shoving | open.

[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.]

Mr. Wayne.

[Polite. Thoughtful. Dishonest.]

[ 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.

They'd talk. They always talked. ]

[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.]

Mr. Wayne.

[Polite. Thoughtful. Dishonest. Disinterested.]

[ 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.

[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.]

Edited 2025-06-12 12:19 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

You didn't tell me you were coming.

Sessions

a conflict of interest

The Second Session

Sessions (three)