Chapter Text
Bruce Thomas Wayne was no stranger to fundraisers, particularly ones hosted within his very own home. This gala, as with most held within the upper echelon, intended to raise funding and support for the restoration of Gotham’s green spaces, among other eco-conscious reforms sponsored by the Wayne Foundation.
Bruce had been under the initial impression that the crowd within the ballroom of the manor would be the usual folk- the corporate elite, old-money folk, or similar affiliations- it seemed, however, that giving his new image consultant intern free range of the guest list turned up a very different audience.
“Barbara, run facial diagnostics. I don’t like the look of this.”
“Right away, Bruce. Cross-referencing biometric data now.”
Reporters, police officers, firefighters, scientists, professors- the moral backbone of Gotham, it seemed. Everyday people. He recognized one of the guests, too; a bartender from the Iceberg Lounge, but none of the clientele that they would normally serve.
He should have been relieved at the change in atmosphere. The skyscraper society is quite suffocating, by definition: it should be nice to finally have space to breathe at one of these events, right?
“Bruce, you gonna head in? Or is blocking doorways your like… new thing?”
It took him a second to blink back to reality. He looked over his shoulder at the lithe figure, stood crossed-armed behind him. “Tim-”
“Dick, old man. Maybe get something to drink before doing the whole ‘meet my three pride and joys’ spiel.”
Dick Grayson bore minimal resemblance to his brother, and yet in the looming shadows of the Wayne Manor entryway, they were almost indistinguishable. Even still, Bruce found his slip up odd. Maybe his eldest son was right.
Dick soon stood at his father’s side, guiding him along by a hand on the man’s shoulder. Bruce’s brow cinched. “Where is Tim? The other kids, for that matter? They should’ve been with you-”
Bruce was cut off again, but this time by the swarm of guests that were now alerted to the Prince of Gotham’s attendance.
“Bruce Wayne! A word for the Gazette, please? Sources say you’ve hired Vicki Vale as-”
“Mr. Grayson! You still haven’t given a quote about the disappearance of Mrs. Wayne-”
“Mr. Wayne! About that boys home-”
Different crowd, same questions.
Too many fake smiles.
Too many handshakes.
Too loud.
Too bright.
Almost-
“Bruce! Hey! You there? You alright? Helloooo, Earth to Bruce~”
A champagne glass waved in front of his face, like a treat to a dog. He took it without a second thought, downing the contents like a desperate man in the Sahara.
“Sorry, the kids, right?” Bruce said, wiping his mouth after a moment. He looked just around himself, finding that his eldest had led him to the end of the catering table; the only space in the entire room not suffocated by guests.
Dick looked at him with an expression that only one of Bruce’s own would dare hold. “Guess I’ll just repeat myself, then,” the man muttered.
“Tiff was called last-minute up to the tower by Lucius- some work thing, I imagine. Harley and Babs should be babysitting Damian, thank God, and Tim-”
Dick paused for a moment, taking a brief drink from his own glass, before gesturing towards the in-hall balcony, where a rather sore-thumb posse of teenagers seemed to be gossiping, with Bruce’s middle son at its core.
Then, Bruce made the mistake of looking at his watch.
“Shit,” he bit, rather uncharacteristically.
It was 7:36 PM.
He and Tim were supposed to accompany Dr. Pamela Isely on the balcony at 7:30 PM.
Six minutes ago.
Dick read his mind the moment that Bruce set his glass down just a bit too loudly.
“Absolutely not,” Dick said, grabbing Bruce’s arm the second he tried pulling away from the table. “Couldn’t tell you why Bruce Wayne is acting like he’s never been in public before, but I know he sure as hell shouldn’t go up on stage with… whatever’s going on.”
Bruce shrugged him off, but couldn’t deny that he had a point. At least, internally.
“Probably just sleep deprivation.”
Dick didn’t look convinced.
“I don’t need you to worry about me, really. It’s just a bad headache.” He thought. He hoped.
Bruce tried to do the fatherly thing and put a hand on his overly-anxious son’s shoulder, but Dick’s expression only became more perturbed.
“Bruce, you’re really starting to weird me out.”
“It’s a silent killer you know.”
Bruce nearly socked the gentleman behind him, his heart stopping for a moment- something that was very much not typical of Gotham’s Prince, nor his… other moniker.
The man emerged from the crowd nearby, like a corvid creeping from the shadows of a tree. “Sleep deprivation, that is, Mr Wayne. Been a victim to it many times myself.” Bruce could feel his head swimming with panic when the man stuck out a hand. “I’d like to hope your son's mentioned me a few times during his studies, no?”
With a soothing voice like that of a teacher comforting a student and a face that wouldn’t seem out of place among the marble statues of Wayne Manor, Bruce was struck with the fact that he, important as the guest may have seen, had no clue as to his identity.
Luckily, that’s why he had Oracle.
Within a moment, Barbara had synced Bruce’s retina display with her own biometric data scan, giving him every possible bit of information about the gentleman. He took the professor’s hand after only a moment, gesturing for Dick to go retrieve Dr. Isely from… well, the gardens, most likely.
“Dr. Jonathan Crane: former psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, currently serving as a professor of psychology at Gotham Tech. I’ve read your work. I’m quite a fan.”
Bruce hardly noticed how his mind cleared the moment that he took another sip from his drink. Nor did he make very much of the professor adjusting his cufflink.
“And I’m quite a fan of your hospitality. You see, when Ms. Vale reached out to me, I thought surely…”
Bruce did, however, note that his splitting headache disappeared just when his champagne seemed to change tastes.
“Citrus,” Bruce commented, testing to see Crane’s reaction. “Could’ve sworn the mixologists know I prefer my champagne brut.”
The professor’s eyes drifted to the right. He didn’t seem the type to lie.
“It’s just a special compound; stimulates noradrelaline. Selina mentioned that you tend to work long nights, so I thought I might-”
“Selina?”
“Yes- she said that you two are… uhm… work friends?”
“Selina Kyle? The cat thief. Work friends? Selina Kyle.”
He heard the familiar click of heels against wood, and for a moment, all he could focus on was the woman in black, fear creeping down his spine with every step she took towards the two men.
She spoke with a voice like a belle, her movements mirroring a well-rehearsed dance. Enchanting. Feline. Taunting.
“Selina Crane Kyle, Mr. Wayne.”
Ten years.
That’s how long Bruce had believed the Catwoman to have moved away- or better yet, to have died.
And she settled down with… a college professor. Some nobody.
She still thought this was all a game.
Selina intertwined her fingers with her husbands, staring deep into his eyes; it’d be quite the romantic gesture, if Crane hadn’t seemed borderline disgusted.
“Amore,” Selina charmed, though she was sure to let go of Crane’s hand. “Give me and Bruce a moment to talk, will you?”
Maybe the professor somehow heard Bruce’s heart beating out of his chest, or saw the spots that clouded his vision, but the man stood firm. At least, until Selina’s voice dropped to a snarl.
“Move, dog.”
Alone (Or, as alone two people could be in a packed grand hall), Bruce tried to stifle his panic, but barely managed to stabilise his voice. Selina, blind to his troubles, grabbed a bottle of wine, and treated it like a plastic bottle of cola.
“Amore,” Bruce recited. “Italian.”
“Your point?”
“You used to call Harv habibi.”
“I’m not a skank, Bruce. Wouldn’t call different men the same thing.”
“Why wouldn’t you use hayati, or alby, or, hell, roohi? Why Italian?”
Selina raised a brow. “Always the detective, eh?”
She set her empty wine bottle down, unbothered by the sheer amount of alcohol that now coursed through her blood.
“Perhaps I’m simply familiarising myself with a new language,” she began, her voice dropping to a whisper, “And, it’s Latin, Bats.”
Bruce froze, Selina’s mismatched eyes boring holes into his skull.
She knew.
Of course she knew.
That’s why she was here.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t told anybody. You’ll still get Pammy to sign your eco-geo-thing. When she wakes up, at least.”
Bruce started seeing double, tried to stumble away from Selina, but her nails dug into his arm, holding him in place.
“I’m not done talking, Wayne.”
Bruce could feel his stomach wrapping around itself, his muscles spasming with every rapid breath.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Where were the boys?
Were they safe?
What did Selina do to him?
Was this some kind of drug?
The room was so small.
The ceiling was so high.
The music was so loud.
Everything was so…
Selina caught him just as he slumped over, as if he’d done nothing more than fallen asleep in her arms.
He could hear her call for “help”.
Then, he heard her mutter a few words under her breath- low enough so that only a trained ear could hear:
“Be lucky he wants you alive.”
---
Bruce woke up a few minutes later.
A few minutes too late.
“Mr. Wayne! Can you hear me?”
The room had gone entirely quiet.
Bruce could breathe again.
Above him stood a very concerned-looking Dr. Crane, who seemed, somehow, even worse-for-wear than Bruce felt.
Both of them had gas masks on.
Military-grade.
Not found within the manor’s infirmary.
Smuggled in.
“Selina, she…” Crane started, keeping his voice at a whisper. “Went to go help Pam, I think… Told me to put a mask on you. Told me to put one on too, and just… make sure that you wake up.”
Bruce extended a hand, asking Dr. Crane to help him up, finding at least some of his strength to have returned.
Crane looked up and away for a moment, as if holding back tears, before helping the man to his feet.
Gas.
Everywhere.
The floor was covered with it: spiraling into the air, creeping over the bodies…
God, there were so many bodies.
Face muscles taut, foam at the corners of their mouths.
Smiling.
All of them.
Then, he heard the laughing.
“I’ll beat’cha to the punch, doc.
Hydrogen Cyanide and Strychnine,
Add a few drops of MDNA,
A pinchhhh of Methamphetamine,
And one littleeee dab of Nitrous Oxide just to bind it all together!”
“Lethal Risorium,” Crane murmured.
Joker Toxin.
Bruce bit down on his tongue, trying to use the pain to keep him from doing anything rash.
He expected the digitized voice on the balcony to come from one of Joker’s usual MOs: a bomb disguised as an oversized birthday present, or maybe a jack-in-the-box ready to explode shrapnel across the room.
He hardly expected the Joker himself to be there.
But he would never send just one henchman to take out an entire hall of civilians. That just wasn’t his style.
Hadn’t been in the last thirty years.
The same time it’d been since Bruce had last seen a blood-red helmet like that.
The gas was clearing up now, lingering, but moving just enough to see who Bruce’s archenemy had sent in his wake.
Crimson armor over black kevlar lining. A bright red cape to mirror a war-stained banner. And, of course, a vibrant titanium shell that encapsulated the entire head, devoid of any and all facial features.
A gun pressed to a petrified Tim Wayne’s head, a half-mask secured over his mouth and nose, matching in color to the assailant’s armament.
Bodies of Tim’s classmates littering the space around them.
The gunman’s face was turned towards Bruce well before their boss noticed him, but when he did…
“Brucie boy! So good to see you finally awake. Wouldn’t be good if Batsy’s favorite billionaire died so unceremoniously, now would it! For me OR for you! Because you’d be DEAD! HAH!”
Bruce had to keep his composure. Had to play along. For now. Help would come. Barbara had ears everywhere. She would send somebody.
If she’s even still alive, A voice said in the back of his head.
He’s already shot her once. Maybe he sent somebody to actually finish the job.
“Crane. Go get help. Please.”
The next moment, it was just Bruce, Tim, the masked gunman, and around two hundred bodies. Lifeless. Dead.
Bruce couldn’t begin to imagine just who was among them.
“If this is a hostage situation,” Bruce began, raising his palms, trying his best to maintain his civilian persona. “Then, name how much.”
He could hear the jester’s tuts projected somewhere from the gunman’s labyrinth of plating.
“Not how much, Mr. Moneybags. WHO.”
Bruce didn’t like where this was going.
“That SARD stole my Harley away from me. You want your kiddy back, you’ll send the BAT to come get him.”
Then, Bruce heard another voice. Quiet. Meek. Stifled. The gunman’s. No matter how hard Bruce tried, he couldn’t make out a word. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say the same about the Joker’s reply.
“SHUT IT, HOOD. I’M TALKING TO BRU-”
Two familiar projectiles lodged themselves on either side of the gunman’s mask, just where their jaw would be. A set of wingdings, cutting off the Joker mid-word, electrifying the mask’s speakers.
The gunman aimed towards the hall’s ceiling, keeping his gaze on Bruce, and fired. Blindly.
KRACK!
A blur of lavender and black crashed down from one of the beams above, down to the feet of the gunman, accompanied by the sound of a few hundred bones.
Tim only closed his eyes, barely even flinching at the deafening sounds around him.
Bruce waited for Nightwing to move.
He waited for his eldest to get back up.
Dick Grayson’s blood began to spill onto the hall’s floor.
Bruce couldn’t scream. Couldn’t react. Bruce Wayne did not care about Nightwing.
All Bruce could do was watch.
The gunman- Hood, as the clown had called him- cocked his head to the side, as if waiting for the same sort of movement to come from the limp body.
When the hero remained still, Hood turned back to Bruce, gun pressed to the side of Tim’s skull, stepping closer and closer to the window at the back of the balcony.
Bruce could hear that voice clear as day, now.
“Batman. 24 hours. After that, the kid dies.”
The Red Hood then dove out of the window, out of Wayne Manor, taking one of Bruce’s last two living sons along with him.
So many bodies.
---
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