Serial killer...” Bruce finally said.

He pulled the van into the parking lot of the diner.

“Huh? Cereal killer?” Duke said. “Bad guy who doesn’t like cereal?”

”...Yeah.”

From his tone, Cass knew Bruce really didn’t want to talk about it.

Bruce parked the van, put on his red baseball cap, and grabbed his backpack from the front passenger seat.

“Wait until I let you out,” he told them before exiting the minivan.

They obediently stayed put, but they thought it was odd. Bruce had never told them to wait until he let them out of the van before.

Bruce scanned the parking lot quickly. His eyes darted in every direction, taking note of every vehicle, every suspicious shadow, and every potential place of concealment.

When he was reasonably satisfied, he pulled open the sliding door of the minivan and allowed Dick to hop out. Cass unbuckled Duke from his car seat and they then followed behind Dick.

Bruce opened the diner door for them, and Cass and Duke walked inside.

But Dick paused before entering the diner and looked up at Bruce with a concerned expression.

“Did… did you catch the killer?”

Bruce's gaze fell away and his silence told Dick enough.

The diner was completely empty aside from a waiter and the chef who appeared half asleep. The place looked like it had been lost in a forgotten time. The floors were dreadfully stained, it smelled of something worrisomely unidentifiable, and the booths’ vinyl upholstery was cracked, and in some places, very sticky.

“Ay, nice pajamas, kids. So what can I get ya on this fine”—the waiter looked back to the neon clock on the wall—“4 a.m. morning?”

“Chocolate waffles, please and thank you!” Dick said.

“Strawberry!” Duke said.

The waiter yawned and then scribbled their order on a notepad. “Uh-huh, and for you, little miss?”

Cass pointed on the sticky, plastic menu to a picture of a waffle with way too much whipped cream and blueberries.

“All right. And for you, mister?”

”Nothing,” Bruce said, his voice barely audible. He looked down at the menu, and tipped his baseball cap to avoid the waiter fully seeing his face.

The waiter shrugged. “Order will be out soon, kids. Larry! Wake up! Get these waffles cookin’.”

“Thank you, Larry!” Dick shouted.

It wasn’t long before the waiter came back with their waffles.

While Dick, Cass, and Duke ate their sugary waffles and childishly played with their food and messed with each other, Bruce was busy writing in one of his Gotham Project journals he had brought with him.

“When you’re out in public with Alfred or myself,” Bruce said, interrupting their jovial fun and causing them to go quiet, “Always stay where we can see you. And if we ever get separated, stay in the place where we were last together.”

His tone was frightfully serious, like they’d never heard from him before, but he didn’t avert his attention from his journal to look at them.

Dick’s brows furrowed as he tried to interpret Bruce’s tone and read his body language.

“Okay...” Dick said, his voice hesitant.

Bruce resumed writing in his journal.

Cass saw that Dick was about to ask Bruce a question, so she brought her index finger to her lips.

Dick reluctantly stayed silent.

“We in trouble...?” Duke asked.

Bruce shook his head slowly.

“You wan’ some of my waffle...? It’s yummy!” Duke offered Bruce a half-eaten piece from his sticky hand.

”I’m okay... Thank you.”

Cass read his facial expressions—she knew he wasn’t okay.

The drive back home was a quiet one.

With their stomachs satisfactorily full, and with the calming, white noise of a traveling vehicle, Dick, Cass, and Duke fell fast asleep in the minivan.

Bruce missed their noisiness on the ride back. Now he was just stuck with the noise of his thoughts.
When they arrived home, Bruce carried the sleeping Cass and Duke up to their bedroom with Dick following behind him. He tucked them into bed once more, making sure the blankets were snugly over them.
When Bruce exited their bedroom, he found Dick waiting for him in the hallway.
“Sorry the killer got away…” he said, looking up at Bruce with a sad expression.

Bruce merely ruffled Dick’s hair as he walked past him and headed towards the stairs. “Get some sleep.”

Cass pushed aside the scissor gate of the elevator and stepped out to the terminal with Bruce’s cellphone in her hand. She thought she’d see Bruce at one of his workbenches, but he was nowhere in sight. His two motorcycles were parked, but she didn’t see his car.

She’d never seen the subway terminal such a mess before. Files, photos of persons of interest, and police reports were scattered all over the floor, yet they all seemed to be in a particular pattern, with collections of similar looking files together and then connected with white chalk markings on the concrete floor to other files. Many of the files had numerous notes with Bruce’s handwriting.

The television on the wall was displaying the latest news coverage and the sound system was playing alternative rock music. Besides the television audio and music, she also heard the faint, distant, and overlapping sound of several people speaking at once. She tried to pinpoint where it was coming from. The sound seemed to be originating from the tunnel leading into the subway terminal which Bruce used to drive his car in and out from. Cass looked down the poorly lit tunnel and saw the car parked inside.

Bruce hadn’t driven the car past the large, steel security gate for it to close or bothered to park the car on the ramps like usual.

The driver’s side door was open, so she ventured over and found Bruce asleep in the reclined driver’s seat.

Exhaustion had finally forced him to sleep, but he certainly wasn’t sleeping soundly. He was breathing quickly and perspiring. He appeared to be having a nightmare, which, unfortunately, Cass knew was a chronic occurrence for him.

She looked to the source of the sounds she heard. On the center console of the car was a military-style laptop which had on one side of the screen recorded footage from Bruce’s contact lens of what looked like the inside of an industrial building with him and Catwoman vastly outnumbered by a gang of Jokerz. The other side of the screen was a video tutorial of how to cornrow. The overlapping audio of people speaking was utter dissonance. How and why Bruce multitasked listening to audio was beyond her.

Dozens of photographs and files were strewn throughout the car and on Bruce’s lap, but most of the photographs were in the passenger seat. Out of curiosity, she went to the other side of the car and opened the door.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the photographs.

The photographs were of crime scenes and disturbing morgue images of, not just one, but numerous young children—some not much older than Duke—who had been gruesomely murdered. She didn’t need to be able to read the autopsy reports that accompanied the photos to know what caused their deaths. It was clear from their horrific injuries how they had died.

Cass had seen death before, but not like this.

The sight made her stomach churn.

The blood-curdling sound of children screaming blasted from the speakers of the laptop, startling Bruce awake. He sat up straight and slammed the laptop lid closed to stop the videos and audio from continuing.

He realized Cass was nearby and that she could see the photographs in the passenger seat. He swiftly started collecting them.

“You’re not supposed to be down here,” he said gravely, giving her an incredibly stern look that was more frightening than his Batman cowl.

This time Cass knew by his facial expressions that he was angry and dead serious in his disapproval.

She turned away from his intense gaze and slowly made her way to the driver’s side of the car. She showed him his phone. It displayed several missed calls and a calendar notification:

Wayne Enterprises Board Meeting - 8:30 a.m.

He looked at the time on the phone: 8:47 a.m.

Cass then showed the reminder that the gala was also later that evening.

He groaned and rubbed his face.

Bruce was slumped over the dining table with his head resting on his forearms, feeling the full effects of the last few weeks.

The video-conference board meeting was displayed on the laptop in front of him. The board members were all sitting around a long table in the conference room of one of Wayne Tower’s main offices. They kept encouraging Bruce to turn on his camera so they could see him from their large monitor since he hadn’t gone down to the meeting in person, but in his sleep-deprived, disheveled state, he didn’t care what they wanted him to do. He just wanted to survive getting through the dreary agendas they had and the proposals they needed his approval for so he could get to the appointment he had scheduled for later in the day.

Dick, Cass, and Duke were running around the penthouse, chasing each other, and squealing and yelling as they did so. They were dressed in funny, noir-style detective clothes, wearing fedoras, little trench coats, and swimming goggles, and were using cardboard boxes as some sort of car or spaceship.

Bruce wasn’t sure what make-believe game they were playing, but it was certainly loud and rambunctious.

“Bruce, watch this!”

Bruce lifted his head to look at Duke.

Duke did a clumsily cartwheel, a spin, and then did a little jump at the end with his hands in the air.

Bruce gave him a fist-bump and laid his head back on his forearms.

“Is this satisfactory, Mr. Wayne?” Lucius Fox said from the video-conference.

Bruce fumbled to unmute himself.

“Yes,” he said, with the commotion of squealing and screaming children in the background.

He muted himself.

Bruce missed the details of what exactly he was agreeing to, but he was sure he’d get an annoyed email from Lucius eventually if it was a mistake he needed to correct, and probably counsel on how unprofessional it was to have rambunctious, screaming children in the background during a serious meeting with the board members.

Sometimes it was overwhelming to be involved in his company, but with the help of Lucius, Bruce wanted to continue stewarding Wayne Enterprises to benefit the community once again like his parents intended. To help the poor, disadvantaged, and downtrodden citizens of Gotham. He wanted to build free clinics, affordable housing, better homeless shelters, wellness programs, and provide stable jobs and opportunities to ex-felons; provide scholarships and free education programs, and help those who were struggling to make ends meet.

It was going to take time, but he knew it would be worth it.

Everyone deserves a second chance. To know someone was out there for them. Everyone needs hope.

When the board members were done debating, discussing new ventures, and deciding where to allocate resources—all of which Bruce believed could’ve been summarized in an email—he was able to finally sign off from the meeting.

Not long after, however, he was bombarded with emails from the board members to schedule additional meetings, and, as he predicted, he also received an email from Lucius with a subject line in all caps. His inbox was full of unread emails from various major companies, institutions, charities, individuals such as Bella Reál, and several emails from the newly elected District Attorney.

He closed the laptop—he’d deal with emails another day.

Bruce knew he only had so much time in the day to get the kids ready for the gala that evening. If he took them there and they didn’t look presentable, and the paparazzi took pictures of them—which was going to happen—he would never hear the end of it from Alfred.

Getting everyone ready and out of the penthouse on time was a struggle each time for him. There was always someone’s one shoe missing, or someone couldn’t find their jacket, or someone forgot to use the bathroom before leaving, or he couldn’t find his keys—and he couldn’t make things easier for himself by letting them go out in broad daylight wearing their pajamas (again).

He was really trying not to be a recluse anymore, but on days like this, he just wanted to stay home and shut everything out.

He had hidden from the world for so long, and now he was learning that in order to rebuild trust in his father's company and to restore his family's reputation, he had to create another sort of mask; he had to create Bruce Wayne the Billionaire Philanthropist.

Gotham had known Thomas and Martha’s reputation, their philanthropy, their charitable funds, their aid to the disadvantaged, but no one knew who Bruce was.

He was always just the “rich kid whose parents were murdered”.

For months after his parent’s death, the media and paparazzis were fixated on him and relentlessly hounded him; wanting to know what he felt the moment his parents died, if he wanted vengeance for their deaths, was he even sure what he told the police was accurate, and was there more to what happened that he wasn’t telling everyone.

The police questioned him endlessly, bringing up the details of the case, asking for everything he saw and heard, and tried getting him to identify the killer with numerous police lineups. It took rookie-detective James Gordon finding out how the lead detectives were treating Bruce for the borderline interrogations to stop.

The coverage of the Wayne's murder was run over and over, 24/7, on every national and international news radio station and television network.

Classmates never stopped talking to Bruce or behind his back about conspiracies as to why his parents were really murdered, what they thought really happened, and explained how they would’ve been able to save their parents if they had been in the same situation—unlike Bruce.

He couldn’t go anywhere without someone mentioning his parent’s death or asking him intrusive and inappropriate questions. Nearly every conversation was focused on his parents instead of how he was actually handling what happened. The conversations forced him to continually relive the moment and only enhanced the guilt he already felt.

Despite even Alfred’s best intentions, he never stopped reminding Bruce of his family’s legacy or pressuring him to make something great of himself, to prove to everyone that he would be a good heir to the Wayne fortune. With the intent of making that happen, and feeling ill-equipped to care for a grieving eight-year-old child, Alfred decided it was in Bruce’s best interests to send him far away to boarding school. Alfred was sure the school would be able to help him far better than he ever could—but only too late did he realize how detrimental to Bruce that decision was.

Bruce desperately needed emotional support to cope and function after such a traumatic experience. He’d lost his entire world in the span of a few, agonizing minutes. There was now this void in his soul that would never go away. Throughout his childhood, teenage years, and young adulthood, however, he never received the help he truly needed. There was no one close to him who knew how to help.

He eventually reached a point in his life when he couldn’t keep a stiff upper lip that Alfred wanted him to have or keep the emotional composure he was trained to have and that was expected of him as a Gotham elite. He couldn’t apply everyone’s supposedly helpful advice to “stay strong”.

The overwhelming pressure, prodding, and expectations had taken their toll on him emotionally and psychologically. He simply couldn’t handle it anymore. He could no longer hold himself together and keep the mask on.

So he completely disappeared into the shadows and became a recluse.

Over time, most Gothamites had forgotten there even was a Wayne heir or thought he had died alongside his parents that night in Crime Alley, all until the murder of Mayor Mitchell eerily coincided with Thomas and Martha’s death 20 years later and the subsequent exposing of their actions and family history.

Now that Bruce’s life was once again the center of many’s attention, he began to miss when he had disappeared from Gotham’s ever prying eyes to be forgotten and left alone to figure out how to move on from his parent’s death.

After all these years though, and as much as he sometimes wanted to, he couldn’t move on or conquer his fear of going through that painful experience again. He still relived that moment in his mind over and over again with the same clarity as the night it happened. He was stuck in that moment, stuck in time—

Forever.

He knew Dick, Cass, and Duke each understood that feeling to varying degrees.

He hoped he could provide and be what he needed, but which Alfred nor Leslie try to be, when he was a boy so they wouldn’t end up like him. One of the things they needed was to have an actual childhood. He wanted them to enjoy new experiences and develop fond memories, to be childish and make-believe, to connect with the world and not disappear into the shadows like he did.

Dick especially needed to socialize and be a part of the community. He needed to meet new people and make friends. His whole life had once revolved around people, being center stage, and a part of the circus’ large community.

So despite Bruce’s apprehension of going to the gala, if going meant the three of them would have a good time and could escape for just a moment from their own traumatic experiences, he would make every effort to ensure they could go.

The task that was taking the most effort at the moment was finding parking in Park Row.

“There’s a spot!” Duke said, pointing to an empty parking space under an elevated railway.

Once Bruce parked the minivan, they made the long walk down the street with Bruce carrying Duke on his shoulders.

Even in Park Row Bruce did not want to be recognized, though Park Row was not the kind of place people took walks in for him to even be recognized. Everyone avoided this extremely dangerous part of Gotham. Bruce also tried stayed away from Park Row as much as he could.

Except for one specific day of the year.

To remain unidentifiable, he wore an outfit nearly identical to his drifter clothes, just not filthy, with the hoodie over the baseball cap on his head, the inclusion of a neck gaiter to cover half his face, and a pair of shades to block out the light from even that gloomy of a day.

Although his outfit was to avoid attention, the kids' clothes were as brightly colored as Bruce could find in their wardrobe. He wanted to make sure they were easy to spot. Dick had agreed with Bruce’s wishes and had really out done himself by choosing brightly saturated colors of red and green clothing with a bright yellow raincoat.

The buildings in Park Row were all dilapidated and made it difficult to determine what was a business and what was a house. There was litter and the smell of garbage and urine everywhere. Although there were many parked vehicles in the area, nearly all the vehicles were either severely damaged, rusting, or the parts had been scavenged.

Amoy’s Salon in the distance appeared to be suffering the effects of Park Row as well. It really was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place as it really did have its own holes. The advertisements of the salon that were painted on the walls were faded or had graffiti covering them. Areas of the salon windows that were cracked from bullet holes were being held together with duct tape.

“B,” Dick said as he hopped in front of Bruce and began walking backwards.

“Hn?”

“I have a joke for you, ready? What do you call a batarang that doesn’t come back?”

“A batarang with an explosive device set to detonate.”

“The heck—no.”

“A batstick.”

Dick frowned.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to answer that quick! You’re supposed to wait and think longer and go 'hmm, I wonder what the answer could be'. Those are the rules.”

“Sorry. Tell me another one.”

“Ugh! You and Duke suck all the joy out of jokes. I gotta think of a better one you won’t guess now...”

Bruce approached the salon's glass door and knocked on it.

Amoy came to the salon door and gave Bruce a stern look. “Oi, who are you and what do you want?”

“...We spoke over the phone. Sorry we’re late.”

“Ah, Mr. Wayne!” She began to quickly unlock the glass door and encouraged them to come inside and then closed and locked the door behind them. “I didn’t recognize you, sir.”

He pulled back his hoodie, took off his shades and put them in his pocket, and pulled the neck gaiter down from his face.

“There you are, Mr. Wayne! That’s the face I know!” She looked up at Duke. “I’m assuming this precious baby is Duke?”

“And this is Rich—“

“—Dick!”

Bruce sighed. “And this is Cassandra.”

“Hello! It’s nice to meet you!” Dick said as he shook her hand vigorously.

Cass gave her a little wave.

“Well, hello there my dears!” She looked back to Bruce. “Come, come, let him have a seat here.”

Bruce lifted Duke off his shoulders and sat him down in the salon chair and then motioned to Dick and Cass to go sit down on the old couch on the other side of the room.

“Now!” Amoy said as she clapped her hands together and examined Duke’s afro. “We are doing a protective style? Cornrows?”

Bruce nodded and pulled off his backpack.

“I brought hair products...” he said as he opened his backpack and showed them to her.

“You didn’t need to do that! No, I have everyt’ing here. Don’t you worry,” she said as she began splitting Duke’s afro into rough sections to ascertain how knotted his afro was.

Bruce handed Dick and Cass comics and sketchbooks from his backpack then went over to Duke and handed him a newspaper.

”I was wondering... if you would be willing to teach me?” Bruce said to Amoy.

“Ehh?”

”I’d like to learn."

Her heart ached at his sincerity. ^{“Bak foot!}/_{My gosh!} I would love to teach you how to do his hair! Please, come here. I will teach you everyt’ing you need to know.”

She went through teaching Bruce every step: how to properly wash, detangle, and stretch Duke’s hair, what tools to use, how much product to use, and how to section hair crisply and evenly.

Bruce paid keen attention and memorized everything she said and every technique she used with the same intensity as any other skill he wished to master.

“Now, see”—she placed her fingers in a certain order on the top of Duke’s head—”you’re going to place your fingers like this within the section you parted with the rat-tail comb, split the hair into three sections, and start this motion, okay? Give it a go.”

Bruce matched her position exactly, and began the motion of cornrowing.

Amoy placed a large glob of edge control on the back of his hand.

“What’s this for?”

“Easier to pick up gel from here for each section you need to slick down.”

Bruce nodded, taking her instruction seriously.

She couldn’t help but smile at his determination.

The style she was teaching him how to do was one cornrow which went from Duke’s hairline to the crown of his head. Bruce's progress was slow, but it was progress nonetheless. She was genuinely surprised by how quickly he was picking up the skill.

She noticed him make a mistake.

“Like this”—she made a motion with her hands in the air—“under the strand, and detangle with your two other fingers as you pick up the next strand. Try again—that’s it! Keep going. You’re almost there.”

Duke lifted his newspaper for Bruce to see.

“I need a seven letter word. The clue is ‘un... un... unfr... act’...”

“Un-frac-tured?” Bruce said, emphasizing each syllable.

“I can’t figure out the answer.”

“Integer,” Amoy said with a smile. “I–N–T–E–G–E–R.”*

“In... te... ger...” Duke said as he scribbled in the letters with a crayon. “Thank you!”

“Wait a moment! This is the Gotham Gazette crossword puzzle?”

Bruce nodded. “He’s great at solving puzzles.”

“It is good you are encouraging such t’ings, Mr. Wayne. He will grow up to do great t’ings with such a mind.”

“Yes, he will.”

Bruce stepped back when he successfully finished the cornrow. Amoy inspected his work and gave him a wink and a thumbs up.

She leaned over to look Duke in the eyes. “You’re daadie has done a good job!”

Duke ran his fingers along the braid and looked at it from the mirror. “Whoa!”

She looked back at Bruce and noticed a painful sadness in his eyes that wasn't there a moment ago. She wasn’t sure why though.

She patted his arm. “I will finish up the rest of the cornrows and haircut. Go down that way. There’s a small kitchen with a sink to wash the products off your hands.”

When Bruce returned from the kitchen he went over to his backpack and handed out juice pouches to Dick and Cass before sitting next to them.

Amoy finished up adding additional intricate, fishbone and stitch cornrows on either side of the cornrow Bruce had done and gave Duke a fade and edged him up.

“Thank you,” Duke said as he hopped out of the chair once she’d finished.

“My pleasure.” She waved to Dick. “Your turn. Let me give you a haircut.”

Dick and Duke exchanged spots next to Bruce, and Bruce handed Duke a juice pouch.

“Thanks!” Duke said to Bruce with an endearing smile.

“Did you finish the crossword?” Bruce said.

Duke scratched his head with his crayon as he tried to concentrate. “Almost.”

Cass observed from the way Bruce was slightly slumped back on the couch with his arms crossed over his chest that he was fighting to not doze off, so she showed him her drawing in the sketchbook and offered a pencil with fluffy, yellow feathers on top of it. He took the pencil and started adding to her artwork.

“You poor t’ing,” Amoy said. “You lookin’ worn down from takin’ care of all these babies. When was the last time you had a good sleep?”

Bruce looked away from her, honestly trying to search his memory for the last time he'd actually slept soundly.

“Have you eaten today?”—she looked at the kids—”has he eaten today?”

“Ehh! That won’t do. Not at all. You wait a moment,” she said as she headed for the back of the salon. “I can see it in your face—all this stress makin' you not hungry. You need to eat.”

Bruce glared at the three of them, but they collectively smiled at him.

Amoy came back with a paper-thin, styrofoam plate full of beef patties and fried plantains which she handed to Bruce.

“Eat this. It will give you strength. Make you feel better.”

“...Thank you.”

Amoy went back to Dick and continued cutting his hair.

She clicked her tongue as she shook her head. “You are starting to look the way you did the last time I saw you.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“You probably don’t remember. Oh, you were so ill. I was volunteering at the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic when you were brought in. We had so many people come in who were poisoned from the fear toxin after the Scarecrow attacks, but no one was as ill as you. Dr. Thompkins was so worried about you. We’d never seen x-rays of lungs as bruised as yours. You were hardly breathing.”

Color drained from his already pale complexion at her knowing what happened to him after his battle against Scarecrow.

“Don’t you worry. I know Mr. Pennyworth and Dr. Thompkins wanted to keep your car accident and you being at the clinic a secret so nasty reporters wouldn’t bother you.” She looked him over. “You are doing better now?”

He momentarily averted his eyes from her to look down, trying to think how he wanted to respond, before making eye contact with her again.

”I've been... I'm okay.”

“I’ve volunteered at that clinic since the time your father practiced there and I’d never seen Dr. Thompkins so scared before. I’m glad to see you are physically doing better.”

“You knew my father?”

“Yes. Such a good man he was,” she said with a big smile. “I remember he could not stop talking about you after you were born. Showed pictures of you to everyone at the clinic. I’m sure he’d have been happy to see you have babies of your own now.”

Bruce's gaze fell. He bowed his head slightly so the visor of his baseball cap concealed his eyes from her, and busied himself by eating the food she had given him.

Cass moved closer to Bruce and leaned against his arm as she made eye contact with Amoy.

Amoy looked at Cass sadly. She noticed Bruce was shrinking into himself.

“I always wondered what happened to you after your parents’ death... Can’t have been easy for you. I know pain like that never goes away.” She sighed and thought for a moment. She changed her energy back to being upbeat. “You listen now, okay? You ever want somewhere to get away from it all and to listen to old women gossip, you come here to ol’ Amoy. I’ll take care of you. Feed you good food. Put some meat on those bones. …You understand, my dear?”

He was still silent.

Amoy realized she wasn’t going to get anything from him.

She encouraged Dick out of the chair and sauntered over to Bruce. “Now it is your turn for a haircut. Let me see what is under this hat of yours.”

“I don’t need a haircut...”

“You let me be the judge of that! The audacity. Now take off that hat.”

The kids smiled and giggled at her exasperated, mother-henning tone.

Bruce reluctantly obeyed her.

“No, no, no! I cannot let you leave with your hair like that. No. You come here, now.”

Bruce handed Dick the plate of food, of which food Dick, Cass, and Duke gladly began eating.

Bruce slowly walked over to the salon chair and sat down.

“What haircut should I do, ^pickney?/_children?” she said as she looked at them and draped the salon cape over Bruce.

“Mullet!” Dick said.

“Buzz cut?” Duke said.

Cass pointed to a haircut example on the wall of a person with a wolf cut.

Bruce sighed deeply.

Amoy smiled and gave Bruce a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Hmm. Good choices. I will do somet’ing that will suit him well I t’ink.”

The chair Bruce was sitting in was annoyingly comfortable and was making it difficult to fight off drowsiness and keep his glazed eyes from closing. He was blinking slowly; his eyelids felt so heavy.

Amoy and either Dick or Duke were trying to talk to him about something, but their words weren’t registering to him. Everything sounded so muted. The tactile sensation of his hair being combed through was so relaxing...

He was only going to close his eyes for a moment...

—Bruce felt someone tap his arm.

His eyes snapped open.

Dick was standing in front of him, leaning back against the counter under the mirror.

“So! I thought of a better joke! What do you call a herd of sheep falling down a hill?”

Duke looked up from his newspaper. “A lambslide!”

“Hey! The puzzle wasn't for you!” Dick glared at Duke.

“What?! I’m good at puzzles…”

Dick grumbled and looked back at Bruce.

“Was it at least a better joke this time?”

“Yeah...”

Amoy noticed Dick’s shoulders fall ever so slightly.

“…I liked it,” Bruce said.

“You mean it?”

Bruce nodded.

“Cool!” he said with a big, beaming smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I’m going to think of another joke for you. One that you and Duke don’t know.”

Dick dashed back to the couch.

Amoy was concerned when she watched Dick shrug to Cass with a disappointed look on his face as if a plan had failed.

Cass sighed in response. She turned her attention to Bruce and observed how he appeared to be barely staying awake.

“Hey, now!” Amoy said to Bruce as she finished his haircut and removed the cape. “You come again soon. I’ll teach you another cornrow style, a’right? You need to continue learning from the best.”

He made eye contact with her from the mirror.

“And… I want to see you again...” she said, her tone softer. “...I want to know how you are doing, okay? My dear?”

He looked down and away from her, not knowing what to respond.

Cass and Duke walked slightly ahead of Bruce on their way back to the minivan, skipping and playfully splashing through puddles as they went.

Dick on the other hand wasn’t full of the same exuberance as them. He decided to walk alongside Bruce and was only half-heartedly kicking through puddles.

He was disappointed in himself for not finding a way to cheer Bruce up. It was harder than he thought. He’d tried everything. Silly jokes, stories he thought were interesting, random facts and trivia, game ideas, pillow fort designs—he even talked about the Gray Ghost and even that didn’t get much of a response from Bruce.

“Should I be quiet...?" Dick said, his voice so, so small. "Am I talking too much…?”

Bruce’s brows furrowed and he looked down at him. “Why are you asking that?”

“Well... it’s just... I know you’ve been busy and you probably want to concentrate on figuring out how to catch the serial killer, and I have been talking a lot, so I thought, I don’t know, that I was talking too much and you needed me to be quiet so you could think...”

“Don’t ever think you’re talking too much.”

Dick kicked his foot through a puddle. “Okay…”

“I’m sorry…"

Dick looked up at Bruce.

" ...For not being present lately.”

“It’s okay—”

“—No, it’s not,” Bruce said, looking at Dick seriously. “I shouldn’t have made you feel like you were talking too much.”

Dick took in Bruce's demeanor. “...The case is really messing with you, huh?”

”Mn.”

“Maybe I could help you with the case? That way you don’t gotta worry about it so much,” Dick said, enthusiasm back in his voice. “Two heads are better than one!”

“Not this case. Maybe next time.”

Bruce noticed his enthusiasm deflate.

“You can help by telling me more jokes, or teach me more facts about the robins you’ve been talking about. I enjoy listening to you.”

Dick’s eyes really lit up and he smiled. “Really? So you have been listening... Okay, well! I have a good joke for you. Ready?”

Bruce nodded.

“Why was the baby cookie sad?”

Duke darted over to Dick to give the answer, but Bruce scooped him up into his arms before he could say anything and put him on his shoulders.

“Duke, wait,” Bruce said.

“I wanna answer!” Duke whined.

“Duke,” Bruce said gently but insistently to the literal five-year-old, “it’s my turn. You can answer the next one.”

“‘Kay…” Duke said begrudgingly as he took off Bruce’s baseball cap and put it on his little head.

Bruce sighed and turned his attention back to Dick. “I don’t know… Why was the baby cookie sad?”

“Because his mom was a wafer too long!”

Duke giggled.

Dick waited for Bruce's reaction. There was barely one, as usual.

He glared at Bruce. "You guys already knew the answer!"

"No..." Bruce said.

Dick looked at Cass. "Cass, he knew the answer didn’t he?”

She took a moment to read Bruce’s face then nodded with a little smile.

"Ugh!” Dick crossed his arms. "You guys suck.”

"I liked it. It was a good one. It...” Bruce stopped in his tracks and looked around.

Dick realized why. "Where'd the batvan go?"

Bruce grumbled as he rubbed his eyes. "It's been stolen."

“Alfred will be happy,” Dick said. He dramatically threw his head back. “I really liked the batvan though!”

Cass sighed. She’d miss her sticker collection.

“I’ll find it,” Bruce said.

“How we gonna get home though?” Dick said.

Bruce knew taxis and ride shares did not dare drive through Park Row. He looked up at the sky; a thunderstorm was rolling in and he hadn’t brought an umbrella, so he couldn’t let them stand out in the rain waiting for a bus, especially with bus schedules being as slow and inconsistent as they were in Gotham.

He looked to the elevated railway above them.

Another option he didn't want to take.

But right now it was his best option.

When the next train reached the littered station, Bruce briefly searched for a car with families, although nearly every car was empty, but he found one with only a young mother with her little girl.

Bruce made sure to choose a row of seats on the right-side of the train where the doors opened and had Dick, Cass, and Duke sit in the seats closest to the windows while he sat in the aisle seat.

He wanted to get home as soon as possible and not stay on the battered, graffitied, and filthy train any longer than they had to, but they were several miles away from Wayne Tower. It made him wish his family’s private railway was still in working order.

Dick and Duke passed the time by talking to the little girl who was sitting several rows ahead of them, asking her questions like what her favorite cartoons were. Cass occupied herself by making little doodles from the condensation on the cold window.

As Bruce watched and listened to them speak seemingly without end on varying subjects, and observed Cass’ little scribbles, he felt something deep in his heart, a twinge, an ache, but not of pain. He wasn’t sure what he would call the feeling... but it made him wish he could stop time, to preserve every memory and never miss a moment with them. Had his parents felt this with him? Is this the instinct his father and mother had that moved them to step in front of him, to shield and protect him from those fateful bullets?

Dick noticed Bruce watching them.

“What?” he said with a smile.

Bruce gave him a small smile back, looked away from him, and shook his head. ”Nothing.”

The train stopped at another run-down station.

Near the front of the train, Cass saw a large group of people boarding. The sight caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. She quickly reached over Dick and Duke to tug on Bruce's jacket.

The doors closed once more. The train pulled away from the station.

Bruce looked at her with a confused expression, not sure what she was trying to tell him.

But when he heard the distant cackle of what sounded like a pack of hyenas echoing down the cars of the train, he knew exactly why she was getting his attention.

He turned to Dick and forcibly moved him to sit on the edge of the seat and began to quickly put his backpack on him.

“If I tell you all to run,” Bruce said in a quick, hushed voice. “You run.”

Dick looked at him with a scared expression. “Wh—”

“—You run. Do you understand me?”

They nodded.

“Hold Duke’s hand, Dick. Don’t let him go.”

“I won’t…” Dick said, an uneasy tone in his voice.

“You’re scaring me,” Duke said.

Bruce started tightening the straps of the backpack to fit Dick. “I know. Imagine this is a drill. Practice in case of an emergency. This might not even be an emergency.”

“Like a fire drill?” Duke said.

Bruce gave him an unconvincing disposition of enthusiasm. “Exactly!”

Bruce could hear farther up in the train men jeering at other passengers and threatening them. They were searching for easy prey as they always did. As of late, unfortunately, they'd been incentivised to prowl for specific prey.

The woman appeared concerned for her daughter as well and drew her in closer to her side.

Bruce lifted his neck gaiter to cover his face, and pulled his hoodie over the baseball cap he was wearing. He positioned himself in his seat so it would be difficult for anyone to get past him and grab Dick, Cass, or Duke.

“Keep quiet,” Bruce said in a low voice. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

The Jokerz entered their car.

There were at least a dozen of them, and some were carrying in their hands pipes or crowbars as weapons.

Bruce didn't want to invite the Jokerz to engage with him, but he couldn’t help but scowl as a silent warning to the Jokerz who walked past him.

The woman wrapped her arms around her daughter even tighter when one of the Jokerz, a tall, absolute tank of a man, sat right next to her.

The other Jokerz walked around the train acting as if they owned the place. Some began eyeing Dick, Cass, and Duke, and took seats in varying areas of the train car to surround them.

“Hey, dollface. How ya doin’? Cute kid ya got there,” The Ringleader of the Jokerz said as he pinched the little girl's cheek.

“Please—just leave us alone,” the woman said.

“Ay, I ain’t gonna hurt ya, sweetheart. I just wanna compliment ya on how pretty ya are, that’s all. Nothing to be ‘fraid of.” He twiddled with the little girl's box braids. “See, nothin’ to worry about, kiddo.”

Bruce mentally counted the Jokerz, taking note of which ones had weapons, whether concealed or otherwise, and which ones would be easiest to subdue. Ideally, he hoped these Jokerz wouldn’t do anything that required him to take action against them, but with the way they were eyeing the children and how they were surrounding the woman and her child, he knew he likely would have to come up with a plan.

Bruce turned his head slightly to look over at Dick, Cass, and Duke. He noticed how upset Dick and Duke appeared to be as they watched the Jokerz make the woman and her daughter more and more nervous. But the one who worried him the most was Cass. He could see in her eyes that she was sizing up the Jokerz the same as he was.

He made eye contact with her and shook his head. She frowned at him, but he shook his head again. She gave him an annoyed look and dramatically slumped back into her seat.

“Come ‘ere,” The Ringleader said as he pulled the little daughter away from her mother and stood up from the seat.

Bruce's heart rate spiked.

“Please, no!” The woman tried to stand up from her seat to take her daughter back, but one of the other Jokerz pushed her back down.

"What's your name, sweetie?" The Ringleader said.

"Aisha..." she said, her voice shaking.

“Why don’t me and you go get some slush puppies?” he said. “Sound good?”

Aisha shook her head. Absolute fear was in her eyes.

Bruce couldn’t watch this anymore. He had to do—

—“Leave them alone!” Duke said. “You’re being @#$%% mean!”

Cass quickly covered Duke's mouth, but the attention of all the Jokerz was focused on them already.

The Ringleader dropped Aisha like she was trash to be thrown away.

“What’chu say, boy?” The Ringleader said in an aggressive tone of voice as he approached them.

Duke moved Cass’ hand away. “You &$@%$#% heard me, you piece of &@$#!”

“Duke, stop!” Dick whispered.

Cass covered Duke’s mouth, this time really making sure he couldn’t say something again.

The woman took the opportunity of the Jokerz no longer focusing on her to grab Aisha and run farther up the train.

“I best learn ya on how to be showin’ respect.” The Ringleader pulled out a gun from his jacket. “Can’t be havin’ someone like you speakin’ this way. I ain’t ‘fraid to hurt no kid to make it happen.”

The Jokerz began cackling and jeering at them. They drew in closer.

Something dangerous was in Bruce’s gaze as he locked on to The Ringleader. He wasn’t going to go through something like this again because of someone with a gun. He wasn’t a defenseless child this time.

He stood up before they came any closer.

Dick noticed Bruce ball his hand into a fist.

“Ay, man. What’cha gon’ do? I need be teachin’ ya a lesson in respect too?” He cocked his gun and pointed it at Bruce. “You kidnap these kids too, right? Or you some weird babysitter or somethin’? ‘Cause they sure ain’t lookin’ nothin’ like your pasty #%&. Whose kids these really, man?”

“Mine.”

Bruce swiftly grabbed the gun and bashed it into The Ringleader's face, knocking him back. The other Jokerz began to swarm him, but Bruce dodged, side kicked, or kicked in and dislocated several of their knees as he simultaneously disassembled the gun.

He threw the pieces of the gun to the floor and squared up with the Jokerz, keeping in mind that they were on either side of himself within the aisle of seats and that he had to keep all of them a safe distance away from Dick, Cass, and Duke.

Bruce quickly approached one of them and knocked him upside his head, grabbed his arm, and broke it at the elbow.

Two others came towards him.

Bruce kicked one in the diaphragm, staggering him back.

The other managed to get a hold of him from behind, but Bruce rapidly threw the thug over his shoulder, landing him flat on the floor and knocked him out with a brutal punch to the face.

The next thug rushed Bruce with a metal pipe.

Bruce grabbed the pipe with both hands, pushed the pipe into the thug's face, breaking his nose, pried the pipe away from him, and used it to hit the thug in the chest which sent him back, winded.

Dick and Duke watched in gleeful awe at how skilled Bruce was in fighting—how swiftly he moved and how powerfully he was subduing the Jokerz.

But Cass didn’t watch with glee—she could see Bruce was gassing out already. His jabs were becoming less effective. Reflexes were slowing. They were getting the upper hand on him. There were just too many Jokerz in such a small space for him to handle.

While Bruce fought one of the thugs, another came up behind him and struck him in the back with a crowbar.

Bruce suppressed any reaction to the pain and elbowed the thug who was holding the crowbar in the face when the man got right behind him. He quickly turned his attention back to the thug in front of himself, hitting him with a one-two punch—knocking him out cold.

He focused back on the thug with the crowbar.

Although he’d created distance so the Jokerz weren’t near the kids, he still had several of them to deal with. He needed to hold them off until the next train station. He had prioritized clearing an escape route to the door. He just needed to keep it clear.

Bruce performed a hook kick to push away the thug with the crowbar, but his attack wasn’t strong enough to knock the man off his feet, so he picked up the metal pipe that was on the floor and beamed it at the thug’s face. That did the job.

Just a few Jokerz left conscious.

He could handle them.

The train was approaching the next station.

One of the Jokerz charged Bruce so quickly, he couldn’t counter the thug from ramming into his abdomen—but Bruce remained upright, and drove his elbow into the thug's shoulder, breaking it, and knocked him out with a swift knee to his face.

Two left.

They both rushed Bruce.

Before one of them, The Ringleader of the Jokerz, reached him, Bruce uppercut him, causing The Ringleader to fall back and hit his head hard against one of the seats.

The train arrived at the station.

The other thug tried to ram into Bruce, but Bruce dodged and wrapped him into a tight headlock which the thug struggled and thrashed against so he could breathe.

The doors opened.

“Run!” Bruce said, still keeping the thug in a headlock.

Dick, Cass, and Duke ran nearly the whole length of the car, jumping over all the unconscious thugs to get to the door Bruce had cleared an escape route to. Dick and Duke rushed out of the train, down the platform, and towards the unoccupied ticket counter, but Cass stopped and lingered by the door of the train.

The once struggling thug was nearly unconscious and began to go limp in Bruce’s arms.

Bruce dropped him and ran to follow the kids out of the train—

—but immense pain overwhelmed him when he was hit in the back of his head with a crowbar.

Bruce collapsed.

The Ringleader belly-laughed as he twirled the crowbar in his hand.

Bruce was fighting, but failing, to get up from the floor. He managed for a moment to raise himself up just enough to look Cass dead in the eyes, trying to convey the severity of why she couldn’t linger.

Cass took a step towards him.

“Stop!” Bruce shouted, his voice trembling with pain and fear for Cass.

Cass saw the desperate plea in Bruce’s eyes but she shook her head and took another step toward him.

”Run!”

She froze.

The Ringleader got control of his Joker-like laughing fit and focused back on Bruce. He swiftly struck Bruce’s back with the crowbar in quick succession, each strike more brutal than the last, until Bruce couldn’t withstand the pain and his strength gave out.

Every fiber of Cass’ being went numb.

She grabbed the edge of the train's automatic door to stop it from closing so she had time to come up with a plan.

Bruce was on the edge of unconsciousness, laboring with each breath and grimacing in pain.

Satisfied that Bruce wasn’t trying to, or couldn’t, get up anymore, The Ringleader went over and lifted up the thug who hadn't been rendered completely unconscious by the headlock Bruce had put him in. They both stepped over Bruce and The Ringleader shoved the thug towards Cass.

“Go get ‘em. I’ll deal with this.”

The thug drunkenly staggered towards Cass.

Bruce tried to lift his head and could only just make out from his vantage point that Cass still hadn't escaped but was stepping away from the door and towards him to stand her ground against the thug.

The doors were beginning to close—

—“Run!”

Cass couldn’t listen. She couldn’t leave him behind. She had to do something. She had to—

—“RUN, CASSANDRA! NOW!”

It took everything in her to tear her eyes away from Bruce.

She finally ran out of the train—but the thug managed to squeeze his way through the small opening between the closing doors.

Bruce’s stomach dropped.

The doors closed completely. The train pulled away from the station.

Bruce tried to fight against the excruciating pain he was in to get up, but The Ringleader came back over to him and stomped on his back with one foot, leaning his full, hefty weight into Bruce’s back, pinning him down and making it difficult for him to inhale.

The Ringleader of the Jokerz cackled.

“Don’t worry, man. My brotha will be takin' real good care of ‘em. Take ‘em to someone special. Kids them’s age worth somethin’ nowadays.”

He bent over Bruce, pulled back Bruce’s hoodie and took off his askew baseball cap. He tapped areas of Bruce’s head several times with the end of the crowbar, deciding where best to bludgeon him.

Bruce struggled against him but he could hardly take in a breath.

“I’m sure ya won’ts be seeing ‘em again. Well—not alive anyways. Our friend don’t even take ransoms.” The Ringleader began to wind up the crowbar. “Hope ya weren’t too fond of ‘em.”

Bruce couldn’t lose them like that.

He couldn't lose them at all.

In an outburst of rage, using every ounce of strength he had left, Bruce pushed himself off the floor, throwing The Ringleader back and off balance.

Bruce swung round, taking advantage of The Ringleader tripping backwards, grabbed his knee, and dislocated it.

The Ringleader screamed in agony and collapsed to the floor.

Bruce got on top of him and went berserk, pummeling The Ringleader's face until blood was all over his knuckle.

Lightheadedness suddenly washed over Bruce—he nearly keeled over. He pushed himself away from The Ringleader, needing to take a moment to catch his breath.

“Help! Somebody please help me! He’s gonna kill me!” The Ringleader sobbed.

Bruce stood up and grabbed The Ringleader by his jacket and dragged him towards the back of the train where no one was and where no one would care to hear.

“No, stop! Help! Please! Somebody help me!”

“This is Gotham,” Bruce said, a dreadful, steely edge in his voice. “No one comes to help.”

Bruce dropped him when they reached the very back of the train. He went to one of the doors and forcibly pried it open to the extent that he broke the mechanism so it couldn’t close.

A cold gust of wind entered the train car.

He grabbed The Ringleader from the front of his clothes and leaned him out of the train.

The Ringleader was screaming for his life. He looked over his shoulder and saw the highway below as the train barreled down the tracks.

“Don’t let me go! Don’t let me go! Don’t let me go!”

“Who are you working for?”

“I ain’t be knowin’! Swear on my mother’s grave! Please, man! Don’t kill me!”

Bruce leaned him further out of the train.

“All right! All right! All I know’s someone was payin’ big for little brats. Whispers was goin’ 'round about kidnapin’ kids an' dumpin’ ‘em alive in places like old vans or dumpsters near tally marks. Marks be on the walls, dumpsters, old cars, fire hydrants, you name it! Jokerz be lookin’ all over town for any opportunity to kidnap a kid so we's can score big!”

“The police know all of that! Tell me something they don’t know! How does the killer know when and where to check if a child's at a location?”

“How should I know! It’s random! We look for ‘em marks same as the cops do. Sometimes the cops find the spots first an' even find a kid there. But the cops can’t be everywhere so it don’t matter if some of the kids are found in places with the tally mark—there always be some other kid somewhere else, on the other side of Gotham maybe, bein’ left in a place that the cops ain’t found. Ain’t no one be knowin’ when or where a kid gettin’ picked up. It’s a big %$#@% city! Can’t be everywhere!”

“Where have you seen the marks most often?”

“I don't be payin' attention!”

Bruce leaned him even further out of the train to the point that The Ringleader’s shoes were beginning to slip from underneath himself. He was really screaming.

“Okay! Okay! Okay! I seen ‘em a lot near poor neighborhood parks, orphanages, runaway shelters, that sort of thing. The No Man’s Land of Gotham Joker's last disaster created. Easy pickin’ kids. Loves those kind of kids. Wants to end their sufferin’ or somethin’. Likes to mark ‘em with tally marks after killin’ ‘em even.”

The train was approaching the next station.

“You know who the killer is... What does he look like?! Answer me!”

The Ringleader squeezed his eyes closed, fearing his fate as he felt Bruce’s arm shaking and how he was starting to lose his grip.

“Please, man. I really can’t tell ya! Can’t tell nobody! I don’t know who be killin’ ‘em kids, honest!”

“You’re lying!”

The man was a sobbing mess. He just knew Bruce was going to kill him. He was going to be dropped to his death.

”Please! Don’t kill me!”

The train slowed as it approached the station.

Bruce needed more information—this man was the lead he’d been searching tirelessly for. The Ringleader had information on who the serial killer was—information that would save so many children across Gotham. The victim's families would have the closure they needed. No more families would have to worry if their child would be next.

The Ringleader screamed when Bruce let him go, only for him to realize a second later that he had been dropped to the station platform.

Bruce bolted out of the train, down the stairs, and out of the train station.

His children were more important than learning who the killer was at the moment.

The thunderstorm had finally arrived and released a torrential downpour, soaking Bruce’s clothes as he ran through the streets of Gotham faster than he’d ever run in his life. He didn’t bother checking if it was safe to cross busy streets; people either slammed on their brakes not to hit him or he skillfully vaulted over the vehicles.

Nothing was going to slow him down.

He knew Gotham well enough to know where to find shortcuts, whether they were alleyways or rooftops that had easier and more direct paths to navigate than the streets.

He jumped between rooftops with lightning speed—never minding the slippery conditions—vaulting over wide gaps and performing safety rolls as he landed from one rooftop to the next.

When he arrived back at the train station where he’d been separated from Dick, Cass, and Duke, he rushed up the stairs to the platform.

Dread fully set in.

“Dick!”—he looked in one direction—”Cass!”—he looked in the other direction—”Duke!”

They were nowhere to be seen.

He didn't know what he was thinking hoping they’d be there. He’d seen one of the Jokerz chase after them—that thug had taken them like all the other children the Jokerz had been kidnapping and providing to the serial killer—just as The Ringleader told him.

Bruce's stomach twisted painfully. Now he was really trembling.

He rapidly left the station and took in his surroundings. The area was like a ghost town. There seemed to be no signs of life and many buildings in the area were burned to the ground. He didn’t know where to even start looking for them. Dick, Cass, and Duke could be anywhere in all of Gotham at this point.

He could already be too late.

He pulled out his cellphone from his pocket to call for help. The phone had power, but the screen was completely shattered. No way to make a phone call.

No way for someone to help him.

Bruce analyzed the area again and something across the street, beyond a tall, chain-link fence, in an alleyway, caught his eye. He ran towards the fence.

It was a pencil with soaked, yellow feathers on one end.

He noticed in the corner of the fence a small opening, and caught on the broken chain link, was a ripped cloth from his backpack. He performed a gate vault to get over the fence.

Bruce was screaming out Dick, Cass, and Duke’s names as he ran down the alleyway. He looked for clues everywhere—behind old, thrown-out furniture and in dumpsters. He wasn’t finding anything. Except for a large graffiti symbol on a brick wall of a building:

||||

His mind was spinning with every scenario Dick, Cass, and Duke could be in—they could be afraid, they could be hurt—or worse. He couldn’t see them at a crime scene or in the morgue like all the other children he had failed to save.

He scoured the alleyways, the streets, abandoned buildings, and he also tried to ask the very few drifters there were in the area if they’d seen them, but the drifters refused to speak to him.

It was Gotham after all.

He decided to head back to the train station in the hopes that they’d gotten away from the thug and somehow found their way back there to wait for him.

He rounded an alley corner and collided into one of the Jokerz—the one who had chased after Cass.

The thug was shocked at the sight of Bruce and tried to run away from him, but Bruce swiftly grabbed him and threw him hard against a wall.

“Tell me what you did with them!”

He laughed. “You don’t think I dealt with them brats!? Nah, I got a reputation to keep. Can’t be havin’ no one disrespecting my honor.”

“Where are they?!”

The thug saw something dark and dangerous in Bruce's eyes which he didn’t want to find out about. He reached for the concealed blade in his jacket and thrusted it at Bruce.

Bruce dodged the strike, grabbed the thug’s arm, and broke it. He took the blade and pressed it against the thug’s neck, keeping him pinned against the wall.

“I will break you.”

The thug was trying to appear tough by not reacting to the pain in his broken arm.

“You fought like an animal to protect those kids. You’d do anythin’ to find them, right? Anythin’ to prevent them from bein’ tortured and maimed and killed like all the others!” He gave Bruce a wicked smile and laughed gleefully, truly enjoying how upset Bruce appeared.

Bruce was fuming. “You sadistic psychopath.”

“What we Jokerz aspire to be. The Joker is the model to follow.”

Bruce pressed the blade closer against the thug’s neck. “What did you do to them?! Where are they?!”

The thug only mockingly cackled in Bruce's face.

"Like I'd tell you."

Bruce punched him in the face, but the thug only laughed louder, just like that clown Bruce had put back in Arkham.

“All that fightin’! You really did a great job keepin’ them safe, huh?"

Bruce was so angry he was shaking uncontrollably.

He punched the thug so hard in the face that he broke his jaw, thoroughly knocking him out.

The thug collapsed to the ground.

Bruce stepped away from him and violently threw the blade to the ground. He went to a wall to steady himself, and pulled his neck gaiter down from his face as it felt suffocating because of his heavy breathing. He was running on nothing but adrenaline and it was quickly starting to wane. He rubbed the back of his head. The pain and the fatigue from fighting was creeping up on him.

He had to push himself. He had to find them.

But he couldn’t think straight. He had no plan. No strategy. No detective's intuition to work off of in the state he was in. He knew he was missing clues like an amateur.

The quality of a good detective is being observant. Emotions weren’t going to help him. He needed to slow down. Analyze what he could. Think.

He went back over to the thug and took in what information he could just like he did for a crime scene. All the injuries seemed to be the ones he inflicted, though some were curious and he couldn’t come to a clear explanation for them. He hadn’t noticed before in the moment, but besides the thug’s clown-like face paint, there was something else on his face. Unfortunately, the heavy rain was washing away most of it; he didn’t have time to sample it anyway. Pockets were empty, so no personal belongings or identification.

Something in the sole of the thug’s boots was interesting. Bruce had learned of the different, most common compositions on the ground in Gotham, but this material wasn’t something you commonly stepped in.

Wood chips. More specifically, playground wood chips.

Bruce made his way back to the street near the elevated railway in the hopes of finding someone exiting the train station. There had to be someone who was willing to help him. Someone who knew the area and could point him towards a playground.

He caught sight of a drifter pushing a shopping cart and searching through garbage cans.

“Excuse me! Do you know where the nearest playground is?”

The drifter shook their head and briskly moved away from Bruce.

“Please! I need your help. I have no one else.”

The drifter stopped and looked at Bruce, taking in his whole appearance, seeing the desperation in his eyes.

“I want your jacket."

Bruce readily gave it.

“Go that way. You’ll see a block of houses burned to the ground. Turn right and keep going until you find the playground.”

“Thank you!”

“Yeah... sure.” The drifter had never seen someone’s eyes light up with so much hope because of a playground.

Bruce called out Dick, Cass, and Duke's names when he found the playground. No response. No one was there. He searched the slides of the playground, the plastic hideaways, and tunnels—nothing.

Still nothing.

There was no sign of them.

Anywhere.

Bruce found another tally mark nearby.

He started going up to every old car, and every wrecked service van that was near the park, and was banging his hand on them, trying to hear if they were inside.

A front-loading garbage truck came through the area and stopped near him.

“Hey, man!” the garbage truck driver said. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Have you seen three small children near here?”

She put on a rain poncho and exited the garbage truck. “No...”

Bruce nearly doubled over from the sinking feeling that was so intense he was on the verge of throwing up.

His greatest fear was happening all over again.

He couldn’t protect Alfred from The Riddler’s bomb—couldn’t protect him from ending up injured in a hospital bed. He was nearly too late in saving Selina from The Riddler’s goons.

Now this.

He had failed them.

His mind kept going back to Crime Alley.

He could smell the gunpowder and the sickening smell of urine mixed with blood. The paralyzing sound of his mother gasping for air and his father choking up blood filled his ears; he could hear the awful sucking sounds caused from the bullet hole wounds in their chests. He could feel their warm, sticky blood on his hands and seeping into the fabric of his clothes as he tried to get them to move, to say something, to stand up.

He saw life ebbing from their unblinking eyes.

He couldn’t go through any of it again.

Not again.

Never again.

“Whoa, man, you really need to calm down.”

”...I’ve lost them... I couldn’t even protect them...”

“You’ve lost your kids? You can’t find them with you panicking like this—you need to breathe. You won’t be able to think straight if you don’t calm down. Just“—she sighed—“You should leave the area, man. Look somewhere else maybe.”

”...I can’t find them...”

“You’ll find them. Don’t start thinking the worst.” She reached for Bruce's arm when his demeanor changed and she noticed the haunted, unblinking look in his eyes as he just stared at the ground. “Come on. You’re shaking and soaked to the bone.”

He pulled his arm away from her.

“You need to get dry! No point staying around here looking for them. Why don’t you leave and call the police?”

”...Do you have a phone...?”

“No. Listen, you really need to just take a breath and calm down, all right? Leave the Narrows and regroup with the police. I’ll keep an eye out for them until you get back, Mr. Wayne.”

”...What...? What did you call this area...?”

“...The Narrows. Why?”

Chapter Text

“RUN, CASSANDRA! NOW”

She ran out of the train as fast as she could and down the platform to where Dick and Duke were waiting. She grabbed Duke’s hand to help Dick run with him.

“Where’s Bruce!?” Duke pulled against Dick and Cass to stop running as he watched the train pull away from the station. “Bruce?!”

Dick and Cass were yanking on him to move but he was fighting them.

“Duke! We have to go! Bruce said to run—we run!”

The thug swiftly caught up to them and grabbed the backpack Dick was carrying.

Dick and Duke screamed in terror—but rage filled Cass’ eyes.

She took a hold of the thug's pinky finger and pushed it back with all her strength, breaking it at the joint.

He screamed in pain and let go of the backpack.

“Cass, let’s go!” Dick said, his voice shaking and sounding on the verge of tears. He grabbed her shoulder but she shrugged his hand away. “Come on!”

Cass stepped closer to the thug as Dick and Duke moved away towards the stairs leading out of the station.

“Cass! Let's go!”

She focused intensely on the thug and observed all the information she needed.

She squared up with him.

The thug couldn’t believe some little girl was trying to stand up against him. The fact she broke his finger was enough to fill him with murderous intent. She was disrespecting his honor. That was unacceptable.

He swung his fists at her, but she skillfully dodged his attack. He tried again, and again, and again to land his fists on her but she seemed to know every move he was going to make before he even made it. He couldn’t touch her.

She smirked at him.

He screamed in anger and lunged towards her.

Cass calculated precisely which leg he would move forward with, so she ducked under him before he could get his hands on her, and she rammed into his opposite leg with her shoulder, which sent him stumbling forward.

She took the opportunity of him being down on the ground to drive her elbow straight down to the nape of his neck repeatedly.

He went face down to the concrete.

The problem was, Cass was so blinded by anger she was continuing to whale on him with her elbow then her fists. She wasn’t holding back. She wasn’t stopping.

Dick grabbed her shoulder and pulled her away. “Stop!”

She instinctively raised her fists against Dick, prepared to strike him with everything she had, until the terrible realization hit her and she slowly lowered her fists. Her eyes were burning with tears.

Dick noticed how badly her hands were shaking.

“Hey, it’s okay...”

Cass sniveled and started crying.

Dick noticed the thug weakly starting to get up. He grabbed Cass's hand. “Come on!”

“We gotta wait for Bruce!” Duke said, tugging against Dick.

“No!” Dick said, a deadly look in his eyes as he squeezed Duke’s hand tighter. “We need to go right now!”

Duke, startled by Dick’s tone, finally stopped resisting him.

They ran down the stairs of the train station to the street below and looked around, trying to locate a place to get away or hide. They could hear the echoes of clumsy footsteps coming down the stairs.

Dick saw a chain-link fence with a small gap. He knew they could fit through, but an adult couldn’t.

“This way!”

Dick had Duke go ahead of him through the gap and then Cass. Dick tried getting through the gap but Bruce’s backpack snagged on the fence, preventing him from moving forward.

Cass and Duke saw that the thug had made it to the street level and had caught sight of them.

He was coming towards them.

Cass and Duke grabbed Dick’s arms and pulled with all their might to get him through the gap. They struggled until, finally, the backpack ripped and Dick was able to make it through the gap.

“You can’t get away from me!” the thug said with a crooked smile. He scared them even more when he laughed and slammed his hand against the fence, causing it to rattle loudly. He attempted to climb the tall fence but his effort was ponderous due to how disoriented he was.

The three of them didn’t waste any time in running as fast as they could down the alleyway, but then Cass made Dick stop.

“Cass—come on! He’s going to catch up!”

Cass opened up the backpack and rummaged through it until she found her bright, yellow pencil and threw it towards the fence. She zipped up the backpack quickly, grabbed Dick’s hand again and they ran for their life.

They passed by dumpsters, litter, and old cardboard boxes and furniture; turned down every street and alleyway they came across in the hopes of losing the thug.

But he was still determined to get them. He wasn’t about to give up. His laugh echoed through the alleyways.

Cass pulled Dick and Duke down a narrow pathway and she had them hide behind a large front-loading dumpster. She encouraged them to be quiet and they tried to slow their rapid breathing so they wouldn't be heard.

Cass peeked from the corner of the dumpster.

Footsteps could be heard approaching.

The suspense was getting to Duke and he started crying—he knew he had to keep quiet but he couldn’t help it. Dick wrapped his arms around Duke and put his hand over his mouth to try and quiet him.

The footsteps paused.

Dick and Cass held their breath.

And the footsteps continued down the alley and away from them.

Cass waited another moment before coming out of hiding to really make sure the coast was clear.

“I wanna go home!” Duke said, bawling his eyes out.

Dick turned Duke around so they were facing each other. He gave him a big smile. “We will! Don’t worry!”

Duke only sobbed more.

Dick pulled Duke into his arms and rocked him gently.

Dick was trying to hold it together for them, but he was scared too. He wanted Bruce to find them, but he honestly wasn’t sure if Bruce was able to.

Cass came back and motioned for them to follow her.

“We have to get back to the train station for Bruce to find us. Do you remember which way to go?”

Cass shook her head.

“Well!” Dick said in an upbeat tone of voice. “If we just keep walking I’m sure we’ll find it. Don’t worry.”

Cass and Duke weren’t feeling Dick’s optimism at all.

They meandered down street after street, alleyway after alleyway; they only seemed to be going in circles. After taking so many different turns, everything was starting to look the same.

They had no idea how to get back to the train station, and no one was around to help them.

All they could hope was that Bruce would find them before the Jokerz did.

“…We’re lost!” Duke wailed. “…I miss Bruce!”

Dick couldn’t hold back his tears. He hadn’t seen what happened to Bruce like Cass had and that alone filled him with immense fear. Despite how he was feeling, he wanted to make sure he took care of Cass and Duke just as Bruce would want him to. They had to keep moving and try to find somewhere safe.

Dick sniveled and wiped the snot from his nose.

“Don’t cry, guys! Bruce will find us. He’s just… I don’t know...” He smiled. “It’s okay!”

Cass abruptly pulled them down another alleyway.

“Wanna hear a joke?”

“…No…” Duke said.

“Why do seagulls fly over the sea?”

“…I don’t… know…” Duke said between his crying-hiccups.

“If they flew over the bay, they’d be bagels!”

Duke threw his head back and cried even more. Nothing other than seeing Bruce and going home was going to make him feel better.

Cass caught sight of a playground in the distance and yanked on Dick’s arm for them to sprint towards it.

They climbed the ladders to get up to the top and hide in the plastic house-looking fort.

Cass looked around from the playground's high vantage point. No one was around, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Dick took off Bruce’s backpack and opened it up. He found snacks Bruce had packed and handed them to Cass and Duke.

“We’ll be safe here,” Dick said, sounding oddly carefree.

Cass took in every microexpression on Duke’s face. She sat next to him and hugged him tightly.

In this situation, there was nothing more she could do other than fight to protect them. It had been so long since she’d last fought an opponent. Bruce didn’t allow her to practice her combat skills at home. He was trying to keep her away from that part of her past because he knew how much pain and suffering it had caused her both physically and psychologically.

Dick observed how much Cass and Duke were shivering from the cold and put his jacket over them.

“Bruce will be here any minute,” he said while smiling. “I just know it.”

Cass knew Dick wasn’t confident about anything he was saying. She’d never seen from his subtle microexpressions so much fear. He was always the one trying to cheer everyone else up, looking on the bright side of every situation. She wanted to express how much she appreciated him trying to make them feel better when he himself needed comfort too, but she didn’t know how.

Dick sat next to Cass.

“...Was… was Bruce hurt by the Jokerz…? Is that why he didn’t come with us…?”

Her eyes welled up, and she looked away from him.

They tensed up when they heard the sounds of someone approaching. Dick covered Duke’s mouth just in case.

Cass peeked out from the fort.

The thug had caught up and was looking around for them. It would only be a matter of time before he tried searching the playground.

Cass went through Bruce’s backpack and found the rat-tail comb that was inside and held it tightly in her hand, never minding the plastic bristles digging into her palm.

Dick saw the intensity of her gaze.

“Are you gonna try and stab him?!” Dick said quietly.

She looked at him like he shouldn’t be surprised but gave him the little-bit hand gesture.

“Don’t. I did the stab-y stab-y thing on the guy who killed my parents. Trust me, Bruce isn’t a fan. He wouldn’t want you to do that and you know it.”

The thug was searching the playground tunnels.

She went through Bruce’s backpack again and this time found the container of edge control—she opened it up and poked the thick gel with her finger.

A plan formulated in her mind.

She scooped out huge globs of the edge control and stuck some on either of the sleeves of her coat, then put the container back into the backpack.

Dick and Duke were so confused. They didn’t understand what she was doing.

Cass motioned for them to stay put. She carefully left the plastic playground house and silently followed the thug from the elevated walkways as he continued looking for them. She only had one shot to execute her plan. Keeping Dick and Duke safe was her highest priority. The Jokerz hurting them was not something she was going to allow.

Cass waited for the thug to be right below her.

She jumped onto his shoulders!

Before he could react, she grabbed the globs of edge control from her sleeves and vigorously pushed the gel from both her hands into his eyes and under his eyelids, making it impossible for him to see or rub it out of his eyes.

She rolled back off his shoulders, landed perfectly, and began running.

“What the $@&%!” The thug frantically rubbed at his eyes.

Dick and Duke saw the opportunity Cass had created. Dick put the backpack straps over his shoulders, and he and Duke went down the slide and ran with Cass away from the playground.

Duke looked around the area they were running in and stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened.

“Follow me!” Duke yelled.

Dick and Cass looked at each other when they saw Duke’s disposition change with the look of horror in his eyes, but they didn’t hesitate to follow him.

The sky opened up, drenching them with such a downpour that their coats were useless in keeping them dry. The rainwater was so cold it was painful. Their toes, fingers and faces were going numb.

Dick and Cass followed Duke down several blocks of empty streets with severely destroyed or half-standing, burned homes.

“Where are we going?” Dick asked despite his teeth chattering.

“Um... this way...”

Duke led them down a street that had old, faded police tape littered everywhere. The brownstone-style houses, the sidewalks, and the street signs were covered in green and purple graffiti:

HAHA was painted everywhere.

Cass didn’t understand why Duke’s gaze became distant.

Duke stopped when they finally reached the correct house. He took in its whole appearance—the damage and that awful graffiti painted all over it. The memories attached to this place were once so fond but now everything he could remember of his time living there was tainted. He’d nearly forgotten about this area of the Narrows—the playground he had once frequented, the houses his friends once lived in. His mind was trying to block it out, trying to protect him from what happened there on that fateful night. But his mind couldn’t protect him from reliving the events in the worst of his nightmares.

He wished he could completely forget that night.

They went up the steps and entered the house. Dick closed and locked the door behind them.

The inside was eerie, decaying, and rain was leaking through the open roof. The walls had HAHA spray painted all over. They went upstairs and down a hallway to one of the rooms. Duke sat down in the middle of the room and drew his knees to his chest.

Dick sat beside Duke and wrapped his arms around him.

“Will Bruce be able to find us here?”

“...I think so...”

Cass sauntered from room to room of the house, analyzing the place and taking in information. She noted every detail in her mind. Regardless of the extent of the damage caused, evidently from a fire, she was still able to piece together in her mind what each room must have contained.

She entered a room she thought was interesting. The dressers, child-sized bed frame, and empty photo frames were all intriguing to her. She observed a piece of paper on the floor which was partially protected from the elements by being under one of the dressers.

She moved the dresser and picked up the piece of paper. Her heart ached when she realized what it was. She hesitated, but decided to take the paper to Duke and hand it to him.

Dick noticed it was a kid’s drawing. It was a family portrait of a little kid with his parents. In the corner of the drawing was a signature written with crayons:

Duke Thomas

“...Was this your home?” Dick asked him softly.

Duke nodded as he clutched the drawing to his chest and began to sob.

They were startled when they heard the front door of the house burst open.

Cass left the room, despite Dick’s whispered protest, and shut the rickety door behind herself to keep Dick and Duke hidden.

She took a stance to fight.

Bruce raced up the stairs and found Cass there, her eyes fierce and focused, until the moment she saw him.

He kneeled as she ran into his arms.

“Where are Dick and Duke?!”

The rickety door slowly opened.

“Bruce!” Dick and Duke said in unison. They raced to him and practically catapulted themselves into his arms.

Bruce wrapped his arms around all three of them and held them tightly against his chest. He felt a kind of relief he’d never experienced before, one that gave him the urge to never ever let them go.

”...I’m sorry I didn’t keep you all safe…”

Reluctantly, he pulled away from their tight hold on him and examined them, noting how badly they were shivering, and how profusely Duke was crying. He inspected Dick then Duke for any injuries.

“Are you all okay? Did he hurt you?”

“No, I didn’t get hurt," Dick said.

Duke shook his head.

Cass quickly stepped away from Bruce and put her hands behind her back. She couldn’t make eye contact with him.

Bruce looked her over with a profoundly scared expression on his face. "Cass!?"

When Cass was injured, her biological father had never looked at her the way Bruce was.

She was never good enough to deserve her father’s care—even if she really needed it. Hugs or affection of any kind weren’t allowed. She had to work harder, move faster, anticipate her opponent’s actions more effectively for him to, one day, be satisfied with her. Showing any kind of weakness in front of him was unacceptable—no matter how severely he shot her, stabbed her, or beat her bloody. She had to become numb emotionally and physically if she hoped to earn his approval.

She didn’t care about her father’s approval anymore, not after he tricked her into killing a man.

But she did care how Bruce felt about her.

Her father had taught her that showing this kind of weakness, of not showing stoicism after a fight, was unacceptable—she had to control her emotions, she had to be strong, she couldn’t complain about injuries—otherwise she was sure Bruce would be disappointed in her just like her father had been.

Bruce offered his hand to her.

“Please, let me see your hands.”

She shook her head.

“Cassandra…” he said in a soft, low voice.

She finally looked at him again.

Bruce could see how she was trying to hold herself back from crying, but the sparkling of her eyes and the trembling of her chin and bottom lip gave her away.

She shouldn’t have to feel afraid. She was only a child.

He slowly edged slightly closer to her but she instinctively flinched back.

She knew he was being genuine, but she didn’t want to risk losing the relationship she had with him. She was scared he was going to be disappointed in her for showing weakness. It was drilled into her that weakness was not allowed, so much so, that it was a strong aspect of her psyche. She absolutely needed to be strong. She needed to get over it. She needed to beat that weakness out of herself—just as her father would want.

"What Cain did to you will never happen again, Cassandra…”

Tears fell down her cheeks.

“Never.”

She hesitantly showed and allowed him to take her hands into his own.

Bruce gently examined her hands and took in the sight of her red, cut knuckles. He delicately rolled up the sleeves of her coat to look for more injuries and noticed how red her elbow was also.

He locked eyes with her when realization hit him.

He firmly pulled her into a tight hug and she buried her face into his soaking, wet hoodie as she allowed herself to completely fall apart and sob.

He kissed the top of her head. ”...I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you...”

Dick noticed how much Bruce’s hands were shaking and how red and bruised his knuckles were becoming like Cass’.

“Did you get hurt fighting?” Dick asked.

Bruce merely shook his head in response.

He pulled Dick and Duke into a hug again. "Let's go home."

They began the long trek back to the train station.

Bruce wanted to keep them as close to himself as possible, so he had Cass on his shoulders, Duke was on his hip, and he was holding Dick’s hand. He scanned for danger in every area they found themselves in. The possibility of coming across Jokerz was keeping his heart pounding in his chest. He needed them safe, and getting home was the only thing on his mind. Seeing how badly they were shivering from the pouring rain was agonizing.

“Um, Bruce?” Dick said.

“Hn?”

“You’re kinda squeezing the life out of my hand.”

Bruce let go of Dick’s hand and instead pulled him in close against his side.

Dick wasn’t sure if Bruce having a death grip over his shoulder was any better.

Cass sensed something—that feeling from before was back.

She patted the top of Bruce’s head and he stopped dead in his tracks. He looked around far more carefully than before and she did the same, trying to pick up anything suspicious or threatening.

They saw a garbage truck approaching them.

“Hey! You found them! I’ve been looking all over,” the truck driver said as she stopped the truck and stepped out wearing her rain poncho. “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride home. You all need to get out of this ridiculous weather.”

Cass patted Bruce’s head again.

He knew she was picking up on something he was missing, but he didn’t want them staying out in the rain any longer than they had to or have them ride on the train again.

He needed to get them home.

He needed them safe.

On the ride back to Wayne Tower, Cass couldn’t help but study Bruce.

He wasn’t someone who was easily shaken by situations. Even in the worst of crises he had to deal with as Batman, when he’d come home he was calm, focused, and methodical as he worked on his computer to go over evidence. He would go into a mode of obsessing over getting the case solved, to save lives, to catch the culprit. She had seen how he would suppress his emotions to get the job done.

He hadn’t been battling The Joker, The Scarecrow, or The Riddler. There was no mass plot against Gotham, hostage situation, or bomb to defuse.

Everyone was okay. He had found them. They were safe.

She understood him being worried about getting them home or being anxious about solving the serial killer case, but it wasn’t that.

This was different.

She’d learned all of his tell-tale signs, every microexpression of his, every shift in body language, but what she was reading from him wasn’t anything she had seen before.

Even his gaze was unusual to her; like he was watching something unfold before his eyes that wasn’t actually happening.

She gently poked his arm.

He snapped himself out of it and looked to his left where Cass was sitting.

She gave him a look of concern—a look that was asking him a question.

He tried to give her a small smile, but he still looked away from her, knowing what she was trying to get out of him and not wanting to truly respond.

Just from that she got her answer.

“So what landed you all in this predicament?” the garbage truck driver said.

“Well!”—Dick took a deep breath—“First our minivan got stolen, then we were taking the train home, and then these Jokerz showed up and were really mean to this lady and her kid, and then Duke decided to cuss them out so—”

“—They were being mean!” Duke said.

“—So then Bruce was like beating them up, and then, after that, we ran away from the train but we got split up, and then... um... I’m pretty sure that’s all the stuff that happened. Oh! And then another guy was chasing us but Cass put goop in his eyes so he couldn’t follow us anymore!”

Bruce was surprised by that last bit.

The garbage truck driver pulled back her poncho hoodie and glanced over at Dick who was sitting to the left of herself.

“Hey, I’m sorry all that stuff happened. That’s messed up. Can’t be too careful with those Joker fanatics, especially nowadays. Crazy stuff going on.”

“Like what crazy stuff?” Dick said.

Bruce turned his gaze towards them. He knew where this conversation was about to go. Cass, unfortunately, already knew the gory details of the serial killer case—he didn’t need Dick and Duke learning about it too.

“You know, like all that serial killer business in murdering little”—she noticed Bruce shoot daggers at her—”...um, in huh, you know, just hurting... people.”

She shifted in her seat and cleared her throat.

“Nuh-uh! Cereal killers don’t hurt people! They just don’t like breakfast... or something.” Duke looked up at Bruce. “Right?”

Bruce nodded.

“Batman is gonna catch the killer!” Dick said.

“It's his fault the killer's even out there!” she said. “I honestly can’t wrap my head around the fact that the police are working with a vigilante. People like him are just in the way of progress. The only impact he’s made is inspiring criminals. Monsters like The Joker weren’t even in Gotham until that Batman showed up and started attacking low-lifes. He hasn't been saving anyone.”

“You’re wrong! Batman has been saving a lot of people from the bad guys.”

“Yeah, sure kid. If that’s what you want to believe. I’m just telling you, if he’s trying to accomplish something in Gotham with whatever crusade he’s on, it isn’t working—he isn’t changing things—he’s just part of the problem and should be locked up in Arkham like the rest of them.”

Dick crossed his arms. “You’re wrong, lady!”

She shook her head in disbelief.

Dick looked over to see if Bruce was pleased with him for defending his honor, but Bruce merely focused straight ahead at the road, appearing just as despondent as he already had been.

Dick’s face fell.

He hoped Bruce wasn’t actually thinking she was right.

“How’d you get that scar?” Duke said, pointing at the garbage truck driver.

Bruce put Duke’s hand down. “Don’t point. It’s rude.”

“Oh… Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” she said. “Hey, we’re almost to Wayne Tower. Bet'cha can’t wait to get warm and dry, huh?”

Duke nodded. “Mm-hmm!”

Bruce’s brow furrowed when he noticed the scar Duke had pointed to.

Chills went down his spine.

She had a scar, or rather, scars going down her neck that were partially hidden by the collar of her shirt and rain poncho:

||||

His eyes widened as his mind began to race.

Cass noticed Bruce reach into his pocket.

He pulled out his cellphone and checked if it had power—it did. He clicked down the button on the side of the phone to silence it and clandestinely wedged the cellphone between the cushions of the seat.

Cass looked up at him with a confused expression.

The truck pulled to a stop in front of Wayne Tower.

“Here we are.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said. He hurriedly got Dick, Cass, and Duke out of the truck.

“No problem.”

Bruce stood outside of the truck with the kids close to him. He grabbed Duke’s hand and moved him so he was hidden behind his leg.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Bruce said.

“Oh, it’s Vik,” she said, smiling at him.

He hesitated from closing the door of the garbage truck, but she shifted the gear of the truck into drive.

“Take good care of those kids, Mr. Wayne. You’re lucky to have them.”

He watched as the garbage truck pulled away from Wayne Tower. He looked for an identification number on the truck or a license plate, but there wasn’t any—of course there wasn’t.

Duke tugged on the sleeve of Bruce’s hoodie.

Bruce looked down at him.

“...I’m cold.”

The lead could wait.

Central heating was set to maximum. The fireplace was as hot as a furnace. The dryer machine was struggling with the overly stuffed load of blankets which Bruce wanted nice and warm.

From the moment they entered the penthouse, Bruce’s urgency in getting them dry was intense. He had a single-minded focus on providing them clothes to change into and in making sure their hair was dry.

Dick had been the first to get dry and changed into the clothes Bruce had provided him, which meant he was also the first to experience Bruce’s continued zeal and diligence of making sure he was warm. Bruce had tightly cocooned him in several layers of very warm blankets and had him sitting in one of the large, leather armchairs by the fireplace. If Bruce’s goal was to make Dick feel like he was being baked alive in an oven—mission accomplished.

Dick wondered if Cass and Duke were going to undergo the same fate.

Cass had been instructed by Bruce to find him when she was finished getting dressed, but when she passed by the upper staircase on her way to Bruce’s bedroom and saw below how wrapped up in blankets Dick was, she began to wonder why Bruce wanted to see her.

She found Bruce blow drying Duke’s cornrows in his ensuite bathroom.

She climbed onto the counter and sat next to Duke who appeared quite over Bruce’s fussing.

Cass noticed Bruce had brought his laptop back up to the bathroom and had it on the counter again, but instead of a cornrowing tutorial being displayed as before, it now had several windows open on the screen. One was a company employee directory, a map of some sort of route system, and another was a phone tracking page with a pin of Bruce's phone moving through the city. There was also an incomplete sketch of a person by the laptop, his Gotham Project journal, and the family portrait from Duke’s home was on a towel to dry off.

“Bruce!” Duke whined, trying to be heard over the sound of the dryer. “It's too hot.”

Bruce finally turned off the hairdryer. He didn’t seem satisfied, but he didn’t continue blow drying Duke’s hair either. Instead, Bruce retrieved a nearby blanket and wrapped Duke up in it.

Duke sighed, but he decided not to protest.

Bruce turned his attention to Cass and looked at her hands briefly before finding ointment and bandage wraps. He slathered the ointment all over her knuckles and then began to wrap up her hands in the same fashion he did for his own hands before going out as The Batman, but went beyond that and wrapped the bandages all the way up to her elbows.

She believed it was a bit excessive; her hands didn’t have deep gashes. He could’ve stopped with the ointment.

When he finished wrapping her hands up like she was about to go out on a boxing ring, he started blowing drying her hair at the highest setting.

She thought it was interesting that, although he was intent on making sure they were all completely dry, he hadn’t done the same for himself. He was still wearing the same soaking wet clothes and his hair was dripping wet.

Duke giggled at how all over the place and silly Bruce was causing Cass’ hair to be. She glared at him, but he only giggled more.

When Cass turned her attention back to Bruce, she saw that look flash in his eyes again. His gaze became far more distant than before. The half-blinking and ever so slight widening of his eyes made it appear as if he was reacting to something that wasn’t actually happening.

She tugged on his sleeve but he didn’t respond in the slightest.

He seemed paralyzed by a memory.

“Bruce!” Duke said.

The loud sound of his name finally reached Bruce. He turned off the dryer and placed it in the counter.

“I want down, please?” Duke said.

He retrieved another warm blanket to wrap Cass up in and then carried both of them downstairs. He put them in the armchairs near the fireplace just as he had with Dick and wrapped even more blankets around them until he was relatively satisfied.

He took a seat in one of the armchairs near them, but after taking a brief moment to consider if they were warm enough, he got up and went back upstairs.

Dick hoped Bruce was finally going up to get dry too.

But it wasn’t long till Bruce returned with an armful of clothes. He brought down several of his oversized hoodies, some of Alfred’s scarves, and beanies from when he was a teenager. He put the oversized hoodies on them, the scarves, and then the beanies on their heads. Even after all that, he wrapped them up in the blankets again.

Now he was satisfied.

He plopped back into the chair, finally allowing himself to slow down, but he was watching Dick, Cass, and Duke as if they would disappear if he looked away.

“Aren’t ya gonna go get dry too?” Dick said.

Bruce just blankly stared into nothingness.

“You’re doing the space-y out-y thing again.”

"Hn.” Bruce tilted his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.

Dick broke free from the blankets which were tightly wrapped him and went over to Bruce to gently shake his arm.

”…I need a minute…”

Dick grabbed Bruce’s hand and tried to pull him out of the chair but Bruce didn’t budge. He yanked and heaved to the extent that his feet were slipping from under himself. He kept trying, but Bruce was not cooperating.

“Come on! You gotta get dry!”

”…I need to stay...”

Dick stopped. The way Bruce said those words scared him.

“But it’s okay, B… Nothing bad is gonna happen to us.”

Bruce still didn’t move.

Cass could see how absolutely drained Bruce was, but she didn’t want him to fall asleep while still soaked to the bone and shivering, so she went over to help Dick get him out of the chair.

Duke got out of his armchair to help too.

They all pulled Bruce with all their strength, but he was too heavy and resistant for them to succeed.

Bruce sighed and opened his eyes. He slowly heaved himself out of the chair. ”Fine.”

Dick pumped his fist. “I’ll have a warm blanket ready when you get back, okay?”

Bruce began heading towards the stairs. ”...Okay.”

Dick turned to Cass when Bruce was out of earshot.

“There’s gotta be something we can do to make him feel better...”

Bruce took the bare minimum effort to get himself dry. No warm towels or clothes from the dryer, and he didn’t bother drying his hair. He got himself dressed in the most oversized clothes he could find as they were the least painful to put on.

Although he had found it difficult to concentrate on just the task of getting dressed, he went back to going over the information on his laptop and on finishing the sketch he’d started. He would switch between jotting his deductions down in his journal and drawing out the sketch.

He rubbed his brow as he tried to recall information, but his mind was getting foggier than it already was.

The more time he spent trying to work, the more his mind kept going over the events of the day. His mind kept nagging him about checking on the kids as if something bad was going to happen to them because he didn’t check. He knew logically they were safe, they were fine, nothing bad was going to happen, but he couldn’t get the unrelenting thoughts to stop.

He needed to bury himself in his work. He was running out of time. The serial killer wasn’t going to stop unless they were caught. It was imperative he solved the case soon. Another child couldn’t die. He couldn’t see that happen again.

Not today.

…Perhaps Dick, Cass, and Duke were going to die if he didn’t check on them...

He grumbled and closed his eyes.

He needed to work harder, to push himself to focus. Dick, Cass, and Duke were okay—he’d made sure of it. No one dangerous could get into the penthouse—no serial killers, no Jokerz, no bomb sent in the mail.

Nothing terrible was gonna happen.

They were safe and sound. He was sure of it.

His pencil fell from his fingers, and he rubbed his eyes with both of his hands.

He had to go check on them.

Nothing was going to assuage his mind other than seeing them again.

As he neared the bottom of the staircase, a feeling of gut-wrenching dread washed over him.

Blood drained from his face and his heart felt like it stopped.

Dick, Cass, and Duke weren’t by the fireplace.

There was no sign of them—again.

The blankets and some of the extra clothing he had dressed them in was all that was there.

He frantically looked around for them until just a second later he heard the sound of the television coming from the entertainment room on the other side of the penthouse.

Bruce could only close his eyes and take a deep breath. His nerves were shot. They couldn’t disappear on him like that.

Instead of going into the entertainment room to check on them, he went in the opposite direction towards the kitchen.

He got an ice pack from the freezer and pressed it to the back of his head for a moment before doing the same to the other areas of his body where he’d been hit. He was used to this kind of pain, but that still didn’t make it any easier, especially as he got older and the physical injuries mounted on top of each other.

The first year of being Vengeance had taught him a lot; oftentimes learning the hard way from taking heavy blows and getting stabbed or shot what upgrades he needed to make to his suit. Despite the pain every single night, he kept going. Fighting Gotham's criminal element was a distraction from the constant noise in his head. To an extent, going out there and risking his life prevented those intrusive episodes and flashbacks from closing in on him, but at the same time, he went out there not caring what could happen to him.

No regrets.

This was his choice.

His promise.

No one besides Alfred would miss him if he died anyway.

When he set out on his mission, however, he never imagined that becoming The Batman would bring so many people into his life who would come to mean so much to him.

Now he had people other than Alfred who would miss him.

He wanted to do better and be better for everyone. He wanted to be more for Gotham—as Bruce Wayne and as The Batman—someone who instilled hope that things could and would change.

But he was beginning to think Selina and others were right. Things weren’t changing despite his best efforts. Becoming The Batman wasn’t making a difference—Gotham was getting worse because of him. Crime was up for another year. He wasn’t doing the city any good. He wasn't doing anyone any good.

How much had he honestly accomplished?

He had to steady himself by doubling over on the kitchen counter. He squeezed his eyes shut when a wave of aching pain shot through every nerve in his body.

He’d let so many people down he cared about—Duke, Cassandra, Dick, Alfred, Leslie, Selina, Gordon. Today was only one day. How long before he let any one of them down again? How long till his fear of losing them was realized?

That fear being realized was far more painful than any physical wound.

Bruce retrieved and took some medication to hopefully numb the pain.

He had to busy himself again—to stop his thoughts from crowding in, so he went through the kitchen looking for ingredients. He found the sugar, baker’s chocolate and a soup pot which he placed on the stove. He started melting the chocolate in the pan on the highest heat. The next ingredient he needed, if he could remember the recipe properly, was a dairy product, but he couldn’t remember which. The refrigerator had milk, heavy cream, half-and-half, and buttermilk. Any one of them should be fine. There can’t be that much difference between them. He decided to take all of them. A little bit of each should taste good.

The chocolate in the pan wasn’t melting smoothly like he had hoped—it was quickly beginning to flake up and burn. He quickly poured in each of the dairy products and then an overly generous amount of sugar.

He poured his version of hot chocolate into three fine, porcelain tea cups. He realized that the hot chocolate was probably too hot, so he added some ice cubes to each of cups and tiny marshmallows as the finishing touch, put the tea cups on a silver platter, and carried it to the entertainment room.

Dick, Cass, and Duke's faces lit up when Bruce entered the room.

“We have your favorite episode of Gray Ghost on!” Dick said, pointing to the television screen.

Bruce put the silver platter on the coffee table and handed them each a tea cup.

“...I think I burned the chocolate,” Bruce said sheepishly.

They noticed the floating ice cubes.

“I don’t remember how to make it.”

Dick smiled at Bruce and took a sip of the lukewarm, overly sweet, rather sour drink. He held back a reaction.

“Mmm! It’s good! Thank you!”

Cass and Duke gave him a thumbs up after taking the tiniest of sips.

Bruce read their expressions. “Uh-huh...”

He turned to leave the room.

“Watch the Gray Ghost please!” Duke said.

Bruce paused, but he didn’t turn around to look at them. “Go ahead and push play... I just… need to get something. I’ll come back.”

They disappointedly watched him leave the room.

Bruce had to push himself harder. He needed to finish the case so no more families would have to come close to what he went through. Then he would allow himself to rest.

He hauled himself up the stairs again, but something made him stop at the top of the stairs. His gaze was set in the direction of Dick, Cass, and Duke’s bedrooms and he slowly started walking down the hallway towards them.

He felt his throat constrict, as though he had a lump in his throat that was becoming more and more intense and painful the closer he got to their bedrooms.

His breathing became quick and shallow.

He stopped by their rooms and took in the sight of their beds, their toys, their silly little drawings on the walls, and their clothes messily scattered across the floor.

Bruce had to steady himself against one of the doorways.

The rooms were so empty to him. So unbearably empty.

He came so profoundly close to losing all three of them because of his inability to protect even them.

Their bedrooms could've been empty forever.

Just like his parents’ empty bedroom.

More rooms for him to chain shut—to preserve—to prevent himself from ever entering again.

To become tombs of memories.

Bruce couldn't take the all-encompassing pain anymore—

He sank down to the floor—

Finally allowing himself to let go—

And dissolved into tears.

His shoulders began shuddering terribly.

His whole body was wracked by sobs.

He squeezed his eyes shut in the hopes of stopping the tears—and covered his mouth with his hands to quiet his uncontrollable sobbing—but the mumming sound of crying which went through his hands couldn’t be muted.

The inability to prevent himself from hyperventilating was worsening the state he was in, causing him to become severely lightheaded. His heart was hammering against his chest.

As much as he was trying, he couldn’t stop trembling. Couldn’t slow his breathing. Couldn’t stop the tears. He attempted to hold his breath for as long as the pain in his chest would allow to quiet himself, but even that didn’t silence him.

He didn’t want Dick, Cass, or Duke to hear him or see him like this—he didn’t want to affect them. His emotions weren’t their responsibility. No one could fix this ever present feeling inside him. This was just chronically who he was. Who he would always be. He wished he could hide who he was better—to be more for them so they wouldn’t feel the need to help him. It was his responsibility to make sure they were okay. They shouldn’t have to worry about him. No one should. He didn’t deserve that. He just needed to keep telling everyone he was okay.

Even if he knew he never would be.

He came too close to losing them—and he knew it was all his fault. He failed. Again. Failed to protect the people he cared about.

Last time this pain engulfed him was when Alfred was almost killed. Now he was feeling that same fear all over again at almost losing all three of them in one day.

The immense guilt of knowing what they all went through because of him was swallowing him up. He’d been suppressing his emotions far too long—and they were taking him over now.

He rubbed the tears from his bloodshot eyes. His breath shuddered as he tried to take in several deep breaths to calm himself down and pull himself together, but the effort was too much for him and he buried his face in his hands.

His mind kept reminding him of everything that had happened—how scared and powerless he felt just like that day in Crime Alley all those years ago. He couldn’t stop seeing himself there in that alley. The memory was disturbingly vivid—he could see every detail, smell every scent, hear every sound—but he couldn’t see the gunman’s face.

He knew it was all his fault.

If only he had done something different.

Then and now.

If only he could’ve kept them all safe.

He failed them—everyone in fact. All those lives lost and destroyed because he didn’t stop The Riddler, The Scarecrow, or The Joker’s plans sooner. He had failed to save all those children from the serial killer, to prevent that heartbreak and trauma for so many families. He was failing to change Gotham—to prevent anyone from ever experiencing the violence he suffered as an 8-year-old child.

This corroding, debilitatingly painful, all-consuming feeling was breaking him.

He felt shattered.

The attempts to piece himself together, to calm down, to breathe, and stop sobbing were failing him. Hyperventilation was completely taking him over. The excruciating pain, exhaustion, and emotional anguish was all too much for him. He didn’t have the strength to stay upright any longer and collapsed to his side. The pain which was wracking his entire body unrelentingly persisted.

Bruce couldn't fight the agonizingly repetitive thoughts his mind was inflicting upon him—and his body couldn’t withstand the painful onslaught. The immense emotional and physical pain forced him unconscious.

If only for a fleeting moment, he could escape and have this relief from himself—

From the brutality of his own mind.

Chapter Text

Selina sat on the bed of her hotel room and flipped on the television for background noise as she read a biography on her phone. It was research for her last score before leaving Gotham—an elusive, wealthy elite. Based upon what she'd learned, the event she had acquired an invitation to would likely be her only chance at getting close to the mark.

She tried to focus on reading the article, but her mind kept going back to the terrible things she saw the other night. Batman had contacted her for assistance in taking down a gang of Jokerz, but she didn’t expect the mission to be what it was. Especially given the number of abused children kidnapped by the Jokerz. He could’ve warned her better. Even if he had, she still wouldn’t have refused to help him.

After her mother’s death, Selina was determined to help anyone who’d been left without someone to be there for them. Anyone who had been left as a stray; whether deliberately abandoned or not.

When Selina had been back at the Iceberg Lounge and the 44 Below, the place she had spent a portion of her childhood in, she had one mission in mind: to take her father for as much money as she could get her hands on. But she hadn’t expected to find someone there who reminded her so much of her mother.

Annika came to Gotham from her home country without any connections or resources. She needed to find a way to survive, but life had been nothing but cruel to her. She was stranded and had no real choices to make anymore. The only work Annika could find was at the Iceberg Lounge. It was her last option, but she needed work if she wanted to eat and have a roof over her head.

Selina remembered how her mother had been trapped in a similar, never-ending cycle of desperately trying to find steady income only for every penny to go to the basics of living. Her mother had worked day and night to care for her and made sure she never had an empty stomach.

Maria was always there for Selina. 

If only Selina could have been there for her mother, to at least be by her side before the paramedics and police arrived, or better yet, been there before her mother was killed—maybe none of it would have happened, maybe she could've done something, maybe she could’ve saved her—but she didn’t even know what happened to her mother at the time. Her mother kept her hidden in the safest area of the club, away from the drugs and predators, until she was finished with work. It wasn’t until the ruckus of the police and of other attendees, waitresses, and dancers that she knew something was wrong. The area was taped off. All she saw was a body under a shroud in the distance. 

No one would tell her what was going on. There were only hushed conversations of who they thought murdered the person under the shroud. 

The police who had arrived didn’t seem to take the situation seriously, and spoke to Falcone as he surreptitiously handed them money and told them to make it all go away.  

Social services were called to take Selina away. Only then was she told what happened and who the woman under the shroud was.

She never got to say goodbye to her mother. And neither did she get to say goodbye to Annika. 

No one should be left without a goodbye.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a news segment came on the television.

“...More breaking news this hour as the police have discovered another child victim in this series of killings across Gotham...”

“@#$%.” She quickly picked up the television remote and increased the volume.

“...Commissioner James Gordon refused to comment and is not providing any details on the identity of the victim at this time. We’ll keep you updated as more information becomes available. In other news, the newly elected District Attorney...”

Selina got up from the bed and went to the window—the bat-signal was illuminated on the stormy rain clouds.

She looked at the earpiece case Batman had given her which was on the bed beside her Catwoman suit.

No family should have to live through the nightmare of losing a child.

And of never having the chance to say goodbye.

Gordon swore under his breath and pushed down the lever to the bat-signal. Just when he thought Batman wasn’t going to show up, the lift descended and then came back up to the top floor of the uncompleted skyscraper.

Gordon’s brow furrowed. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

Catwoman looked around as she approached him. “Where is he?”

“Don’t think he’s coming... He doesn't usually take this long," Gordon said with a hint of worry in his tone. "Why're you here?”

“I thought he'd been here... I can't reach him..." She gazed out at the city view, taking in the ominous storm. "I need to find whoever that piece of @#$% is who's killin' kids."

Gordon sighed. “I was hoping he had a lead on the case. Another body’s turned up, this time left in a dumpster. Killer also left another set of photos of the victim before killing her and taking a trophy. Continuing the sick before and after trend.”

He took the photographs from his trench coat pocket, but hesitated—his hand freezing for a moment—remembering that this was the same woman who kicked a man off the very building they were standing on. However, she was also the one whom Batman seemed to trust. Gordon finally decided to hand her the photographs.

The first photograph made her sick to her stomach. She couldn’t bear the look in the terrified child’s eyes. The next photograph was of the crime scene. She analyzed the photograph for any clues; the child's body was in the dumpster no different than any other piece of trash—as if the child had no value. Worthless. Meaningless. Something to be dumped and forgotten without a care.

She noticed a large, bloodied piece of paper which was pinned onto the child’s body with a small knife—written on the front of it was a hollow bat symbol with tally marks |||| written inside it.

“Left another letter for him too.” Gordon pulled out an evidence bag with the piece of paper in it.

"‘You’re the reason I’m saving them,’" she read.

“There’s been a message like that one left for him at every crime scene. Beginning to wonder if I should even keep showing him them... The killer just seems to want to get in his head for some reason.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Killer left no DNA or fingerprints and the location was just as random as the others. We still don't have anything concrete to investigate. But… one new thing was left behind… an ultimatum. We finally gave a motive.”

He pulled another evidence bag with paper inside it from his coat and showed it to her.

"$@£#…" she said after reading it. She handed the photographs back to Gordon. “I'm going to find where those Jokerz hide. One of them has to know something.”

She headed back towards the lift.

“Don’t go taking them on by yourself,” he said as he followed behind her.

“I can take care of myself,” she said as she entered the lift with him and lowered the elevator gate. “This can’t keep happening.”

Duke could see how thoroughly disheartened Dick and Cass were. They just seemed to be absentmindedly watching the Gray Ghost cartoon and not really enjoying it. It wasn’t fun watching the show without Bruce. They’d watched a whole marathon of episodes, waiting for him to return, but he still hadn’t come back.

He must have lied to them—he hadn't actually gone to get something like he said.

They’d put the show on in the hopes of it making him feel better after the day they’d had. None of their efforts seemed to have been working. Dick and Cass were at the point of giving up; they didn’t know what else they could do for him.

Duke knew there had to be something that would work—something that could make Bruce feel better.

He hopped off the couch and began to leave the room.

“Don’t bug Bruce,” Dick said in a monotone, not looking away from the television. “He’s probably doing Batman stuff in the batcave.”

“I’mma get the Gray Ghost book 'cause it makes Bruce happy.”

Dick shrugged. “I don’t think that’ll work.”

“Yeah it will...”

Duke left the entertainment room and went upstairs to Bruce’s bedroom.

He was half-hoping Bruce would be in his bedroom but he was disappointed that the room was as empty as it usually was. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd seen Bruce asleep in a bed. Even when Bruce wasn’t working on a case, he had odd sleeping habits and often would be found sleeping in places other than his bed. Alfred was oftentimes annoyed by Bruce doing so, but it was better than Bruce not sleeping at all.

Duke went into the ensuite bathroom and stepped onto the stool to look at his drawing which was on the counter.

Bruce had spent some time blow drying it, so it was safe to pick up without it falling apart.

Duke could remember the day he drew it so vividly and how his world had changed so quickly.

That’s usually how it goes—the worst of experiences happen often without warning and within mere seconds—changing a life forever.

And no one is ever the same again.

Duke hopped off the stool and left the bathroom, taking with him his drawing. He headed down the hallways and towards his bedroom to get the Gray Ghost book.

A dreadful, sinking feeling hit him—he stopped dead in his tracks as he neared the bedrooms.

Bruce was lying dead-still on the floor.

Memories flashed in Duke's mind and the echoing of maniacal laughter overcame him. The residual smell of smoke and Joker Gas was overpowering. He could see both of his parents lying on the floor in front of him; big, wide smiles on both of their faces—both of them completely still. The moment was seared into his mind.

He ran to Bruce and shook his shoulder vigorously.

“Bruce!” he said at the top of lungs.

No reaction.

He hit Bruce's side with his hand.

Bruce remained motionless.

Duke’s eyes widened and he let out a blood-curdling scream. His drawing fell from his fingers and he rushed down the stairs.

“What’s wrong?!” Dick said as he collided into Duke as they were running to meet each other. "Why'd you scream?!"

Chills went down Cass' spine when she ran over to them and saw the expression on Duke's face.

Duke could only let out an agonizing, wailing-like shrill of a cry as an answer.

"You gotta calm down and say something, Duke! What happened?"

Duke was inconsolable and completely falling apart.

"Bruce is dead!"

All color drained from Dick and Cass' faces—they didn't hesitate for a moment longer and bolted upstairs. They split up; Cass went towards Bruce's room and Dick went towards their bedrooms.

Air froze in Dick's lungs. He quickly kneeled beside Bruce and shook his shoulder. When he didn’t see a reaction, he squeezed Bruce’s cold hand.

Bruce didn’t flinch a muscle.

Dick’s breath caught.

“Bruce!” He squeezed Bruce’s hand as hard as he possibly could. "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"

"...Nn..." Bruce stirred for only a brief moment before going still again.

Dick’s lip compressed to a thin line. He thought for a moment and decided to release his grip on Bruce’s hand. He stood up when he heard Cass and Duke approaching and tried to keep them from coming closer. “Shh. We gotta be quiet and leave him alone...”

Duke could only cry more intensely in response.

Dick quickly hugged Duke and rocked him in his arms. “Shh... He'll wake up. He was probably just sleepy and fell asleep here or something. He’s been hanging out here a lot when we’re sleeping, remember? Don’t be scared. Nothing bad happened.”

Duke sniveled and wiped his snotty nose on Dick’s clothing. His breathing began to slow but he was left hiccuping.

Cass ignored Dick and went to Bruce. She kneeled beside him, taking in his haggard appearance, and moved his wet hair away from his face. She observed that there were tears on his eyelashes.

Anger began to boil within her—Bruce shouldn’t have been driven to this point—she had to do something about it. There had to be something she could do to help.

She went into Bruce’s ensuite bathroom and took his laptop, the sketch he had been working on, and his Gotham Project journal. When she came back to Dick and Duke, she grabbed Dick’s arm and began to pull him towards the stairs.

“What?! You're hurting my arm!”

She turned to him with a scowl on her face.

“All right! I’ll follow you. Sheesh!” Dick began going down the stairs with her. “Duke—don’t wake Bruce up, okay?”

Duke couldn’t respond.

He quietly walked to Bruce and kneeled beside him. He patted Bruce’s shoulder.

No response.

He shook Bruce’s shoulder.

Nothing.

“Wake up!”

Duke tried squeezing Bruce’s hand.

Bruce remained unconscious and limp on the floor.

Duke paused when noticed there were tears rolling across Bruce’s face. He wiped away the tears with the sleeve of his sweater.

“Don’t cry...” he said softly.

But Bruce couldn’t hear him.

“Bruce said we’re not allowed to be in the batcave!”

Cass didn’t care what Dick was saying and practically dragged him to the workbench that had Bruce’s computer.

Dick looked around at all the files scattered on the floor. “Golly Gee. This place is a disaster.”

Cass pulled a spare stool to the workbench and motioned for Dick to sit. He obediently, yet reluctantly, did so, and she handed him the laptop, the sketch, and the journal for him to put on the workbench. She climbed up the stool that was already at the workbench and sat down, opened up the laptop, then opened the Gotham Project journal to Bruce’s latest entry and pointed to his scribbled handwriting.

Dick huffed. He didn’t understand what Cass was trying to achieve, but he began skimming over Bruce’s writing.

His brows furrowed. “Bruce thinks he knows who the killer is?”

Cass motioned for him to quickly continue reading.

“Okay, okay... um...” His eyes darted left to right, trying to understand Bruce’s observations. “He was writing too fast. I don't understand all of his handwriting. Uh... there’s something about a garbage truck driver.”

Cass’ eyes lit up. She took the sketch, a pencil by the monitors, and began adding to Bruce‘s sketch.

“I think it says he left his phone to track... or something...” Dick looked at the tracker of the phone moving on the laptop's screen and then looked over at the face of the person Cass was adding details to. “The garbage truck driver?!”

Cass shrugged.

“Jiminy Cricket!” He tried to read what was in the journal faster. “Look—he says this tally mark was on the lady’s neck.”

Cass added that detail.

“What are we doing? We gotta go wake Bruce up so he can catch the killer!”

He began to move to hop down from the chair but Cass grabbed his arm.

She shook her head.

“Why?! What are we supposed to do? We can’t do anything!”

Cass touched the desktop computer's keyboard to wake it up and a password prompt showed up on the screen. She pecked at the keys with her index fingers and pressed ENTER. The computer granted access and the UI loaded up.

“How the flying flip do you know the password?!”

She shrugged.

Cass then inserted Bruce's sketch, which she’d finished to a reasonable degree, into the scanner; the computer displayed the sketch and she entered a key for it to run facial recognition.

“Cass—how?!”

She didn’t turn her attention away from the computer. She had sat next to Bruce as he worked on his computer enough times that she had learned and memorized how he used it. He never let her mess around with it though, but with him not there to tell her off, she was able to put what she had learned to the test.

The computer finished its search and a database profile was displayed. It showed age, physical description—and a name:

Viktoria Zsasz.

Dick watched as she wirelessly connected the laptop to the printer and sent the command to print out the map of a route system that was on the screen; she sent the same command from the desktop computer to print the profile of Viktoria Zsasz and the photo of her, then took the white ink pen on the desk and wrote |||| by her face. She took the pages of the profile, route system, the photo, and put it all in a manila file folder.

She hopped down from the chair.

“Hey! We need to get Bruce!”

Dick could only figure that she was organizing the information from Bruce’s own deductions to make it easier for him when he would wake up or when they wake him up, but if she had another plan, he didn’t know what it could be.

And that was worrying him.

Cass went to Bruce’s car in the subway tunnel and retrieved the heavy, military-style laptop. She handed it to Dick for him to put on the workbench.

“Let me guess, you know the password to this too?”

She entered the password and was granted access.

He rolled his eyes. “Figures.”

Cass opened up the secure browser on the military-style laptop and entered the information—which she had taken note of while Bruce had been blow drying Duke’s hair—for the tracking of his phone, then went to the security settings of the laptop and removed its login password.

“You gotta stop messing with Bruce’s stuff!”

She put the manila file with all the information onto the keyboard of the military-style laptop and closed the lid over the file.

She turned to Dick and looked at him rather intensely; a similar intensity to Bruce when he was determined.

“Why are you looking at me like that…?”

She pointed to the case containing Bruce’s earpiece.

That sent Dick’s mind spinning.

He hopped down from the chair and walked backwards towards the elevator.

“No. Nope. Nuh-uh! Nah! No way!”

She opened the case and showed him the earpiece.

He shook his head dramatically.

“No, Cass! I’m not going to help you. Bruce will murder us.”

Cass frowned at him and got off the stool. She grabbed his arm before he could get any closer to the elevator.

”Stop!" He pulled his arm from her grasp. "We can’t help out!”

Their attention was drawn to the television when Commissioner Gordon was shown before a large press conference. The expression on his face was sullen.

“...It has been confirmed that the victim was a 5-year-old from the neighboring burrow of the Narrows. No DNA evidence of the killer was discovered at the crime scene, but we’re still waiting on the autopsy report to—”

“—Tori Seax, Gotham Gazette,” the reporter said as she stood up from her chair. She projected her voice loudly because of the face mask she was wearing. "An anonymous letter accompanying photographs of the victim you are briefing the press about, as well as a parcel, was sent to the Gazette this evening. The letter claims the police are withholding important details regarding the case—details which are vital for the public to know. Care to comment, Commissioner Gordon?"

Dread flashed in Gordon's eyes.

"The letter arrived at the Gazette with this"—she lifted up the parcel and took out a clear jar with liquid and other material inside—"a trophy of the victim presumably. I'm sure this will match the DNA. I’m guessing this jar was sent as confirmation that the letter is genuine. Tell us what the police know of the ultimatum, Commissioner."

Every reporter in the room was on the edge of their seats, eagerly awaiting Gordon's response.

“You don’t have anything to say to us?” she said, her voice carrying hints of a sardonic tone.

The flashes from the reporters' cameras intensified.

“Officers”—Gordon motioned for police officers in the room to go to Tori Seax and take what she had—"The letter and parcel will be sent to forensics for analysis. Then we’ll know if it is relevant to the case." Gordon stood from the conference table. "That is all the time we have—"

"—I have the ultimatum here." She put her hand up to stop the approaching officer from taking the items she was holding. "Since you’re evidently working to protect The Batman and to lie to the public, I’ll read the letter: ’The Joker, The Scarecrow, The Riddler, and the rest of the demented murders in Arkham—those monsters were all created by The Batman. He is one of them. The GCPD, the media, and your public officials are lying to you. They're protecting him and allowing him to continue his crusade against your children. The Batman is the head of the snake. The people of Gotham need justice for everything he’s done—for every life lost. What I desire is simple: Make The Batman turn himself in. Lock him in Arkham. Kill him. Force justice. Do whatever it takes. I will then no longer need to save your children from what this city has become once he is dealt with. He won't be able to create more monsters like The Joker. The mercy your children have been blessed with will be complete.'"

The reporters in the room were in a frenzy and quick to raise their hands to get Gordon's attention, but some simply stood up and spoke as loudly as they could over other reporters, asking if the letter was authentic and if the police really were aware of the ultimatum, what the police’s plan in apprehending The Batman was, or why the police had withheld the information about the ultimatum to begin with, and others began asking, if Gordon was protecting The Batman, and others asked if Gordon could convince The Batman to turn himself in. They continued bombarding Gordon with questions regardless of if there was any merit to what was sent to the Gotham Gazette; they cared more about sound bites, the potential increase of viewership for their respective networks, and what information would give them the best clickbait and headlines.

“Bruce wouldn’t turn himself in to stop the killer…?” Dick said. “Would he...?”

Dick recalled the conversation on the way back to Wayne Tower and how he wasn’t sure whether Bruce disagreed on the subject of being no better than the criminals he locked up or whether he believed he deserved to be in Arkham.

Dick snatched the earpiece from Cass' hand. “Fine. But you sure this will work?”

Cass nodded, showing no uncertainty in her eyes.

Dick went back to the workbench and sat on the stool. He grumbled as he bent over and lightly hit his forehead multiple times on the workbench. He looked at Cass again when she sat next to him.

“But if the police find Bruce’s phone with the killer they’re gonna ask questions. You absolutely, positively, one hundred and a bajillion percent sure this will help him?”

She gave him a small nod.

Dick took a deep breath. He put the earpiece in his ear and pushed the button to activate it.

“…Hello...?” he said nervously.

Dick heard the receiving earpiece’s audio activated. He could hear the sound of fighting in the background, bones breaking, and of grown men screaming out in pain.

“Took you long enough,” Catwoman said.

“Hi! I need your help!”

“Who is this?!”

“You gotta help catch the serial killer quick! I have some evidence you can use, so all you have to do is—”

“—Listen, hon’. I’m kinda in the middle of something. I don't know who you are or what this little detective game you got in your head is, but you're not Batman. The earpiece you’ve got isn’t a toy. Where'd you even get it?”

“No, wait! You gotta listen! We need to help Batman! Or else I think he might turn himself in and get locked up in Arkham to stop the killer! Please, we can’t let that happen to him.”

“...Who are you? ...Why do you care what happens to him so much?”

“‘Cause... I know him. And I kinda know who you are too... You’re Selina. I hear him talk to you sometimes when he's working in the batcave.”

The comm went dead.

He couldn’t even hear the sound of fighting or any other background noise.

Cass touched Dick’s arm to get his attention, wondering why he wasn’t talking anymore.

"Hello...? Can you hear me?"

Nothing but silence was coming through the earpiece.

Dick had a disappointed look on his face. His shoulders fell.

He took the earpiece out of his ear and put it back in its case.

“I don’t think Selina is gonna help, Cass...”

She was in disbelief. She looked back at the television.

The news anchor was interviewing criminology experts from Star City, Metropolis, and other big cities. They were talking about The Batman, how, from their expert criminal profiling, he was likely working with the killer or was the killer, and how the police shouldn’t have been allowing him to continue as a vigilante for as long as they have. They made several comments on how Commissioner Gordon should be handling the situation and that there should be an investigation into him because of his, though frequently denied, relationship with The Batman; they even speculated that perhaps Gordon had been allowing these murders to happen and was covering up for The Batman. More than that, they all agreed there should be a manhunt and that lethal force would probably be the only way to truly stop The Batman.

Cass couldn’t bear to listen to them.

The thought of Bruce getting locked up or worse and never seeing him again terrified her. She had to find a way to stop that from happening.

Dick noticed Cass’ expression changing from disbelief to fury. “Hey… we can convince Bruce not to turn himself in! He'll catch the killer before the cops or anyone can hurt him—I'm sure of it!”

Cass didn’t want false assurances.

She got off the stool, but she didn’t know what to do with herself. She didn’t have a plan. She couldn’t think what to do next.

Her hands balled into fists.

The boiling emotions she had been holding back got the best of her and she knocked the stool over and kicked it as hard as she could across the subway terminal.

“Cass, calm down...”

She couldn’t listen. All of her anger was being let on the stool—she kicked it and threw it repeatedly.

Dick hopped down from his stool and tried to stop her but she struggled against him. He didn’t give up and managed to pull her into a hug to stop her rampage.

“Nothing bad is gonna happen to Bruce…”

She violently pushed him away and she started towards the elevator.

A noise came from the workbench.

Cass turned and locked eyes with Dick.

They both darted to the workbench and Dick got up and sat on the stool.

The case holding Bruce’s earpiece was vibrating.

Dick quickly opened it and put the earpiece in his ear.

“...Hello?” he said tentatively. He couldn't hear the sound of fighting anymore. “...Selina?”

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing!” he said almost before she finished her sentence. “He’s... uh... busy working on another case… so... he... he wants me to give you some stuff so you can help catch the killer!”

“Who are you... to him?”

“Just… somebody who kinda knows him.”

She sighed. “What’s the real reason I’m talking to you and not him?"

“I already told you… He’s super busy.”

“Hon’—“

“—Please. You’re the only one who can help.”

The silence that fell between them felt like an eternity to Dick. He pressed his lips together; he wanted to say something but he was too afraid he’d say the wrong thing.

“…What’s your name?”

“My name is Ri—I mean! Uh…”—he frantically looked all over the desk for an idea and then noticed that Bruce had taped one of his little doodles of robins by the monitor—“Ri— Ro— Robin! My name is... Robin…”

The comm went silent again.

“Selina…?” Dick looked at Cass, hoping she wouldn’t be let down again. “Please… Will you help catch the killer?”

“Where can we meet?”

Dick and Cass quietly rushed up the stairs, carrying items from the subway terminal.

Cass darted off to Bruce’s ensuite bathroom and put everything back just as she had found it; she’d even erased what she had added to Bruce’s sketch as best she could, and then hid the charger for his laptop. Before even coming up to the penthouse she’d even unplugged the television and hidden its remote.

Dick saw that Duke was still with Bruce, but Duke was playing with his toys around Bruce, making noisy action sounds.

“Duke! You gotta let him sleep—don’t wake him up!” Dick whisper-yelled.

“I didn’t!”

“You’re gonna if you keep doing that!”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

“No, I won’t”

“Yes, you—Ugh!" Dick stormed off to his bedroom.

Dick and Cass both got dressed in their noir-style detective clothes: trench coat, fedora, and swimming goggles.

They entered the private elevator and Dick pushed the button for the Wayne Tower lobby.

“Ready?” he asked Cass as he hid the military-style laptop in his trench coat and held it close to his chest.

She nodded and pulled out a container of hair edge control from the pocket of her coat and hid it behind her back.

The elevator door opened.

The main floor of Wayne Tower was bustling with activity. Most of the people coming and going were in business attire; they appeared focused on getting where they needed to be, all until they saw two children walking down the corridors in funny clothes.

Dick and Cass stuck out like sore thumbs.

They tried to appear casual as they made their way to the lobby, but they were getting a lot of stares from the people they passed by. They had to leave the building before anyone stopped them.

“You two! Stop!” an elderly gentleman who was working the reception desk said. He hobbled over to them. “You’re not supposed to be down here by yourselves. Mr. Wayne’s orders.”

“We were just—”

“—Sorry, Mr. Grayson. No exceptions. You can’t be down here without him.”

“No, but he said we could come down here!”

“Sorry, but I would rather not be fired. Now, come on. Let’s get you back up to the penthouse.”

Cass tugged on his suit and motioned for him to come down to her level like she needed to tell him something.

He bent over. “What is it, miss?”

She slathered a glob of edge control on his eyes and quickly wrapped herself around his leg.

“Good heavens!”

“Thanks, Cass!”

Dick sprinted towards the revolving doors and exited the building as quickly as possible. He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him as he ran across the four-lane street to the park.

He was running so fast his sides were cramping, but that didn’t stop him from unnecessarily jumping and flipping over things in the park. And every opportunity there was to run through big puddles, he did so. He wasn’t going to slow down until he got to his destination which was the end of the park farthest from Wayne Tower.

In the distance, he saw a woman sitting alone on a park bench holding an umbrella.

He flipped over the back of the bench to sit down next to her, which startled her, and he scooted right up against her to be under the umbrella.

“Hiya! Are you Selina?”

Selina quickly looked him up and down, taking in his outfit. “You just come up to complete strangers like this? How old are you?”

“Old enough! I’m not some baby if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She looked around. “Did you come by yourself? You said your grandfather would be coming with you.”

Dick smiled.

“I lied. Sorry not sorry. He’s on vacation right now. And I can take care of myself! See!”—he pulled out a kitchen knife from his trench coat pocket—“I know where B hides the knives.”

“Of course you would have a weapon... Is no one looking after you?”

There was a flash of sadness in his eyes before he looked away from her. He slowly released his hold of the laptop and opened up his coat.

“Here...” he said, handing her the laptop. “This stuff will help you catch the serial killer ‘cause there’s a tracking phone thingamajig. It’s really important that you destroy the phone when you find it so the police don’t get it though!”

Selina took a moment to study him.

“Why are you doing this for him, baby?” she said softly. "...What happened?"

“I already told you! He’s working on another case,” he said enthusiastically with a big smile.

She gave him a scrutinizing look.

Dick looked away from her again and watched the raindrops cause ripples as they hit the puddles on the concrete pathway.

“He’s just… taking a break and doing something else. That’s why he wants me to give you this stuff.”

“I don’t think he would want you out here by yourself... It isn’t safe. You’re not doing this with his permission.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. He took off his goggles and clasped his hands together. “Please don’t tell on me! He can’t find out!”

“Why doesn't he know you're here? Where is he? Is he okay?”

“He keeps saying he is...”

His change of tone troubled Selina. Her expression became full of concern when she saw the look in his eyes becoming more than simple sadness.

“It's just… We can’t let the killer keep hurting him... Please, you gotta promise you’ll destroy the phone for him after you catch the killer—and that you won’t tell on me. ”

“You sure this stuff will help me find the killer?"

“Pretty sure? It's Batman's detective-evidence stuff. But, like, I dunno if there’s proof. You’ll have to find it for the police.”

“Great,” she said sarcastically.

“So will you promise?”

Selina shook her head slowly. “...I promise.”

“Pinky promise?” he said earnestly, offering her his pinky.

She rolled her eyes and locked her pinky around his.

He gave her a smile but it disappeared when he saw what was in the sky.

She looked up and saw the bat-signal for a brief moment before the light suddenly vanished. Her brows furrowed and she looked back at Dick.

“Do you know what the killer wants to happen to him?”

He nodded.

“Does he know?”

“...You gotta get the killer before he finds out. Or else... he might let something bad happen to himself to stop little kids from dying.”

Selina stood from the park bench. “Show me where you live. I can’t let you go by yourself.”

He stood up on the bench then did a front flip to jump off it.

“Don’t worry. I have a plan to get home safely so you hopefully won't want to come with me. If he finds out you know who he is, he’s gonna murder me. You don't want that on your conscience. So please don’t get me murdered.”

Dick looked in the direction of Wayne Tower and saw the receptionist approaching with Cass leading him by the hand.

“Hey, how am I getting this laptop back to you then if you don’t want him finding out?”

“Uh… dunno… I haven’t figured that part out. Yet!”

Selina was caught off guard when Dick hugged her.

“Thank you! Bye!”

She watched him run off.

“Bye, Robin...”

Selina had the strongest urge to follow him and find out where he lived and who The Batman was.

She looked at the laptop she was holding and then up at the sky where the bat-signal once was.

Catching the killer in time for his sake was more important.