Fic: "The Prince's Ghost", Chapter 2
Title: "The Prince's Ghost" (2/11)
Pairing/Characters: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon (Eventually), John Blake, Lucius Fox, Gerard Stephens, Renee Montoya, Harvey Bullock
Rating: R (overall)
Wordcount: 5,952
SPOILERS: The Dark Knight Rises
Summary: After the events of TDKR, things in Gotham go back to normal and Gordon is getting used to working with a new Batman - until a familiar face is spotted around the city.
Author's Notes: I’d like to say a big thank you to everyone for leaving such wonderful feedback; it’s always daunting writing for a new fandom, and your comments have gone a long way in encouraging me to continue this. This chapter’s been a bit of a struggle, so I’m hoping it reads ok. (I’m also a beginner at writing US Police Stuff, so if I make any obvious mistakes please do point them out to me for correction.) Again, constructive criticism is very welcome.
I am also aware that in the comic book canon the 'Crisis' is a specific event, but I've used the word here simply because I needed a name for those five months under Bane. I was getting fed up of writing 'dictatorship' and 'occupation'. And yes, I will be snagging a few characters from other Batman canons here and there, but hopefully in a way that works.
N.B. In case anyone is wondering, the chapter titles have been lifted directly from Niccolò Machiavelli's The Prince. They seemed to fit quite nicely.
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1
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Chapter 2:
Those Who Come to Power by Crime
At the time of its founding nearly a decade ago the Gotham City Police Major Crimes Unit had consisted of twenty detectives with one hundred and sixty-seven uniformed officers on attachment, placed under the leadership of then Lieutenant James Gordon. The brainchild of the late Commissioner Loeb and Mayor Garcia, the new MCU had been billed as an elite taskforce which would put an end to organised crime in Gotham once and for all. Some hope, Gordon had thought bitterly at the time, but he’d taken the job anyway. For a while it had even worked.
Their first losses had come after the Joker incident - Mike Wuertz killed and Anna Ramirez suspended pending investigation - and Renee Montoya’s promotion from Homicide had brought the numbers back up to nineteen. Next as the Dent Act started to take effect the uniforms had slowly been detailed off elsewhere until only the corps of detectives remained. Finally last summer, with Gotham declared safer than ever and Garcia about to run again for re-election, the talk had been of disbanding Major Crimes altogether - and Gordon had not doubted the next step would be his dismissal from the post of commissioner. There was a reason he’d written that damn speech; better to go publicly by his own choice and screaming the truth about the Batman then to slip away quietly and leave the lie in place. The Crisis had put a stop to that.
When Gordon had been forming the resistance movement he hadn’t needed to go looking for his old team; they had found him, with only three exceptions. Jackson Davies and Nelson Crowe had been trapped underground at the outset, and Renee had been on leave in Barcelona with her partner when things kicked off in Gotham - and had therefore spent the next five months clawing at the walls in frustration whilst she could only watch as the city descended into chaos. (When she’d finally got back to Gotham she had stormed into Jim’s office and landed him a punch on the jaw - “You bastard! You would have to try and get yourself killed when I wasn’t here!” - before hugging him to within an inch of his life.) They’d lost several along the way; Dag Procjnow and Charlie Fields shot, Crispus Allen drowned in the Gotham River, Eric Cohen tortured to death, Marc Driver strung up on a streetlight by a mob from Blackgate, and Vinnie Del Arrazzio so crippled by an explosion he’d never work again. But they’d survived, Gotham had survived; they had taken the beating and they were all the stronger for it.
Now perched on the edge of Montoya’s desk, arms folded, Gordon surveyed the detectives gathered around him in the bullpen. Satisfied that all were present who needed to be, he turned his full attention to Stephens.
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Ballistics say the bullet that killed Hinksy was from a .44 Magnum,” Stephens said, handing Gordon the summary from the report he was clutching. “Most likely fired from a Smith & Wesson 29-5 with a five inch barrel. There were three hundred and twenty-seven 29-5s with five inch barrels registered legally in the city before the Crisis, and since one hundred and thirty-two have been reported missing or stolen. Anyone could have gotten hold of one - hell, even I got one at home under my bed!”
“Reckon we could get a warrant to search Gerry’s place, boss?” Bullock asked slyly. Kasinsky sniggered and Stephens rolled his eyes.
“Funny, Harv. Real funny. The point is there’s too many of the damn things to be worth our time even trying to trace it.”
“Still it’s not the usual weapon of choice for a Gotham Mob hit,” Chandler commented, folding her arms and frowning at the info board behind Gordon. There was depressingly little written up there. “Reckon we could be looking for an amateur?”
Stephens shrugged.
“Amateur, small-timer, or a professional who likes to do it old school... Could be any one of the above.”
“Doesn’t narrow the field much,” Gordon said flatly. He turned to Bullock and Montoya. “Did you two get anything on Johnny Franks?”
Bullock sat up from where he’d slumped in his chair, rubbing one ham-like fist across the back of his neck. Renee shook her head.
“Sorry, boss, bad news there too. Looks like Johnny -”
She stopped short as the door from the hallway opened suddenly and in stepped Blake. Apparently surprised to find he was interrupting a meeting he hesitated on the threshold, undecided as to whether he should go in or if he might step back out into the hallway - but not before Stephens caught sight of him and grinned in recognition.
“Hey, rookie!” he called, waving him in. “Come by to remember what it’s like to actually work for a living?”
Blake shot Stephens a smile, appreciating the friendly jab. He turned to Gordon, apologetic.
“Sorry, sir, Stacy said it would be alright to go on through... Is this a bad time?”
“No, it’s fine, Blake. Take a seat; I’ll be with you in a moment. You were saying, Renee?”
“Should he be listening in on this?” Bullock demanded, a note of open hostility in his voice as he sent a sideways glance at Blake, who had settled next to Burke and Kasinsky. A warm smile tugged at the corners of Gordon’s mouth.
“I think we can trust Blake not to go running to the Gazette, don’t you, Harvey?”
The implied ‘or else’ hung silently in the air, though Bullock continued to glare until Renee jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, surprising a yelp of pain from the other detective. Even though he was no longer a cop Blake was still a familiar face around the MCU in his capacity as executive liaison overseeing the GCPD’s new partnership with Wayne Enterprises’ Technical Division - and as Gordon refused to move out of his pokey broom closet of an office at MCU in favour of the luxurious space that was rightfully his at City Hall, Blake was kept in regular contact with his old friends and colleagues in the police department. Besides which, no matter what small sense of betrayal the other detectives had felt over Blake choosing to resign from the MCU, he had been there during the Crisis when it had mattered the most. These days only Gordon and his three senior detectives were allowed to call Blake ‘rookie’; if anyone else tried Stephens would bounce their head off the nearest available flat surface.
“We asked around everyone we could think of,” Renee continued, pointedly ignoring the hurt glare Bullock directed at here. “But no one’s saying anything about Hinksy or Franks. It proves the deaths are connected alright, but that’s about all we got.”
“Definitely starting to support the theory it’s Mob-based, though,” Bullock chipped in, rubbing his side in an injured manner. “I even asked Loud-mouth Lorna, and I always get somethin’ out of her. Not a peep! Whoever dusted Hinksy and Franks must be seriously bad news; they’ve got the whole city runnin’ scared -” He shoved his massive hands deep into his pockets and slumped back down in his chair. “- An’ I don’t like it. Reminds me of the bad old days, before pointy-ears showed up and Falcone left his sanity in his other pants.”
“Speaking of the bad old days,” Chandler said archly, as a murmur of unease rumbled round the bullpen. “Me and Kasinsky picked up something else interesting along the way. Word on the street is Malone’s back.”
“Malone?” Gordon’s eyebrows inched upwards in surprise. “As in ‘Matches’?”
Chandler nodded gravely.
“One in the badly-dressed same.”
“Who’s Matches Malone?” Blake asked, managing to give the question a ring of only mild curiosity. Judging by the blank expressions on a couple of the younger detectives’ faces he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard of Matches Malone.
“Before your time, kid,” Stephens said, tapping his ballpoint against the edge of his seat. “Malone’s a small-time gang boss; arrived in Gotham from Newark in ’96. Started off as an arsonist for hire, later on specialising in industrial insurance scams and occasionally running crystal meth when business was slow. He dropped off the radar just after the Joker incident; we guessed he followed what was left of Sal Maroni’s crew to Chicago.”
“Wherever he went, it seems he’s decided to reclaim his turf in Gotham,” Kasinsky added. “Our source says he’s been ‘round his old haunts in the Waterfront district, paying visits to old connections and building up his muscle.”
“Screw it,” Davies grumbled. “That’s all we needed!”
“The timing alone’s suspect,” Blake commented thoughtfully. All eyes immediately turned to him, but the ex-detective persisted. “I mean, the gangs are preparing for all out war over who’ll control the Mob, and this Malone just happens to walk in right now?”
In the following silence Stephens narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Blake.
“You sure you don’t work here anymore, kid?” he asked. Blake just grinned.
“You’re kidding, right? I get paid more pushing paper for the Wayne Foundation.”
“Yeah, there’s something seriously not right about that,” Bullock groused as Montoya coughed into her hand and Davies choked back what sounded like a laugh.
“Whatever the reason,” Gordon said, calmly raising his voice a fraction and immediately bringing the room to order. “Malone may have been a small player, but he was respected by the other gangs and had the blessing of both Maroni and Falcone. In the present situation his support may well tip the balance, whoever he sides with.”
Stephens let out a humourless laugh.
“Yeah. Then we gotta hope he doesn’t make up his mind for a while yet.”
“Is he in on this?” Bartlett asked suddenly, having up until that moment sat through the meeting in silence. She did not have to elaborate further on the identity of the ‘he’ in question. Everyone’s attention shifted to Gordon, who was carefully studying the sparse information on the chalk board.
“I’m keeping him informed,” he replied evenly. “Should he come across anything that may be of interest I’ve asked him to let us know.”
“Huh.” Azeveda grunted, possibly best expressing the tangible sense of relief mixed with resentment which filled the room. Deep down each of the detectives knew that sooner or later they’d have to call the Bat in on this, whether they liked it or not. “Whilst you’re about it, boss, tell him to take a refresher course with the boy scouts. One of the goons he left hogtied outside the library last week managed to work free and vamoose before we could get there to pick them up.”
“You timed that well,” Gordon murmured in an undertone as, having set the detectives to their respective assignments, he and Blake retreated into his office. “You ought to tone down your observations, though; you’re not supposed to be interested anymore.”
“They’d suspect more if I stopped,” Blake replied simply as he shut the door behind them. “It’d be like you deciding to retire early and take up rose gardening.”
Seated at his desk, Gordon leant back in his chair and levelled one of his trademark steady gazes at Blake over steepled fingers.
“So what errand has Mr. Fox sent you on this time?” he asked, choosing to ignore Blake’s remark. “Or did you just stop by to irritate Harvey Bullock with the size of your paycheque?”
Blake wordlessly reached into the inside jacket pocket of his new suit and produced an envelope. It was of a heavy cream-coloured paper with the emblem of the Wayne Foundation embossed in gold on the back, quite unlike the usual stationery the Foundation used in its day-to-day correspondence. Gordon eyed it as if it might bite him.
“Couldn’t he have just sent it by courier?” he asked weakly.
“Mr. Fox thought that the Commissioner of Police merited a hand delivery,” Blake said, relentlessly holding out the envelope. It was clear he wasn’t going to move until Gordon accepted it.
“Did he now,” Gordon said blandly.
“He also said that this way you couldn’t claim it got lost in the post.”
Gordon mentally cursed Lucius Fox for the devious bastard he was, and idly wondered if he could raise enough capital to buy Blake off. Maybe if he remortgaged his house...
“You know I don’t need to be there,” he said instead, changing his tack from ‘pleading’ to ‘annoyed’. “And I don’t have the sort of money they’re looking for. Why they keep on inviting me to these things escapes me completely!”
“For the same reason you get invited to every other civic function in Gotham,” Blake said mildly, only just managing to keep the edge of impatience from his voice. “Besides, Mr. Fox also told me to say he’d consider it a personal favour if you would be able to make it this year, as the fundraiser is being held at the Thomas and Martha Wayne Orphanage. I know he’d want you to be there. So would I.”
A fresh set of alarm bells sounded in Gordon’s head at this new information.
“He’s not going to ask me to make a speech, is he?”
“No danger. Mr. Fox was very clear that he would be giving the speeches this year, and I’ve seen Jessica writing them.”
Gordon scrutinised Blake carefully, but it was clear the younger man was being sincere. He sighed, taking the envelope from Blake’s hand. He knew when he was beaten.
“I supposed I’d better dig out my tux,” he murmured with gloomy resignation. Blake smiled, triumphant.
“You never know, sir,” he said brightly. “You might enjoy it this year.”
“I doubt that,” Gordon said bleakly. Blake however was still smiling, and all of a sudden Jim saw Bruce Wayne standing before him nine years ago, beautiful and expensive; beaming at him with that vacant playboy smile, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his bespoke Armani suit. Come on, Jim, it’ll be fun! You won’t have to stay long, and I promise I’ll have you in bed before midnight... though I can’t make any guarantees it’ll be your bed. His chest contracted painfully with some unidentifiable emotion, catching him off guard, and in a fit of uncharacteristic petulance Gordon wanted nothing more than to wipe that smile off Blake’s face.
“What are you looking so damn happy about?" he snapped bitterly, glaring at the younger man over the top of his glasses. "Seems as if you’ve got some brushing up to do on your knot-tying technique. I take it you were never in the boy scouts.”
“Neither was Bruce,” Blake countered, yet he’d stopped smiling and had the decency to look embarrassed. Success. “I was worried about cutting off the circulation.”
“Don’t be,” Gordon said caustically, opening the envelope with his thumb and pulling out the gilt-edged invitation for inspection. “We always get to them long before there’s any danger of that, and even if you did I’d like to see anyone try and complain. You’re not there to be nice.”
His Batman would have rather had their hands drop off than ever let a crook get away.
-------
When Lucius had offered Blake the job of estate manager at the Wayne Orphanage he had explained that the position came with a fully-furnished apartment in the south-east corner of the manor, complete with its own private elevator. For a time Blake wondered why a three room apartment on the ground floor would need an elevator - or a grand piano at that - until Lucius had demonstrated, along with his singularly poor piano playing skills, that it was not an elevator that went up, but down. After that Blake fully appreciated that a private elevator was in fact a definite advantage. He might even grow to like the piano.
Even so, his position in the Wayne Foundation wasn’t enough justification to give him unlimited access to the offices of Wayne Enterprises; a problem which was conveniently solved when Lucius had decided that in order to deal with his ever-increasing workload he was in need of a second PA. This had somewhat ruffled the feathers of Jessica, Lucius’ present PA, until she saw that apart from his involvement in the GCPD partnership Blake’s job was in fact little more than that of a glorified office boy. This had gone some way to settling an uneasy truce between the two; however Blake suspected that Jessica would not be so happy if she knew that, unlike hers, his security clearance was ‘Access All Areas’ - on any door, on any safe, at any WE facility anywhere in the world.
He now gave her his customary polite smile as he passed her desk on the way into Lucius’ office, which she returned with an equal lack of enthusiasm. Strangely enough she’d been the first one in the office to comment on the fact he’d been ‘working out’.
“Back so soon, Mr. Blake?” Lucius observed, rising from his desk as Blake wandered in. “I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have thought the commissioner would capitulate so easily.”
“I may have twisted his arm a little,” Blake commented. Then added hastily; “Metaphorically, of course.”
Amusement crinkled at the corners of Lucius’ eyes. “I never assumed for a moment you meant in any other fashion, Mr. Blake.”
“No, sir.”
“So how are things with Gotham’s Finest?”
“Busy, but what else is new?” Blake unconsciously shoved his hands in his pockets, earning him a briefly despairing look from Lucius. “The partnership project is gathering support at City Hall, and Dr. Jacobs reports the work is progressing as scheduled for the new pathology lab. They should able to start moving in the equipment on Monday.”
“All good news, Mr. Blake, all good news..." Lucius went quiet, an expression of discomfort creasing his brow, and Blake realised that it had been a long while since he had last seen Lucius look so genuinely troubled. This did not bode well for whatever news was to come. "It’s a pity that this first project may well be our last in association with the GCPD.”
Blake’s posture stiffened, his gaze immediately becoming severe.
“What do you mean? Wayne Enterprises is committed to this programme for a minimum of five years.”
“Under the present management,” Lucius said. “But we’ve got a problem of our own developing in that department. Powers is moving in for another takeover bid.”
“Again?" Blake's frown deepened. "I thought you saw him off.”
“So we did - that time. As you may recall, however, Powers was quoted in the press as regarding it as nothing more than a ‘temporary setback’.”
Derek Powers had been Vice President of Operations at Daggett Industries and had succeeded Roland Daggett as owner of the company after the end of the Crisis. Though Blake had never actually met the man he’d heard plenty about him lately in the local media, and what he’d heard he didn’t like. Already at the age of twenty-five Powers had amassed himself a sizable personal fortune, and now at the age of twenty-six he was looking to expand his corporate empire with Wayne Enterprises firmly in his sights. Though Powers’ succession had been legitimate, despite being disgustingly young for the position, Blake had found it too much of a happy coincidence for Powers to find himself out of Gotham at the time of the Crisis, returning five months later to seamlessly take over the business when Daggett's association with Bane had cost him and his other lieutenants their lives. Either Powers was an exceptionally gifted businessman, unspeakably lucky, or he’d known in advance what was going to go down and had planned accordingly - and Blake’s gut feeling was firmly inclined towards the latter.
“Did he get any of Bruce’s and Miranda’s shares?” he asked. Lucius shook his head.
“Fortunately they were snapped up by various small business, charitable trusts and private individuals before Powers could get his hands on any of them; but it means he remains the second to largest individual shareholder in the company.”
“Who’s the first?”
Fox furnished the younger man with an arch expression.
“Do you really need to ask, Mr. Blake?”
“I guess not.”
“Still, thanks to the swift sale of Mr. Wayne and Ms. Tate’s shares, Powers doesn’t have anything like the overwhelming majority he was planning on obtaining.” Lucius moved over to his bookcases, pressing the button which slid back the shelves concealing his private elevator. “I suppose we must be grateful for small mercies. I’m trying to persuade Douglas Fredericks to step up and take control; he may not command the majority but he’s well respected with solid business principles, as well as moral ones. But with Mr. Wayne out of the way Powers will be playing the youth card - the ‘bright future of the company’ and all that - which neither Douglas nor I have any hope of countering. Not to mention that Powers’ previous attempt was made only a few days after Mr. Wayne’s funeral, so we were also able to argue that the timing was inappropriate. However there’s plenty on the Board, let alone in the corporate world in general, who would like nothing better than to sever all ties with Bruce Wayne’s tenure as CEO of Wayne Enterprises.”
“Could you take on the position?”
Lucius shook his head once more, stepping into the elevator as the doors opened.
“After Mr. Wayne fired Bill Earle the company’s constitution was re-written so that the positions of CEO and President of the Board could never be held by the same person - as a safeguard should anything happen to either myself or Mr. Wayne, you understand. Unfortunately neither of us anticipated not having a counter-strategy against the likes of Derek Powers.”
“Isn’t there also something in the constitution stating that the President of the Board cannot also be the owner of another company?” Blake asked, falling in beside his employer.
“You’re quite right, Mr. Blake, and that’s how we would have blocked Daggett had we not had Miranda Tate as a candidate to take control of the Board; but Derek Powers isn’t just after a simple takeover this time. He’s proposed a corporate merger, under which Wayne Enterprises and Daggett Industries would become Wayne-Powers Technologies.”
“Oh.”
“Quite.” Lucius pressed his thumb to the touch pad on the control panel, which lit up with the words ‘Access Granted’. The steel doors slid smoothly shut and the elevator began to descend. “I’ve got Legal working on it night and day, but we’re running out of options fast.”
“What would happen if Powers did get hold of the company?” Blake asked. It would be best to be prepared for the worst.
“Oh the company’s profits would increase, undoubtedly, but under Powers the partnership programme with the GCPD would be neglected and the Wayne Foundation would most likely fold. Also the R&D budget for engineering would be cut in half and redirected to the development of arms and pharmaceuticals - which besides being directly contradictory to Mr. Wayne’s last wishes would also make it very difficult for you to continue pursuing your extra curricula activities. I have it on good authority that Mr. Powers is not a fan of spelunking.”
“How about base-jumping?” Blake asked without any real conviction.
“Entirely uninterested. He’s not particularly keen on polo either.”
The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open, the two men stepping out into Lucius’ underground domain; rebuilt and reinforced this time to withstand a large nuclear blast - from above or beneath.
“In truth I’m more worried about Powers’ general method of business practice,” Lucius continued, leading the way over to his workbench. “There have been many, myself included, who have long suspected that some of Daggett’s operations contained a criminal element, though no one’s ever been able to prove it. However, should Daggett have been guilty of anything untoward it’s an almost given that Powers would have had a hand in it - and I doubt the last thing Mr. Wayne would have wanted was his company being run by a criminal.”
“Do you want me to find out if there’s any hard evidence against Powers and then discredit him?”
Lucius paused in the action of sitting down, his expression becoming carefully blank.
“It would be an abuse of my position to ask you to use your... community work to benefit private enterprise, Mr. Blake,” he said firmly. He sat down, tilting his head to one side as if further considering the matter. “However, should you think it in the wider interest of Gotham, then I hope you wouldn’t be opposed to delivering any information which may come to light to the relevant authorities.”
Blake nodded his understanding.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Blake,” Lucius said mildly. He clasped his hands on the desk, leaning forward and the tone of the conversation instantly lightened. “Now, is there anything I can do for you today?”
“As a matter of fact,” Blake said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I was wondering if you had anything that would help counteract the effects of pepper spray.”
“Pepper spray?” Lucius echoed.
“Or mace. Any sort of aerosol irritant to the face.”
The older man’s eyebrows inched upwards in question.
“Somebody get the wrong impression of a Friday night?” he asked lightly.
“Let’s just say some girls don’t know how to say thank you after you stop a mugging,” Blake muttered darkly, unable to suppress a grimace of remembered pain. Lucius’ face broke into a broad grin.
“Reckon I could come up with something, Mr. Blake.”
-------
It was gone six thirty in the evening when Blake finally made it back to the manor. Rush hour in Gotham was one of the few times he regretted no longer being a cop; no more switching on the lights and siren to make a quick run home. Not that he and his partner ever did that. Much. He’d run off his frustration in the Tumbler later tonight. He wouldn’t have time to cook himself a proper dinner before going out on patrol; he would have to grab something from the kitchens and maybe fix himself an omelette when he got back - if he felt like eating at all by that point. When he’d begun his life as Batman Blake had gone to the trouble of consulting with one of Gotham’s top nutritionists to have a diet sheet drawn up for him, but in reality he found that he was increasingly living off tinned soup and omelettes, and it was at such times he seriously envied Bruce having had Alfred. Even if Bruce had possessed the ability to cook for himself, the Batman lifestyle alone wouldn’t have given him much of an opportunity to do so.
Turning off the road Blake swung his car in through the ornate gateway and began winding his way up the front drive to the house itself. Being winter it was already dark, and the sight of the manor lit up like a Christmas tree on its outcrop in the snowbound landscape made for an impressive scene. Blake made a mental note to take some photos to make up into Christmas cards for the Foundation to retail next year.
Before, when Bruce had been living alone at the manor, Blake had felt that there was an innate sadness in the very stones of the place; but it hadn’t been until the orphanage had moved in that he had realised why. Bruce had not lived in the house but the cave below, using the manor as a convenient charade the same way as he did his public identity. Blake sometimes thought that in a sense Bruce Wayne had become a ghost long before he died; a hollow man existing in an empty house, trapped by past grief and unable to move on. As soon as the children had moved in the sadness had lifted and the manor had once again become a home, not just a house.
St. Lawrence’s had spent its limited resources on housing Gotham's at risk boys, but the Wayne Orphanage was large enough and well-enough funded that this fall would see its first intake of girls. All in all Blake enjoyed working and living at the manor. During the day he fulfilled his role as estate manager (and general handyman when needed), but he also got to spend time with the boys; playing football with them, listening if they had problems, offering advice as someone who had ‘been there’, and telling them stories about the Batman - and the boys liked it here at the manor too. Blake only hoped that the threat of Derek Powers would not put an end to the enterprise before it had even begun.
Taking the car around the side of the house to the garages, Blake automatically cast a glance across the open expanse of the west lawn. Here and there the odd sequoias and cedars stood out in glorious isolation, but as ever Blake’s eye was drawn to the ancient yew just off to one side of the gravel path, under which he could just make out the small collection of gravestones standing in stark contrast to the newly-fallen snow. Normally he would not spare the Wayne family plot more than a passing glance, not caring to think too much about the latest and last addition to the grim collection, but tonight Blake spotted something unusual amongst the stones and he stood on the breaks, the car crunching to a halt on the loose gravel. It had just begun to snow again, so pulling up the collar of his overcoat Blake got out of the car to have a better look, squinting into the darkness and trying to make out definite shapes against the shadows under the yew and the blurred backdrop of the falling snow. Two years experience patrolling the streets of Gotham meant that his night vision was pretty good, and he was quickly able to confirm that at first glance he had not been mistaken; there was definitely a figure standing amongst the gravestones.
Blake however was not at all surprised, only irritated. It had become something of a problem of late, as since Gotham Tonight had started reporting sightings of the Prince’s Ghost the boys, as boys would do, had been daring each other to spend the night next to Bruce Wayne’s grave. Blake now made a point of keeping the gate locked, yet even so in the past month alone he’d had to shoo no less five boys out of there; and those were just the ones he’d caught. He had to admire this one’s determination for attempting to brave the challenge in the snow, for all it was a potentially suicidal attempt.
“Okay, c’mon!” Blake called wearily. He switched off his car engine, slammed the door shut and started walking down the slope towards the graveyard, fishing in his pocket for the key to the gate. Yet another delay to his setting out on patrol... “You know you boys aren’t allowed in there. You’re not supposed to be out after dark either.”
He could see the boy clearly now. He was quite tall and skinny, with a hunched-over posture; one of the home's eldest boys then, which was odd as usually the elder boys knew better than to pay any mind to something like this. He was wearing an over-sized dark grey hoodie and baseball cap, faded black jeans and a fairly solid pair of black boots; hood up and the cap peak shading his face. It was a miracle that Blake had seen him at all in this light.
“Is that you, Sean? Jason? Look, you’re not in trouble; not with me, anyway. Let’s get you back to the house and warmed up. We’ll say no more about it ‘til tomorrow, deal?”
But the boy only hunched over further, shoving his hands deeper into the hoodie pockets and turning his face away. Now he was closer Blake could see that it wasn’t Jason or Sean, or Ben for that matter; all of them were shorter, and it was with a sense of shock that Blake realised that if this kid straightened up he’d be taller than him by a good few inches. He didn’t know this boy at all, and there were no new arrivals due anytime soon - which then begged the question of was this a boy at all? Blake narrowed his eyes, his fist automatically wrapping around his car keys. Having been a beat cop in Gotham he was not opposed to fighting dirty when necessary, especially as there was a possibility that the hoodie might be here to hurt the boys in some way, or a thief come to see if there was any family silver left to be had - or maybe he was just some homeless guy looking for a place to spend the night.
“You're new here, aren’t you?” Blake asked, keeping the same level tone he’d been using moments earlier. He could take the guy if he needed to, but that was no reason to be incautious. He might still be able to get him to leave quietly. “Don’t think we’ve met. What’s your name? I’m guessing you don’t know where -”
Blake didn’t get the chance to find out though, as all of a sudden the hoodie turned and ran, impossibly quick, vaulted over the railings in one fluid movement and took off across the lawn. For a second or two Blake stood stunned, unable to move, staring after the retreating figure. The way he moved (Blake was certain it was a man), the agility, the execution of that vault - he’d seen it all before. There was only one person he knew in the world could move that way.
“Hey!” he shouted, pocketing his keys and running after the hoodie. “Hey, wait!”
The guy had a good head start and Blake was struggling to make any decent headway wearing his work shoes - Leather soles! Fucking leather soles in snow, Goddamnit! - but he could see that the hoodie had run into the walled garden, at which Blake felt a spark of triumph. Only one way in, and only one way out! Kicking off his shoes with a snarl, Blake ran on in his socks.
Yet when he reached the doorway into the garden Blake was in for another surprise; there was no sign of the hoodie. Three paces onto the pathway and the tracks just ended in unblemished snow. The man had vanished completely.
Blake searched the entirety of the garden, but there was no sign of his hooded intruder. There was nothing in here save the two glasshouses (empty), the old boarded-up well (useless), and the walls were fourteen feet high; near impossible to scale even with a good run-up. No tracks in the snow on the paths or the barren vegetable beds either, and no overhanging tree he could have climbed up and over the walls, nor any shrubs for him to hide in. No way out save the way he had come in... and yet he had vanished.
Numb from the cold and dismayed at his failure to catch his quarry, Blake picked up his shoes and trudged back up the slope towards the house, doing his best to ignore the freezing wet sensation he was now starting to feel surrounding his feet. When he got to the graveyard he fumbled for the key, the iron gate opening with a loud squeak, and stumped over to the headstones of the last three members of the Wayne family. Already the new-fallen snow was beginning to cover up his tracks, but crouching down Blake could still make out two definite indentations at the foot of Thomas Wayne’s grave where the man had clearly been standing for some time - about a size ten or eleven, narrow fitting, rubber sole with deep treads in a chequered pattern which must have given him good purchase as he ran.
He might be wrong, but Blake was fairly certain that ghosts weren’t supposed to leave footprints.
-------
Chapter 3: The Things for Which Men, and Especially Princes, are Praised or Blamed
Pairing/Characters: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon (Eventually), John Blake, Lucius Fox, Gerard Stephens, Renee Montoya, Harvey Bullock
Rating: R (overall)
Wordcount: 5,952
SPOILERS: The Dark Knight Rises
Summary: After the events of TDKR, things in Gotham go back to normal and Gordon is getting used to working with a new Batman - until a familiar face is spotted around the city.
Author's Notes: I’d like to say a big thank you to everyone for leaving such wonderful feedback; it’s always daunting writing for a new fandom, and your comments have gone a long way in encouraging me to continue this. This chapter’s been a bit of a struggle, so I’m hoping it reads ok. (I’m also a beginner at writing US Police Stuff, so if I make any obvious mistakes please do point them out to me for correction.) Again, constructive criticism is very welcome.
I am also aware that in the comic book canon the 'Crisis' is a specific event, but I've used the word here simply because I needed a name for those five months under Bane. I was getting fed up of writing 'dictatorship' and 'occupation'. And yes, I will be snagging a few characters from other Batman canons here and there, but hopefully in a way that works.
N.B. In case anyone is wondering, the chapter titles have been lifted directly from Niccolò Machiavelli's The Prince. They seemed to fit quite nicely.
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1
-------
Chapter 2:
Those Who Come to Power by Crime
At the time of its founding nearly a decade ago the Gotham City Police Major Crimes Unit had consisted of twenty detectives with one hundred and sixty-seven uniformed officers on attachment, placed under the leadership of then Lieutenant James Gordon. The brainchild of the late Commissioner Loeb and Mayor Garcia, the new MCU had been billed as an elite taskforce which would put an end to organised crime in Gotham once and for all. Some hope, Gordon had thought bitterly at the time, but he’d taken the job anyway. For a while it had even worked.
Their first losses had come after the Joker incident - Mike Wuertz killed and Anna Ramirez suspended pending investigation - and Renee Montoya’s promotion from Homicide had brought the numbers back up to nineteen. Next as the Dent Act started to take effect the uniforms had slowly been detailed off elsewhere until only the corps of detectives remained. Finally last summer, with Gotham declared safer than ever and Garcia about to run again for re-election, the talk had been of disbanding Major Crimes altogether - and Gordon had not doubted the next step would be his dismissal from the post of commissioner. There was a reason he’d written that damn speech; better to go publicly by his own choice and screaming the truth about the Batman then to slip away quietly and leave the lie in place. The Crisis had put a stop to that.
When Gordon had been forming the resistance movement he hadn’t needed to go looking for his old team; they had found him, with only three exceptions. Jackson Davies and Nelson Crowe had been trapped underground at the outset, and Renee had been on leave in Barcelona with her partner when things kicked off in Gotham - and had therefore spent the next five months clawing at the walls in frustration whilst she could only watch as the city descended into chaos. (When she’d finally got back to Gotham she had stormed into Jim’s office and landed him a punch on the jaw - “You bastard! You would have to try and get yourself killed when I wasn’t here!” - before hugging him to within an inch of his life.) They’d lost several along the way; Dag Procjnow and Charlie Fields shot, Crispus Allen drowned in the Gotham River, Eric Cohen tortured to death, Marc Driver strung up on a streetlight by a mob from Blackgate, and Vinnie Del Arrazzio so crippled by an explosion he’d never work again. But they’d survived, Gotham had survived; they had taken the beating and they were all the stronger for it.
Now perched on the edge of Montoya’s desk, arms folded, Gordon surveyed the detectives gathered around him in the bullpen. Satisfied that all were present who needed to be, he turned his full attention to Stephens.
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Ballistics say the bullet that killed Hinksy was from a .44 Magnum,” Stephens said, handing Gordon the summary from the report he was clutching. “Most likely fired from a Smith & Wesson 29-5 with a five inch barrel. There were three hundred and twenty-seven 29-5s with five inch barrels registered legally in the city before the Crisis, and since one hundred and thirty-two have been reported missing or stolen. Anyone could have gotten hold of one - hell, even I got one at home under my bed!”
“Reckon we could get a warrant to search Gerry’s place, boss?” Bullock asked slyly. Kasinsky sniggered and Stephens rolled his eyes.
“Funny, Harv. Real funny. The point is there’s too many of the damn things to be worth our time even trying to trace it.”
“Still it’s not the usual weapon of choice for a Gotham Mob hit,” Chandler commented, folding her arms and frowning at the info board behind Gordon. There was depressingly little written up there. “Reckon we could be looking for an amateur?”
Stephens shrugged.
“Amateur, small-timer, or a professional who likes to do it old school... Could be any one of the above.”
“Doesn’t narrow the field much,” Gordon said flatly. He turned to Bullock and Montoya. “Did you two get anything on Johnny Franks?”
Bullock sat up from where he’d slumped in his chair, rubbing one ham-like fist across the back of his neck. Renee shook her head.
“Sorry, boss, bad news there too. Looks like Johnny -”
She stopped short as the door from the hallway opened suddenly and in stepped Blake. Apparently surprised to find he was interrupting a meeting he hesitated on the threshold, undecided as to whether he should go in or if he might step back out into the hallway - but not before Stephens caught sight of him and grinned in recognition.
“Hey, rookie!” he called, waving him in. “Come by to remember what it’s like to actually work for a living?”
Blake shot Stephens a smile, appreciating the friendly jab. He turned to Gordon, apologetic.
“Sorry, sir, Stacy said it would be alright to go on through... Is this a bad time?”
“No, it’s fine, Blake. Take a seat; I’ll be with you in a moment. You were saying, Renee?”
“Should he be listening in on this?” Bullock demanded, a note of open hostility in his voice as he sent a sideways glance at Blake, who had settled next to Burke and Kasinsky. A warm smile tugged at the corners of Gordon’s mouth.
“I think we can trust Blake not to go running to the Gazette, don’t you, Harvey?”
The implied ‘or else’ hung silently in the air, though Bullock continued to glare until Renee jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, surprising a yelp of pain from the other detective. Even though he was no longer a cop Blake was still a familiar face around the MCU in his capacity as executive liaison overseeing the GCPD’s new partnership with Wayne Enterprises’ Technical Division - and as Gordon refused to move out of his pokey broom closet of an office at MCU in favour of the luxurious space that was rightfully his at City Hall, Blake was kept in regular contact with his old friends and colleagues in the police department. Besides which, no matter what small sense of betrayal the other detectives had felt over Blake choosing to resign from the MCU, he had been there during the Crisis when it had mattered the most. These days only Gordon and his three senior detectives were allowed to call Blake ‘rookie’; if anyone else tried Stephens would bounce their head off the nearest available flat surface.
“We asked around everyone we could think of,” Renee continued, pointedly ignoring the hurt glare Bullock directed at here. “But no one’s saying anything about Hinksy or Franks. It proves the deaths are connected alright, but that’s about all we got.”
“Definitely starting to support the theory it’s Mob-based, though,” Bullock chipped in, rubbing his side in an injured manner. “I even asked Loud-mouth Lorna, and I always get somethin’ out of her. Not a peep! Whoever dusted Hinksy and Franks must be seriously bad news; they’ve got the whole city runnin’ scared -” He shoved his massive hands deep into his pockets and slumped back down in his chair. “- An’ I don’t like it. Reminds me of the bad old days, before pointy-ears showed up and Falcone left his sanity in his other pants.”
“Speaking of the bad old days,” Chandler said archly, as a murmur of unease rumbled round the bullpen. “Me and Kasinsky picked up something else interesting along the way. Word on the street is Malone’s back.”
“Malone?” Gordon’s eyebrows inched upwards in surprise. “As in ‘Matches’?”
Chandler nodded gravely.
“One in the badly-dressed same.”
“Who’s Matches Malone?” Blake asked, managing to give the question a ring of only mild curiosity. Judging by the blank expressions on a couple of the younger detectives’ faces he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard of Matches Malone.
“Before your time, kid,” Stephens said, tapping his ballpoint against the edge of his seat. “Malone’s a small-time gang boss; arrived in Gotham from Newark in ’96. Started off as an arsonist for hire, later on specialising in industrial insurance scams and occasionally running crystal meth when business was slow. He dropped off the radar just after the Joker incident; we guessed he followed what was left of Sal Maroni’s crew to Chicago.”
“Wherever he went, it seems he’s decided to reclaim his turf in Gotham,” Kasinsky added. “Our source says he’s been ‘round his old haunts in the Waterfront district, paying visits to old connections and building up his muscle.”
“Screw it,” Davies grumbled. “That’s all we needed!”
“The timing alone’s suspect,” Blake commented thoughtfully. All eyes immediately turned to him, but the ex-detective persisted. “I mean, the gangs are preparing for all out war over who’ll control the Mob, and this Malone just happens to walk in right now?”
In the following silence Stephens narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Blake.
“You sure you don’t work here anymore, kid?” he asked. Blake just grinned.
“You’re kidding, right? I get paid more pushing paper for the Wayne Foundation.”
“Yeah, there’s something seriously not right about that,” Bullock groused as Montoya coughed into her hand and Davies choked back what sounded like a laugh.
“Whatever the reason,” Gordon said, calmly raising his voice a fraction and immediately bringing the room to order. “Malone may have been a small player, but he was respected by the other gangs and had the blessing of both Maroni and Falcone. In the present situation his support may well tip the balance, whoever he sides with.”
Stephens let out a humourless laugh.
“Yeah. Then we gotta hope he doesn’t make up his mind for a while yet.”
“Is he in on this?” Bartlett asked suddenly, having up until that moment sat through the meeting in silence. She did not have to elaborate further on the identity of the ‘he’ in question. Everyone’s attention shifted to Gordon, who was carefully studying the sparse information on the chalk board.
“I’m keeping him informed,” he replied evenly. “Should he come across anything that may be of interest I’ve asked him to let us know.”
“Huh.” Azeveda grunted, possibly best expressing the tangible sense of relief mixed with resentment which filled the room. Deep down each of the detectives knew that sooner or later they’d have to call the Bat in on this, whether they liked it or not. “Whilst you’re about it, boss, tell him to take a refresher course with the boy scouts. One of the goons he left hogtied outside the library last week managed to work free and vamoose before we could get there to pick them up.”
“You timed that well,” Gordon murmured in an undertone as, having set the detectives to their respective assignments, he and Blake retreated into his office. “You ought to tone down your observations, though; you’re not supposed to be interested anymore.”
“They’d suspect more if I stopped,” Blake replied simply as he shut the door behind them. “It’d be like you deciding to retire early and take up rose gardening.”
Seated at his desk, Gordon leant back in his chair and levelled one of his trademark steady gazes at Blake over steepled fingers.
“So what errand has Mr. Fox sent you on this time?” he asked, choosing to ignore Blake’s remark. “Or did you just stop by to irritate Harvey Bullock with the size of your paycheque?”
Blake wordlessly reached into the inside jacket pocket of his new suit and produced an envelope. It was of a heavy cream-coloured paper with the emblem of the Wayne Foundation embossed in gold on the back, quite unlike the usual stationery the Foundation used in its day-to-day correspondence. Gordon eyed it as if it might bite him.
“Couldn’t he have just sent it by courier?” he asked weakly.
“Mr. Fox thought that the Commissioner of Police merited a hand delivery,” Blake said, relentlessly holding out the envelope. It was clear he wasn’t going to move until Gordon accepted it.
“Did he now,” Gordon said blandly.
“He also said that this way you couldn’t claim it got lost in the post.”
Gordon mentally cursed Lucius Fox for the devious bastard he was, and idly wondered if he could raise enough capital to buy Blake off. Maybe if he remortgaged his house...
“You know I don’t need to be there,” he said instead, changing his tack from ‘pleading’ to ‘annoyed’. “And I don’t have the sort of money they’re looking for. Why they keep on inviting me to these things escapes me completely!”
“For the same reason you get invited to every other civic function in Gotham,” Blake said mildly, only just managing to keep the edge of impatience from his voice. “Besides, Mr. Fox also told me to say he’d consider it a personal favour if you would be able to make it this year, as the fundraiser is being held at the Thomas and Martha Wayne Orphanage. I know he’d want you to be there. So would I.”
A fresh set of alarm bells sounded in Gordon’s head at this new information.
“He’s not going to ask me to make a speech, is he?”
“No danger. Mr. Fox was very clear that he would be giving the speeches this year, and I’ve seen Jessica writing them.”
Gordon scrutinised Blake carefully, but it was clear the younger man was being sincere. He sighed, taking the envelope from Blake’s hand. He knew when he was beaten.
“I supposed I’d better dig out my tux,” he murmured with gloomy resignation. Blake smiled, triumphant.
“You never know, sir,” he said brightly. “You might enjoy it this year.”
“I doubt that,” Gordon said bleakly. Blake however was still smiling, and all of a sudden Jim saw Bruce Wayne standing before him nine years ago, beautiful and expensive; beaming at him with that vacant playboy smile, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his bespoke Armani suit. Come on, Jim, it’ll be fun! You won’t have to stay long, and I promise I’ll have you in bed before midnight... though I can’t make any guarantees it’ll be your bed. His chest contracted painfully with some unidentifiable emotion, catching him off guard, and in a fit of uncharacteristic petulance Gordon wanted nothing more than to wipe that smile off Blake’s face.
“What are you looking so damn happy about?" he snapped bitterly, glaring at the younger man over the top of his glasses. "Seems as if you’ve got some brushing up to do on your knot-tying technique. I take it you were never in the boy scouts.”
“Neither was Bruce,” Blake countered, yet he’d stopped smiling and had the decency to look embarrassed. Success. “I was worried about cutting off the circulation.”
“Don’t be,” Gordon said caustically, opening the envelope with his thumb and pulling out the gilt-edged invitation for inspection. “We always get to them long before there’s any danger of that, and even if you did I’d like to see anyone try and complain. You’re not there to be nice.”
His Batman would have rather had their hands drop off than ever let a crook get away.
-------
When Lucius had offered Blake the job of estate manager at the Wayne Orphanage he had explained that the position came with a fully-furnished apartment in the south-east corner of the manor, complete with its own private elevator. For a time Blake wondered why a three room apartment on the ground floor would need an elevator - or a grand piano at that - until Lucius had demonstrated, along with his singularly poor piano playing skills, that it was not an elevator that went up, but down. After that Blake fully appreciated that a private elevator was in fact a definite advantage. He might even grow to like the piano.
Even so, his position in the Wayne Foundation wasn’t enough justification to give him unlimited access to the offices of Wayne Enterprises; a problem which was conveniently solved when Lucius had decided that in order to deal with his ever-increasing workload he was in need of a second PA. This had somewhat ruffled the feathers of Jessica, Lucius’ present PA, until she saw that apart from his involvement in the GCPD partnership Blake’s job was in fact little more than that of a glorified office boy. This had gone some way to settling an uneasy truce between the two; however Blake suspected that Jessica would not be so happy if she knew that, unlike hers, his security clearance was ‘Access All Areas’ - on any door, on any safe, at any WE facility anywhere in the world.
He now gave her his customary polite smile as he passed her desk on the way into Lucius’ office, which she returned with an equal lack of enthusiasm. Strangely enough she’d been the first one in the office to comment on the fact he’d been ‘working out’.
“Back so soon, Mr. Blake?” Lucius observed, rising from his desk as Blake wandered in. “I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have thought the commissioner would capitulate so easily.”
“I may have twisted his arm a little,” Blake commented. Then added hastily; “Metaphorically, of course.”
Amusement crinkled at the corners of Lucius’ eyes. “I never assumed for a moment you meant in any other fashion, Mr. Blake.”
“No, sir.”
“So how are things with Gotham’s Finest?”
“Busy, but what else is new?” Blake unconsciously shoved his hands in his pockets, earning him a briefly despairing look from Lucius. “The partnership project is gathering support at City Hall, and Dr. Jacobs reports the work is progressing as scheduled for the new pathology lab. They should able to start moving in the equipment on Monday.”
“All good news, Mr. Blake, all good news..." Lucius went quiet, an expression of discomfort creasing his brow, and Blake realised that it had been a long while since he had last seen Lucius look so genuinely troubled. This did not bode well for whatever news was to come. "It’s a pity that this first project may well be our last in association with the GCPD.”
Blake’s posture stiffened, his gaze immediately becoming severe.
“What do you mean? Wayne Enterprises is committed to this programme for a minimum of five years.”
“Under the present management,” Lucius said. “But we’ve got a problem of our own developing in that department. Powers is moving in for another takeover bid.”
“Again?" Blake's frown deepened. "I thought you saw him off.”
“So we did - that time. As you may recall, however, Powers was quoted in the press as regarding it as nothing more than a ‘temporary setback’.”
Derek Powers had been Vice President of Operations at Daggett Industries and had succeeded Roland Daggett as owner of the company after the end of the Crisis. Though Blake had never actually met the man he’d heard plenty about him lately in the local media, and what he’d heard he didn’t like. Already at the age of twenty-five Powers had amassed himself a sizable personal fortune, and now at the age of twenty-six he was looking to expand his corporate empire with Wayne Enterprises firmly in his sights. Though Powers’ succession had been legitimate, despite being disgustingly young for the position, Blake had found it too much of a happy coincidence for Powers to find himself out of Gotham at the time of the Crisis, returning five months later to seamlessly take over the business when Daggett's association with Bane had cost him and his other lieutenants their lives. Either Powers was an exceptionally gifted businessman, unspeakably lucky, or he’d known in advance what was going to go down and had planned accordingly - and Blake’s gut feeling was firmly inclined towards the latter.
“Did he get any of Bruce’s and Miranda’s shares?” he asked. Lucius shook his head.
“Fortunately they were snapped up by various small business, charitable trusts and private individuals before Powers could get his hands on any of them; but it means he remains the second to largest individual shareholder in the company.”
“Who’s the first?”
Fox furnished the younger man with an arch expression.
“Do you really need to ask, Mr. Blake?”
“I guess not.”
“Still, thanks to the swift sale of Mr. Wayne and Ms. Tate’s shares, Powers doesn’t have anything like the overwhelming majority he was planning on obtaining.” Lucius moved over to his bookcases, pressing the button which slid back the shelves concealing his private elevator. “I suppose we must be grateful for small mercies. I’m trying to persuade Douglas Fredericks to step up and take control; he may not command the majority but he’s well respected with solid business principles, as well as moral ones. But with Mr. Wayne out of the way Powers will be playing the youth card - the ‘bright future of the company’ and all that - which neither Douglas nor I have any hope of countering. Not to mention that Powers’ previous attempt was made only a few days after Mr. Wayne’s funeral, so we were also able to argue that the timing was inappropriate. However there’s plenty on the Board, let alone in the corporate world in general, who would like nothing better than to sever all ties with Bruce Wayne’s tenure as CEO of Wayne Enterprises.”
“Could you take on the position?”
Lucius shook his head once more, stepping into the elevator as the doors opened.
“After Mr. Wayne fired Bill Earle the company’s constitution was re-written so that the positions of CEO and President of the Board could never be held by the same person - as a safeguard should anything happen to either myself or Mr. Wayne, you understand. Unfortunately neither of us anticipated not having a counter-strategy against the likes of Derek Powers.”
“Isn’t there also something in the constitution stating that the President of the Board cannot also be the owner of another company?” Blake asked, falling in beside his employer.
“You’re quite right, Mr. Blake, and that’s how we would have blocked Daggett had we not had Miranda Tate as a candidate to take control of the Board; but Derek Powers isn’t just after a simple takeover this time. He’s proposed a corporate merger, under which Wayne Enterprises and Daggett Industries would become Wayne-Powers Technologies.”
“Oh.”
“Quite.” Lucius pressed his thumb to the touch pad on the control panel, which lit up with the words ‘Access Granted’. The steel doors slid smoothly shut and the elevator began to descend. “I’ve got Legal working on it night and day, but we’re running out of options fast.”
“What would happen if Powers did get hold of the company?” Blake asked. It would be best to be prepared for the worst.
“Oh the company’s profits would increase, undoubtedly, but under Powers the partnership programme with the GCPD would be neglected and the Wayne Foundation would most likely fold. Also the R&D budget for engineering would be cut in half and redirected to the development of arms and pharmaceuticals - which besides being directly contradictory to Mr. Wayne’s last wishes would also make it very difficult for you to continue pursuing your extra curricula activities. I have it on good authority that Mr. Powers is not a fan of spelunking.”
“How about base-jumping?” Blake asked without any real conviction.
“Entirely uninterested. He’s not particularly keen on polo either.”
The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open, the two men stepping out into Lucius’ underground domain; rebuilt and reinforced this time to withstand a large nuclear blast - from above or beneath.
“In truth I’m more worried about Powers’ general method of business practice,” Lucius continued, leading the way over to his workbench. “There have been many, myself included, who have long suspected that some of Daggett’s operations contained a criminal element, though no one’s ever been able to prove it. However, should Daggett have been guilty of anything untoward it’s an almost given that Powers would have had a hand in it - and I doubt the last thing Mr. Wayne would have wanted was his company being run by a criminal.”
“Do you want me to find out if there’s any hard evidence against Powers and then discredit him?”
Lucius paused in the action of sitting down, his expression becoming carefully blank.
“It would be an abuse of my position to ask you to use your... community work to benefit private enterprise, Mr. Blake,” he said firmly. He sat down, tilting his head to one side as if further considering the matter. “However, should you think it in the wider interest of Gotham, then I hope you wouldn’t be opposed to delivering any information which may come to light to the relevant authorities.”
Blake nodded his understanding.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Blake,” Lucius said mildly. He clasped his hands on the desk, leaning forward and the tone of the conversation instantly lightened. “Now, is there anything I can do for you today?”
“As a matter of fact,” Blake said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I was wondering if you had anything that would help counteract the effects of pepper spray.”
“Pepper spray?” Lucius echoed.
“Or mace. Any sort of aerosol irritant to the face.”
The older man’s eyebrows inched upwards in question.
“Somebody get the wrong impression of a Friday night?” he asked lightly.
“Let’s just say some girls don’t know how to say thank you after you stop a mugging,” Blake muttered darkly, unable to suppress a grimace of remembered pain. Lucius’ face broke into a broad grin.
“Reckon I could come up with something, Mr. Blake.”
-------
It was gone six thirty in the evening when Blake finally made it back to the manor. Rush hour in Gotham was one of the few times he regretted no longer being a cop; no more switching on the lights and siren to make a quick run home. Not that he and his partner ever did that. Much. He’d run off his frustration in the Tumbler later tonight. He wouldn’t have time to cook himself a proper dinner before going out on patrol; he would have to grab something from the kitchens and maybe fix himself an omelette when he got back - if he felt like eating at all by that point. When he’d begun his life as Batman Blake had gone to the trouble of consulting with one of Gotham’s top nutritionists to have a diet sheet drawn up for him, but in reality he found that he was increasingly living off tinned soup and omelettes, and it was at such times he seriously envied Bruce having had Alfred. Even if Bruce had possessed the ability to cook for himself, the Batman lifestyle alone wouldn’t have given him much of an opportunity to do so.
Turning off the road Blake swung his car in through the ornate gateway and began winding his way up the front drive to the house itself. Being winter it was already dark, and the sight of the manor lit up like a Christmas tree on its outcrop in the snowbound landscape made for an impressive scene. Blake made a mental note to take some photos to make up into Christmas cards for the Foundation to retail next year.
Before, when Bruce had been living alone at the manor, Blake had felt that there was an innate sadness in the very stones of the place; but it hadn’t been until the orphanage had moved in that he had realised why. Bruce had not lived in the house but the cave below, using the manor as a convenient charade the same way as he did his public identity. Blake sometimes thought that in a sense Bruce Wayne had become a ghost long before he died; a hollow man existing in an empty house, trapped by past grief and unable to move on. As soon as the children had moved in the sadness had lifted and the manor had once again become a home, not just a house.
St. Lawrence’s had spent its limited resources on housing Gotham's at risk boys, but the Wayne Orphanage was large enough and well-enough funded that this fall would see its first intake of girls. All in all Blake enjoyed working and living at the manor. During the day he fulfilled his role as estate manager (and general handyman when needed), but he also got to spend time with the boys; playing football with them, listening if they had problems, offering advice as someone who had ‘been there’, and telling them stories about the Batman - and the boys liked it here at the manor too. Blake only hoped that the threat of Derek Powers would not put an end to the enterprise before it had even begun.
Taking the car around the side of the house to the garages, Blake automatically cast a glance across the open expanse of the west lawn. Here and there the odd sequoias and cedars stood out in glorious isolation, but as ever Blake’s eye was drawn to the ancient yew just off to one side of the gravel path, under which he could just make out the small collection of gravestones standing in stark contrast to the newly-fallen snow. Normally he would not spare the Wayne family plot more than a passing glance, not caring to think too much about the latest and last addition to the grim collection, but tonight Blake spotted something unusual amongst the stones and he stood on the breaks, the car crunching to a halt on the loose gravel. It had just begun to snow again, so pulling up the collar of his overcoat Blake got out of the car to have a better look, squinting into the darkness and trying to make out definite shapes against the shadows under the yew and the blurred backdrop of the falling snow. Two years experience patrolling the streets of Gotham meant that his night vision was pretty good, and he was quickly able to confirm that at first glance he had not been mistaken; there was definitely a figure standing amongst the gravestones.
Blake however was not at all surprised, only irritated. It had become something of a problem of late, as since Gotham Tonight had started reporting sightings of the Prince’s Ghost the boys, as boys would do, had been daring each other to spend the night next to Bruce Wayne’s grave. Blake now made a point of keeping the gate locked, yet even so in the past month alone he’d had to shoo no less five boys out of there; and those were just the ones he’d caught. He had to admire this one’s determination for attempting to brave the challenge in the snow, for all it was a potentially suicidal attempt.
“Okay, c’mon!” Blake called wearily. He switched off his car engine, slammed the door shut and started walking down the slope towards the graveyard, fishing in his pocket for the key to the gate. Yet another delay to his setting out on patrol... “You know you boys aren’t allowed in there. You’re not supposed to be out after dark either.”
He could see the boy clearly now. He was quite tall and skinny, with a hunched-over posture; one of the home's eldest boys then, which was odd as usually the elder boys knew better than to pay any mind to something like this. He was wearing an over-sized dark grey hoodie and baseball cap, faded black jeans and a fairly solid pair of black boots; hood up and the cap peak shading his face. It was a miracle that Blake had seen him at all in this light.
“Is that you, Sean? Jason? Look, you’re not in trouble; not with me, anyway. Let’s get you back to the house and warmed up. We’ll say no more about it ‘til tomorrow, deal?”
But the boy only hunched over further, shoving his hands deeper into the hoodie pockets and turning his face away. Now he was closer Blake could see that it wasn’t Jason or Sean, or Ben for that matter; all of them were shorter, and it was with a sense of shock that Blake realised that if this kid straightened up he’d be taller than him by a good few inches. He didn’t know this boy at all, and there were no new arrivals due anytime soon - which then begged the question of was this a boy at all? Blake narrowed his eyes, his fist automatically wrapping around his car keys. Having been a beat cop in Gotham he was not opposed to fighting dirty when necessary, especially as there was a possibility that the hoodie might be here to hurt the boys in some way, or a thief come to see if there was any family silver left to be had - or maybe he was just some homeless guy looking for a place to spend the night.
“You're new here, aren’t you?” Blake asked, keeping the same level tone he’d been using moments earlier. He could take the guy if he needed to, but that was no reason to be incautious. He might still be able to get him to leave quietly. “Don’t think we’ve met. What’s your name? I’m guessing you don’t know where -”
Blake didn’t get the chance to find out though, as all of a sudden the hoodie turned and ran, impossibly quick, vaulted over the railings in one fluid movement and took off across the lawn. For a second or two Blake stood stunned, unable to move, staring after the retreating figure. The way he moved (Blake was certain it was a man), the agility, the execution of that vault - he’d seen it all before. There was only one person he knew in the world could move that way.
“Hey!” he shouted, pocketing his keys and running after the hoodie. “Hey, wait!”
The guy had a good head start and Blake was struggling to make any decent headway wearing his work shoes - Leather soles! Fucking leather soles in snow, Goddamnit! - but he could see that the hoodie had run into the walled garden, at which Blake felt a spark of triumph. Only one way in, and only one way out! Kicking off his shoes with a snarl, Blake ran on in his socks.
Yet when he reached the doorway into the garden Blake was in for another surprise; there was no sign of the hoodie. Three paces onto the pathway and the tracks just ended in unblemished snow. The man had vanished completely.
Blake searched the entirety of the garden, but there was no sign of his hooded intruder. There was nothing in here save the two glasshouses (empty), the old boarded-up well (useless), and the walls were fourteen feet high; near impossible to scale even with a good run-up. No tracks in the snow on the paths or the barren vegetable beds either, and no overhanging tree he could have climbed up and over the walls, nor any shrubs for him to hide in. No way out save the way he had come in... and yet he had vanished.
Numb from the cold and dismayed at his failure to catch his quarry, Blake picked up his shoes and trudged back up the slope towards the house, doing his best to ignore the freezing wet sensation he was now starting to feel surrounding his feet. When he got to the graveyard he fumbled for the key, the iron gate opening with a loud squeak, and stumped over to the headstones of the last three members of the Wayne family. Already the new-fallen snow was beginning to cover up his tracks, but crouching down Blake could still make out two definite indentations at the foot of Thomas Wayne’s grave where the man had clearly been standing for some time - about a size ten or eleven, narrow fitting, rubber sole with deep treads in a chequered pattern which must have given him good purchase as he ran.
He might be wrong, but Blake was fairly certain that ghosts weren’t supposed to leave footprints.
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Chapter 3: The Things for Which Men, and Especially Princes, are Praised or Blamed