White streaks framed his temples, and the fine wrinkles etched into his face had settled into something like authority. Lucius Fox never wore a tie, having hated that choking feeling. His wife, however, insisted on tailored button-downs. You're not just an engineer anymore, she'd remind him.
He followed Alfred down the west wing of Wayne Manor, the hall stretching out like a mausoleum built for legacy. Portraits watched from the walls, each one soaked in oil and old money. Pale faces, black hair, dark eyes. The bloodline repeating itself.
One rode horseback in a Revolutionary uniform, stiff-backed and proud. Another stood among a pack of hounds, fingers curled in their fur. Others sat behind desks or posed with rifles, all frozen in the act of dominion.
Most of them wore the same look. Relaxed brows. A subtle grin. The kind of expression that came from never being told no. It reminded him of Thomas. More than he liked.
They stepped into the study, a broad chamber swallowed by bookshelves that reached two stories high. A sliding ladder clung to the rails, waiting to be climbed. It was still Thomas's office in his mind. Maybe it was the portrait above the desk. Bruce at nine with his parents standing behind him.
Alfred moved to the far corner, where the paneled walls met towering windows that stared out over the thick woods. He pulled down on a lantern sconce. Something in the wall gave a soft click, followed by the groan of hidden hinges.
The cold hit first followed by the mineral scent of wet stone. They took the narrow stairs down, swallowed by the dark. The tunnel widened, and the dark gave way to stone and silence. The cave.
At the far end, shrouded in shadow, were a car beneath a tarp, a jet, and a sleek motorcycle. They walked the length of the space past the concrete room that led to a shower and changing room.
A young man stood over the suit, his hands moving along the cowl and gauntlets like he was touching relics.
"You must be Jason," said Fox.
"Mr. Fox, meet Mr. Todd," Alfred added.
They shook hands.
"You run the company, right?" Jason asked.
"Not entirely on my own—but yes," Lucius replied. "Among other things."
Bruce sat at the console with a pair of headphone in his hands.
"Bruce, I see you've been busy," Lucius said.
He didn't answer.
Lucius could never tell whether he was ignoring him or simply too deep in thought.
Alfred cleared his throat.
Bruce finally turned. "How was California?"
"You mean Arizona," Lucius corrected. "They lied about the location."
That caught Bruce's attention. He stood, crossed his arms, face sharpening. "What was it?"
"Those storms off the coast? Not storms. Another aircraft crashed into the ocean."
"Like the others?"
"Yes. But this time, there may have been a survivor—or at least a body."
"Wait, what are you guys saying?" Jason asked.
"Think Roswell, Mr. Todd," said Alfred.
"So, aliens are real?" Jason said, stunned.
Lucius let his lips curve slightly, then continued, "I think something—or someone—was recovered. Professor Milo and Dr. Langstrom were both on site."
"Biochemistry and genetics," said Bruce.
Lucius nodded. "There's only one reason they'd be called in."
"What did we get?"
"Same arrangement. They gave us the craft. I'll have Dr. Eisenmann lead the analysis."
Bruce winced.
"I know you don't like her background, but she's proven useful," Lucius said.
"What does the tech look like?"
"You can come by at the end of the week. Take a look yourself."
Lucius gestured toward the bench. "The grapnel gun. The mask. You still won't consider licensing?"
"It would raise questions," Bruce said.
"Maybe he dropped them somewhere?"
Jason chimed in, "First rule of sleuthing, never lose the grapnel gun."
Lucius chuckled. "Would've been my rule too—if I hadn't patented the design. But it could be valuable for special ops. Same with the mask."
"What I make here stays here."
"You made all of this?" Jason asked.
"One of his many hobbies," Alfred said.
"We actually have a prototype at the company, but ours are glasses, not a mask. Bruce improved it in a rather…unconventional way. The gun is the most impressive. Not a claw, but a magnetic clamp that's industrial strength," Lucius added. "But he refuses to share it with his own company."
"The burden of being an only child," Alfred muttered.
"Tech stays here," Bruce said, returning his gaze to the map. "But I do need something—an audio filter."
He flipped a switch. The cave filled with sound: Bruce and Todd in the streets, cars honking, engines grinding. A roar cut through it. Bruce stopped, replayed, adjusted switches. The roar came again, jagged and raw.
"What's he saying?" Lucius asked.
"I'm not certain, but I think he's saying 'I am not an animal'," Bruce said.
Lucius muttered, "I'll see what I can do." Then added, "Before I forget—I tracked down parts for the car. I know you didn't want it repaired, since they kept chasing you."
"He made a truce with Loeb," Jason added.
"They'll leave him be," Alfred said. "One less worry."
"For now," Bruce said. "It's a truce—for now."
They all looked at him.
Bruce stared at a map spread across the workbench, his gaze locked on points no one else could see. Unlike the painted Waynes, his face carried no legacy, only pain and pressure. A tautness like a body built for war. It showed in his stare, his stance, a tension that promised violence if touched.
Down here, Lucius saw the thing Bruce had built himself into.
Not a son. Not a boss. Not even a man.
But the reason monsters feared the night.