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Chapter 13 - In Xanadu
Wayne Tower, international corporate headquarters of Wayne Enterprises and home to nearly sixty other companies, was a glittering tower of steel and glass set deep in the heart of Gotham�s Diamond District. Before the great �quake, the business sector of Gotham had been a thriving center of commerce. No less than ninety-one skyscrapers had crowded into the southern blocks of the city, eclipsing all light and space. The �quake had leveled most of them and only WayneCorp-constructed buildings remained standing. Upon recovering from a severe car accident ten years ago, Bruce Wayne had insisted on quake-proofing all his construction projects, beginning with Wayne Tower, his Xanadu.
Some said the Wayne Tower was an architectural extravagance. Others said it was sheer lunacy. At well over 181 stories high, the Tower dominated the city�s horizon. Built from a revolutionary new steel light-years ahead of its time, the Tower was a unique blend of the Gothic architecture for which the city was famous and more radical ideas of construction and design. Topped with a viewing platform miles above the rest of the city skyline, Wayne Tower served as a beacon for tourists who wanted to enjoy a bird�s eye view of Gotham. Chic restaurants, a slew of movie theaters and a shopping complex occupied several of the first floors of the building. Dedicated office space belonging to Wayne Enterprises and their subsidiaries occupied the rest. The executive floors of the skyscraper began on floor 175 and those who had appointments with the king of this corporate domain waited in the lobby on the 180th floor. There sat Richard Grayson, heir apparent to this triumph of capitalism, cooling his heels as his adopted father chased an assistant around the desk.
�Just a few more minutes, Mr. Grayson,� a young receptionist promised from behind a mountainous desk detailed in silver and chrome. �He�s almost finished with his�.dictation.�
A UPS delivery man standing off to the side chuckled, waiting as the receptionist signed for delivery. Dick fought the urge to roll his eyes, wondering how many Wayne employees made jokes about their CEO�s sexual assignations to unwind after a long day at the office. It was a hard topic to avoid. The Gotham tabloids were full of stories about the lust and debauchery filling Bruce Wayne�s life. The city seemed to enjoy hearing about Bruce�s shenanigans, be it a near-fatal car wreck or a midnight rendezvous with a Hollywood sexpot or a European princess. When Bruce had officially adopted him, Dick�s life had come under similar microscopic scrutiny as the Gotham rumor mill tried to illustrate that a poisoned tree bears rotten fruit. His relationship with Barbara had helped still all but the most vicious of tongues: the name of Gordon was a respected one in the city and unlike Bruce, Dick was not willing to sacrifice personal happiness for the sake of a little bad press.
Dick remembered watching Bruce at parties, marveling at the way gorgeous women would throw themselves at the millionaire playboy. And on patrol more beautiful women (this time clad in spandex or leather instead of eveningwear) would throw themselves at Batman. Bruce would still go home alone each night. That had been hard enough for Dick to understand as a kid, but as an adult in an affectionate, satisfying relationship, it was damn near impossible. There was a mile-long list of intelligent, beautiful, compassionate women who�d fallen for either Bruce Wayne or Batman. So why now, why�her? Selina Kyle may have been the Feline Fatal, but there were more honorable women gunning for Bruce. Catwoman seemed to represent everything they were fighting against, criminality foremost among them. After the events surrounding Flannery�s murder, Dick was only begging to see how dangerous a woman like that could be for Bruce. Barbara had been right to worry.
�Go on up, Mr. Grayson,� the receptionist told him. Dick thanked her and headed for the executive elevator, a sleek column of steel buried deep in the cut-marble wall. The short ride to the top of Wayne Tower was quiet, the floors slipping silently by as an RDR marked their passage. Finally, Dick hit 181 and stepped into another world.
Bruce Wayne�s office was constantly being redesigned. The colors scheme seemed to change every week and his enormous desk alternated between cedar, oak, metal, plastic�whatever element Bruce�s interior designer favored at the moment. The giant conference room down the hall was in a similar state of flux. This week, Bruce�s office was all dark mahogany furniture with silver accents. A massive bookshelf housed hundreds of volumes that the office�s occupant had, presumably, never read. Floor-to-ceiling windows perfectly framed the city below, bathed in late-afternoon sunshine. The East River flowed a half-mile away and from this height, the water didn�t look so dirty. The stench of the factory district near the waterfront had long dissipated, and Gotham was at rest. Dick sometimes wondered if Bruce even noticed the view.
Rays of dusky sunlight banded the room. Dimly, Dick made out various pieces of furniture. A leather-bound sofa, the massive desk, stark, cold pieces of modern art on the walls. It reminded him of his safe house in Bludhaven: sterile, efficient and totally lacking any trace of human warmth. This was the face Bruce chose to present to the world. Each item in his life was carefully calculated for effect, all designed to protect his secret. Only on the large desk were there any items of personal significance.
A photograph taken at a Wayne Christmas party years ago rested in a silver frame beside a dust-encrusted Rolodex. Dick was thirteen in the picture: it was his first Christmas with Bruce after his parents had died. They wore identical tuxedos and Bruce had his arm wrapped awkwardly around Dick�s shoulders. Both were smiling tightly for the camera. Part of him knew that the picture�s presence on Bruce�s desk was as much of a façade as the bit with the assistant that the receptionist had joked about, just misdirection to conceal Bruce�s real agenda. Dick wondered which of the memories scattered on the big desk were real: the picture of Barbara, Tim, Alfred and Leslie at Thanksgiving last year, James Gordon addressing the graduating class at Gotham U, a candid shot of Bruce surrounded by grinning toddlers at one of his Wayne Foundation shelters. Did any of it mean anything to him, Dick wondered, or was it all just window dressing to conceal Batman�s mission?
The door to the executive washroom opened and Bruce�s assistant stumbled out, smiling coyly at Dick. Bruce followed an instant later, lipstick smeared on his collar and his shirt misbuttoned. The assistant exited, twitching her Stairmaster bottom in triumph. The scent of cheap perfume lingered in the air long after she was gone.
�Classy,� Dick muttered. Bruce fixed his collar and rebuttoned his shirt, his face already losing the bland placidity of his playboy personae and adopting Batman�s customary scowl. But his voice was still that of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist and philanderer.
�Dick!� he greeted warmly, loudly enough for the retreating assistant to hear. �Nice of you to drop by!� and in a loud stage-whisper, �Whaddya think of her, huh? Not bad!� The contrast between Batman�s face and Bruce Wayne�s voice was unnerving.
Dick refused to play along. He signed to Bruce that they needed to talk in private. Bruce moved swiftly to his desk, his posture very different from the lazy shuffle he employed in daylight.
Bruce hit a button on his desk that effectively soundproofed the room. The device was necessary in these days of corporate espionage and so there was a justifiable reason why all electronic listening devices were being jammed, all sound extinguished beyond the walls of Bruce�s office. Dick sometimes joked that the noise filter was an advanced cousin of the �dome of silence� from Get Smart. He didn�t doubt that the Luther Corporation wished they had the schematics for it.
�Thanks for clearing your busy schedule enough to squeeze me in,� Dick began, his tone unusually bitter. Dick blamed the manila envelope in his hand. It seemed to weigh heavily on him. He wasn�t quite ready to speak to his adopted father about Selina.
�I thought you were Lucius,� Bruce informed him, explaining the bit with the assistant. �Two of the Wayne board members died this morning, one the victim of a car accident, the other of a heart attack. Lucius was coming up to discuss the restructuring of the board.� Bruce took a seat behind his desk with the air of a king holding court. Dick took the chair facing him. �He would expect me to seduce the new assistant.�
Dick shook his head. �Well, if you want to inspire confidence in your chief stockholder��
�I�m glad you came,� Bruce cut him off, surprising him. �We should talk.� He paused, visibly collecting his thoughts. That shocked Dick even more. It was rare to see Bruce caught in a moment of indecision.
�So�Catwoman,� Dick encouraged. Bruce shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
�Selina and I are��
�Yeah, I got the idea when you went into her apartment at four in the morning. Barbara was pissed.�
Bruce didn�t look at him, but at least he didn�t shoot him one of those �the subject is closed� glares Dick had been subjected to so often when he was a kid.
�What does it mean?� Dick asked, hating the nervous catch in his voice. He hadn�t let himself feel how much it hurt that Bruce was shutting them out. Again. Dick wondered if it was like this between all fathers and sons.
He doubted that it was.
�Barbara thinks you can�t trust her.�
�And what, exactly, does Barbara object to about my relationship with Selina?� Bruce asked, his tone dry, slightly amused. Dick recognized the thread of danger underneath. Bruce never joked and what Dick said next would determine if this conversation could continue.
�She knows about all of us, doesn�t she?� he asked.
Bruce nodded.
�I guess Barbara feels we should have been consulted about that,� Dick said. �So many of the rogues know�I mean, our security could be improved. We should probably take out a trade ad in Underworld Monthly or something, just announce to all our enemies who we really are.�
Bruce turned from him, angry. Dick knew he�d miscalculated but it was impossible to talk to Bruce about this sort of thing. Either he shut down, or got defensive, or both. Dick didn�t know why he�d even bothered trying. �Selina would not��
�Yeah, sure,� Dick cut him off, the words escaping his throat without conscious thought. �She�s a paragon of virtue. What do you know about her, really?�
�What do you mean?� Bruce snapped. Dick refused to be intimidated.
�I mean, who is she? You�ve been fighting her longer than any of the other usual gang of idiots. Her file predates even the Joker�s. And whatever you had on your early encounters with her you�ve stored in some super-secret file on the computer. Even Barbara couldn�t access it. What are you hiding?�
The point-blank question startled them both. Bruce replied in an icy tone, his jaw set. �You�ve been attempting to access my private files?�
�Don�t give me that crap!� Dick exclaimed, exasperated. �We�ve done it before, most recently to clear your name of that pesky little murder charge. Sometimes we need to protect you, okay?�
Dick realized Bruce was practicing a relaxation technique he�d taught to Dick in junior high. It didn�t involve a very sophisticated method: he could see Bruce working desperately for control.
�I�m just saying that there are obviously some things about Selina that you don�t trust. Maybe the past, maybe the future�but you�ve put us all at risk. And I think you should know who you�re really dealing with.�
Dick slid the manila envelope he�d taken from Flannery�s hotel room across the desk to Bruce. �An old Gotham cop tried to contact me yesterday. I was supposed to meet him at his hotel later that night, but someone got there first. Someone who wields four-inch claws and whose prints are a perfect match for Catwoman�s,� Dick said quickly, watching Bruce�s reaction. Nothing. It was like trying to interpret a wall.
�Flannery wasn�t just murdered, he was mutilated. Detective Montoya arrived on the scene and I couldn�t really verify anything, but��
�So this is simply an accusation?� Bruce clarified, rising. �You think that Selina-�
�There�s more,� Dick cut him off. Bruce sat back down. �Barbara finally found the registration on that yacht that blew up in the Rogers Basin two weeks ago. Wasn�t easy, but she made a connection. The yacht�s owner is Peter Bradshaw, Jessica Bradshaw�s father.�
Bruce narrowed his eyes, something sliding into place. �Bradshaw owned the yacht.�
�And Selina led you onto it,� Dick finished. �Didn�t you wonder why?�
�She saved my life that night, Dick,� Bruce told him, his mind recalling in perfect detail every moment of that long night. �But that doesn�t mean that the explosion on the yacht wasn�t deliberate,� he acknowledged reluctantly.
�There�s some ink too,� Dick told him, gesturing at the untouched envelope on Bruce�s desk. Bruce didn�t open it, eyeing the envelope as if it were a viper poised to strike. Dick swallowed hard and continued, telling himself that he had nothing to fear from the man who had raised him. Dick knew that while Bruce might initially be angry he would eventually appreciate Dick�s interference in his life.
�There�s a name that showed up in the file, one that seems to be pretty important. Barbara tried to research it, put something together for you, but you encrypted all the files from �91.�
�The Holiday murders?� Batman asked sharply. Dick fought the urge to shiver.
�Falcone. I remember seeing it in case records when you were training me. He was one of the most powerful mobsters in Gotham, right? Your father saved his life once.�
Bruce nodded and Dick breathed more easily.
�The information in the folder indicates that Selina Kyle is the daughter of Carmine �The Roman� Falcone.� Dick watched, stunned, as Bruce lost control. His jaw went slack and he clenched his fists. �Guess that means something, huh?�
There was no response, so Dick continued. �There are DNA tests in the envelope, a timeline�everything seems to be legit. It took Barbara most of the day to analyze the Falcone stuff. But that�s not even the most important thing in that file. There are pictures.�
�Of what?� he asked softly, going into detective mode.
Dick spoke softly, wishing there was another way. �You know what I�ve seen. Hell, you were there when we raided that kiddie-porn warehouse, and I thought that stuff was awful. But this�� He opened the envelope and dumped the contents over Bruce�s desk. Glossy black-and-white pictures, Polaroids and cheap color shots slid over the sleek mahogany surface, the figures in the photos cast in vivid detail. Bruce fingered each shot gingerly, eyes sliding off the pictures as if he couldn�t bear to focus on one in particular for too long.
�I can�t believe what people do with one another. To one another,� Dick whispered. Bruce didn�t indicate that he had heard him. �They�re all for blackmail, I think. Not that some freaks won�t pay for this stuff, especially with kids in it�.� Dick took a deep breath. �But this one is-�
He held up a sepia-toned photograph, wrinkled around the edges and water-stained. There were a number of figures in the shot but only three of the faces were clear. One was definitely Selina, lying on the bed, her profile to the camera. She was perhaps thirteen, nude, her expression indecipherable. A woman stood beside her on the other side of the bed, holding her wrists. And posed over her with a leather strap�
�Jessica Bradshaw�s father,� Bruce whispered.
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The snowfall had been steady for the last few weeks, burying the Bristol countryside in a cloud of white powder. It was one of the few times Alfred was grateful for the expansive grounds of Wayne Manor. The snow transformed the area just above the north-east creek into something worthy of a Robert Frost poem. That particular spot, with its otherworldly charm, was best viewed from Alfred�s private dining room. And today he had occasion to make use of both the room and the view, although he couldn�t seem to enjoy either.
�Is something bothering you?� Leslie Thompkins asked him, putting her fork down delicately on the china plate. �I�ve been raving about this lamb for at least ten minutes, and you haven�t made a single self-effacing comment about your cooking ability. I�m slightly concerned.�
Alfred smiled softly, distracted. �I apologize. I confess, my mind is on other things.�
Leslie nodded, sipping from a glass of wine bottled before she was born. �Three guesses as to what, and the first two don�t count.�
�I don�t believe this is appropriate dinner conversation,� Alfred told her, standing to clear away her plate. �Master Bruce can mind his own affairs. And we will be here to clean up the mess afterwards.�
�You�ve become rather pessimistic in your old age,� Leslie told him. �What makes you think Bruce and Selina are headed for inevitable tragedy?�
�The last decade or so of each of their lives.�
�So you don�t approve,� she said, her worst suspicion confirmed. �Of Selina? Or the relationship itself? I thought you�d be overjoyed to discover that he is capable of an adult relationship. You�re always hounding him about grandchildren.�
�I fail to see the amusement in this situation.� Alfred sniffed at Leslie�s odd choice of humor. �And I am surprised that you are not more concerned about this recent development. Must I remind you that she broke his heart ten years ago?�
Leslie shook her head, setting down her napkin. �They were hardly ready for each other. He needed a partner, not a lover. When she left Dick came into his life, and I think that relationship was far more beneficial than the inevitable failure that would have occurred between them if Bruce and Selina had tried something at that point in their lives. She was only eighteen, and he had very difficult work ahead of him.�
Alfred remained silent. Leslie often felt as though she was talking to a brick wall but her heart softened when she saw his concern for the man they each thought of as their son. �It�s something else, isn�t it? You aren�t really afraid she�ll leave him.�
�That,� Alfred told her, �is the least of my concerns. I�m more worried that she will stay.�
Surprise flared briefly in Leslie�s eyes. �Alfred Pennyworth, please tell me that you are not that deeply invested in the class system! You think she wouldn�t make an appropriate wife for him, simply because she was born in Crime Alley rather than Bristol Heights?�
Alfred�s pencil-thin mustache twitched. He doubted Leslie sincerely believed he could be that petty. �That is not what I meant,� he clarified, sighing. �Master Bruce has found the one woman who will never challenge his need to be the Batman. How could this situation indicate growth in his own emotional awareness? He�s found a playmate among the rooftops of this city, not an equal partner.�
Leslie pursed her lips. �Is that so bad?� she asked in a soft, tender whisper. �Would you condemn him to loneliness?�
�Leslie,� Alfred said, looking directly into her eyes. �She will never ask him to stop.�
She closed her eyes, acknowledging her old friend�s fear. It was a long moment before she could respond.
�And you believed that if he married and had children, he would end his mission?�
Alfred nodded slowly, thinking of long, sleepless nights listening for Bruce�s footsteps on the stairs, waiting for the medical alarm in the Batcave to sound and call him to perform emergency surgery, to remove a bullet or repair a broken bone. He had been in service to the Waynes for all of his adult life and had spent the last decade waiting to bury their son. His one hope had been that, somehow, Bruce would outgrow his crusade and realize that there were better options. The burgeoning relationship with Selina had extinguished that hope.
�Alfred,� Leslie tried, touching his hand. Her soft palm was warm, reassuring. �Small steps, remember?�
He nodded, blinking quickly to erase any trace of tears. �I�m an old fool.�
�There is nothing foolish about wanting the best for Bruce. He deserves a happy ending,� Leslie told him. �We all do.�
A car�s headlights flashed against the windows and Leslie�s hand fell from Alfred�s forearm. �I thought you said he was staying in town.�
�He usually does these days. Apparently there has been a change of plans,� Alfred said, rising just as the front door to the manor banged open. They heard Bruce bellowing for Alfred from the lower level of the house. �And such a thing does not often bode well.�
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