April 18, 1989. 8 PM.
In the Gothic-style manor twelve miles west of Gotham, around eight in the evening, its only resident from the family of its founder is, as on all recent nights, preparing for his nightly excursion through Gotham City. But today, his preparations differed from his usual routine.
Bruce Wayne, sitting in a chair before a mirror: "Alfred, I can shave myself."
Alfred Pennyworth: "You shave like, if I may, a goat crossed with a sheep."
Bruce Wayne: "I do shave only so the beard doesn't itch under the mask, neatness isn't the point."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Then it's high time you started shaving all parts of your body. Well, so they don't itch in the suit."
Bruce Wayne, unimpressed: "And the facial hair growth pace can uncover a parallel between the man under the mask and the real person."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Or you could just keep the mouth covered and not worry. … There, just like that." says Alfred, finishing shaving the stubble from Bruce's face.
Bruce Wayne, getting up from the chair: "That'll do. And by the way, the mask would muffle my voice, and I can't afford that."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Of course, why deprive criminals of hearing your angelic little voice while you're breaking their bones, a voice that will haunt their hospital-bed dreams."
Bruce Wayne, still not amused by Alfred's words: "My voice is my only way to instill fear in my opponents without leaving the shadows."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Happy to know that after tonight, there will be one fewer such person. Well, except for one young lady."
Bruce Wayne: "First off, that's not funny, Alfred. I've been dealing with Julia's father for a month and have known her just as long. And we've already been to the movies together once. Tonight is just our first official date."
Alfred Pennyworth: "And second, she'll surely turn out to be some criminal who joins the people dreaming of your voice in the hospital."
Bruce Wayne: "And second, don't get ahead of yourself, Alfred. Who knows what tonight will bring." He says, putting on the freshly ironed and laundered suit.
Alfred Pennyworth: "How delighted I am at how quickly you've adapted to normal life. Just two months to go from a bat-masquerade at night to a such presencefull suit. Unless this is your new style of fighting crime—blinding women with your beauty and driving men mad with envy."
Bruce Wayne, still unimpressed by Alfred's jokes: "It's not about adaptation, Alfred. I've been appearing in society whenever I needed to. Besides, first, two months is too long, especially for me, and second, I'm presencefull enough in your 'bat-masquerade'."
For the next twenty minute, which Bruce spent driving his Ferrari, the views outside the car window were easy to take in. There was no more snow, and the roads weren't icy.
The reason was simple—today it was April 18th. It was on this day that Bruce was going on his first official date since his return.
Arriving at his destination, a movie theater in the north of the West Island—a decently sized one, the largest on the West Island, and if you're the largest on the West Island, you're the largest in all of Gotham—he got out of the car and approached the entrance.
Julia Madison: "Next time, pick a theater closer to your house."
Bruce Wayne: "There no any closer. Or better."
Julia Madison: "Even so, I don't always feel like waiting twenty minutes."
Bruce Wayne: "You don't live twelve miles from the city. And if it's such a problem, we could just watch movies at my house."
Julia Madison: "Exactly, my legs go numb from a seven-minute drive from home to the theater, but sure, let's commute forty minutes round-trip every day."
Bruce Wayne: "That wouldn't be a problem if you just stayed at house."
Julia Madison: "Yeah, that's all I need, to be your little housewife. I'll pass, thank you very much." Though her words weren't pleasant, her tone lacked any truly negative emotion, just mild irritation, which was itself tinged with all the positive feelings, something Bruce understood perfectly.
Bruce Wayne: "Don't worry, that spot already taken away."
Showing their tickets to the usher, Bruce couldn't resist saying to the girl, "Shame I don't have a third, though I suppose you could just slip into the theater with us without one," for which he immediately received a look from Julia, though it still held no malice or anything like it, followed by an unimpressed comment on his behavior.
In Julia's similar reaction, Bruce could see from the first moments that she reminded him of only one person—himself, in moments talking with Alfred. Of course, Bruce had nothing against it, as he had a perfect understanding of how to communicate with such people; after all, he'd been learning from a professional for the last two months, and there was no disgust or contempt for him in Julia.
Entering the theater, Bruce and Julia took their seats, at the very back on the side. It might not seem the most romantic spot, and you usually can't see the film well due to the heads in front of you, but this was one of those cases that was the exception.
Bruce had preemptively bought all the seats in front of them. Though he had the idea to buy out the entire theater so no one would bother them at all, Julia herself talked him out of it, which he didn't mind.
The next hour and a half passed smoothly. On the screen was "When Harry Met Sally…", but it was more just background noise for Bruce and Julia at that moment, as the two simply talked with each other.
If Julia was trying not to draw unnecessary attention from others in the theater, Bruce, as if deliberately, did the opposite, though it only took a second's glance at Julia's disapproving (though more embarrassed) reaction for him to stop it all for the rest of the hour.
April 19, 1989. Around 2 AM.
At the center of East Island, on the rooftop of his workplace—the Gotham City Police Department Building—Gordon quietly lights a cigarette, looking down at the city streets from above, holding a slim folder in his other hand. Though the police building wasn't remotely the tallest in all of Gotham, on East Island it offered a perfectly decent view.
Batman: "Quick dopamine."
The words made Gordon flinch slightly. Though he'd heard this voice almost every night for the past two months, he still couldn't get used to how that low, measured, slightly raspy voice sounded at the most random moments. "Brief relief, not real happiness."
James Gordon, still smoking: "You know, in a place like this, even brief relief is worth a lot."
Batman: "Not sure that's a price a police lieutenant can afford."
James Gordon: "Captain, now."
Batman: "Congratulations on the promotion."
James Gordon: "Thanks to you. Not hard to rise through the ranks when you know someone who can dismantle entire cartels in one night. Even getting credited for exposing Captain Branden's true motives—that was you, hiding the body."
Batman: "Don't think you had no part in that."
James Gordon: "Thanks for that too—for not thinking I'm just some mooch."
Batman: "Don't flatter yourself. You're just the only cop willing to make contact with me."
James Gordon: "Cut them some slack. They just… haven't gotten used to you yet, that's all."
Batman: "I don't blame them. I don't really care what the police think of me. It's just useful to know that at least one potential enemy isn't actually my enemy."
James Gordon: "And the role of that bridge naturally fell to me."
Batman: "Not without reason. People fear what they don't understand, and I know you don't understand what I am, yet you're not afraid. Suspending fear of the unknown is a good quality, until you start abusing it."
James Gordon: "I'll take that as a compliment."
Batman: "Interpret my words as you see fit. Now, to business."
James Gordon, handing Batman the folder: "Over the last three weeks, fourteen women have disappeared across Gotham. All of them live on West Island and work in strip clubs—you know the profession. We've been on this case for two weeks, no leads yet. Rumor has it there's some major international human trafficking outfit that recently opened a branch in Gotham."
Batman: "On West Island, all the entertainment venues outshine their competitors on the other islands. I might already know where their hideout is."
James Gordon: "Great, I'll assemble a raiding party."
Batman: "You'd better hope you have other things to do. I'll handle this myself. No need to involve the police."
James Gordon: "You know best."
Gordon turned around to reply, but realized he was already alone. By the time it registered, his conversational partner was already halfway to Central Island.
Pausing briefly on the rooftop of one building, he presses a finger to his ear—not to the ten-centimeter ear sculpted on the side of his mask, but to where his actual ear would be.
Batman: "Comms check, one-two-three."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Mr. Fox's toys never cease to amaze."
Batman: "My main concern is being able to play with them together, even forty miles apart."
Alfred Pennyworth: "Remarkable that at your age, you're still playing with children's toys."
Batman: "You're just jealous you didn't have any like this as a kid. To the point: I may know where the Gotham branch of the trafficking ring is. I'll let you know if I need your help. And now, since I'm not giving you a choice in the matter, I'm signing off."
With those words, he continues his path toward Central Island, using his grapple and gliding cape.
Batman: "All the abductions happen on West Island; victims were last seen there, they live and work there. Stupid to hide the lair on West Island and hope not to be found. East Island has police headquarters. Arrogant to think you can hide right under their noses, especially given the irrationality of a long commute route. Central Island is the transit point between the police station to the east and the main search area to the west. Plus, Central Island has the lowest crime rate; police won't be looking here, time considerations aside. Now to pinpoint their lair on Central Island. The downtown area is out—too many corporate offices there—leaving north and south. Police almost always run one circular patrol route: south from East to West Island, north from West to East. Cops travel west-to-east more often, since not only is the police station there, but many of them live there too. So their lair is somewhere in the south. When cops go east-to-west, their attention is on the western part of Central Island; the eastern side is barely visible, since almost no one takes the southern bridge west-to-east. Their lair is in the southwest of Central Island. Now to find which building. There are 127 residential buildings in southwest Central Island; the area hasn't been heavily developed for residents due to its industrial past. Of these, 98 have basements. Necessary for holding a large number of people, but I know the original blueprints for buildings in that area, and none of those basements are large enough. It would need to be deeper—so no one hears the screams. 74 of those buildings have basements directly above the sewer system. They'd need a quick escape route in case they're found, so the sewer access needs to be near a drain outlet; that narrows it to 43 buildings. In Gotham, you can file for a property expansion permit; the government benefits from the extra tax revenue. Theoretically, one of those buildings could have artificially expanded its basement, and trafficking money is more than enough to avoid specifying the reason for the expansion without hiding its existence. Their lair is one of those 43 buildings, with a basement modified to provide a shortcut to the sewers, where they keep the victims."
After this, he again raises his finger to his ear.
Batman: "Alfred, time to put our database to work. Find me every building in southwest Central Island that's recently expanded its property—search the last month."
Alfred Pennyworth: "You have no idea how long I've waited to test this out. Let's see… here's one, 8 56th Street. 26 days ago, a property expansion request was approved there, reportedly a home addition."
Batman: "I know that area. That house is the traffickers' lair. I'm heading there. Thanks, Alfred."
Alfred Pennyworth: "How grateful I am to receive praise from the Bat-Man himself."
Batman: "Plenty of time to be proud later. I'm off."
Disconnecting, Batman descends to street level and slips into the sewer through a manhole cover near the target district.
Batman: "The holding area can't be too close to the drain outlet—someone outside might hear screams through it. But not too far, either—they need a quick escape route during a raid, either through the outlet or through the house. Somewhere between the house and the outlet, probably in adjacent tunnels to throw off pursuit. They don't expect to be found via the sewers; they're expecting a raid from the house or the drain side. That's my angle."
At that moment, in the sewer tunnel closer to the drain outlet, in an adjacent tunnel where the victims were being held in a cage, one of the trafficking ring members receives a phone call. The instant he picks up the receiver, he takes a powerful electric shock—someone had run a bare wire directly into the phone's earpiece. Not enough to kill, but more than sufficient to knock him out cold for a good while. This action was enough to draw the attention of the other traffickers, who rushed to see what happened to their man.
Approaching the cage with the victims, Batman hears rapid footsteps—almost running—of three men, carrying the weight of automatic rifles. Entering the tunnel where they believe Batman should be, they find nothing, yet remain on high alert. As if anticipating that these three would open fire on anything that moved, they do exactly that, unloading on something moving very fast—but only when it falls to the ground do they realize it was just three Batarangs, meant purely as a distraction.
Not three seconds pass before these three, now ready to move toward the cage to secure it, lose all vision of what's happening in front of them. Too bad they didn't notice the tiny flash-bang devices attached to their bodies from those Batarangs, completely scrambling their coordination. The next thing they feel is a single powerful kick squarely to the jaw. Though the flash-bang effect also hit Batman—there's nowhere to hide from that in a sewer—the fact he was completely deprived of sight and hearing for five seconds didn't stop him from putting all three on the ground with one kick.
Now standing before the double doors leading to the chamber between tunnels where the abducted women were being held, Batman takes the left door, which is closed, by its handle, cracks it open slightly, then immediately slams it shut with full force. A second later, one of the thugs who'd been hiding behind the closed door, counting on the element of surprise, crumples to the floor in front of him—a tactic that might have worked if your opponent weren't… him.
Seeing the large cage with fourteen abducted women inside, Batman takes his grapple, attaches the lock to the line, then fires the grapple in the opposite direction, letting it fly the full length of the sewer pipe. Since the pipe was very long and the cable strong enough, when the grapple reached the far wall, the line went taut from the excessive distance and ripped the lock clean off the cage.
Meanwhile, not even one cigarette's worth of time had passed while Gordon waited for Batman's return. Just as he decided to leave the rooftop and get himself something to drink, already at the stairwell entrance, he was stopped by a now all-too-familiar voice, coming from above him.
Batman: "8 56th Street."
James Gordon, unsure what to expect next: "Should I go report it, or…?"
Batman: "Tell them there are now five traffickers down and all the abducted women are free."
James Gordon: "It's good to know someone like you is on our side."
Batman: "I'm on the side of whoever's ready to do whatever it takes to wipe out crime in Gotham. Don't forget, I was against you when Loeb was in charge."
James Gordon: "That too, I guess. Thanks again—" Gordon looks up, but his conversation partner has vanished into thin air once more. Just asking himself, "How the hell does he *do* that?", Gordon finally descends from the rooftop into the main part of the building.
April 19, 1989. Around 10 AM.
In Wayne Tower at the very heart of Central Island, another meeting with external partners of Wayne Enterprises was taking place—of which, in the month and a half since Bruce Wayne had become owner of the company, there had been a considerable number, though Bruce himself rarely attended what seemed like such important events.
While inside a decently-sized office on one of the building's upper floors, numerous discussions about the business future of Wayne Enterprises were underway, Bruce simply stood outside the door, waiting for it to end—he didn't particularly feel like going in, knowing the stuffy atmosphere within. People waiting often like to light a cigarette, but Bruce was a non-smoker on principle, so he limited himself to cups of plain water he'd occasionally pour from the cooler.
After about ten minutes of waiting since his arrival—given the meeting had already been going on for about an hour by then—Bruce saw the large double doors beside him open, and a considerable crowd of men in suits filed out.
Bruce just looked at them, casting a brief glance at each one. He didn't know any of them personally, and would never have known their names or the companies they represented if not for the badges on their left breast pockets.
Of course, none of them could miss the opportunity to glance at the richest man in all of Gotham standing behind them, regarding them with an expressionless stare.
Although the glances Bruce caught in return were almost blank, he only needed to look at the condition of the suits and hair of the departing men to understand what they were like. Those whose suits were slightly worn—almost imperceptibly, given how impeccably the suits were pressed—on the sides, Bruce immediately identified as people who often put their hands on their hips, meaning they preferred to oversee work from the sidelines rather than participate. In those whose hair was at least slightly unevenly combed, Bruce could deduce a lack of people in their circle who might look after their appearance, marking them as rather lonely individuals.
Once all the people had left the hall, Bruce finally decided to step inside himself, tossing another plastic cup into the trash.
Bruce Wayne: "You know, to think if father miscalculated anywhere, it was in optimizing processes concerning himself."
Lucius Fox: "That's for you to decide. I just hope that soon you'll start giving me hints on how to properly respond to such provocative questions."
Bruce Wayne: "That's what makes them provocative, Lucius. Besides, don't act like you don't know the answer. You're lucky I'm not too bothered by your opinion on this. I'd advise you to be at least a little grateful that I pulled you out of that basement."
Lucius Fox: "Right, pulled me out of the basement and stuck me in the attic. Though from up here, at least the view is better than underground."
Bruce Wayne: "See? My promise that under my leadership you'd like it in the company is already fulfilled."
Lucius Fox, putting the last batch of papers into a cabinet: "Alright, I'll give you that. It only took a one with a half of a month." With these words, Bruce and Lucius left the hall, and after Lucius closed the door behind them, headed for the elevator.
Bruce Wayne: "Is that a enough short time to restructure a massive corporation like ours?"
Lucius Fox: "Hmm, didn't even notice when I'd climbed the ladder so high that you're now calling your company 'ours'."
Bruce Wayne, pressing the elevator call button: "Technically, you're at the top now, so don't complain. You're in charge of external business relations now."
Lucius Fox: "Amazing that I'm only at the top when you're not here."
Bruce Wayne: "It'll be good for you not to get too full of yourself."
Lucius Fox: "As if I have so many occasions for that." At that moment, they both enter the elevator, and Lucius presses the button for the basement.
Bruce Wayne: "But you'll obviously have more now. Especially considering how you do your work, if you catch my drift."
Lucius Fox: "You mean you want to hear what happened at the meeting. As usual, nothing out of the ordinary. Some iron mining company, operating a mine about twenty miles southwest of Gotham, offered us an investment opportunity. But there's a catch."
Bruce Wayne: "I already figured—that mine only exists on paper."
Lucius Fox: "And even then, only on the map they shoved in my face. And now, I'll be waiting for you to figure out how to catch those crooks. I hear they've already made about six million from this 'mine'."
Bruce Wayne: "Catching such crooks is also my job, Lucius. You'll send a couple of our agents out there to scout the location. Then we'll offer them integration into Wayne Enterprises—that way they can't run off with the money if it becomes our money. Then we'll simply dissolve their company, and if they try to sue, we have the trump card: evidence of fraud."
Lucius Fox: "Remind me later never to doubt that you already have a plan for solving any problem, even one you've never heard of."
Bruce Wayne: "Instead, I'll remind you that buttering me up doesn't work, that's all."
Lucius Fox: "If you want to take it that way, that's your right."
Bruce Wayne: "Moving on. Now, about current business. How's our baby?"
Lucius Fox: "Still in the womb, but the fetus is developing by the hour, not the day."
Bruce Wayne: "That's slow, considering you've had two weeks."
Lucius Fox: "You're the one who moved me from the basement to the top floor."
When they reached the basement, they were greeted by something resembling a mini-tank, only on six wheels with an engine like a race car's, though it was hard to call it a car—it was practically just a frame.
Lucius Fox: "Care to test-drive it?"
Bruce Wayne: "Not in such an enclosed space."
Lucius Fox: "Oh no, your tricks won't work on me."
A minute later, Bruce was tearing around the—admittedly spacious, but still limited—basement, while Lucius sat beside him. Surprisingly, given the vehicle's speed, it was very maneuverable.
Lucius Fox, trying to shout over the engine noise: "Top speed will be about 185 miles an hour when I'm done! It'll hit it in 5.7 seconds, with armor it'll be around eight seconds!"
Bruce Wayne, stopping the vehicle and getting out: "Slow." He says after a short pause.
Lucius Fox, getting out as well: "Too bad, that's the best I can do. With all the armor and gadgets you ordered me to load it with, its redline will be about 175, tops."
Bruce Wayne: "Then let's change the concept. Drop out two wheels, leave four—that'll reduce weight and road friction. Can add another race-spec engine in the back. Same with the bodywork to fix aerodynamics. It'll affect durability, but the front can be buffed, which won't impact weight much."
Lucius Fox: "If your plan from the start was to give me an impossible task, then show me how you'd solve it by completely removing all the conditions, you could have said so earlier."
Bruce Wayne: "I also want to ditch all the guns out of it. Focus on locomation. It's important that the car can not only move fast, but also eliminate any factors that might hinder that."
Lucius Fox: "Then we can add a ramming function to the front, and deployable grapnels for crossing rivers. Considering the car will be made of hardened steel with ceramic fractal armor panels, its top speed could increase to about 210 miles an hour."
Bruce Wayne: "See, you can do it when you want to."
Lucius Fox: "More precisely, when there's motivation. I'll need about another two weeks."
Bruce Wayne: "You don't have resource struggles anymore, so get to work."
Lucius Fox: "I'm not exactly idle here." By that time, Bruce was already turning to leave the basement. "One more thing, Mr. Wayne—you haven't forgotten what day it is today?"
Bruce Wayne: "No, which is why you need to hurry up."
Lucius Fox: "Oh, nothing serious. Just that we now have land rights in the north of Central Island."
Bruce Wayne: "You should have led with that. Find someone to handle it. I'm off." He says, exiting the basement toward the elevator.
April 19, 1989. Almost 12 PM.
Approaching his home, Bruce didn't even glance at the surrounding spring scenery. Not that he was paying much attention to the road ahead anyway—there were hardly any other cars on that stretch.
Pulling up to the gates, Bruce first looked at the garage, already thinking about how he'd fit the BMW he was currently driving inside. But in the garage, he spotted a car—a black Maybach. Most rich folks can't remember every car in their collection without checking, but Bruce knew all of them by heart, and he knew there was no black Maybach in his collection, only a dark blue one.
Bruce didn't think much of it—he knew whose car it was—so he simply stopped at the gates, got out, locked the car behind him, and walked toward the manor entrance. Before opening the door, he adjusted his jacket slightly.