Gotham City
7th November
Gotham City Center
7:00 PM
The only benefit, he mused, was the fact that there were other heroes in the city.
The sound of camera clicks, followed by the crescendo of brilliant flashes immediately drew his attention as he stepped out of the limousine. He gave Alfred a brief cursory nod, before putting on his best smile and waving his hand in the manner that had been practiced tirelessly.
"Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne! Over here!"
"Mr. Wayne! What do you have to say about the allegations of Wayne Industry incompetence?"
"Is it true that you take long leaves of absences from your company Mr. Wayne?"
Answering the reporters was not an expedient on his part, nor was it the main focus of his night. Although his suit was elegantly ironed, this was not the suit he would have preferred wearing this night. His eyes were making broad glances disguised as mere glimpses towards attractive women. Instead, he was searching, thinking, calculating – the possibility of threats at every corner – the possibility for chaos to immediately spring up, for innocents to be murdered – simply because he had to maintain his secondary identity.
The red-carpet which led into the large amphitheater that was the city center eerily painted a picture of the blood that would run down the streets of Gotham. Even as he walked forward, he ignored them, with the traditional billionaire playboy smile on his face, seeming either unbothered or uncaring of the rumors swirling around his family name.
By the time he had entered into the building, with the thankful aid of the security protocol who kept back the hordes of desperate and over-eager reporters, he had already done a headcount and an extensive examination of possible threats, as well as taking into account the fastest ways to evacuate people from the streets should any possible violence escalate.
"Have a good evening Mr. Wayne."
"Why, thank you."
The doors were swung open, and Bruce Wayne found himself in the world of wealth and social class once more.
XXXX
Gotham City
Skyline Club
7:11 PM
"Let's get this party started!"
Music killed the silence. The sound of wild cheers and hoots shot into the air, and accompanying hands followed. The intensity of the sounds went wilder. Different beats, voiceless, purely electronically created songs became the symphony of the evening. Men on the dance floor moved, some with glasses of wine in hand, others, with their hands free so as to perform the dances they needed. The women were in no small quantity either. Miniskirts and heels were the order of the day, their hips gyrating often in response to the men behind them, crotches extended forward, ready to embrace the friction of a female against their fronts.
The men and women were of different ages. Mostly, they started at twenty-one, and ended at twenty-nine. Others who older, would be seen, occasionally, shuffling their feet, swaying awkwardly from left to right, with an advert-patented smile on their faces. Some were at the bar, drink in hand, back's slouched, and shoulders hunched, a scowl on their lips standing in contradistinction to their droopy eyes and relaxed brows.
Those, who were younger, could be seen, puffing their chests up exaggeratedly, reducing their decibels significantly, and straying in between large groups of people, with a bright, exhilarated grin on their faces, an extra bounce in their walks. They strayed as far away as they could from the exits and entrances, where large men in black suits and thick shades could be seen, standing, a slightly noticeable bulge at the side of their pants which their hands almost always patted securely.
The club was elevated. The upper layers were filled with the same black-suited men who patrolled relentlessly, the mid lower containing the man with the eccentric hairstyle, large notice-me headphones, and rounded teal colored sunglasses, allowed his hand to amble through a complicated sound system with a myriad of buttons. The lower layer, finally, held the dance floor with sweaty excitement and thinly veiled erections, a small cutaway section to the restrooms, a large verandah with a view of the open night sky, a bar with bartenders whose faces were plastered with disinterest, and the entrance and exits – which were a flight of stairs and a single elevator.
The elevator dinged open.
From within it, a quartet of girls, blonde, brunette, dark-haired and red-haired, emerged.
"Oh em gee! I'm so excited! This place is the buh-omb!" The blond said.
"Calm down Chelsea – we just got here." The brunette said, her lips twitching in amusement.
"I'm off to get a drink – I need to be not sober to endure this night." The dark-haired girl said, her tone slightly dull.
"Ugh! Cheer up Emma! We're seniors, and we'll soon out of College – and we soooo have not partied enough in my opinion."
"Shush!" the brunette hissed "Do you want everyone to know we're not supposed to be here? This club is for people twenty-one and up!"
"What-ev-ah Claire, we're all twenty and it's not like a year difference is that big a deal. Lighten up and par-tee! I mean, don't be like Babs over there –"
The three girls turned to their fourth companion, the red-haired one. With delicate features, emerald-green eyes, wearing a dark sweater and a pair of milk-white jean pants, she stared off seemingly into the distance.
"Hello! Earth to Barbara – do you copy?"
The girl in question immediately snapped her head over. "Huh? I – Um, yes I'm here. I'm just… you know… taking in the scene."
"That's one way of putting it," Emma, the dark-haired one, said dryly. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were looking for the fastest ways to get out of this place." Emma paused, her eyes rolling at a boy and a girl, practically dry-humping each other in front of them. "Not that I'd blame you."
"What – you're not getting cold feet now are you Babs?" Chelsea, the blond, said, a slow smirk growing on her face. "Or what, is the high-and-mighty daughter of Gotham's Police Commissioner too good to go out clubbing with friends? Hmm?"
"Chelsea –" Claire, the brunette, began.
"Ugh." Chelsea scowled. "I knew it was too good to be true when little-miss-honor-student, Scholarship-earned straight-A's Barbara Gordon decided to go clubbing. For all we know, you probably came here to get material to write some long, boring, feminazi article on the objectification of women in clubs, and then publish it to the Gotham Gazette."
"That's not true –" Barbara said, her left hand cradling her right arm awkwardly. "I came here to have fun – with you guys. You know… fun."
Chelsea let her eyes trail up and down the girl's form. "Fun. Suuuure. We'll see about that."
"I'll be at the bar getting a drink," Emma said, her voice neutral and uninterested. "Hopefully they'll be enough idiots trying to get me drunk and I'll never have to spend a dime on a single glass."
The reaction of the three girls' was a blend of exasperation and amusement.
"Uh – I think I'll follow you Emma," Barbara said, "I could go for a glass… you know, to get into the 'zone'... and have fun."
The girls turned to stare at her, and Emma slowly palmed her face.
"Again, I need to be not sober to endure this night."
XXXXX
Gotham City
Gotham City Center
7:32
Chandeliers, hung high unto the ceilings, with brilliant lights that served more as a decoration than a source of illumination. An extensively large open space, with paintings hung on walls, and with tables containing valuable pottery and artistic sculptures, with their price tags all attached, the numbers nothing lower than six digits. The upper layers, containing even more art, and led by a long, elegant staircase that was present on both the eastern and western corners of the large room. There were serving tables present, with young men and women in the familiar white waiters outfit, pouring drinks from wine to whiskey, serving cocktails and carrying trays filled to the brim with shrimp, hashbrowns, or other delectable snacks.
To the southeast of the hall, a hallway which led to the male and female restrooms. To the southwest, was another hallway which led to a different side of the City Center. Bruce's eyes were focused on that corner, as unexpected guests may arrive from that entrance, regardless of the two police guards who he spotted there.
The entire layout was memorized, and aspects he couldn't see within his range of vision, such as the contents of the upper floors, were visualized as best he could, especially remembering the number of entrances and exits which were four. Two doors, one window, one skylight.
Throughout the few minutes since his arrival, he had spent his time, chatting up the guests, showing them paintings and sculptures, and explaining the history behind them. Though, he had people, organizers of the event, who were to do that job, he took it upon himself to join them.
"Ah! There he is! The host himself! Brucie! How're you doing?"
Blonde hair and a familiar beard, dressed in an equally flashy dark gray suit, and accompanied with another woman, who equally possessed blonde hair in a black gown.
"Oliver," Bruce said, an amicable smile on his face. "Nice to know you could make it."
"Of course! As if I'd miss out on the chance to purchase some of the Wayne family's legendary artwork." He said with a smile, and a wink, "Though, Holt couldn't make it. Apparently, something came up that he needed to work on… a er, calculation error in one of his programs."
Bruce frowned. Mr. Terrific wasn't present. Had the Calculator chosen tonight to attack on a random whim, or was this part of an even larger plan that he still wasn't aware of?
"Oh, and of course I believe you've been acquainted with the lovely Miss Lance."
He turned his attention back to Black Canary, and, still playing his part, he took one of her hands and kissed the back of it graciously.
"Charmed."
If there was any surprise on her face, she hid it expertly. "And likewise I. Had I known Bruce Wayne was this amenable, I would have met his acquaintance long ago."
Bruce noticed the slight at his alter-ego, but chose to merely smile at it. Bruce Wayne and Batman had entirely different mannerisms, enough that it would be hard to believe that the warm and charitable Bruce Wayne was the same cold and stand-offish Batman. This of course, was intentional.
"Oh, isn't one rich, handsome billionaire enough for you Dinah?" Oliver said, mirth filled in his eyes.
"I don't know," she responded, equally filled with mirth "Is he?"
Oliver clutched at his chest in mock hurt. "You wound me. There it goes – my frail ego – shattered by your cruel words."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about that," she said, smiling "You're a billionaire. I'm sure you have it insured."
Bruce watched the byplay between the duo, smiling and nodding to whatever was said, and then collecting a glass of wine from one of the waiters, as his gaze strayed to those gathered in attendance. Commissioner Gordon was present, occupied with ensuring the security detail, and Bruce knew that he would most likely leave before the event was concluded. As would he, of course. Although the presence of two league members in the form of Green Arrow and Black Canary put his mind at rest slightly, there was the fact that a dangerous criminal who was out and about in society, with a 500 Million Dollar bounty on him.
Falcone wasn't made out of money, and the bounty was supposedly going to be doubled if the man was brought in alive. A Billion Dollars might have been loose change to someone like him, but to Falcone, that was essentially his entire life savings. That was everything he had and owned. If he was putting out that much money as a reward to kill this man, it was no longer merely about being a personal vendetta or a need for revenge.
He was genuinely terrified.
A terror for his life, which, in Falcone's opinion, was worth more than a billion dollars. This person that was going around being called 'The Consultant', genuinely frightened Falcone. Bruce supposed, of course, that he had every reason to.
No one the Batman had ever fought, would have gone to such extremes just to send a message. It wasn't just about what he had done to the girl, but the skill required to do it. All the sites in which he had uploaded the videos too, had been hacked. The videos could not be removed or taken down from the pornographic sites where they'd been posted. Essentially, any attempt to remove it would only duplicate the video. That spoke of a mastery of hacking and technology, skills that could not be attained by just anyone, and further cemented it in Bruce's mind that the man was not just anyone who could be trifled with.
"What? You're joking – how can dirty blonde hair beat golden blonde? Go on, tell her Bruce – its golden blonde – it's the best hair color – it even has the word gold in it!"
Whatever remark he wanted to make, was prematurely ended when the doors swung open once more.
There was a distinct, sharp silence which had immediately taken over everyone in the room, as all attention was turned towards the tall figure who was the latest arrival.
Golden blonde hair, emerald green eyes, and a gait that had to be supernatural, Gotham's second billionaire appeared.
His suit was a smooth silvery-black, with a sheen that made it appear as though it was sculpted from obsidian. His gait was textbook perfect, his posture was straight and immaculate, and he held a long cane in his left hand which accompanied his outfit and his tall, clearly built figure. The full beard on his face did not detract from his appearance in the slightest, and rather, it gave him an aura of mystery and 'roughness' that would be unexpected to find in a billionaire.
"And it's official – I am the least attractive blond billionaire in the building."
DC – Remastered Edition
Skyline Club
7:41 PM
"Batgirl to Batcave. Alfred, I'm in."
There was the sound of small static on the portable receiver which she had in her ear, as she made her way towards the female restrooms of the Skyline Club.
"Ah, Miss Gordon, quite fortunate you arrived as you did. I just returned from delivering Master Bruce to the soiree at the Gotham City Center." Then, there was a sigh. "Albeit, a part of me apologizes for the inconvenience, to hinder your 'ladies night out' as it were."
"Don't worry about it Alfred," she said, pushing her way past a group of dancers. "I'll do anything to help Bruce when I can. And, to be honest, a club isn't really my kind of scene anyway."
"Very well," the voice said, although with a hint of reluctance. "So, what exactly is the scene at the Skyline Club?"
Barbara paused, her eyes going round the entire room.
"There's… something off. I count at least six times the normal amount of guards – and they're heavily armed too. First, it was the airspace around the building being covered with snipers and helicopters, and now extra men and fully equipped ammunition?"
"It seems my hunch was right. Alberto Falcone is spooked."
She nodded, although fully aware of the fact that Alfred couldn't see her. "I'll try and see what I can find out from the guards."
Years of stealth training and increased nimbleness on her feet aided her as she made her way towards the flight of stairs that would lead to the higher layers. As she expected, it was guarded by two men. She pressed herself along the wall, leaning in as close as she could.
"Squad 6, this is Squad 2 checking in. All silent here on our end. Over."
"Keep at it Squad 2. Alberto's orders are not to let anyone up – and if you see anyone with blond hair, shoot first, ask questions later. Over."
Barbara's left eye rose.
"Blonde hair?" The second guard asked.
"The Consultant. He's got blonde hair – best not to take any chances."
"Huh," the second guard said.
"What?"
"Just thinking about the orders we got."
"What about them?"
"I mean, after everything the Consultant did to Alberto's cousin and aunt – I'd figure Boss Carmine would want to carve the fucker piece by piece rather than just letting us pop him if he shows up. And that's a big if. What are the odds that he's gonna come after Carmine's son? No one would want to see Alberto get fucked by a horse."
"We're not getting paid to ask questions."
"I know, I know – It's just – if someone kidnapped my cousin or niece, tied 'em up naked to a pole in and then let a jacked up horse plough into her – I wouldn't want to kill that fucker with a bullet – is all I'm saying."
"Ugh."
"You think we get the bounty if we pop him?"
"I don't know."
"Huh." He said. "Well, I jacked off to the porno by the way – Lucia is a fucking babe and that shit has gone totally viral. A shame she couldn't take it past the sixth time – fuck, I wonder how she felt before she died, considering that cock was large as –"
"You let Alberto hear you, and you'll get to meet Lucia in person and ask her."
Barbara didn't bother listening anymore, her stomach churning irritably as she resisted the urge to vomit, and instead settled for scrunching up her nose. A wave of nausea hit her even harder, which she forced down for the sake of professionalism. She made her way back towards the ladies room, her thoughts rapidly incoming.
"Alfred –"
"Ah, yes, I am aware of the… material. I may or may not have omitted that aspect from my report."
Barbara stopped. "What?"
"We have never quite dealt with a crime as… uncouth as this, and I was not certain how you would respond to the news – so… I omitted certain aspects. My apologies."
Barbara remained silent. In her time spent under the cowl, she and Batman had faced a lot of villains. Numerous terrifying ones from the Joker to dangerous, calculating ones like Deathstroke, to even the semi-insane ones like Black Mask. Still, as far as she could tell, she had never actually fought anybody who utilized sexual assault as a weapon.
The Joker, for all his insanity and killing and gassing of hundreds of people, did not have sexual assault on the long list of charges that could be placed against him. He saw no need to utilize it as a tool in his arsenal, and that was one of the small mercies that the people of Gotham had. Likewise numerous villains in Batman's rouges gallery – from Bane, to the Riddler, to Scarecrow, to Deadshot – none of them had ever done something so brazen.
She frowned.
Still, all of these people were killers, the Joker included. Murderers who had a body count that could be used as a miniature hill. Was sexual assault a more serious offense than murder? The victims in question would be greatly damaged psychologically by the event, but wouldn't it be better, as they were still alive, and could therefore heal from the experience? In that case, wasn't murder more serious an offense than sexual assault?
She shook her head. In this case, the woman had been both, sexually assaulted and killed by the ordeal. She was a criminal of course, but this was not justice. It was cruel torture – she had been tortured and defiled before being executed – and it seemed, it was all to send a message.
A message to a villain. Her mind idly chastised her.
She ignored the chastisement. Whether or not Falcone was a villain was irrelevant, he was still a person first and foremost. He was a human being. His niece had been a person. And she did not deserve that sort of treatment. A proper trial and sentencing for their crimes was what was needed for her; a chance at redemption.
She took in a deep sigh and frowned.
"The Consultant." She tested the word on her lips, her frown deepening as she did so.
A new player in the Game. A new foe that they had not known about before; one, who seemed to be targeting Crime families. Most alarming, however, was the fact that this new foe seemed to always strike at the most opportune moments, to strike when Batman was out of the city or otherwise unavailable, which showed a capacity for incredible foresight, or rapid and efficient organization and management skills.
It was particularly for this reason that Alfred had rapidly chosen Barbara to interject into the Consultant's schemes, based on a hypothesis. 'Batman' would be unavailable tonight, as, Bruce Wayne would be attending the fundraising event for the GCPD, and, consequently, Bruce Wayne was under heavy fire and the watchful eye of the media and all of Gotham. This meant, of course, that Bruce couldn't sneak out of the event to don the cape and cowl without further bringing more suspicion and heat to his name.
There was of course, the scary part of this hypothesis, which Barbara had quickly realized.
If the Consultant makes any move whatsoever tonight, when he should have no reason to believe that Batman is unavailable –
It would mean that The Consultant knew that Batman was Bruce Wayne.
It would mean, that there was someone out there, who had pieced together Batman's identity, and now, could use it like a loaded gun against them whenever he so wished. The very thought of it made Barbara's hair stand and sent a plague of goosebumps travelling down her spine.
She had no idea how to counter that sort of attack. Bruce probably did, possessing a thousand and one contingency plans, and a thousand and one contingency plans for each thousand and one contingency plan. However, Barbara, with her own genius intellect and photographic memory, had quickly surmised and come to the realization, that no matter what the contingency plan was, things would not and could never be the same.
Everything hinged on her and Alfred's paranoia – if, if, there was a major move made tonight by the Consultant, it would be the spark of completely uncharted waters.
Hence, she found herself at the Skyline Club – the club ran by Alberto Falcone, Carmine Falcone's son, effectively playing the unwitting bodyguard for a Mafioso. The Consultant had already claimed that he was going after Falcone, and there was no doubt, that his next targets would be members of Falcone's nuclear family.
As she headed back towards the restroom, she quickly set her mind to work on as many possible scenarios as she could imagine. Motives. Goals. Reasons. Personality. Flaws. Intents. What was the Consultant's endgame? What was his true desire? Did he fancy himself a form of misguided vigilante attacking evil? Was he inspired by Batman? Did he despise Batman?
She had no information at all to work on, and that grated her nerves.
"Alfred – can you find anything on the Consultant? Anything at all?"
"I'll search the databases for anything of value that comes up, hopefully, something will."
She sighed as Alfred disconnected, leaving her standing in relative silence outside the female bathroom.
"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh my fucking god!"
Or, rather, not so relative silence. She ignored the slight warmth at her cheeks at the sheer gall of these people, especially as she could hear the sounds coming from inside the female toilet, and –
She blinked. Her brain processing immediately cataloguing the voice, despite its slightly higher tone, that was a voice she knew. With no hesitation whatsoever, she swung open the door.
"C-Chelsea?!"
Her blonde friend had her back against the wall, one leg propped up against a sink, and the other one was spread out over a tall shoulder, with her pink underwear at the ankle. Her arrival signified a sort of silence, as the figure who was in front of her stopped, snapped his head in her direction, in something akin to shock or surprise. Likewise, Chelsea's turned towards her. And Barbara made the mistake of her gaze going lower, to the sight of –
"Oh my fucking god Barbara – can't you see I'm in the middle of something here?!"
Barbara's mouth opened slightly. "I – you –" Words, things which she was often so proficient at, failed her, at the sight of her friend, and at the sight of what was inside her friend.
"Ugh! Are you just going to keep staring? I didn't take you for a fucking voyeur!"
"I'm not – this is the ladies bathroom – and he – you –"
"Just get the fuck out already!"
She didn't know what compelled her to turn around and rapidly slam the door shut. She could still feel the warmth growing around her neck and face, and could hear her heart pounding as her palms grew sweatier. She slowly pushed her palms over her face in a weak attempt to abate her mortification.
"Curse you brain – curse you."
Unfortunately, her photographic memory meant that she would never forget this moment, ever. It would always be there, with picture-sharp clarity, the instance she walked in on her friend having sex with some random guy, the sight of her friend's legs hung up, the scent of arousal, and the thick, long… thing that had been –
She groaned, burying her face deeper into her hands.
That thing was most definitely going to plague her dreams – and perhaps, some of her nightmares from now on.
Great job Gordon! You can rush into battle against some of the world's deadliest criminals without flinching, but the sight of one of your college friends having sex makes you freeze speechless.
She nearly jumped when the door opened behind her, watching as her friend stepped out, with slightly disheveled clothing. Chelsea didn't say anything towards her, and merely walked away, albeit, with an extremely noticeable and pronounced limp in her step that hadn't quite been there before.
Her hand stretched out towards the blond girl, but, slowly, receded back towards her bosom.
"It's moments like these that I wish I could capture and frame, as the perfect pictorial example of the phrase – 'well, that was awkward.'"
She turned her gaze towards the young man who had emerged from the ladies' restroom, easily having a need to tell him off, only to pause slightly at his features. He was tall, easily a whole head taller than her, and he seemed to have a lean body that was filled with dexterous muscle. She could easily attribute him as someone who was either a swimmer or an athlete, and not particularly a gym junkee. He wore a plain T-Shirt with the Japanese Kanji for 'fire' written boldly in the middle, and the bottom and sleeves of the shirt were covered in red, flame-like designs. Perhaps, most strikingly about this person, was his face – smooth, flawless, sharp nose, angle-jawed, and nigh-perfectly symmetrical. If someone told her that the young man was a model, she would accept it at face value.
What did catch her attention about him however, was the sea-blue, sapphire-shining eyes he had, which was slightly obscured by thick front locks of platinum-blond hair. He couldn't have been a year or two older than her.
"But to think, that my luck would make it so that I would run into you here."
All at once, her danger instincts flared.
Yet, for all it was, they were far too slow.
DC – Remastered Edition
Gotham City Center
7:45 PM
Ignoring Oliver's comment, Bruce found himself mentally agreeing with the sentiment. Oliver was far less handsome, and handsome was not a word which he used likely, but there was no denying the man's presence and attractiveness. A face which could easily win first prize in modelling contests, and could gain him international recognition as an actor, should he star in a single role.
There was something… wrong about the man though, which Bruce couldn't place. It was there, a nagging sensation – something in his instincts that just felt… violated –
The man was perfect, so he didn't see why –
It hit him.
The man was perfect.
Too perfect.
Absolutely flawless.
It was… should be impossible for anyone to have an absolutely flawless physical appearance. Oliver had some such as the slight grooves on his nose and his unruly beard. And Bruce would claim that his ever-coiled hair was one of his slight flaws. Yet, this man – he had none which Bruce could find or detect.
It was humanly impossible.
"So that… is Makarov Dreyer?" Dinah said, and Bruce noted her diluted pupils "I can see why people would choose to believe him over you, Bruce."
He said nothing, and instead, he turned to Oliver. "I'm going to greet our guest. And you –"
"Will be 'getting lost' around the theater. I got it."
There was a lot, which Bruce was expecting, from this man. He was a new player, who had sprung up from Gotham, and done a lot of good for the city, which was perhaps one of the reasons that he would be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Yet, he was aware that this was the same man who had publicly stated his dislike for him, apparently, on the basis that he hadn't done enough for the city.
Bruce would agree.
He truly had not done enough for Gotham. He needed to do more.
"Green."
He had barely walked up to the taller man and extended his hand when he heard that word, causing him to falter for a brief second.
"Excuse me?"
"That is my first impression of you Mr Wayne. Green."
Bruce could easily say that no one had told him that before.
"Willpower." Dreyer said, explaining. "There is so much of it that it is nearly blinding. Yet, this is somewhat paradoxical. If you were this driven and determined, Wayne Industries would have evolved to completely eradicate crime in Gotham. Yet, it hasn't. Where, then, is all this willpower being channeled?"
Two things rushed through Bruce's mind. The first, was that Dreyer was clearly a person that did not mince his wards and saw no need for small talk, and the second, was the connection of the word green and the word willpower.
"The Emotional Spectrum?"
"Of course." Dreyer said, his sparkling emerald eyes alight with derision. "It is foolish, stupid, and highly presumptuous of people to not wish to understand such universal forces. Our willpower, rage, love, hope, and avarice are being channeled, used as fuel to power aliens millions of lightyears away. Yet, no one questions this – no one bothers to."
A thick, heavy scoff.
"Stupidity, as always, is the greatest flaw of human evolution."
Bruce Wayne, for once, was genuinely short on words.
"And you – you question this?"
Dreyer turned his eyes, looking at him from the corner of it. "Only a fool wouldn't. An unexamined life is not worth living. There are forces in the world greater than anything imaginable, from the Emotional Spectrum to the existence of the Speed Force – a force that enables people to molest and toy with the laws of physics like a young teenager and his reluctant lover. Yet, again, no one questions this."
Bruce found himself surprised, again. An emotion on which he mentally chided himself for, yet, he could not help it. The man in front of him was very well-learned, because, even though the existence of the Speed Force and the Lantern Corps were public knowledge, most people just stopped at it there. They often didn't bother about its existence or formulate hypothesis about its applications. Those who did, were often scientists, and never, never, a supposedly young, self-made billionaire.
"I see." Bruce said, shortly. "That aside, I would like to formally welcome you to the fundraiser. I did not anticipate you coming."
"And I am certain that had I informed the media of my arrival, you would have anticipated me even less." Makarov waved his hand dismissively, before walking forward, leaving Bruce no choice but to follow after him.
"I must say, that so far, I am disappointed. Meeting you in person is somewhat more lackluster than I imagined."
"I'm… sorry?"
"Your apology is unwanted Mr. Wayne, as is your presence. I did not come here for you."
Bruce stopped, frowning. "Then why are you –"
"You! Waiter with the handkerchief!"
Everyone's attention was turned to the waiter addressed, the young man freezing in place at Dreyer's call.
Dreyer marched towards him, amidst whispers and hushed voices. Then, his hands went up, seemingly to the man's neck. Bruce's eyes widened at the perceived threat and he rushed to intervene –
"There. Your bowtie was knotted inappropriately, and strained at a 32 degree angle that was upsetting to my eyes. You may carry on with your business."
"T-t-thank y-you sir."
The whispers, if anything, seemed to escalate, as the waiter scurried off.
Bruce rose an eyebrow at the scene, taking out a small sigh, and chastising himself for assuming that Dreyer was going to choke the waiter.
"You're a perfectionist?" It was more of a statement than a question, to which Dreyer turned around and gave him a slightly irritated glare.
"You are still within my line of sight Mr. Wayne. Did I not make it clear that your presence was unwanted?"
Bruce gave an amused chuckle. "This is my fundraiser, Mr. Dreyer. I am afraid that I cannot leave."
"So, you are saying that if this fundraiser were over, you would then leave?"
Bruce blinked, and he realized, that their conversation had been in tones which people around them could hear.
"Well not exactly –"
"May I have the attention of everyone present?"
The loud declaration by the tall man immediately drew numerous eyes and followed with the heavy silence.
"I, Makarov Dreyer, would like, to buy –"
His finger pointed, and then spun round the entire room.
"Everything."
There was pin-drop silence.
Bruce became immediately aware of the fact that all eyes were on him – waiting for his response.
"You cannot –"
"Can I not?" Makarov interrupted sharply, "This is a fundraiser for the GCPD, is it not? Does that not mean, that the amount gained from every object sold here today is for the betterment of our city?"
"Well, yes, but –"
"Does anyone other than Mr. Wayne have an objection to my purchase?" A few select hands went up, "Do you believe yourself capable of outbidding me should the items decide to be auctioned?" The hands sharply went down.
Legend Industries had a net worth that was equal to Wayne Industries, minus a few million. After Bruce Wayne, Makarov Dreyer was the richest man in Gotham City – outbidding him was an impossibility.
"The total sum of everything here – is about two hundred million dollars." This came from the event organizer, who finally remembered her ability to speak.
Makarov merely hummed, reached into the pocket of his suit, brought out a check book, tore out a page, and handed it over to the woman without a second thought.
"There." he said, before turning to Bruce Wayne. "This is no longer your fundraiser Mr. Wayne. So, I repeat myself for the third, and last time. Your presence is not wanted."
DC – Remastered Edition
Skyline Club
7:32
This was bad.
There was no other way to explain it, to explain how utterly horrible the situation was. She was right. Alfred had been right. He knew. The Consultant not only knew Batman's identity, he knew hers.
Somehow.
And the worst part?
He was toying with her.
She stood, in a defensive position, breathing heavily, while the man stood across from her, a smile on his face, utterly and completely nonchalant. She remembered his speed, the speed of his first, and so far, only strike which he had thrown in the battle. His hands had been a blur, and if he had wanted to, he could have snapped her neck in an instant. Rather, all he had done, was grab and squeeze her breasts.
Like the sick, degenerate pervert he was.
"You know, insulting me in your head isn't going to help you win this fight," he said dryly.
She snapped her head up at him, and he rolled his eyes.
"No, blossom, I'm not reading your mind and I don't have to. It's written all over your face."
He let out a bored sigh. "You know, my attention is literally divided right now – because I'm talking to you, and to someone else, in two completely different contexts and settings, and somehow despite this, I'm handing your ass to you."
"You haven't landed a single hit on me!"
"And I don't have to," he said "You'll tire yourself out trying to land a hit on me, and it'll be easy for me to just pin you down and do whatever I want."
A cold shiver ran down her spine at the implications. "You're sick."
"And you're a vigilante who wears tight spandex, and have been wanked off to by millions of virgin fanboys. But hey – we all have our demons."
She didn't understand him. His motives. Motivations. He was just… standing there. Yet, she couldn't explain why, why her entire body and instincts screamed and told her that it would be a very, very bad idea to attack him.
"Do you know, I actually thought that I'd be up to my neck in bounty hunters by now," he said in a conversational tone. "I mean, I have a 500 Million dollar bounty. Where's the respect? Where are the bad guys and assassins coming to cut off my head? And then, I realized, they're literally stuck in traffic."
Was – was he serious?
"I mean, in hindsight, it should be obvious that it'd take a day or so for them to get to Gotham, and some extra time to prepare to start hunting me down, but I thought, at the least, I'd have faced some assassins by now." He actually sighed in disappointment. "Since no one showed up, because no one can actually find me, I figured I'd just speed things up and give Falcone some more incentive by killing his son Alberto. I didn't think I'd run into you though."
She immediately entered a defensive position. "I'm not going to allow you kill anyone tonight."
He rose an eyebrow. "You do realize that you are in the worst possible position to make demands right? Miss Gordon?"
She froze, once more, the realization that she was not in her Batgirl attire hitting her like a bucket of ice water.
"The only thing standing between you, and the end of your life – is me. All I need to do is expose your identity – and Barbara Gordon's life is over. Your friends, family, anyone you've ever known or had a casual acquaintance with – they become targets to get to you, and to get to Batman. And that's it – you can't have a normal life. You can't go back to college. Can't graduate. Not without starting from scratch with a new identity."
There it was, the truth she'd been avoiding. The horrific end of everything, the possible danger all her friends and loved ones would be in – slapped straight into her face.
"But," he said, "All of that can be avoided – if you merely stand aside, pretend you never saw me, and let me kill Alberto Falcone."
The offer, delivered as it was, stunned her into silence.
"W-What?"
The Consultant, sighed. "I'm focusing on the villains of Gotham. My goal is to eliminate them. One by one. Falcone is first for personal reasons, oh, and any bounty hunter stupid enough to get in my way as well. If you let me be on my merryway, I'll forget I ever saw you, and you can go on living your life without having to start it over from scratch."
She was right. The Consultant did believe himself to be a form of vigilante. He was actively hunting down villains and wrongdoers, and dispensing what he believed to be his own form of justice – serving as the executioner.
Still, what he was doing, was murder.
Then, there was the sexual assault.
Was he going to make all the female villains endure some kind of sexual torture as well in the name of justice?
"I can't do that." She responded, shaking her head. "I'm not going to allow you kill one more person."
"Even at the cost of your life? The life of your loved ones? You would protect criminals?"
She remained silent, and watched as the man merely shook his head.
"Jesus. Reading about it is one thing – seeing it in person as something else. I don't know if I should applaud your unbending sense of morality, or laugh at your complete idiocy and lack of self-preservation."
He clapped his hands together, as though he had arrived at an epiphany.
"Ah! I know, I'll do both!"
Barbara could only stare in irritation at the laughing, clapping man for so long before she lunged at him, fists blurring.
He stepped back, into the ladies restroom, evading the flurry of the first two punches by a brief margin. Barbara didn't slow down her assault, following it with a left straight, which the man once more evaded with a swift side-step to the right. She growled as she decided to aim for the man's center of mass – his middle, and she brought out her right leg in thrust kick, only for the man to once more contort his way out of the attack by leaning his body far back so that his head touched the floor.
She followed the motion, bringing her right leg from the thrust kick to an axe kick aimed for his groin. And again, the man twisted out of the way, moving to the right. She trailed after she him with a butterfly kick, forcing the man to cartwheel into one of the toilet stalls to evade – a position which she did not hesitate to capitalize on.
A rush, and a left knee strike aimed for his chest, which, in the confined space of a toilet stall, was unavoidable.
Or at least, should have been unavoidable.
In a motion that was too fast to have possibly been human, he performed a split, using the walls of the toilet stall as anchors for his legs, and leaving her strike going wide and her left foot entering into the toilet bowl.
"Tut. Tut. You're underneath a man in club toilet. What would your dearest father say?"
She let out an annoyed growl, as her fist went in an uppercut towards the pervert's nether regions.
And it was promptly stopped by an open palm. The first time he had bothered to actually block an attack rather than evade it.
"Aiming for my balls? I didn't take you for the type to fight dirty. But… if you want to play it that way –"
Strong.
Barbara had known that he was faster and more agile than her, by the manner in which he dodged her attacks with relative ease. She hadn't, however, taken into account how much stronger he was then her. The feeling of a hand grabbing a large part of her hair and slamming her head down to the toilet bowl cemented it more than anything else.
With just one hand, she found herself forced to breathe the water in the toilet bowl, as she struggled with the best of her ability to free herself from his grasp on her hair. With that same hand, he pushed her face further into the bowl until she could almost kiss the bottom of it, whilst struggling to hold her breath and flailing to escape his grasp.
With one hand, he was nearly drowning her, in a toilet bowl.
She realized just how badly she had underestimated her opponent, both in intellect and in combat ability, as she flailed her arms and her legs, and whatever she could to try and stop him from drowning her – kicking at random, and trying to use her arms to push herself off – to no use. It felt as though there were a hundred men pushing down on her head rather than just a single man.
He was saying something, but amidst her struggles and the water rapidly filling her ears and nose, she couldn't hear it. She couldn't make it out. That was when, she felt it, his second hand, slowly touching her backside.
Her frantic struggles increased madly and more desperate than ever before, bubbles raising from the water as the sound of gurgling screams rose. A genuine fear seeped into her chest like a deathly cold. The slow, caressing touch of his hand on her backside sent terror into her chest that she couldn't mask. Her struggles were in vain, as she simply did not have the necessary amount of strength, and all her desperation merely made the water enter her lungs faster.
It was at that moment, when she could no longer inhale, when no more breaths would enter her lungs, and the world was beginning to grow dark –
Her head was lifted from the water.
She coughed, gasping for air, and immediately threw up large amounts of water onto the bathroom floor. She took in deep, wheezing breaths as more and more water streamed out of her nose and mouth, the whites of her eyes turned almost as red as her hair.
"So. Do you regret not walking away?"
He was there, she noticed. He was still there. Nothing had stopped him – he had chosen to stop. And here he was, on one knee and looking at her like a child who had erred.
"You see – I could have chosen to kill you. Or, worse, I could have chosen to stick my dick in you and go wild. But, all I did, was this –"
There, in his palm, was a familiar pair of white panties.
"I stole your panties."
There was mixture of confusion, of fear, of uncertainty, of embarrassment and slight disbelief, all of which encompassed her.
"Remember this day, Barbara Gordon." He said, face entirely serious "Remember the day, that Zed Rander stole your panties."
He promptly rolled it into a ball, and put it in his pocket.
"Remember, the day I stole your panties."
He repeated, with complete seriousness.
"Next time – I will not steal your panties. I will steal… something more."
This – THIS – was the man who had almost killed her? THIS?!
Shame, indignation, and a burning sense of disbelief was rushing through her, even as she watched the man walk away – the strength to stop him no longer present.
DC – Remastered Edition
Gotham City Square
8:50 PM
Tensions were high, and I maintained a blank face as I very calmly, told Bruce Wayne to leave. Honestly, I had expected more from the legendary Batman. Images and depictions of him by numerous virgin fanboys had painted the idea that Batman was a god-like figure who could not be beaten or outsmarted, when, in fact, he was merely a human just like everyone else.
As Bruce Wayne, he looked incredibly less intimidating, and quite frankly, was more or less a pansy. People never truly got the idea that Bruce Wayne and Batman were two different people, character-wise and achievement wise. It was almost like flipping a switch – one which would activate when the cloak was put on or off. Bruce Wayne was a pacifist, calm-headed and soft-spoken billionaire playboy. Batman was the gruff, no-nonsense, cold and hard skeptic. In a sense, it was a two-faced persona which could not be broken without disastrous consequences.
If Batman was to gain the traits of Bruce Wayne, or if Bruce Wayne were to gain the traits of Batman, it would be catastrophic.
A cold, angry and aggressive billionaire.
A relaxed, conflict-avoidant, playboy vigilante.
It could not happen.
Hence, as I properly surmised, Bruce Wayne attempted to go the 'friend-of-the-people' approach.
He let out a deep sigh, and shook his head. "I can see now that you seem to have a deep loathing for me, for whatever reason – I do not know. Is there no way I can convince you that all of this is unnecessary?"
The eyes were on me once more, and, I closed them.
This was Batman, no, this was Bruce Wayne. For one could exist where the other did not, and both of them could not exist at the same time. It was the one thing I had as an advantage over him – in that, I could be in two places at the same time. It wasn't cloning, but rather, an extremely limited, cheap man's version of partial-omnipresence.
A.K.A. – Ripping off Pain's Six Paths technique.
Even as I spoke with Bruce Wayne right now, the tangible version of myself, created using Alteration, commanded and linked to all my senses, existed at the Skyline Tower, and was now in the process of slaughtering his way through Alberto Falcone's goons and finding the man himself.
It was like controlling two different Xbox controllers with your hands and feet, and then, playing Skyrim on one, and the Witcher on the other. Still, I balanced it out well enough, even as I felt the other 'me' run his hand through some poor mook's chest, I turned towards Bruce, and answered his question.
"You have had over twenty years to cure Gotham. Your family has had over two hundred. Yet, just this morning, I saw pickpocket-children and skinny-muggers."
My voice was loud and clear.
"Cure this city, Mr. Wayne. Cure it. And not only will I come to respect you for it, I will worship you." I said, sharply. "Until then – your presence is a blight."
He looked like he wanted to speak, to say something, but he stopped sharp. What would he say? What could he say? That it wasn't his job to fix the city? That he was trying his best?
No. His pride would not allow him to make any of those two utterances.
"I see."
With those words, I watched as Bruce Wayne turned around, and headed for the exit – humbled at his own fundraiser.
Another blow to his reputation, successfully earned.
Now, if those god-damned assassins could hurry up and get here –
My night would be complete.