1993
Gotham. It’s the most beautiful city in America. It’s also one of the worst cities to live in, worldwide.
Crime rates have been stuck at 2.5% for the last decade. Property values were in perpetual decline. Mayors, governors and presidents have tried to change Gotham for the better. Most of them have failed. Thomas Wayne was determined to break that mold.
“You have Commissioner Loeb on line two, Mr. Wayne,” Vaughn said, peeking through the door.
“Transfer him,” Thomas said, putting down his glass of bourbon. He picked up the phone’s receiver.
“Didn’t you take the day off, Wayne?”
“Yeah, I did. From the hospital,” Thomas replied. His other hand was busy operating his computer, searching its directories for Wayne Corp’s annual reports. “It’s 6 PM. We close at 8. Tell me, Jeff. How can I help you?”
“I heard from a bird that you are expecting new inmates at Arkham,” Loeb said, slurring.
“Perhaps. Dr. Strange is in charge of new intakes. What’s it to you, Jeff?”
“Well, that bird also told me that some of these inmates are connected to this recent spate of murders. The Number killings. You have heard of them, right?”
“Everyone in Gotham has heard of it.”
Thomas wasn’t exaggerating. The victims were disfigured and carefully staged. Roman numerals were placed in every crime scene, either around the victims or on them. Sometimes, cryptic notes were also found on their bodies.
As bad as Gotham already was, things were becoming even worse.
“One of them, Victor Zsazz, is probably the killer, Wayne. We need you to make a special exception for him.”
“How so?”
“Make him more pliable.”
Thomas felt a chill run down his spine. He knew what pliable meant.
“You are asking me to break the Hippocratic Oath, Jeff.”
“He’s scum, Wayne. He’s smarter than you, too. You don’t have to go all the way. Just crack his shell. Send him back to us. We will do the rest.”
Thomas reflected on the situation, taking another sip of bourbon. The Number Killer had claimed twenty-five lives so far. Would it be truly unethical if Thomas did what Loeb was asking of him?
“I can’t promise you anything, Jeff. Let’s put him under observation first. I will let you know if he does anything unusual.”
Loeb laughed. “See, was that so hard? I knew you would be reasonable.”
“We all need reason, Jeff. Some more than others. Good night.”
Thomas hung up, returning his focus to the computer screen. He started the cumbersome process of data entry, inputting the values from the balance sheets and profit and loss statements of the last five years.
This is the kind of work people would normally get an intern to do. But Thomas didn’t trust anyone else to get this right.
After ten painstaking minutes, Thomas was done with data entry. He ran the three sheets through some basic analysis. The results confirmed what he had suspected. There was some money missing.
Not just some money. A lot of it. Three million dollars, at least.
Thomas sighed. A sundae of relief and apathy washed over his dulled mind. This wasn’t the first time he caught a whiff of embezzling in Wayne Corp. For a company that had a market cap north of fifty billion dollars, three million was chump change, at best. Nevertheless, it was a serious crime, one that required a formal inquiry before long.
That would have to wait for another day. Thomas had another appointment, and he wasn’t one to be late.
~*~
Martha Wayne left Bruce’s room, eyes glazed, Michael Crichton novel tucked under her arm. The years had been kind to her, but Martha often paid no heed to such kindness.
Alfred frowned.
It was characteristic of Alfred to frown. Nowadays, however, Alfred frowned far often than he would have liked to frown.
“Everything well, madam?”
Martha turned her gaze towards Alfred. She looked exhausted on an ontological level.
“He isn’t taking this well, Alfred. Not as well as he could be. He is falling behind on his homework.”
“I think we can take care of the homework for now, madam. He will recover, given due time. He’s still a little boy. He has time.”
Martha smiled wanly. “He’s eleven, Alfred. That’s as old as eighteen in Gotham years. I will be in my study.”
Alfred nodded. “I will see to it that master Bruce is prepared by eight thirty.”
Martha retired to her study. She spent the next thirty minutes reading the novel. She took some notes, scribbling down ideas for her own short stories and manuscripts. She liked the respite fiction provided from the real world. In particular, she liked how things were resolved, one way or other. Reality provided her no such luxury.
It was time, soon enough, for Martha to get ready as well. She went to her walk-in cabinet, perusing the dresses on display. She selected four, before eliminating all of them.
They were too gaudy. Too upscale. It screamed bourgeois. It screamed Wayne. Instead, she chose a simple, understated grey dress, and picked a tan, muted overcoat, with high-heeled brown sandals.
It was when she finished doing her hair, perfecting her curls, that it occurred to Martha how rote her makeup rituals had become in the last few years. She found more joy and passion in cutting through and suturing the skull and folds of brain matter. She repeated brush stroke after brush stroke with practiced ease, caring only for what she saw in the mirror, and not what she felt. She was a mortician, beautifying her own cadaver self, animating her numb flesh with foundation, her listless lips with lipstick and lipgloss and her sparkless eyes with contoured shadows.
“That’s a strange look,” Thomas noted, entering the room. He was dressed in formals: navy blue blazer, black shirt and black brogues. “Ethereal. Like the sirens of old.”
Martha glanced at Thomas, smirked and returned to her task. “Flatterer. You are overdressed, Thomas.”
“Hmm. I would rather say that you are under-dressed, dear,” Thomas remarked, ambling closer to Martha’s dressing table as he took off his blazer. He stood behind Martha, smiled and grasped her bare shoulders. “It’s a special screening, after all.”
“That, it may be. But who are we dressing up for, Thomas? It’s only the Thompkins, Dents and Tommy Elliot. We will be among friends.”
Thomas nodded, eyes wandering from Martha’s shoulder, to neck, and elsewhere. He became pensive, even as he craned down and nuzzled against the back of her perfumed neck. Martha slackened appreciatively. “We are Waynes, Martha. And it’s Gotham. There are always eyes watching us.”
“Hmm,” Martha’s voice trailed off. She shook her shoulders free, leaning towards the mirror.
“Don’t ditch the pearls. They have always looked good on you.”
Martha felt indifferent about the pearls. All the same, she opened her jewelry drawer, taking the pearl necklace out of its box. She draped it around her throat, noting the dim white glow.
“You should wear the grey jacket, Thomas. The one that Ron got you.”
Thomas’ expression soured. He hadn’t worn that in five years. Not since the day he had held Phillip in his arms, flesh still fragile and tender, and checked for a non-existent pulse.
“I wonder if Alfred mothballed it,” Thomas offered. He sat on the edge of the bed, flexing his shoulder blades. “It’s been a while since I wore it.”
Done with her makeup, Martha shot a sideways glance at him, smiling crookedly. “I will be. The mighty Thomas Wayne, brought low by a sixty buck jacket.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Mmhmm. It’s time we moved on. I carried him for eight months, Thomas. And they didn’t even let me hold him. You didn’t let me hold him.”
Thomas looked hurt. “It was better that way.”
“And I was his mother. But, let it be. We have Bruce, and he’s going through his own troubles. That fight with Cobblepot at school. That night in the cave,” Martha put on her sandals, walking over to Thomas’ closet. She grabbed the grey jacket, took it off the hanger and brought it to Thomas. “If we don’t keep up, we might lose this son, too. Or at least, he might lose his nerves.”
“Bruce is stronger than that,” Thomas insisted, taking the jacket and trying it on. He felt some initial unease, which disappeared after a few seconds. “Smarter, too. He walked out of the cave on his own.”
“No one’s doubting his smarts,” Martha countered, with firmness tempered by a touch of tenderness. “But he is letting it get to him. More than he cares to admit.”
Martha checked her purse. Her small Swiss-army knife was still there, as was her dog-eared, Barnes and Noble bookmark.
“Alright, Martha. I will talk to him. Once the movie’s done,” Thomas said, putting on his shoes. “You know, it’s funny. I just realized, we spent the whole time without discussing work.”
Martha chucked. “Our work is horrible. You try to fix people and then fix Gotham. I try to fix people’s brains. Lost causes that can wait until tomorrow.”
Thomas smiled as he headed out of the room, Martha following him. “We should have invited the Queens, too. Moira would have loved your sense of humor.”
“I am sure she would have,” Martha paused to look at her pearls. “I am glad you remembered the pearls.”
“Me too. I have a good feeling about tonight.”
~*~
James Gordon turned off his lighter, taking a long puff from his cigarette. It didn’t hit as hard as it used to. He hated this Lights shit. He was a Red guy all the way, but Barbara would have none of it. It was either this, or the nicotine patch.
Tommy looked at Gordon in wonder. Gordon noticed, and wondered what the boy was thinking. Must be thinking that cigarettes are cool.
“What are you looking at?” Gordon asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Tommy deflected. “Are those good?”
“No, they are not. There are worse things to kill yourself with,” Gordon inhaled. “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”
“It’s okay.”
“Hmm. Aren’t you supposed to be with the other kid? Helping him order food?”
“Yeah. We did that already. We were waiting on you, actually.”
“Alright,” Gordon dropped the cigarette and doused it with his foot. “Let’s go inside.”
As Gordon walked in, he spotted Bruce seated at a corner table. The boy was fiddling with his fries. It suddenly occurred to Gordon that, perhaps, the Waynes were so rich that they boy had never been inside a Mickey Dee’s before.
“You have been to one of these before, right?” Gordon asked, taking a seat.
“Maybe? In an airport. I don’t remember.”
“Hah. You didn’t miss out on much.”
Bruce smiled hesitantly. “I actually like the fries. The cheese, too.”
“Yeah. Most kids do.”
Gordon wanted to ask Bruce if he was okay. But he obviously wasn’t. He could see the denial in the boy’s eyes. What kind of people raise kids in Gotham?
What kind of people live in Gotham?
It had been three years since he got transferred there. He remembered how it felt, then, coming to Gotham by train. He had Barbara flown in by a plane. But he wanted to come by the train because he wanted to get a feel of the people. (And also because it cost a lot less.)
He got a feel of the people alright. And he got a feel of the place too. It felt like hell.
He had skipped enlisting and going to Iraq for this. Now it was either this, or pumping gas. And being a cop in hell was still better than that.
He studied the boy intently. The sheer terror Gordon had seen, when he had arrived on the scene, was now submerged beneath an indifferent numbness. But the terror- and then the grief- were sure to come, sooner or later.
“You know, the last thing he said to me,” Bruce said, finishing his burger. “is that he wanted to have a talk.”
“Yeah? What do you think he wanted to talk about?”
“I am not sure. It’s…it’s probably about the bats.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“I got lost in the underground caves, beneath our home. For eight hours. I got attacked by bats while I was there.”
“That must have been rough.”
“Bruce kicked their ass, though!” Tommy chimed in. “He bashed one of those bats’ head in!”
“I wish I hadn’t done that. They were screaming a lot. I think they were scared.”
“They probably were. That’s their home, I guess, those caves. You were the intruder there.”
“Yeah. That’s a strong thing, isn’t it? Fear. I saw it in his eyes too.”
“Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot, kid.”
“They are dumb, too!” Tommy hissed. “He probably didn’t even know who you guys are, Bruce. I can’t believe he knocked over the Waynes for a wallet and a set of pearls.”
“The economy’s not what it used to be, kid,” Gordon said, chomping down on one of the fries. “Especially for ex-thugs.”
“When can I go home, mister?” Bruce asked, staring forlornly at the window.
“As soon as you two are done with your food. We got the guy an hour ago.”
Bruce looked surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Gordon looked puzzled. “You don’t look relieved.”
“Am I supposed to?”
“Nah. No one is supposed to do or feel anything, under these conditions,” Gordon dabbed his lips with a tissue. “Look, I wish I could tell you it gets easier. But it doesn’t. Growing up is tough. Every day is a bad day. Specially in Gotham. And now, you have to deal with that every day.”
“Well, Bruce, he is being harsh. You do get free food,” Tommy offered helpfully. “I got a free burrito, the morning my dad died. Free toys too, for a while. And I didn’t even need them.”
“Life is more than toys, Tommy,” Bruce muttered dejectedly.
“Losing your parents is hard,” Gordon said, looking squarely at Bruce. “You know what I said at my mother’s eulogy? ‘My mother is dead. I didn’t know her that well. She never loved me enough. But she is dead, and everything is worse now.’ That’s how it works. Everything is worse now.”
“Geez. You would be a terrible father, man,” Tommy admonished sourly.
“I agree,” Gordon laughed softly. “Parenthood is a terrible thing. You should go to a school that teaches you that, along with more real world things.”
“Yeah. School,” Bruce repeated, his mind still occupied elsewhere. “I still have school tomorrow.”
“You can take a day off, if you want,” Gordon suggested. “Or even a week. But you have to go back there, sooner or later.”
“Yeah. I suppose I have to.”
They left soon after. The rides home were mostly silent. Tommy fiddled with Gordon’s police scanner and car radio, eventually settling on a Prince song. Bruce moved onto the front seat after they dropped Tommy off at Snyder Park.
Gordon stole glances at the boy as he drove to Wayne Manor. Heir to a multi-billion dollar fortune, along with a ton of responsibilities, and totally unprepared for any of it.
Bruce’s eyes flickered, every now and then, and his fingers quivered. But it seemed that he refused to break, or at least he refused to break in front of Gordon. Gordon supposed that the boy felt that he needed to be strong, especially in front of strangers.
“You like this stuff?” Gordon asked. “Prince?”
Bruce smirked. “I am twelve. I am not supposed to have an opinion on music.”
“But you do, all the same.”
“Yes. I like Purple Rain. But I have always liked Bowie better.”
“Hmm. Let me see if I can find my jam.”
Gordon flipped through the stations, until he found what he was looking for. The psychedelic beats started, followed by the dreamy vocals.
Hello! Is there anybody in there? Can anybody hear me? Is anyone home?
Bruce listened, quietly and intently. He remained silent for the rest of the ride. Gordon felt sleepy and tired, as he drove up the hills to the Wayne Manor entrance.
His bones ached, as did his soul.
“Who’s there?” Alfred’s voice floated through the intercom.
“It’s Lieutenant James Gordon. I am bringing Bruce Wayne home.”
“Yes, yes,” Alfred said. He sounded distressed and distracted. “I will let you in.”
The gate opened, and Gordon drove his cruiser through it. He wondered if the architect of Wayne Manor and its surrounding estates was a tortured artist, too. In addition to being unmistakably Gothic, it was also needlessly drab and labyrinthine.
The car stopped in front of the Manor. Alfred walked out and opened the car door, waiting expectantly for Bruce to step out.
Except that Bruce didn’t.
He looked ahead, eyes glassed, and then towards Gordon. And Gordon saw the fear in the eleven year old’s eyes, of living alone in a three-story, seven thousand square feet manor.
He saw the fear of being alone in the dark, with nothing there but memories of being similarly alone and helpless in Crime Alley, clutching his mother’s pearls and feeling his world pulling away from him.
“Go, kid,” Gordon said, lightly patting Bruce’s shoulder. “I will come see you some other time.”
“That would be good,” Alfred remarked, as Bruce climbed out of the car. “Come, master, Bruce. This night is nearly over, and you must try to sleep.”
Bruce nodded. He seemed exhausted beyond belief.
Gordon waited until they were indoors before starting his car. He lit up a cigarette as he drove past the Manor gates.
These things were still going to kill him, someday. If they didn’t, then the job will, more slowly and painfully.
He couldn’t imagine what was going inside Bruce’s head. It didn’t matter that he was inheriting all the money in the world.
His parents were dead, and everything was worse now.
This is a Shared Universe, multi-chapter story that will be updated periodically.