#slowly building up my personal gotham rogues gallery

[littleeyesofpallas]

huh maybe i just didn't tag it, it was probably before i started collecting my batman headcanons under the #random headcanon tag, but I have always had a very specific noncanon vision for Ra's Al Ghul., one that i do understand a lot of people don't really like, but obviously that I consider pretty defensible, if not an improvement over the existing canon's mishandling of Ra's and the League in general.

See my beef is that the League of Assassins is just a cluster fuck of problems to begin with, both stylistically and internal continuity wise... For one, Ra's as written is just kind of an idiot and it's ridiculous to have to reconcile the idea that he is in fact this unquestioned ruler of this ancient order of assassins that's been operating for over a thousand years. On the one hand we can sort of blame the pit madness for some of it, but it's also clear that for all his scheming and seemingly improbable resources, he has literally never actually accomplished any of his organization's goals.

Secondary to this is that the league itself is just this massive stupid fucking hodgepodge of bad racist cliches. Why the fuck are they ninjas? Why do they use katanas and wear the stupid americanized ninja pajamas? Why do they keep showing up in like Buddhst temples deep in the mountains of Tibet? Also, in a bunch of his earliest appearances, why is he just a guy in a three piece suit and a cape? Also why would the leader of an ancient organization like the league of assassins have such a stupid, blatantly fake, and "i looked at an english to arabic dictionary once" name like Ra's Al-Ghul. (obvious answer is that it should be a title not a name, but then his stupid kids all take it as a surname)

My answer to all this(other than just ignoring a few of the dumber details) is that Ra's is not an ancient leader of the League of Assassins at all, he's a "modern" era usurper. A dark inversion of the white savior narrative and all it's inherent problems, a kind of supervillain Lawrence of Arabia(yeah yeah i know Tom King already did this with Adam Strange, but I've had this kicking around in my head for longer, shush) where he was sent to the Middle East as a British soldier in WWI to fight the Ottomans and much in the style of Lawrence parallel to him, rallied the locals to help in his efforts. While there he'd gain a certain appreciation and indeed a love of the local culture, but never fully forget his role as a foreign power come to exploit those people to his country's own ends. In that way his personal turning point becomes that he is unwittingly allied with the actual League of Assassins, and as the war begins to wind down, and he is forced to reckon with the idea of going home to England a nobody, or staying a war hero in the middle east, he goes full Heart of Darkness, and instead uses his military position and resources to seize control of the League for himself.

In this version of events, Talia would make the most sense as a daughter of the last of the actual blood line of rulers of the original League of Assassins, her mother being the daughter of the man Ra's overthrew. This impels her to her eventual take over, and her loyalty to the League over her father specifically. It also motivates her interest in raising Damian as an heir, as he has a more legitimate claim to the League via her than Ra's ever did or than Bruce would as Ra's' handpicked heir.

It would also give room for the original League to have been a force of relative good, developing their assassination and government destabilization tactics like their real world counterparts, the Order of Assassins, as the defensive measures of a smaller kingdom against the overwhelming forces of the neighboring rivals but more pressingly The Crusades. This creates a kind of golden age of righteous fury, where the League were noble just defenders of the middle east, and their destabilization tactics a safeguard against corruption rather than the comic's preferred route of 1970s era orientalist boogeymen where "OoOoooOo uncivilized brown people want to destroy americka!" Because the megalomaniacal world conquest horseshit is Ra's' doing, and a direct off shoot of Western imperialism, not something inherent to the League's actual founding history or culture.(and more importantly not just a recycled and displaced Fu Man Chu)

It does also conveniently make a slightly more sensible motive to the league's particular brand of generic super villainy: Where as their historical purpose would be to balance out power in their local region, that same balance left them open to destabilization at the hands of men like "Ra's" and Lawrence. So Ra's' plan is just to destabilize countries in places other than the middle east in the same way, to prime them for conquest. This makes his global network of assassins make more sense as they're all the in-progress cells of his would-be warlords gone "native" trying to blend in.

This all just making Ra's basically a giant Islamophilic orientalist weeaboo cosplaying this ridiculous caricature of an illustrious ancient warlord, aligning him and his delusions more with the writers who made him in the 70s, rather than the misguided fantasy they were tapping into. All the while his daughter sitting there in the background plotting revenge for a family she never even got to know, Lady Snowblood style.

Oh it also sort of helps rectify the goofy idea that Ra's otherwise would have had what like EIGHT HUNDRED years from the 70s, or over 900 from the current day as supreme ruler of the League of Assassins and only ever had like 3 kids? Where as if he's only been at it since WWI, then it makes WAY more sense that he's only got a handful of kids. (I have the same issue with the idea that Vandal Savage has been loitering around since the dawn of human history but his only notable kid is Scandal and she's like what in her 20s?)

Also unrelated to the rest of this but goddamnitall give them a bitter centuries long rivalry with the Order of St.Dumas. They're an islamic kingdom of assassins and a secret society of crusader knights ffs

[skylathescholarly]

The Terrible Fire of Old Regret (fic under the cut)

A One Hundred Days to Become a Wayne (by @maccreadysbaby) story

TW: Child abuse, violence, panic attacks

So! If you follow the lovely @maccreadysbaby, you may find a thread where we both shouted at each other (in a good way) over this lil oneshot. If you haven't read their fics, you can find the first installment here, and if you love the Batfam you need to read it. You'll also need to in order to understand this, haha. But anyway! Most of the dialogue is taken straight from her story. It covers chapter 1-3 in 100 Days (plus some stuff I made up that doesn't happen in the original, but is implied to have happened) and is Dick's POV of chapter 7-8 in 100 Days. Chapter title from Bitter Water by the Oh Hellos. Hope you enjoy!!

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Dick swung through the streets, reveling in the swing and release of his grappling hook. It was good to get out and clear his head. He’d been having a weird feeling lately, like something was coming. 

It was probably nothing. They were tracking a new metahuman, those cases always got on his nerves. It was dangerous for metas in Gotham, and they also really didn’t need to be adding to their Rogue gallery anytime soon. 

“No. It’s… I don’t know. It’s like all of these reporters are scared of her for no reason. None of them point back to anything she’s done, all the photographs are of her just… walking around.” Barbara said over the comm.

“Then how do they even know she’s a metahuman?” Dick asked. 

“I don’t know, I’m looking into it,” Barbara replied. “Facial recognition software pinged her on the Northern outskirts of Gotham. Nightwing, you’re closest, but I’m sending her coordinates to everyone. Stay sharp.”

“Always am,” Dick grinned.

“Lots of these reports say they saw her in a dream-like state before they ever saw her in person. One from the blog Drew Confidential says: I’d never seen the girl before in my life, until I fell asleep that night. I could hear her voice and see her botched face. It was like I could feel her in my head, and I knew she had to be stopped. I didn’t know, however, that I would see her, yellow hood tugged over her head, walking right by my office building the next day. I knew her name without ever speaking a word to her — Secret Keeper. Several of the first hand accounts talk about dreams coming first, and then seeing her for real.”

“Okay, weird. I’m just going to be busy walking elderly people across the road.” Steph cut in. Dick smirked at the comment, but quickly returned his attention to the task at hand. 

“She’s moving to the East, Nightwing. Slowly — looks like she’s just walking down the street. Keep your head on your shoulders.” Barbara instructed. 

“Gotcha.”

“Red Robin, standby to assist,” 

“Standing by,” Tim replied.

Dick silently followed Barbara’s directions. Secretly, he had to agree with Steph. What the eyewitness had described was more than a little creepy. The creepy parts of the night job were always the worst. 

“Oracle, I’m closing in on her position,” Dick updated the Cave. He hoped Bentley wouldn’t watch if it got to be too much. The kiddo didn’t need any more trauma than he already had. Anything to keep him out of the field. Maybe one of us can be the lucky one for once. 

Suddenly he saw her. Blonde, dressed in yellow, standing on the ground below him. She looked… weirdly calm. 

“I’ve got eyes on her,” Dick said. “And she’s… got eyes on me?”

“Elaborate, Nightwing.”

“She’s waving at me. She was waving as soon as I walked up, like she knew I was coming,” because that wasn’t creepy at all. Oh no, am I gonna get kidnapped? Not this week, please, I’ve got stuff to do. 

Barbara sighed. “Well, she hasn’t done anything yet, so the most we can do is monitor from afar. I’ll let the police know where she was and keep her pinged on the Batcomputer, for now.”

“Alrighty,”

“I’m also going to set up the system to alert us when she gets near large public gathering places — schools, the library, malls, the bank, county buildings,” Barbara said, and by her tone Dick knew she was already working on it. 

“Roger that, Oracle. Should I-” Dick suddenly gasped as agonizing pain shot through his head. He could honestly say that in all his years of crime fighting, he’d never felt such piercing pain. He tried to form the words he needed to call for backup, to warn his family, to ask for help, because it hurt- black spots swam in his vision and he knew he was too late. He barely felt himself crumple to the ground. 

When he opened his eyes, he didn’t recognize his surroundings. It almost looked like Wayne Manor, but he knew intrinsically that it wasn’t. It was too… dark. At the sound of light laughter, he got up and walked across the hall. The rest of the house seemed to be decorated just as classically, if a bit over the top for Alfred’s usual tastes. Everything around him felt real enough, but one could never be sure in Gotham. He could even just be dreaming in the Cave. A really weird, hyper-realistic dream, but still. A guy could hope. He found the source of the laughter in a sitting room, and snuck into the room, sure he wasn’t able to be seen. He wasn’t sure what was happening-either some new Scarecrow drug or the Secret Keeper. Lovely. Dick prepared himself mentally, but… even then, his usual protections fell short. 

Bentley. That was a tiny baby Bentley, sitting on a chair much too big for him, in a tiny suit that looked supremely uncomfortable, staring at the three adults in the room with a serious, wide-eyed gaze. The kid couldn’t be more than five, but he wasn’t fidgeting at all. Dick began to feel sick. Were these Bentley’s real memories, or an elaborate lie his brain was concocting? Or even the Secret Keeper’s doing? 

The adults were talking, Dick heard snippets of conversation that sounded like business matters, and he had to wonder what Bentley was doing here. Maybe it was a weird rich kid thing. Tim might know. 

Dick turned his attention fully to the adults as the two guests started exiting. Bentley’s father-no, Bentley has a better dad now. A better family. This man is nothing. Whittaker saw the others out, and returned to the room to collect Bentley. Dick watched warily. He knew Whittaker was an abusive piece of trash, but none of them had really pushed Bentley into telling details. From various nightmares he’d helped Bentley through, though, he knew Whittaker was physically and emotionally abusive, and Bentley often dreamt about a dark closet. He had a terrible feeling that what he was seeing was real, and that he was about to get up close and personal with Bentley’s worst nightmares. 

He wanted to see. He wanted to run away. He wanted to grab the tiny Bentley and hold him as tightly as possible. He wanted Bruce to handle it. He didn’t want anyone else to have to see it. 

Bentley hopped off the chair as Whittaker approached, a hopeful look on his tiny, squishy face. He was so little. Were five year olds normally this small? Was he even five? 

“Did I do good, Father?” Little Bentley asked, and despite the tension growing in his chest, Dick had to resist the urge to coo at the toddler. 

“Shut up, Bentley. Go to your room, I have work to do.” Whittaker said dismissively. Dick clenched his fist. 

“But-”

“Go! Do you want to spend the night in the closet, Bentley?” 

“No, sir, please don’t-”

“Go to your room.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Dick watched as Bentley ran out of the room, barely holding back the tears. He followed the boy, trying to put aside his anger at Whittaker in favor of comforting the child. Everything felt way too real to be an illusion or hallucination, and as crazy as it seemed, he might have to start considering time travel. He had to admit, though, it was mostly wishful thinking. Maybe if he got sent back in time, he could make a difference in Bentley’s life sooner. He made sure he wasn’t seen as he followed his baby brother to what he assumed was his room. 

Bentley scrambled onto the bed and buried himself under the covers, and Dick flinched as he heard the unmistakable sound of someone choking back their sobs. Bentley was trying to cry as silently as possible, probably out of fear of his father. He desperately wanted to comfort the kid, but wasn’t sure he should. Would Bentley freak out? He was dressed as Nightwing. Bentley didn’t live in Gotham or Bludhaven, he probably had no clue who Dick was. He didn’t want to scare Bentley more than his father had. No, maybe he’d wait and watch, as much as it pained him to do so. 

Almost as soon as he’d decided to leave Bentley alone for now, the scene dissolved and Dick found himself back in the sitting room. Confused, he turned and saw Bentley, but it was the same Bentley that Dick had first met all those months ago. Small, scared, and pale. Brave, hopeful, and kind. And sleepy. Dick watched as Bentley’s eyes drifted gently shut and his chin sunk toward his chest. 

“Aw, John… looks like your little helper got a bit sleepy. How sweet is that?” A female voice said. Dick turned long enough to see two people, obviously potential business partners. He didn’t spend too much time on them though, instead focusing his attention on Whittaker. It would’ve been invisible to a civilian eye, but to him who’d been Bat-trained since he was eight, he saw the brief flash of anger. Bentley jerked upright as Whittaker strode toward him, chuckling. 

“It seems as though he has. Let me take him up to bed.” He gathered the boy into his arms. Bentley wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and laid his curly red head on his father’s shoulder, the very picture of youthful innocence, but Dick could see the tense lines in his shoulders, the slight tremble to his fingers. No nine-year-old should ever have those traits. 

Dick ran after Whittaker as he carried Bentley down the dark halls. Once they were on the other side of the house, Whittaker stopped and abruptly dropped Bentley onto the floor. Dick cried out and lunged towards the boy, but he was too slow. Bentley hit the ground with a thud and a soft whimper, and Dick turned on Whittaker, furious. What the heck? Why did he even have Bentley with him in his stupid meetings if he was just going to beat him up for being a kid? 

“Get up,” Whittaker said, a cruel edge to his voice. Bentley obeyed wordlessly. “How many times do we have to talk about you not embarrassing me during meetings? It’s always something with you. You’re tired, you’re hungry, you don’t feel good,”

“I’m sorry,” Bentley whispered as he brought his hands up to wrap around his middle. “I was really tired.”

“Yeah? Well I’m really tired of your excuses.” Whittaker said. Dick jumped forward to stop the hit he saw coming for Bentley’s face, but his hand seemed to slide right off of the attacker’s arm, and he shouted as Whittaker slapped Bentley-his own son, just a little kid-in the face. Bentley jumped and staggered back. His hand reached up to his cheek, and Dick choked as his little brother whispered a small, 

“I’m sorry.” 

Tears were now pooling in Dick’s eyes, and he tried to blink them away and focus on Whittaker. He was moving toward Bentley again, and Dick was too slow, he was trying to get Bentley away, he couldn’t move-

Whittaker gripped Bentley’s arm tightly and dragged him around the corner. All Dick could see was Bentley’s terrified, pale face, as Whittaker dragged him toward a white door. 

“No! Father, please… I promise I won’t do it again. I promise. Please don’t-” he begged, pleaded with the larger man, but to no avail. Whittaker simply growled something at him and tossed him roughly into the dark room behind the door. Dick heard another small thud as Bentley hit the ground again, and he wanted to scream. Why couldn’t he help? He was so useless, it was Ethiopia all over again, he wasn’t enough-

Whittaker deadbolted the door and left, not seeing Dick standing helplessly in the hall. Dick rushed toward the door, tried to open it, to get in, to save his baby brother, but his fingers kept slipping off the lock. He couldn’t open it, couldn’t unlock it, why?

“Father! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Bentley was screaming, but then he finally gave up, and all Dick could hear from inside the closet was silence. Awful, dead silence. 

“Bentley! Bentley, please, it’s okay, I’ve got you, I’m right here! Bentley!” Dick cried, near frantic. He was still desperately trying to open the door as it dissolved into darkness like before. It gave way once again to an elaborately furnished office. Bentley was sitting on a chair on one side of a large desk, and Whittaker occupied the desk chair. 

“You know I love you, right?” Whittaker said, and cupped his hand around Bentley’s cheek. Dick tried to cross the room to rip Bentley away, but he felt like he was running through mud. 

“You… you what?”

“I love you,”

“The way I treat you, the way I raise you — I do it so you can be successful,” Dick saw Bentley start to trust the gentle touch, to lean into it. 

“I teach you the hard lessons so you don’t have to learn them from anyone else,” Whittaker stroked Bentley’s face. “Because I want what’s best for you. I always have.”

“No, Bentley, no baby, don’t listen, we love you-” Dick felt like he was being ripped apart. 

“And that, son, is how you manipulate someone,” The man said, and walked away from his desk. Bentley was unbalanced by the loss of support, and Whittaker’s expression regained its cruel edge.  “With your words, your touch, your eyes… you can make people fold in the blink of an eye. People you never thought would fold. You believed me, didn’t you?”

“No! No, you- you- stop!” Dick practically screamed in Whittaker’s face, but the man looked right through him. 

“I… you don’t… you were lying?”

Dick turned toward his little brother just in time to see the heartbreak unfold on his little face. 

“I’m going to teach you how to do what I just did to you. How to take people's pasts, their desires, their fears, the tiniest sliver of information they present to you… and twist it into a net they can’t get out of. How to tie strings around the wrists and ankles of every person you meet so they bend to your will. Move when you move.” Whittaker pulled a stack of files from the desk. “I’ve asked myself for a long time, what’s the most efficient way to get rid of my rivals? To silence them? It's been right in front of my face for as long as I can remember. Sales people, businessmen, they live, thrive off of pulling the right strings, moving the right parts, saying the right things… they’ve made manipulation, deception, into a career. But us, we’re going to make it into a superpower. And you… into a weapon.”

Dick couldn’t hold back anymore. He sobbed as he tried to hold Bentley, to take him away, to cover his ears, but he just couldn’t seem to affect anything. 

“These are going to be your main targets.” Whittaker said. Dick guessed they were the Wayne family folders, but he didn’t care. “But first, you need training. Let’s start with this,” 

Bentley and Dick yelled out in surprise and anger respectively when Whittaker’s hand thwacked across the child’s face, hard enough to shake the office chair and leave a painful red mark on Bentley’s cheek. “You must not allow yourself to be so easily deceived. If you’re going to be using it as a weapon, you must be immune to it yourself.” Whittaker eyed his young son with distaste. “Don’t you dare start crying.”

Dick sobbed harder. Bentley didn’t move. 

“You know who else thrives off of manipulation? Children. They cry to get what they want, or to make people feel bad. It’s instilled in you simply for existing as a human being. And while you’ve learned over time that you can not manipulate me with childish antics… you will learn just how far you can take people before they teeter off the edge. We’re going to pull that instinct out of you until it’s all you are. All you know. I’m going to turn you into a human Puppeteer. One that can twist and weave its way into the unsuspecting consciousnesses of strangers and control them, make them feel and believe things that aren’t really there. A weapon that can’t be found. Do you understand?”

“I… understand, father.” Bentley said, but his voice sounded thick. Dick didn’t know how much more he could take. 

“Good,” Whittaker tossed a protein bar on the desk in front of Bentley, and Dick nearly threw up at the look of joy and thankfulness on Bentley’s face when he saw it. “It seems you have much reading to do. When you finish, we’ll discuss how you can use that information to make the Waynes weak at the knees.”

Bentley happily began to eat the measly protein bar and look at the files. Dick tried and tried to get Bentley to see him, to hear him, but nothing worked. He was still trying to get the boy’s attention when the room faded to black again. 

He knew he should be trying to focus on figuring out what was going on, could hear Bruce’s voice in his head telling him to slow down, think logically, but he couldn’t. Bentley was in trouble, his baby brother was getting hurt and again-always, always-he couldn’t do anything, he was too late, he was in space, he didn’t listen-

The darkness once again pulled away and Dick was standing in another sitting room. Whittaker was staring at a portrait of a woman on the wall, a glass of alcohol in his hand. His eyes were red, he was crying, and Dick hated him. Hated him with every fiber of his being. His attention was drawn toward the door on the other end of the room, and he saw Bentley peer inside, fear and curiosity on his face. When he saw his father crying, something unreadable crossed his face. 

“Father?” he said timidly. Even with this monster, he’s always kind. Dick thought, but his reflection on his brother’s unfailing empathy was chased from his mind when Whittaker leapt from his chair and punched Bentley in the face. Dick screamed as Bentley flew into the air and crashed down hard on the floor. The ten-year-old pressed his hand against his mouth as tears pooled in his eyes. 

“Stop it, stop, stop, he’s just a kid-” Dick shouted at Whittaker, but the man marched toward Bentley without a glance in Dick’s direction. Bentley scrambled backward, utter terror written in every line of his body. 

“What have I told you about invading my privacy?!” Bentley’s back hit the wall, Dick’s feet seemed to be cemented in place. “Tell me!”

Bentley curled into a little ball, and Dick saw rather than heard the sobs rack his body. 

“Stop crying!” Whittaker raised his hand and threw the glass toward the child, his son. 

“No!” Dick screamed, and lunged forward, but his hands just slipped off the glass, not deterring it in the least. The glass barely missed Bentley’s head and shattered against the wall. Strong liquid pooled on the floor, and the scent of heavy alcohol, fear, and anger made Dick want to gag. 

“Just… just… go put yourself… in the closet,” Whittaker grumbled. When Bentley simply looked up at him, he shouted, “Now!” 

The boy stumbled to his feet,and in his hurry, pressed his hand against the shattered glass. Blood joined the already nauseating smells in the air. Dick remembered that wound. They’d helped him dress it. 

“Get out of my sight, boy!” Whittaker slurred as he sat down. “Knew I shoulda’ given you away after your mother died. Worthless excuse of a human being.” 

Dick heard the words as he followed Bentley out, and he knew the boy had, too. I hope he knows better now. I hope he knows we love him. Bentley’s small frame shook with sobs as he huddled in a bathroom, but after a while, he bandaged his own hand and cleaned the blood from the floors and walls. Dick hated the blank, miserable expression on the child’s face as he closed himself into the closet. Dick tried to comfort him, tried to hug him close, but he couldn’t do anything to dry Bentley’s tears, and he was soon crying as well. 

“Dick…” Bentley’s voice said in the darkness. But it wasn’t the young Bentley still crying in the dark next to Dick. It was his Bentley. His babybird. “It’s okay. Nothing scary is happening.”

As soon as Bentley finished speaking, Dick was pulled violently from the darkness of the closet. He was in the sitting room, Whittaker was slapping Bentley. He saw Bentley cry himself to sleep because he was so hungry. He saw Bentley get locked out of the house as a toddler for interrupting a meeting. He saw Whittaker strike his son again and again and again and again and again, and he couldn’t move, and Bentley kept getting hurt, and Whittaker starved him and yelled at him and never ever touched him without causing pain and Dick screamed and sobbed and begged everything he knew for it to stop. 

Until it finally did. Until he woke up in the Cave, Bruce sitting next to him. Until he sobbed into his father’s shoulder and begged him to send Bentley down, he needed to see Bentley, bigger and happy and safe. Until he could finally, finally hug his baby brother. 

[fyeahwonderbat]

In the Middle of a Broken Constellation - Pt. 15

Pairing: WonderBat (Wonder Woman x Batman) Rating: T / 14A Universe: N/A - Reader’s Choice Previous Chapter: <- Chapter 14 

Author’s Note: This chapter is a little late because I am trying to figure out what direction to take this all in. Originally, I planned for a serious thriller of a story, but it doesn’t seem like that appeals to many readers. I worry that if I don’t have obvious WonderBat moments in most chapters, most WonderBat fans aren’t interested in the build-up of this plot. If I could get some feedback on this chapter/story, that’d be great. If people don’t like it, I can just abandon it, but I want to know what the consensus is. Thanks!

There was an itch at the back of her neck that she couldn’t seem to scratch. Diana had simmered in her fury since the night before and it made her feel like as though a rash was running over her body. Her so-called allies had spent the morning arguing with her about what they were supposed to do with Arthur’s trident, and how they should go about solving the mystery of it appearing suddenly in the back of Falcone’s shipping truck. The team she had collected to help Bruce suddenly turned against her when she arose that morning, with Dick’s words still ringing in her ears. “You’re here because you’re worried about Bruce, right? Let us worry about Aquaman.”

Couldn’t she be worried about more than one of her friends at the same time!?

As devastating as the sludge monster infestation had been, the situation had simmered down considerably after Bruce stopped fulfilling his role as Batman. However, once she had decided to move into Gotham and participate in a solution, more and more concerns kept popping up every day. She had confessed to Jason how overwhelming everything had become, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be excluded from anything. Perhaps finding Arthur and Barry would lead to helping Bruce, which was definitely an area of interest for her.

“Ah, I was just about to go looking for you,” said none other than the billionaire she’d been thinking of, surprising her as he stood in the open doors of the elevator at Wayne Tower. Diana hadn’t realized that she’d been so deep in thought, she’d nearly missed her chance to exit the car. As startled as she was to see him, Bruce looked undeniably smug to catch her off guard for a moment. “I almost thought you’d called in sick or something.”

“No,” she promised a little too quickly. Diana fixed her rose-colored dress despite its loose fit while Bruce joined her in the elevator. He pressed the button marked forty-two and watched the doors shut at a rather sluggish pace. It was when she tried to peek over at him did she recall the pair of glasses she’d brought with her. Staring down at her clutch as she held it tightly under her arm, she knew she’d want to bring them out as soon as they sat down in his office.

“Did you manage to get any sleep last night?” Bruce inquired, breaking the silence.

Looking over at him with a pleasant smile, Diana answered him honestly. “Actually, I did. Only a few hours, though.”

He released a hefty breath, looking much more flummoxed than he had yesterday when she’d returned from the hospital. “That’s more than I expected. I can’t imagine what you went through in there.” Bruce admitted softly.

Despite his genuine attempt at empathy, his words actually struck her deeply. He did know what that kind of battle was like – the ones where you feel powerless in the face of an unknown enemy, where any slip up could be the end of you. The Bruce Wayne she knew had so much more experience with these types of matters than he ever gave himself credit for, however, he could probably imagine exactly what she’d been through with one of his many adversaries from his rogue gallery. Hearing him speak with such a lack of awareness of his own life experience left her speechless for the rest of their time in the elevator.

Luckily, the ride to the forty-second floor was rather swift.

They stepped out of the car in sync with one another, each with their right foot first. There was a large desk for a pool of secretarial staff divided by a hallway, leading to an impressive pair of black doors that was only a few feet beyond them. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne.” A chorus of voices greeted him, and a wall of sound collided with Diana as they passed the group.

“Afternoon.” He answered them emotionlessly. Instead of devoting a moment of his time to his staff, Bruce walked with a noticeable impatience down the length of the hall. When his hand reached the doors, he threw them open as if he was tapping into the strength of the Batman. Diana felt the rush to enter his office and heard the doors close behind her just as much as she felt them. “Someone’s eager to get started.” She was compelled to tease his sudden forcefulness.

Then, she looked around his office with wide eyes. The motif of the floor-to-ceiling windows was carried throughout the building it seemed, from the lobby to Lucius’ conference room to Bruce’s personal space. The walls were decorated with spliced shelves in the shapes of shadowboxes, some containing books while some held cultured accessories. His desk was the same wooden color, a deep brown shade contrasting the brightness brought in by the natural light of the sun. It was a modern room that was particular cold if she focused on it for a moment too long. But that was very Bruce-like, she acknowledged.

To appear distant while trying to be progressive.

Diana strolled over to her seat in front of his desk, loving the echo she heard from her steps. Bruce noticed right away, and even dared to make a joke. “Glad to know you had another pair of heels at home to wear, after losing your shoes yesterday.”

It made her feel much more comfortable to hear him say something so ridiculous. “My belongings haven’t arrived yet so I had to make sure I had at least one more pair of shoes on hand. Although, I was more concerned about one of the heels breaking, not losing them at a hospital.”

“Well, let’s get through this report quickly then, so we can go out and get you some more.” Bruce suggested while he clicked away on his computer, most likely searching for the forms they’d need to fill out.

“Mr. Wayne,” Diana stopped him right there with a sharp pronunciation of his name, “I really don’t need you to buy me anything.”

His fingers froze over his keyboard. Slowly, he turned to look at her and she immediately recognized the challenge in his eyes. It appeared as though defiance was a natural trait for Bruce Wayne, no matter what he could or could not remember. As he spun his body to face her in his seat, he brought his palms together and clasped them tightly, presenting himself as a firm, unmoving boss. “I thought we agreed yesterday that your belongings would be replaced by the Wayne Corporation, as an apology for the horrible incident you endured yesterday.”

“We did,” she agreed easily enough. Sitting up straight, however, allowed her to emit a strikingly powerful air as well. “But after careful deliberation, I realized that if I accepted your offer, it could look like favoritism for your new hire and could create animosity between me and my peers.”

“Why? I’m not going to tell them.” Was the reply of the CEO.

“That’s not the point.”

“Look, Diana, we replace many people’s belongings here all the time. From company pens to affordable housing, I’ve given out a lot of money. After what you went through yesterday, I doubt anyone would accuse you of taking advantage of the company if we offered you shoes in exchange for you not suing us over your first day on the job. Without any kind of insurance, there a lot of people who would do much worse than by taking our kindhearted gesture of a trip to a boutique--”

“But it’s not ‘we’.” Diana pointed out.

“What?” Unafraid to look unpolished, his expression of confusion shifted the entire look of his face.

Refusing to back down, she pressed on. “It’s not ‘we’, Mr. Wayne. It’s you. You’re offering me this kindhearted gesture verbally.”

Again, just as aloof as a CEO should not be, he answered, “So?”

It infuriated Diana to no end that he could be so full of himself whenever it best suited him. That itchy feeling crawled up her spines and rushed over her shoulders, forcing her to sit up straight to lessen the sensation. “There is most definitely a conflict of interests, then!”

There was an impenetrable pause after she shouted at him, so obvious that it made her bite back saying anything else. It was embarrassing that he managed to get a rise out of her over something she believed shouldn’t have been an issue in the first place. His ability to rile her up was yet another facet of his personality that was forever a part of him. What she wouldn’t give to spar with him in that moment!

As if he heard her internal wish, Bruce arose from his seat and walked around the length of his desk to meet her. He sat himself down in the seat next to her, silently observing her as he moved. It took him a moment too long to speak, in her opinion, when he finally responded to her claim. “I respect you, Diana.”

Unprepared for his sincerity, she didn’t have a response ready for him.

So, he continued. “I can appreciate how aware you are of your situation here, but you have to understand something: I’m not asking you for permission here.” “Mr. Wayne—!”

“Were you on company time when you lost your shoes? Were you doing something that pertained to your job here? Were you put in harm’s way while fulfilling your role as the Community Outreach Specialist for the Wayne Foundation? Yes? Then I have every right as both your boss’ boss and the man who funds that hospital more than anyone else in the world to do what I want. Now, you can either come with me and pick out a specific pair of shoes or trust my judgment, even though I do not claim to be a fashion expert. You don’t want me wasting hundreds of dollars on ugly heels, do you?”

For a few moments, she sat in awe of his argument. Then, she regained her consciousness and spat out, “You are the most stubborn man I’ve ever met.”

“Only when I need to be.” He smirked at her, proud of himself.

Eager to deflate him, she muttered, “I highly doubt that.”

Bruce hadn’t expected that response and nearly expressed his shock with a gaping mouth. Luckily for him, he caught himself before looking like a total fool, ready to blurt out the next obnoxious thing that came to mind. “If I wrote up a contract and we signed something physical, would that make you feel better?”

“It would make me feel ridiculous but much less ridiculous than if I simply agreed to your words.” She explained.

“Great,” Bruce sighed and immediately spun his computer screen around on his desk. Grabbing his wireless keyboard, he sat back in his seat, opened an empty document that was drawn up with a contract-like template, then began filling in the blanks with the terms they’d set. “I, Bruce Wayne, agree to replace the missing belongings of Diana Prince. Said belongings were damaged and have gone missing after an incident that occurred yesterday afternoon at Gotham General Hospital. The list of items to be replaced includes one pair of woman’s heels, one woman’s handbag, one cellphone…” “One set of car keys,” Diana added, trying her hardest not to laugh. She realized she had lied when she said it would feel less ridiculous to have a physical copy of their agreement. It felt like they were teenagers that need the law to act as their parents, ready to intervene if things became obscure.

With a brow arched, he turned to her and asked specifically, “How many keys need to be replaced?” Unable to hide her awkwardness, Diana accidentally chastised him personally. “Bruce!”

He didn’t appear disappointed by her usage of his name. Instead, he looked as though he was relieved to know she found the entire situation as hilarious as he did. “And one set of car keys. It is the responsibility of Mr. Wayne to provide transportation to and from any shops visited, as well as any meal that is consumed whilst shopping. When Miss Prince is satisfied with the purchases, Mr. Wayne is to escort her home.”

Diana leaned over the armrest of her chair. It was her turn to add her own legalities to the contract since her name would be on it too. Making sure she spoke with proper articulation, she stated, “Should Mr. Wayne fail to fulfill any of his obligations, he must provide Miss Prince with one week of paid vacation to any destination she chooses, all expenses paid.”

“What? What happened to being too virtuous to take any money from me?” Bruce complained immediately, indignation heard in his tone.

“A contract has clauses, you know. I’m merely protecting myself in our agreement.” She claimed, all while visibly fighting off the urge to smile. After the way he made her feel when he fought her polite refusal of his gift, it was nice to turn things around on him.

That would only last a moment or two, however. Typing furiously, Bruce read aloud what his clause would say in their contract. “Should Miss Prince refuse a replacement for all of her belongs, the transportation to and from any shops visited, the meal consumed whilst shopping and/or the escort to her home, Miss Prince will be required to…attend the 37th Martha Wayne Charity Auction.”

Instantly, Diana cocked her head to one side. “That doesn’t sound at all like a punishment.”

“Trust me,” Bruce scoffed as he typed away. “It is.”

“When is it?”

“Next weekend.”

“Alright, I don’t have any plans.” Diana accepted the terms, sliding back into a proper seat. Having attended many galas and high society parties in her day, she knew that some could be rather mundane, but it wasn’t something she couldn’t survive.

Whereas Bruce would most likely suffer internally for years if she bested him and managed to get a free vacation out of their inane contract.

“By signing below, both parties indicate that they have read, reviewed and agree to the terms of this contract.” Bruce declared. Once he was finished typing, he stood up, returned his keyboard to his desk, and signed his signature on the touch screen of his computer. Following his example, Diana arose from her chair and did the same. Since the computer was positioned off to the side, she was forced to lean forward and cross over his personal space in order to reach the screen. She scribbled her name as quick as can be before looking up at him, shooting him a confident grin of her own.

But when she met his gaze, she didn’t see the jovial man she had been teasing a moment ago. The confidence that radiated off of him was something she’d seen before, in meetings where he would get his way, in moments where he could put down even the strongest Metahumans in the Justice League. She moved carefully so as to preserve the image in her mind, as it encouraged her to see the version of Bruce Wayne she was trying to save. The Batman existed inside of him even if she couldn’t reach him directly.

But this version of him, the one she would be spending her day with, had the charms of Bruce that she wasn’t always privy to.

Face to face, she saw a glint in his eyes that was mischievous, no matter how fleeting it was. He cleared his throat and offered her his hand, but Diana didn’t take it right away. She couldn’t help but feel like she was searching more, like she was greedy for… something. Everything she was doing – everything she had done with her civilian life and all of her resources as Wonder Woman – was all geared towards this enigma of a man. Having him next to her, alone, where she could truly marvel at the person he was beneath the Kevlar and the trickery was worth more than any pair of shoes they’d find at the mall.

And it made her feel flush in a way she didn’t dare acknowledge while standing with him in his office.

Carefully, she shook his hand and offered a cordially smile. Then, she said. “Before we can move on to fulfilling the promises of the contract, we have a report to fill out first, right?”

Bruce withdrew his hand and stomped around his desk in the blink of an eye. The absence of his presence was felt right away, but it was the coldness of his answer that stood out to her. “Yes, of course.” He dropped into his seat, fixated himself with his computer and began setting up the report file. It didn’t shock her to see him retreat into himself, but Diana noticed right away that it wasn’t such a harsh separation as she was used to with him.

Maybe, once the old Bruce returned to her, some of these softer traits of his would remain.

Maybe.

[hamlet-writes]

Epistemophobia- Pt. 1

Sometimes, the best discoveries happen completely on accident.

Three gunshots rang through the heavily perfumed air, and socialites shrieked and swore as Jonathan and his hired grunts strode calmly through the front door.  Women clutched pearls to their chests with an aghast gasp and scrambled out of the way, leaving a clear path leading directly underneath the huge yellow diamond chandelier hanging over the gala like a spider in its web.

Why do they still hold these things? Jonathan thought. They always get robbed.  He stopped just before the chandelier, holding up a hand to signal his henches to do the same.  

"Evenin' ladies and gentlemen," Jonathan said, adjusting his mask.  The whole room fell silent, all eyes fixed fearfully on him.  Excellent.

"Lovely time you're havin' here, isn't it?  No expense spared, I see.  Even had this specially made and shipped in, didn't you?" Jonathan continued, gesturing towards the chandelier. "From...Italy, I believe?"  One of the partygoers stepped forward, raising his hands in the air as Jonathan's henches trained their weapons on him.  Jonathan smirked when he saw who it was- the host himself, Bruce Wayne.

"Please, gentlemen," Wayne said, hazarding another step forward. "There's no need for violence.  We'll give you whatever it is you want."

"Oh, I'm certain you will, Mr. Wayne," Jonathan said, slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out the trigger mechanism.  After a moment's hesitation he added, "You may want to take a step back."  With a brief glance behind him to make sure all his henches were wearing their gas masks Jonathan pressed the trigger.  The nanoexplosive planted on the chain of the chandelier blew, and Wayne dove back into the crowd as it crashed to the floor.

The discovery of frozen fear toxin, like many other great discoveries, had happened purely by accident.  In an intellectual discussion with Freeze gone wrong Jonathan had made the mistake of mentioning Nora.  Victor had attacked, Jonathan had retaliated, and the frozen fear toxin had shattered on the floor and been released just as it was now.  Gotham's richest and most influential screamed as fear gas billowed through the room, trying to no avail to escape their own personal nightmares.  Jonathan allowed himself to grin underneath his mask, observing the chaos for a moment before turning to his henches.  

"Grab anything of value and load it in the van," he said. "Quickly."  They nodded, fanning out through the crowd and relieving the now-incoherent partygoers of their possessions.  He turned his attention back to the crowd.

"Bruce Wayne," he mused, stepping over the twisted remains of the chandelier and kneeling in front of Wayne, who stared ahead in muted terror.  Jonathan grabbed him by the face, studying him carefully.

"What could a spoiled little brat like you possibly be afraid of?" he wondered aloud.  Wayne murmured in his delirium, fixated on something (or someone) that wasn't there.  Jonathan leaned forward so that his ear was at Wayne's lips, listening intently to his words.

"Father...no, I'm- I couldn't- Mom..." he whispered.

"Yes, always the parents, isn't it," Jonathan noted, his lips twitching upwards in the ghost of a smile.

"No...Harvey!  You don't- Barbara!  Jason!  Jason!"

Jonathan's smile died as the realization dawned on him.  He'd heard these words all before, but someone else has been saying them.

Or else he hadn't.

"Jesus christ on a cross," Jonathan breathed, releasing Wayne and leaning back.  Hardly daring to believe it he raised one hand in the air, covering the top half of Wayne's face.  The resemblance was unmistakable.  Jonathan stood, thankful his henches couldn't see his shocked expression beneath his mask.  He gestured for the one nearest him to approach, and she did so apprehensively.

"What is it, boss?" she asked, pulling her gas mask farther up onto her face.

"Take Mr. Wayne here and load him into the back of the van with the rest of the valuables," Jonathan ordered. "And make doubly sure he's unconscious once you do."

"Not to pry, but why, sir?" she asked, grabbing Wayne by the arm and forcing him to his feet. "What do you think he's capable of?"

"Infinitely more than I realized just a moment ago," Jonathan said.  He watched numbly as the woman half lead, half dragged Wayne away, lost in thought. It seemed the greatest discoveries really did happen by accident.  He would have to remember to thank Victor. - Bruce groaned as he slowly regained consciousness, squeezing his eyes shut against what he was sure were going to be the blinding white lights of a hospital.  He couldn't remember what he'd been doing last.  Had he fallen off a building again?  Was that why his head was throbbing with steady pulses of pain?

"Evenin', Batman," a mild voice greeted him.  

Crane.

Bruce forced his eyes open, taking in his surroundings.  Crane had his back  to him, still dressed in his full Scarecrow getup, save his mask.  He was bent over a long mahogany desk, covered in loose papers and notebooks no doubt filled to the brim with his "research."  The only light came from the sickly yellow glow of the beakers of fear toxin lining the shelf on the far wall, dimly illuminating the ragged and dilapidated brick walls cramping him in on all sides.  He glanced down at the cracked and discolored concrete floor, covered in water and ill-removed blood stains.  The only exit was a rusty metal door in the farthest corner away from him.  Bruce tried to shift in his seat, and noted that extra precautions had been made to secure him.  His legs had been shackled and chained around the legs of the cold steel chair he was tied to (which was bolted to the floor), and Crane had somehow managed to put him in a full-body straitjacket, which he could've easily escaped from if it weren't for the chains wrapped five times around his torso.  He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.  Bruce wondered numbly how Crane had managed to fit the straitjacket over his batsuit, then started as if he'd been struck as the realization dawned on him.

He wasn't wearing his mask.

"Or is it morning?" Crane continued, turning from his work to face him. "Well, I don't suppose you'd know, now would you?"

He'd called him Batman.  He knew.

"Starting to remember it now, are we?" Crane asked, a contemptuous smile forming on his face. "You really shouldn't hold so many parties, Mr. Wayne.  They'll be the death of you."  Bruce said nothing, setting his jaw resolutely and glaring ahead.  Crane chuckled, turning back to his desk and lifting a vial of some clear liquid in delicate fingers.  In one stride he'd crossed the distance between them, and Bruce couldn't help but notice just how much he towered over him.

"This should ease the headache," Crane said, holding it out as if offering it to him.

"How can I trust you?" Bruce managed to croak out.  His throat was dry and cracked- an after effect of fear gas he'd come to expect.

"If I were tryin' to poison you right now, would I really have to trick you to do it?" Crane asked. "No," Bruce admitted.  Without another word Crane tilted his chin up with one hand, pressing the vial to his lips and pouring it down his throat.  Bruce winced as the bitter taste hit his tongue, pulling a face that would've sent Dick into hysterics, because Crane actually let out an audible laugh.  He half-expected the hallucinations to start anew but, sure enough, the pulsing agony in his head dulled to a distant migraine.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Me?" Crane asked, pulling up the wooden chair that had been tucked beneath his desk and sitting on it backwards, straddling the seat and resting his arms on the back as he leaned towards Bruce. "Why, I just want to talk, Bruce."  That rag-doll pose made Bruce uneasy- it reminded him much more of Scarecrow than Crane.  If he had to be chained and taken hostage in a tiny room by one of them, he would much rather Crane be in control.

"Fine, let's...talk," Bruce said guardedly.

"Y'know," Crane said with a bewildered laugh. "This was just supposed to be a cash grab.  In and out before the GCPD or the Bat- well, before you could get there."

"Oh really?" Bruce said.  Crane might not have been the most boisterous out of the rogues gallery, but old habits died hard- he liked to lecture.  If Bruce could just keep him talking for as long as possible, he might be able to get out of here.

"Oh yes," Crane continued. "They say some of the greatest discoveries happen completely by accident, and that's exactly what this was.  Someone more...superstitious, might call it an act of God, but I'm inclined to believe this is just an incredible stroke of luck.  Well, on my behalf, that is."  Crane leaned forward, studying Bruce with a look of mock sympathy that made his skin crawl.

"It all makes perfect sense now, though, doesn't it?" Crane said. "Such a tragedy, to lose one's parents at such a young age.  You musta been angry.  Alone.  Terrified."

"If you think you're gonna get me to talk about that, you're even more delusional than I thought," Bruce said, glaring.  Crane chuckled.

"Oh, you will, Bruce," he said, folding his hands together. "All in due time."  Bruce clenched his jaw, glaring wordlessly ahead.

"I will admit, this is quite the clever disguise you've crafted for yourself," Crane said. "The cowl?" Bruce asked.   "The co- don't be absurd, Bruce," Crane scoffed. "You and I both know I'm talkin' 'bout your public persona." He leaned back in his chair, raising one hand as if outlining one of Gotham's dazzling bulletins.

"Bruce Wayne- carefree billionaire playboy," he announced with a derisive laugh. "And I fell for it, along with the rest of Gotham City.

"That's not the only one, either," Crane continued. "What was that other one...oh, that's right!  'Do the butts match?'  Did you start that one?"

"...Oracle," Bruce admitted.  Crane chuckled.

"Ah yes, Oracle," he mused. "I never could figure out what made her tick...that's the benefit of hiding behind a computer screen, I suppose."  Crane straightened his back, gripping the back of his chair in claw-like hands and studying Bruce with a predatory intensity.  

"But we know what makes you tick, don't we, Bruce?" he asked, smirking. "Just you and I."

"We're nothing alike," Bruce growled.  Crane sighed deeply, rising from his chair and turning to root around in one of the long, narrow drawers of his desk. "You're right, we're not," he said. "I know now the only way to overcome fear is to face it head-on.  You run from it every night, hide behind your fancy little toys, paint yourself a martyr just to hide the fact that you're terrified."  He turned back to Bruce, some sort of device made of coiled wire and electrodes dangling from his hand.

"I suppose I could hold you for ransom," Crane mused, bending over Bruce.  Cold fingers brushed the hair deliberately from his forehead as Crane set to work securing the two electrodes to Bruce's temples.

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked, dreading the answer.  Nothing good, that was certain.

"These are psychoneurotic analysis and projection instruments," Crane explained, not looking away from his work. "A gift from Tetch.  They allow me to record your brain patterns and see what you see."  He stood, working the second device over his own forehead and producing a small remote from his pocket.  Bruce glared stoically forward as Crane turned, dipping an empty syringe into one of the beakers of fear toxin and carefully filling it to the amount he'd apparently calculated.  He turned back to Bruce, lifting his chin up with one delicate hand as the ghost of a smile twitched at his lips.  

"Let's get down to business, shall we?" he said.  Bruce stiffened as the needle found the vein in his neck, clenching every muscle in his body as the toxin slid like ice through his blood.  Immediately he felt his heart begin to race, pounding against the inside of his chest, and his vision swam with tendrils of winding pitch that wound steadily around his throat, slowly squeezing the air from his lungs.

"See you in your nightmares, Bruce," Crane whispered.  His satisfied smile grew wider and wider, until it was a gaping abyss, waiting to swallow him whole.  The floor crumbled beneath Bruce's feet, and he plunged into the depths.