[Crane operates his private practice in a respectable part of Gotham: nowhere wealthy but ordinary enough that citizens would consider him to be nowhere outside the norm. He holds irregular office hours - in fact, more often than not his doors are closed - and schedules those cases he finds interesting. But sometimes cases fall into his lap from other sources.
From his research at the asylum. From his connections at the university. Between everything and everywhere he has to be, he is a busy man. But this practice is a welcome relief from lecturing. People are here because they want to be here, because he wants them here.
He holds the door open and gestures for his latest case to come inside out of the cold. Once inside, he holds out his hand, comfortable in his skin yet uncomfortable with civil pleasantries.]
[ Coming here isn't Bruce's idea. In fact, it was early one Monday afternoon when Alfred announced that he and Leslie decided this was in his best interest. It's been six months since Robin's passing and from what he could tell, Bruce hadn't truly mourned the boy. Instead, he withdrew, retreating farther into himself. Into the Batman and it was making him reckless.
It's not what he would have wanted, Alfred reminds him. and when Bruce snaps, demands Alfred tell him What do you know? that Bruce agrees. He can attend a session or two to appease Alfred and then go back to dealing with his grief the way he's always dealt with it: alone.
Dr. Crane comes highly recommended. At least in some of the academic circles. And he's not associated with Leslie. Bruce figures it'll be easier to taper off without his guardians noticing right away. His smile is pristine, affable even when he enters Dr. Crane's office and takes his hand. ]
Dr. Crane. Thank you for agreeing to this. I hope all the secrecy isn't an imposition.
[Once the handshake is finished, Crane brings his hands across his stomach. Fingers lace and interweave, offering him an excuse not to shake hands at all. One might think him nervous of the man who has crossed his doorstep. One might believe he feels intimidated by his wealth and power. Truth is, he feels comfortable with distance between himself and his patients, for reasons other than professionalism.
His own expression is fluid: an acknowledgement lacking the warmth and grace of a smile. He is here to guide and advise. Showing a casual smile would be inappropriate.]
Not at all. I understand the need for discretion.
[In fact, he prefers secrecy, for his personal affairs as well as his private ones. The less people know about you, the less they can control you. Which begs the question, one he considers as he walks around his desk and rests a hand on his chair, how well do the media know Bruce Wayne, really?
He gestures towards the chair opposite. Though, there are a few more for Bruce to choose from, all in different positions.]
I can imagine it's refreshing to meet someone who isn't afraid of giving you an honest opinion.
[ Despite however he appeared to the world, Bruce valued his privacy and appreciated that Dr. Crane was willing to accommodate his need for discretion. Appointments at odd hours would deter media scrutiny and would work with the grueling schedule he set for his night work.
Even if Dr. Crane seemed a little more aloof than Bruce had been expecting. He studies the other man, takes in how he stands and the way his fingers are laced and he cannot decide if Crane is nervous or hiding something. A question he'd answer over the course of their conversation. ]
It is, actually.
[ Bruce takes the invitation to sit, but does not sit in the chair offered. It was too exposed for his liking and he could not see the door from it. So he chooses another that puts a wall at his back. ]
Everyone coddles me by telling me what they think I want to hear. I don't expect that you from you. I'm not paying you for it. I'm looking for a more honest assessment.
[Behind his own back are shelves of literature; the qualifications and knowledge that make him feel comfortable around men who find their power in wealth and status. He slides into his chair without making a commotion. He prefers to move quickly, and to speak quietly.]
Then I will insult neither of us by asking why you are here. We know why you are here. You are here because someone suggested you seek help.
[Out comes his notebook and pen. His fingers delicately arrange both into a straight and rigid position, enforcing discipline and order.
He knows that confident, assured men are unlikely to seek help without external input. He also knows he was highly recommended; he would have to be, given his general demeanour.]
But such suggestions often drive people everywhere but where they need to go. So perhaps the question should be what do you hope to gain from being here?
[ It's been in the works for weeks now. And if he'd told Alfred about it beforehand, Bruce knew his old friend would have done his best to talk him out of what he planned. He would never be able to understand what branding criminals would accomplish. But Bruce could see it clearly and Alfred did not share Bruce's vision for Gotham.
It's a disconnect in a long list of them.
At any rate, the brand's ready and Bruce is going to put it to the test tonight. He's heard rumors of a drug deal going down in the belly of the Bowery and he couldn't think of better test subjects. When he arrives, he fully expects the likes of Maroni or Falcone to be in control but the people gathered here he doesn't recognize. Not that it would matter when he descended from the shadows.
[Rumours of ghosts and hauntings keep regular people away from the Bowery. Crane understands that ghosts are superstitions, used to control and correct people into exhibiting correct behaviour. His plan had been to spread rumours about sightings - and to use those superstitions to keep regular people away from his places of business. Other criminals took advantage too, of course. But he permitted it because he could benefit. The more his business associates swarm the area, the harder it becomes to isolate him from the crowd.
Until today, he has been impossible to find. Except now his work has progressed to the point he needs to act publically. Can he trust those associates to not try cutting their merchandise with other substances? Of course not. Can he trust himself to be one of the few criminals capable of making merchandise? Of course not. Because he knows his skills are better. His expertise has enabled his work to spread amongst the nightclubs and hotspots frequented by students and those willing to experiment and risk their lives. The expectation of a trip that people believe can never be that bad...
He shakes his head, obscured by a mask. People can never be too smart.
The table he is organising is stacked with tabs and pills, liquids and syringes, assorted paraphanelia associated with what has been making the rounds.]
Gentlemen, I don't want you to do anything. All you need to do is precisely what you're told.
[The people loitering around the area are all taller than him, physically stronger, yet they are paying attention like nobody wants to be caught not listening.]
[ It's when GCPD finds the body of another college student that Bruce decides he's had enough. He's heard people are calling it Bliss, cause that's what you feel before you die. But there'd been nothing blissful about this kid. He looked terrified.
Tonight, Bruce forgoes the car. Often, it's a great tool to intimidate. It's engines are exceptionally loud when he needs them to be, like a roar that heralds his coming. And the silhouette of the thing cut a cruel, imposing figure often as it sped through Gotham's streets. Tonight, though, he needed subtlety. Finesse. So he sticks to the shadows and they stick to him like the body armor he's dressed in. He didn't want them to see him coming, not until it was too late to do anything about it.
He watches, lurks, looms without realizing he's doing it when the man in the mask - the one speaking - catches his attention. And there's something inexplicable about him that draws Bruce closer to this operation than any other he's observed tonight.
For now, Bruce keeps him in his sights, while he waits. Listens for the right opportunity. ]
[Rumours of ghosts and hauntings keep regular people away from the Bowery, yes. Whispers of the caped crusader keep criminals away too. Those who have ventured into its depths today are keeping a tight hold on their guns while glancing over their shoulders. Crane is the only one who is focused and clear. He stands amongst them but stands out like an outsider: different in mood, attitude and mind.
Whispers begin regaling his ear. Is the Batman here? Is he watching them right now? Crane inhales and seems to enjoy the anxiety. But when he hears someone mumble, anxious and afraid, about whether he can he be killed... Well, he shuts that down immediately.]
Of course Batman can be killed. He is nothing but a man exploiting your superstitions and fears.
[He reduces Batman to a name, refers to him as a person not a noun, to humanise and make him real. To soothe and settle the fear brewing in the warehouse, rather than propagate it. People listen to his words and their posture becomes more relaxed. He hardly needs to call the bat an urban legend. Because legends aren't real.]
[Curiosity leads Crane to spend fewer evenings at the university. Now he has a new set of data to analyse, a new mind to explore, he devotes himself to personal projects. Those that hardly lead upstairs in a respectable part of Gotham and through the same doors as before. But when it comes to funding those projects one must take on extra work
He closes the door to ward off the rain and welcomes his guest inside without a wave or gesture. Comfortable in his skin but unwilling to entertain remaining still inside it.
His voice coolly repeats the introductions made last time.]
[ Alfred found him in an alley that night, shivering and dazed. It took a few nights for the toxin to clear. Several nights more to round up everyone who hadn't died in the warehouse fires and deposit them on gcpd's doorstep. Branded as caught by the Batman with his stamp seared into their chests. If anything happened to them after that, Bruce didn't care. Alfred didn't approve. But Bruce didn't expect him to. Alfred wanted to him to continue his therapy.
This is the first appointment he's kept in weeks.
He steps inside and barely acknowledges Crane's greeting. His coat he folds over the back of the chair and he sits, folds his hands in his lap. His knuckles are bruised. So is his face. ]
[One might assume him to be speaking of himself. One more observant would know where his line is leading, drawn not between the two of them, but between his patient and others who have been in his situation.]
Most people dislike attending therapy once the work gets tough.
[Crane sits behind his desk and folds his hands upon the grain. His own knuckles are clean. His face a perfect picture of calm except for blue eyes that stare curiously.]
[ Bruce doesn't have to look at his hands to know what Crane is talking about. He hadn't wanted to come, not until the bruises had faded. But Alfred insisted. He'd already missed too many appointments. ]
Something like that.
[ The papers caught him with the shiner just a few nights before. Speculated on how he'd earned it. Maybe he got caught up in a love triangle. Maybe he got mugged. Maybe he crashed another car. Who knows? ]
[ Last night, The Batman found the Scarecrow again. Jim Gordon had summoned him, concerned about an excess of chemicals gone missing. Concerned maybed the new player in this game might have been the culprit. Concerned what kind of fresh horror he might have been cooking up with it. Batman didn't know, but when he slipped out of sight (when Jim's back was turned, of course), he was determined to find out.
What he found, is another another lab, though the missing chemicals still remained missing. But Scarecrow is there and honestly? He's the better prize. The fight that ensues scatters the men working there, but Bruce is laser focused on Scarecrow and bringing him to his knees. Instead, he catches a lungful of the toxin being made. He's prepared - of cours he is - and injects himself with the antidote. But Scarecrow is gone in the chaos and the lab a wash. There are clues and Jim collects them. Batman is no where to be found.
Tonight, Bruce is on time. Maybe for the first time in quite a while. He looks as put together as always as he sits down, on the sofa, away from Crane's desk. And on the surface everything seems pristine. No fresh bruises, no cuts or scrapes. Just a man attending an appointment with his therapist. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.
Save the ghastly visage standing next to Crane's chair - Robin, face bloodied, suit still smoldering. He stares back at Bruce. The boy isn't there. He's dead and Bruce didn't believe in ghosts. Not this kind anyway.
He doesn't stare. He cannot stare at what's not really there. He only glances then he sets his gaze on Crane. ]
So funny story. I met someone. She threw her drink in my face.
[Crane indulges himself more these days, devotes himself more to his private work than the personal, because of his latest encounter with Batman. Has it been one night or two? He cannot focus on calculating how much time has passed since their encounter. He instead allocates his time to recrafting and perfecting his formula.
But he attends their next session because of curiosity. Bruce Wayne as a man is not so special, but his unique position and importance are what make him interesting. He observes the other man with a cold and chilling gaze. The sofa? Is he a little wobbly on his feet? Everything about this new development is strange and fascinating. Except his intense thoughts are still drifting to last night.]
I missed such a report in the news.
[Had it happened in public, somebody would have gossiped. So either Bruce is putting distance between them or making light of one situation to avoid discussion of another.]
[Evasive speech patterns. Cursory glances. Strange new behaviours. More and more make themselves known, certainly more than was witnessed before. Plus nothing about his behaviour has progressed, suggesting a wilful denial of the process, which suggests another motive for being here.
Crane tilts his head and observes. Something is certainly off, considering the curiously collected man he treated before.]
People with a selfish nature tend to interpret such lack of emotional engagement as being undervalued. Perhaps she thinks you are creating distance.
[The next three weeks are a tense and silent affair. Crane follows a routine. He pursues his career at the university; he drives home; he furthers his work at Arkham Asylum; he drives home. But much as where he visits is a routine, where he spends his time is not. There are days he never leaves the asylum. There are days he never arrives. Sometimes he spends hours in class. Sometimes he wastes hours directing graduate research. But time is never wasted. Because as much as he wastes time looking over patient files, he is selecting those who fit his criteria, though their records might show they are unsuitable. Because he has his own standards when it comes to medical records and applies those as a filter, not those gained from local doctors and hospitals.
But something lands on his desk one day that lies outside the ordinary. The announcement of the latest round of university funding - and under his department (and for his research) is a generous donation by Bruce Wayne. The name stands out immediately, but the name he sees is not the name everyone else is amazed to see. Their whispers echo around the halls.
How on earth did Crane get so much?
Does this mean he is actually going to attend a function?
Do you suppose he'll finally purchase a proper suit?
Bruce imposes himself upon his domain - research and academia - and plants his flag. But the reason he is attending today's function - enduring all this pointless backslapping and gratitude - is not to return the favour. He isn't even here to fight his corner. He is attending out of curiosity. To see what could happen. To predict what might happen. To show what will happen. He watches everybody from the edge of the room, dressed in his normal suit, his cold mind categorising those willing to dance from those preferring to indulge in alcohol. He is perhaps one of the few, other than Bruce himself, to attend alone.]
[ The next three weeks do not set Bruce at ease. Gotham is quiet in that tense, uneasy way she is before something goes terribly wrong. And through those long, quiet nights, Bruce is vigilant. It consumes him, all those endless hours he spends searching Gotham's darkest corners for any sign of Scarecrow and the chemicals he's absconded with. There's nothing, not even a whisper of a rumor.
But there are breadcrumbs. Tidbits he pieces together to help him narrow his potential suspects. Not enough to confirm his suspicions, but it does point him in a singular direction. It's why when the quarterly charity donations came around, Bruce went with Gotham University. He wanted to invest in the psychology department. A gesture of goodwill and it would put his prime suspect in his crosshairs.
He mingles that night like he's not a man on a mission. He slips from group to group, weaving in and out of each interaction with a practiced kind of grace that seems almost effortless. Seamless. Like he belongs here. Like he'd rather not be at home, in his cave, monitoring his feeds. Checking his leads. Curating his collections of evidence. He spots Crane and slips free from a conversation he'd lost interest in long ago to stride across the room, plucking a champagne flute from a passing waiter's tray. That's practiced too. ]
[Crane attends in a different suit from those he wears to work; a formal collection of black threads that make him feel out of place. But he wears his ill-fitting suit with the confidence of a man who belongs. The contrast between how he presents at the university and this gala is designed for discomfort - to throw people off-balance.
Why? Why not, he asks himself. He paints depth into the contrast by adopting the amicable mannerisms he wears daily, adding a third layer to the mix. But his skin begins to itch and his eyes survey the room with a predatory gaze. Assessing. Categorising. He isolates the uninteresting from the interesting - and that is when he catches the man who has him under his eye.
But they have been watching each other a while. He offers no response to his greeting, neither physical nor emotional. His manner is more liquid than the drink in his glass.]
[ They would be two of a kind if they were not so diametrically opposed. Like the opposite end of magnets repelling. But if they were ever turned the right way around the force of them could be enough to drag them together. Lock them up tight so neither of them could escape. No matter how liquid, how muted Crane thought himself to be.
Bruce drains his champagne. And reaches for another when a waiter stops to collect his glass. When he turns there's two in his hand and he offers the other to the doctor. ]
[ This is nothing new, but Bruce Wayne is in the news again.
What is new about the story? His face is no where to be seen. The headline is big and bold: BAT BRAND OF JUSTICE? And underneath the image of a man, bloodied and bruised and branded with symbol Bruce wears on the chest of his costume. In the picture, the mark is stark – bright red and angry and fresh against the dull colors of the police holding the man upright. People were learning what that symbol meant. What fear really felt like when the Bat got his hands on you.
It meant when the guards walked you into the prison, they'd wheel you out in a body bag. It meant he didn't think you were a life worth saving.
Alfred didn't like it. Made it clear in the way he drops the paper in front of Bruce instead of his breakfast. He doesn't speak, just gives the master of the house a look then carries on with his work. Whatever he had to say, he knew Bruce wouldn't listen. Two years of killing and this is just the latest way Batman has decided to tighten the reigns. Would it end? Would it ever be enough?
No. Not until Bruce is satisfied. So far? He's not satisfied.
The days all run together and there's another article detailing a murder in the prison. Another Bat brand losing his life in the yard. Bruce doesn't react when he reads about it. He doesn't know when Alfred reached out to Dick. Bruce stayed out of his private correspondence for the most part. But when Bruce sees him sitting at his table, Bruce knows Alfred is the culprit. He crosses the kitchen to the coffee maker and pours himself a cup then takes a sip without adding anything to it. ]
Didn't realize I needed to notify you when I decided to stop by, Bruce. [He's sitting at the table, hands wrapped around a cup that he's about half done with. Yes, Alfred had contacted him but he'd already been aware of the shift.]
So why don't you tell me what's going on with you lately? Because last time I checked, you didn't cross certain lines.
[ He doesn't mean for it to be as rude as it sounds, but he's also not going to mince words. He takes another sip of his coffee then sets the mug aside. ]
Didn't realize moving out meant I wasn't allowed to come back whenever I wanted to. [He eyes Bruce for a long moment, one eyebrow rising.]
Bruce, that's bullshit and we both know it. You know there were rules you agreed to follow when you took on this role and Gordon isn't going to sit by and let you keep going like this.
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Sessions
From his research at the asylum. From his connections at the university. Between everything and everywhere he has to be, he is a busy man. But this practice is a welcome relief from lecturing. People are here because they want to be here, because he wants them here.
He holds the door open and gestures for his latest case to come inside out of the cold. Once inside, he holds out his hand, comfortable in his skin yet uncomfortable with civil pleasantries.]
Mr. Wayne.
[Polite. Thoughtful. Dishonest.]
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It's not what he would have wanted, Alfred reminds him. and when Bruce snaps, demands Alfred tell him What do you know? that Bruce agrees. He can attend a session or two to appease Alfred and then go back to dealing with his grief the way he's always dealt with it: alone.
Dr. Crane comes highly recommended. At least in some of the academic circles. And he's not associated with Leslie. Bruce figures it'll be easier to taper off without his guardians noticing right away. His smile is pristine, affable even when he enters Dr. Crane's office and takes his hand. ]
Dr. Crane. Thank you for agreeing to this. I hope all the secrecy isn't an imposition.
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His own expression is fluid: an acknowledgement lacking the warmth and grace of a smile. He is here to guide and advise. Showing a casual smile would be inappropriate.]
Not at all. I understand the need for discretion.
[In fact, he prefers secrecy, for his personal affairs as well as his private ones. The less people know about you, the less they can control you. Which begs the question, one he considers as he walks around his desk and rests a hand on his chair, how well do the media know Bruce Wayne, really?
He gestures towards the chair opposite. Though, there are a few more for Bruce to choose from, all in different positions.]
I can imagine it's refreshing to meet someone who isn't afraid of giving you an honest opinion.
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Even if Dr. Crane seemed a little more aloof than Bruce had been expecting. He studies the other man, takes in how he stands and the way his fingers are laced and he cannot decide if Crane is nervous or hiding something. A question he'd answer over the course of their conversation. ]
It is, actually.
[ Bruce takes the invitation to sit, but does not sit in the chair offered. It was too exposed for his liking and he could not see the door from it. So he chooses another that puts a wall at his back. ]
Everyone coddles me by telling me what they think I want to hear. I don't expect that you from you. I'm not paying you for it. I'm looking for a more honest assessment.
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Then I will insult neither of us by asking why you are here. We know why you are here. You are here because someone suggested you seek help.
[Out comes his notebook and pen. His fingers delicately arrange both into a straight and rigid position, enforcing discipline and order.
He knows that confident, assured men are unlikely to seek help without external input. He also knows he was highly recommended; he would have to be, given his general demeanour.]
But such suggestions often drive people everywhere but where they need to go. So perhaps the question should be what do you hope to gain from being here?
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a conflict of interest
It's a disconnect in a long list of them.
At any rate, the brand's ready and Bruce is going to put it to the test tonight. He's heard rumors of a drug deal going down in the belly of the Bowery and he couldn't think of better test subjects. When he arrives, he fully expects the likes of Maroni or Falcone to be in control but the people gathered here he doesn't recognize. Not that it would matter when he descended from the shadows.
They'd talk. They always talked. ]
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Until today, he has been impossible to find. Except now his work has progressed to the point he needs to act publically. Can he trust those associates to not try cutting their merchandise with other substances? Of course not. Can he trust himself to be one of the few criminals capable of making merchandise? Of course not. Because he knows his skills are better. His expertise has enabled his work to spread amongst the nightclubs and hotspots frequented by students and those willing to experiment and risk their lives. The expectation of a trip that people believe can never be that bad...
He shakes his head, obscured by a mask. People can never be too smart.
The table he is organising is stacked with tabs and pills, liquids and syringes, assorted paraphanelia associated with what has been making the rounds.]
Gentlemen, I don't want you to do anything. All you need to do is precisely what you're told.
[The people loitering around the area are all taller than him, physically stronger, yet they are paying attention like nobody wants to be caught not listening.]
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Tonight, Bruce forgoes the car. Often, it's a great tool to intimidate. It's engines are exceptionally loud when he needs them to be, like a roar that heralds his coming. And the silhouette of the thing cut a cruel, imposing figure often as it sped through Gotham's streets. Tonight, though, he needed subtlety. Finesse. So he sticks to the shadows and they stick to him like the body armor he's dressed in. He didn't want them to see him coming, not until it was too late to do anything about it.
He watches, lurks, looms without realizing he's doing it when the man in the mask - the one speaking - catches his attention. And there's something inexplicable about him that draws Bruce closer to this operation than any other he's observed tonight.
For now, Bruce keeps him in his sights, while he waits. Listens for the right opportunity. ]
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Whispers begin regaling his ear. Is the Batman here? Is he watching them right now? Crane inhales and seems to enjoy the anxiety. But when he hears someone mumble, anxious and afraid, about whether he can he be killed... Well, he shuts that down immediately.]
Of course Batman can be killed. He is nothing but a man exploiting your superstitions and fears.
[He reduces Batman to a name, refers to him as a person not a noun, to humanise and make him real. To soothe and settle the fear brewing in the warehouse, rather than propagate it. People listen to his words and their posture becomes more relaxed. He hardly needs to call the bat an urban legend. Because legends aren't real.]
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The Second Session
He closes the door to ward off the rain and welcomes his guest inside without a wave or gesture. Comfortable in his skin but unwilling to entertain remaining still inside it.
His voice coolly repeats the introductions made last time.]
Mr. Wayne.
[Polite. Thoughtful. Dishonest. Disinterested.]
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This is the first appointment he's kept in weeks.
He steps inside and barely acknowledges Crane's greeting. His coat he folds over the back of the chair and he sits, folds his hands in his lap. His knuckles are bruised. So is his face. ]
I don't want to be here.
[ Honest. Disinterested. ]
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[One might assume him to be speaking of himself. One more observant would know where his line is leading, drawn not between the two of them, but between his patient and others who have been in his situation.]
Most people dislike attending therapy once the work gets tough.
[Crane sits behind his desk and folds his hands upon the grain. His own knuckles are clean. His face a perfect picture of calm except for blue eyes that stare curiously.]
Rough night?
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Something like that.
[ The papers caught him with the shiner just a few nights before. Speculated on how he'd earned it. Maybe he got caught up in a love triangle. Maybe he got mugged. Maybe he crashed another car. Who knows? ]
I'm not opposed to doing the work.
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Sessions (three)
What he found, is another another lab, though the missing chemicals still remained missing. But Scarecrow is there and honestly? He's the better prize. The fight that ensues scatters the men working there, but Bruce is laser focused on Scarecrow and bringing him to his knees. Instead, he catches a lungful of the toxin being made. He's prepared - of cours he is - and injects himself with the antidote. But Scarecrow is gone in the chaos and the lab a wash. There are clues and Jim collects them. Batman is no where to be found.
Tonight, Bruce is on time. Maybe for the first time in quite a while. He looks as put together as always as he sits down, on the sofa, away from Crane's desk. And on the surface everything seems pristine. No fresh bruises, no cuts or scrapes. Just a man attending an appointment with his therapist. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.
Save the ghastly visage standing next to Crane's chair - Robin, face bloodied, suit still smoldering. He stares back at Bruce. The boy isn't there. He's dead and Bruce didn't believe in ghosts. Not this kind anyway.
He doesn't stare. He cannot stare at what's not really there. He only glances then he sets his gaze on Crane. ]
So funny story. I met someone. She threw her drink in my face.
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But he attends their next session because of curiosity. Bruce Wayne as a man is not so special, but his unique position and importance are what make him interesting. He observes the other man with a cold and chilling gaze. The sofa? Is he a little wobbly on his feet? Everything about this new development is strange and fascinating. Except his intense thoughts are still drifting to last night.]
I missed such a report in the news.
[Had it happened in public, somebody would have gossiped. So either Bruce is putting distance between them or making light of one situation to avoid discussion of another.]
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We were at my penthouse. Our third date. I think she had high expectations.
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Crane tilts his head and observes. Something is certainly off, considering the curiously collected man he treated before.]
People with a selfish nature tend to interpret such lack of emotional engagement as being undervalued. Perhaps she thinks you are creating distance.
[He wouldn't know what that's like.]
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The Gala
But something lands on his desk one day that lies outside the ordinary. The announcement of the latest round of university funding - and under his department (and for his research) is a generous donation by Bruce Wayne. The name stands out immediately, but the name he sees is not the name everyone else is amazed to see. Their whispers echo around the halls.
Does this mean he is actually going to attend a function?
Do you suppose he'll finally purchase a proper suit?
Bruce imposes himself upon his domain - research and academia - and plants his flag. But the reason he is attending today's function - enduring all this pointless backslapping and gratitude - is not to return the favour. He isn't even here to fight his corner. He is attending out of curiosity. To see what could happen. To predict what might happen. To show what will happen. He watches everybody from the edge of the room, dressed in his normal suit, his cold mind categorising those willing to dance from those preferring to indulge in alcohol. He is perhaps one of the few, other than Bruce himself, to attend alone.]
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But there are breadcrumbs. Tidbits he pieces together to help him narrow his potential suspects. Not enough to confirm his suspicions, but it does point him in a singular direction. It's why when the quarterly charity donations came around, Bruce went with Gotham University. He wanted to invest in the psychology department. A gesture of goodwill and it would put his prime suspect in his crosshairs.
He mingles that night like he's not a man on a mission. He slips from group to group, weaving in and out of each interaction with a practiced kind of grace that seems almost effortless. Seamless. Like he belongs here. Like he'd rather not be at home, in his cave, monitoring his feeds. Checking his leads. Curating his collections of evidence. He spots Crane and slips free from a conversation he'd lost interest in long ago to stride across the room, plucking a champagne flute from a passing waiter's tray. That's practiced too. ]
Dr. Crane. Enjoying the party?
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Why? Why not, he asks himself. He paints depth into the contrast by adopting the amicable mannerisms he wears daily, adding a third layer to the mix. But his skin begins to itch and his eyes survey the room with a predatory gaze. Assessing. Categorising. He isolates the uninteresting from the interesting - and that is when he catches the man who has him under his eye.
But they have been watching each other a while. He offers no response to his greeting, neither physical nor emotional. His manner is more liquid than the drink in his glass.]
Not at all. I would rather be working.
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Bruce drains his champagne. And reaches for another when a waiter stops to collect his glass. When he turns there's two in his hand and he offers the other to the doctor. ]
Then I hope you can put this grant to good use.
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for his_own_wings
What is new about the story? His face is no where to be seen. The headline is big and bold: BAT BRAND OF JUSTICE? And underneath the image of a man, bloodied and bruised and branded with symbol Bruce wears on the chest of his costume. In the picture, the mark is stark – bright red and angry and fresh against the dull colors of the police holding the man upright. People were learning what that symbol meant. What fear really felt like when the Bat got his hands on you.
It meant when the guards walked you into the prison, they'd wheel you out in a body bag. It meant he didn't think you were a life worth saving.
Alfred didn't like it. Made it clear in the way he drops the paper in front of Bruce instead of his breakfast. He doesn't speak, just gives the master of the house a look then carries on with his work. Whatever he had to say, he knew Bruce wouldn't listen. Two years of killing and this is just the latest way Batman has decided to tighten the reigns. Would it end? Would it ever be enough?
No. Not until Bruce is satisfied. So far? He's not satisfied.
The days all run together and there's another article detailing a murder in the prison. Another Bat brand losing his life in the yard. Bruce doesn't react when he reads about it. He doesn't know when Alfred reached out to Dick. Bruce stayed out of his private correspondence for the most part. But when Bruce sees him sitting at his table, Bruce knows Alfred is the culprit. He crosses the kitchen to the coffee maker and pours himself a cup then takes a sip without adding anything to it. ]
You didn't tell me you were coming.
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So why don't you tell me what's going on with you lately? Because last time I checked, you didn't cross certain lines.
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[ He doesn't mean for it to be as rude as it sounds, but he's also not going to mince words. He takes another sip of his coffee then sets the mug aside. ]
There's nothing to talk about.
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Bruce, that's bullshit and we both know it. You know there were rules you agreed to follow when you took on this role and Gordon isn't going to sit by and let you keep going like this.
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Sorry got sick for a bit
No worries! Hope you're feeling better
Re: No worries! Hope you're feeling better
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