Aren't You Glad - Three (3/3)
'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.
Title taken from Spirit's song of the same name.
There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included the warnings just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger someone.
From off the rack, she drags down the bag containing the black dress, unzipping it as she walks over to the wide table in the middle of the closet. There, she digs out a pair of black shoes, flats because she has the feeling the night's just starting and is fast running out of patience. She checks her arms and back in the mirror one final time to make sure no bruising has cropped up in the past hour and a half, and then she pulls on the dress, slips on the shoes, hooks in a matching set of earrings, and steps out to go and find Alfred.
It's easy to pull him away from what is already shaping up to be quite the crowd downstairs, all with glasses of champagne in hand and dressed to the nines, all chuckling and grinning sharply and toasting Brooke Wayne's health while no doubt wondering at her absence from her own birthday party. She leads Alfred down the hall and tells him Rachel is 'downstairs and needs a ride home,' and that's apparently where he draws the line, lightly grabbing her arm to keep her close and finally confronting her.
He gestures at the TV that's going in the corner.
"How exactly, might I ask, is a high-speed chase resulting in tens of thousands of dollars worth of damage 'for the sake of Gotham'? You swore this wasn't an abuse of power, wasn't some new way to vent your frustrations, but I'm sorry; that is all I see here. Vigilantism, violence and destruction-how are these building that golden future of yours, Madame?" He waits a moment, clearly hesitating before going in for the kill, and Brooke takes the opportunity to glance at the TV just in time to catch the Tumbler's jump onto the roof from the top of the parking garage. No, it isn't pretty.
Turning back to meet Alfred's eyes, she gets as far as, "It's Rachel, Alfred. What was I suppos- ?" before he cuts her off.
"You've lied to me before, Ms. Wayne, but never to this extent."
She's staring. Her mouth is open, and she's staring at him like a landed fish, his hand still holding her arm just above the elbow, and it crosses her mind. It does. Five seconds, and she could turn those words back on him, could strike just as true and deep, could wound him. Half that time, and she'd have him on the floor in any number of ways, no matter all that extensive training and experience he likes to keep hidden under the guise of kindly English gentleman. The physical is almost always faster than the cerebral.
"I'm not lying," she finally responds in an even tone, pulling her arm from his grasp. "And regardless of what you may think of me, Rachel needs to be taken home. Now, I can certainly do it myself, but I was rather under the impression that my presence is needed downstairs. Certainly wouldn't want to keep those 'friends' of mine waiting any longer, would we?"
She then takes a step back, sliding her hands up to smooth down the updo of her hair before moving around Alfred and striding out of the room and down the hall. Behind her, the keys are picked out on the piano and there's a whooshing sound, and Brooke sighs as she rounds the corner. She didn't tell Alfred her belief that the party needs to be called off and that the shortest route in this set of circumstances is likely public humiliation. She knows what his reaction would be, and it's better this way.
Violence is quicker, but mind games last longer, and she doesn't dare to hope they'll make it through the night without some sort of retaliation on behalf of whoever's actually running this show-because it's clear now that person is not Jonathan Crane.
***
Lucius takes her keycard with a frown but promptly turns and leaves for Wayne tower. She has every confidence he'll come through in time, but just as she's taking a deep breath in preparation for making the rounds and doling out the reasons for calling a halt to the proceedings, a dignified but unfamiliar woman puts a hand on Brooke's shoulder and persists in dragging her to the middle of the floor towards someone she apparently simply must meet.
" . . . Mr. Ra's al Ghul?" the woman then says uncertainly. "Am I pronouncing that correctly?"
Time slows down as she's turning her head, but it speeds right back up once she sees it's not really Ra's. She has never seen the man in front of her, although something in his bearing does bring to mind the League's training.
"You're not Ra's," Brooke says, as the woman who'd been so insistent on making introductions now cautiously, even somewhat obsequiously steps back, fading into the crowd. "Ra's," she continues in a whisper, staring down this imposter, "is dead."
"But," a deep and masculine voice then speaks into her ear, and this time it's her heart that skips, not time, "are the ways of Shadows not nebulous, not-mysterious and fleeting, not-wholly supernatural?"
She doesn't turn to face him, instead waiting motionless as he slowly walks around to stand in front of her. In his fine, tailored tuxedo with his refined accent and polite, stoic manner, he presents the very picture of gentility and sophistication. He appears to be a gentleman on the surface, but Brooke looks up and meets his eyes, and she sees the great panther pacing there within.
"Ra's," she greets, and he inclines his head in a way she might consider condescending from anyone else.
"Ms. Wayne," he returns, taking a gentle hold of her upper arm and leading her towards the outskirts of the room, while sounding exactly as he did in that Bhutanese prison, all paternal concern and inexhaustible patience with just a touch of disappointment. "We find ourselves at a crossroads," he says, as they stop under an arch just beyond the ballroom. "For it is impossible to move forward, don't you find, when ghosts from the past come calling?"
"I couldn't agree more," she answers, and just as she'd known he would-he smiles, inclining his head subtly, which at first she takes as him acknowledging her ironic retort. When several men around the room move as one, however, spreading out and taking up strategically advantageous positions around the floor, she realizes this is bigger than she'd thought.
"It's you," she accuses, pulling her arm from his grasp and taking a single, important step back.
He simply raises his eyebrows and smiles in amusement, and this time it is patronizing-belittling.
"Indeed," he agrees, casting another glance around the room. "Although why you seem so shocked, I admit, escapes me. Did we not make it clear we had plans for the city of Gotham?" He holds her eyes as he deliberately crowds her, pointedly negating any attempt she's making at securing a physical advantage. He's using his greater height and body mass, effectively cutting her off from the rest of the room-not that anyone in there would be worth a damn if it came down to it. It's more the psychological impact of the move that Henr- that Ra's is hoping for.
And it's working, damn it. She can feel sweat forming on her face and her hands curling into fists.
"I thought," she admits between clenched teeth, as two Shadows come to stand on either side of her at a distance of, generously, five feet away, "those plans might have been abandoned in light of-extenuating circumstances."
Ra's chuckles and shifts his weight back a hair, looking down to study her. And while he's appraising her, she likewise takes the moment to assess him. He appears to be perfectly healthy, no signs of sustained, long-term damage from concussion or healing bones or internal injuries to speak of, more's the pity. He's as fit as ever, looks to be well rested and fed, and likely hasn't already staged the tense rescue of a close friend tonight, all of which means he's definitely one-up on her.
"Brooke," he says, and where her name coming from his mouth had once made her proud and elated, now, it signifies all that is wrong in this world. She used to feel pleased to be seen as his equal; it had been something she aspired to.
Now, he should be so lucky, this facsimile of a man, this mercenary, this killing machine lacking all compassion and sentiment. Henri Ducard is Ra's al Ghul, and he is indeed a symbol of something great and terrible, but it's not of the supernatural aspects of pure, undiluted justice or the superhuman abilities of those claiming to enforce it. Rather, he is man's hubris and brutality, completely unforgiving. He is unearthly in his callous disregard for the human heart, subhuman, not superhuman. Standing as he is in her family home and attempting to force her to his exalted will, he is in this moment the very personification of corruption. Whatever decency he'd had in him before that she'd gravitated towards-it's long gone now.
"You burn down my home," he says, the tiniest thread of anger lurking under the words, almost a growl running parallel, "and leave me for dead, and when I confront you-you dare play the injured party?" His expression turns cold, and his body, perhaps subconsciously, shifts into a fighting stance. "We opened our doors to you, and you refused us, betrayed us, and now you expect that all is forgiven-that everything has somehow been forgotten?"
Ra's reaches out, and Brooke moves quickly, immediately, but it's not fast enough. The two men on either side of her grab her, seeking to hold her still, and what keeps her that way and makes her toe the line is the meaningful glance Ra's throws over his shoulder when she attempts to buck the control.
"You'll understand," Ra's then says quietly, his eyes burning with hatred, "if I'm not so quick to let bygones be bygones. In fact, I'm somewhat inclined to return the favor. . . " And, again, he looks out over the grand ballroom floor of Wayne Manor, filled to the brim with people both close but mostly distant to her personally, all gathered to be seen wishing her the best on this, her birthday. "How many of our number do you suppose perished that day?" Ra's asks conversationally, as they both now look at her guests. "Fifty? One hundred? And how many," he says, leaning over to hiss in her ear, "of your sycophants would you think I'd have to kill to make up even a quarter of that number?"
"These are innocent people," she says, and Ra's and both of his men snort and laugh at her, at the very idea of Gothamites and these Gothamites in particular as being anything resembling 'innocent,' but she continues regardless. "They have no place in this- this feud, and what you're talking of is murder, not justice."
"It's revenge," Ra's snaps back, turning his head to meet her eyes, as the man on Brooke's right squeezes her arm harder, showing the physical outrage his master doesn't.
"Revenge," Brooke then says, recalling Rachel's words from years ago, more powerful now than she'll ever know, "is not the same as justice. It's only about making yourself feel better."
Ra's sneers, but he doesn't question her, and that is both telling and sad. She'd almost be willing to chalk all of this up to a temporary leave of sense, a fit of rage at her seeming betrayal of the League's principles and Henri's trust. But, to see that Henri recognizes the logic of her argument, acknowledges her point as legitimate-that means he's in his right mind and none of this is over. It means it's hopeless; Henri's hopeless.
He has always been this man as long as she's known him, and he will go on being this man. He is perfectly sane and exceedingly capable, and there's no turning back. It's over. This must stop.
"Let them go," she says, pitching her voice carefully and phrasing it just so. "Your quarrel is with me. . . "
A moment of silence then follows, stretching out interminably until Brooke fears some hapless guest will stumble upon their tableau here and ruin whatever chance she has of gaining them all a stay of execution.
"Ok," he finally whispers, looking out at the guests with a wicked, nasty smirk on his face. "Explain to them why they must leave immediately, and if they go-why, no harm here will befall them." Then, with a nod of his head, he signals the Shadows holding her to let go.
Their hands release her, and she moves forward, adjusting her dress and hair and modifying her walk back onto the floor until she's all but staggering-the drunken, belligerent heiress: Brooke Wayne in all her sullied glory.
***
At least Alfred is safe, safe back in the Palisades, safe down the road at the gate, safe watching from the driver's seat of the Rolls as the Manor burns to the ground because all Gotham City emergency personnel are a little too busy right now-what, with the mass panic brought on as the culmination of the League's brilliant master plan to finally lay waste to the city. Yeah, Alfred's safe.
Brooke herself feels invincible, immune to the fear toxin as she is courtesy of Lucius' antidote and full to bursting with wrath and righteous fury. What's before the Bat is Evil being committed by Evil men, and she brings low all Shadows placed in her path, all Arkham patients stumbling into it.
Then, as she's making her way to the heart of this menace, straight to Ra's and his thievery of her own company's technology, like a cancerous tumor appearing at the center of all she's trying to do for this city, she sees down below at a dead-end-that hopeful, excited little boy from the other night being guarded by none other than Rachel.
And Batman scoops the two of them to safety, temporary as it might be, pulling them up onto the roof and giving them at least some semblance of a better chance at wading through this disaster. Time waits for no man, however, and she's all set to jump back out into the fray when Rachel calls out.
" . . . at least tell me your name," she says, so concerned, and Brooke can see the moment Rachel recognizes her as a woman, the flicker of shock and slight increase in worry and fear.
She almost gives it away, too, almost gives in, the words floating on her tongue. But, it would be dangerous to Rachel and purely selfish.
And it would be too much like asking for approval, validation, forgiveness for something not within Rachel's power to forgive. Thus the moment passes, the chance evaporates.
Batman looks Rachel Dawes in the eyes and then returns to the fight. She moves forward and doesn't look back.
***
She devises a counterattack, Gordon racing ahead to derail the train with the stolen Wayne Enterprises microwave emitter, while the Bat scales the train itself, coming face-to-face with the cause of all this pain and suffering.
"Still missing the point, I see!" Ra's shouts above the noise of the rushing train. "You're fighting on the wrong side!" He then attempts to bring her down but fails because he mistakes her goal as being neutralizing him instead of what it is, namely ensuring the quick and permanent destruction of everything in this train car. She cranks the speed as high as it goes and then decimates the controls with several quick stabs of Ra's own purloined knife to the console. Now it's up to Gordon. If he's failed, then they're likely all doomed.
Still, there's Plan B, and she makes her best attempt at carrying it out too. Ra's isn't distracted enough to allow her the edge, though, despite his insistence at carrying on a conversation. It's his trademark, after all; he likes his mind games.
He throws her guilt back in her face, mocks her anger and methods. She doesn't go down, but neither does he. They are currently at an impasse when she glances up and sees a sad and beautiful sight ahead-the track broken, the suspended rails fallen to the street below.
Last stop. End of the line.
She turns back to look at Ra's and sees by the expression on his face that he had followed her eyes. But, then he turns back to her, and this is it.
"You've finally gained the courage to do what is necessary," he says, his voice ringing out clearly despite the noise.
"I've always done what's necessary," she counters. Then, pulling out an explosive and throwing it back to blow out the rear of the car, Brooke shouts to him a farewell. "Let bygones be bygones!"
Then she opens the cape and shoots the electricity through the frame, and the same force that pulls her out and up is what drives Ra's and the emitter down into the ground.
***
Alfred has already been on the phone, setting up accommodations for Brooke and then coordinating with Lucius. She manages to clean up somewhat in the cave with rubbing alcohol and Kleenex, and Alfred hands her clothes to change into. Lucius is on his way out with a truck. They'll clear out everything they can and take it out to the docks. People from the city won't be in until tomorrow at the earliest.
The shirt Alfred gives her is sleeveless, but he hands her a sweatshirt to go over it. Good thing, too, because her arms have several fingerprint bruises, and there's a large scrape across her collarbone.
They're standing together in the cave, she halfheartedly organizing in preparation for the move and Alfred blatantly evaluating her.
Finally, Brooke says, "Thank you, Alfred, for earlier."
She can hear his sigh but doesn't turn around, instead adding quietly and as detached as she can, "I know this is hard on you, what I do, what- what I'm trying to do. And I appreciate the position I've put you in," she says, remembering earlier on the rooftop, when everything in her was begging to tell Rachel the truth just so she wouldn't be alone, just so someone else would understand.
Rachel, of all of them, would understand the best. Brooke knows she would, and maybe that's exactly why she can't tell her. It would ruin it, negate everything she's done so far. If she does it for someone, or if it's someone else's idea-then it wouldn't really be her, would it? She's already pushing it with Alfred and Lucius, with Jim Gordon. How many more people will she drag into this freak show?
Just because she's lonely. Just because she's weak, because she's-afraid.
"What would they think, I wonder," she whispers before she can help it.
"I imagine," Alfred responds, and his voice sounds much closer than before, which is understandable when she looks behind and sees he's just a few feet away now, "that there would be a great deal of worrying and a stern lecture on unnecessary personal risk."
Brooke nods, smiling slightly even as she swallows back the ache and longing.
"But then, Madame," he adds, coming up slowly beside her and just standing there, comforting and familiar and so solid, "I'd wager a hug wouldn't be out of order, either."
"And a good shake to try and get some sense into me," she responds, remembering.
Alfred puts his hand on her shoulder then, and she blinks and breathes deeply.
***
If Gordon's surprised when she shows up, he doesn't show it.
"Reconstruction has to be a top priority," she points out in Batman's voice. Gordon's mustache twitches, but she mentally rolls her eyes and writes it off as his recent promotion and the high of actually doing something productive for the city for once.
"I notice Wayne Enterprises at the front of the pack in that regard," Gordon remarks-perhaps too casually.
She looks at him closely, but he could have meant any number of things with that comment. It's too vague to tell if he-knows, or thinks he knows, or is just mentioning it, or perhaps is criticizing the company's involvement.
"The more, the merrier," she growls back, attempting to sound dismissive and sarcastic. "What's this I hear about a string of bank robberies?"
The mustache twitches at the blatant change in conversation, but he follows her lead.
Nodding, Gordon says, "Three hit so far-always men, always masked. According to witness accounts, one man walks away with the haul, while the others are killed right there at the scene."
She angles her body slightly away, turning to make ready for a quick exit. "The clown," she agrees.
Gordon reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an evidence bag containing a single playing card. "Leaves a calling card each time," he says, and something in his voice, something about the tone, makes her hesitate, causes her to turn back.
"You're worried," she says eventually, surprised despite herself.
He nods unashamedly, turning to look out at the city, jerking his head towards the wrecked portion of the train rails down the block. "Where do we go from here?" he asks, rhetorically.
She calls him on it, though, unwilling to let him fall into that trap again of self-doubt and futility.
"We do what we must," she says. "We do our best, go beyond what's expected."
"Fight fire with fire?" he asks, glancing at her, and she thinks carefully of what to say next. He's wanting to help. He just needs a reason to, the right reason.
"Best way to put out a fire," she says, "is to smother it. We have to be efficient, practical."
"And pray the escalation stops here?" he asks, humorlessly. "I didn't take you for an optimist."
She turns her head and meets his eyes. "We're all optimists, living here, getting up every morning, going to work like it makes a difference. If we weren't, Gordon, we'd be dead."
He stares at her then blinks, and she nods in return, backing up slowly and then moving quickly to the far edge of the rooftop so she can head back to the Narrows from here.
Just when she gets up onto the ledge, he calls out, "I didn't get a chance to thank you!"
Without turning back, without looking back, she answers, "I don't need your gratitude, just your help."
Then the Bat jumps from the roof.
The End.
30
Title taken from Spirit's song of the same name.
There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included the warnings just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger someone.
From off the rack, she drags down the bag containing the black dress, unzipping it as she walks over to the wide table in the middle of the closet. There, she digs out a pair of black shoes, flats because she has the feeling the night's just starting and is fast running out of patience. She checks her arms and back in the mirror one final time to make sure no bruising has cropped up in the past hour and a half, and then she pulls on the dress, slips on the shoes, hooks in a matching set of earrings, and steps out to go and find Alfred.
It's easy to pull him away from what is already shaping up to be quite the crowd downstairs, all with glasses of champagne in hand and dressed to the nines, all chuckling and grinning sharply and toasting Brooke Wayne's health while no doubt wondering at her absence from her own birthday party. She leads Alfred down the hall and tells him Rachel is 'downstairs and needs a ride home,' and that's apparently where he draws the line, lightly grabbing her arm to keep her close and finally confronting her.
He gestures at the TV that's going in the corner.
"How exactly, might I ask, is a high-speed chase resulting in tens of thousands of dollars worth of damage 'for the sake of Gotham'? You swore this wasn't an abuse of power, wasn't some new way to vent your frustrations, but I'm sorry; that is all I see here. Vigilantism, violence and destruction-how are these building that golden future of yours, Madame?" He waits a moment, clearly hesitating before going in for the kill, and Brooke takes the opportunity to glance at the TV just in time to catch the Tumbler's jump onto the roof from the top of the parking garage. No, it isn't pretty.
Turning back to meet Alfred's eyes, she gets as far as, "It's Rachel, Alfred. What was I suppos- ?" before he cuts her off.
"You've lied to me before, Ms. Wayne, but never to this extent."
She's staring. Her mouth is open, and she's staring at him like a landed fish, his hand still holding her arm just above the elbow, and it crosses her mind. It does. Five seconds, and she could turn those words back on him, could strike just as true and deep, could wound him. Half that time, and she'd have him on the floor in any number of ways, no matter all that extensive training and experience he likes to keep hidden under the guise of kindly English gentleman. The physical is almost always faster than the cerebral.
"I'm not lying," she finally responds in an even tone, pulling her arm from his grasp. "And regardless of what you may think of me, Rachel needs to be taken home. Now, I can certainly do it myself, but I was rather under the impression that my presence is needed downstairs. Certainly wouldn't want to keep those 'friends' of mine waiting any longer, would we?"
She then takes a step back, sliding her hands up to smooth down the updo of her hair before moving around Alfred and striding out of the room and down the hall. Behind her, the keys are picked out on the piano and there's a whooshing sound, and Brooke sighs as she rounds the corner. She didn't tell Alfred her belief that the party needs to be called off and that the shortest route in this set of circumstances is likely public humiliation. She knows what his reaction would be, and it's better this way.
Violence is quicker, but mind games last longer, and she doesn't dare to hope they'll make it through the night without some sort of retaliation on behalf of whoever's actually running this show-because it's clear now that person is not Jonathan Crane.
***
Lucius takes her keycard with a frown but promptly turns and leaves for Wayne tower. She has every confidence he'll come through in time, but just as she's taking a deep breath in preparation for making the rounds and doling out the reasons for calling a halt to the proceedings, a dignified but unfamiliar woman puts a hand on Brooke's shoulder and persists in dragging her to the middle of the floor towards someone she apparently simply must meet.
" . . . Mr. Ra's al Ghul?" the woman then says uncertainly. "Am I pronouncing that correctly?"
Time slows down as she's turning her head, but it speeds right back up once she sees it's not really Ra's. She has never seen the man in front of her, although something in his bearing does bring to mind the League's training.
"You're not Ra's," Brooke says, as the woman who'd been so insistent on making introductions now cautiously, even somewhat obsequiously steps back, fading into the crowd. "Ra's," she continues in a whisper, staring down this imposter, "is dead."
"But," a deep and masculine voice then speaks into her ear, and this time it's her heart that skips, not time, "are the ways of Shadows not nebulous, not-mysterious and fleeting, not-wholly supernatural?"
She doesn't turn to face him, instead waiting motionless as he slowly walks around to stand in front of her. In his fine, tailored tuxedo with his refined accent and polite, stoic manner, he presents the very picture of gentility and sophistication. He appears to be a gentleman on the surface, but Brooke looks up and meets his eyes, and she sees the great panther pacing there within.
"Ra's," she greets, and he inclines his head in a way she might consider condescending from anyone else.
"Ms. Wayne," he returns, taking a gentle hold of her upper arm and leading her towards the outskirts of the room, while sounding exactly as he did in that Bhutanese prison, all paternal concern and inexhaustible patience with just a touch of disappointment. "We find ourselves at a crossroads," he says, as they stop under an arch just beyond the ballroom. "For it is impossible to move forward, don't you find, when ghosts from the past come calling?"
"I couldn't agree more," she answers, and just as she'd known he would-he smiles, inclining his head subtly, which at first she takes as him acknowledging her ironic retort. When several men around the room move as one, however, spreading out and taking up strategically advantageous positions around the floor, she realizes this is bigger than she'd thought.
"It's you," she accuses, pulling her arm from his grasp and taking a single, important step back.
He simply raises his eyebrows and smiles in amusement, and this time it is patronizing-belittling.
"Indeed," he agrees, casting another glance around the room. "Although why you seem so shocked, I admit, escapes me. Did we not make it clear we had plans for the city of Gotham?" He holds her eyes as he deliberately crowds her, pointedly negating any attempt she's making at securing a physical advantage. He's using his greater height and body mass, effectively cutting her off from the rest of the room-not that anyone in there would be worth a damn if it came down to it. It's more the psychological impact of the move that Henr- that Ra's is hoping for.
And it's working, damn it. She can feel sweat forming on her face and her hands curling into fists.
"I thought," she admits between clenched teeth, as two Shadows come to stand on either side of her at a distance of, generously, five feet away, "those plans might have been abandoned in light of-extenuating circumstances."
Ra's chuckles and shifts his weight back a hair, looking down to study her. And while he's appraising her, she likewise takes the moment to assess him. He appears to be perfectly healthy, no signs of sustained, long-term damage from concussion or healing bones or internal injuries to speak of, more's the pity. He's as fit as ever, looks to be well rested and fed, and likely hasn't already staged the tense rescue of a close friend tonight, all of which means he's definitely one-up on her.
"Brooke," he says, and where her name coming from his mouth had once made her proud and elated, now, it signifies all that is wrong in this world. She used to feel pleased to be seen as his equal; it had been something she aspired to.
Now, he should be so lucky, this facsimile of a man, this mercenary, this killing machine lacking all compassion and sentiment. Henri Ducard is Ra's al Ghul, and he is indeed a symbol of something great and terrible, but it's not of the supernatural aspects of pure, undiluted justice or the superhuman abilities of those claiming to enforce it. Rather, he is man's hubris and brutality, completely unforgiving. He is unearthly in his callous disregard for the human heart, subhuman, not superhuman. Standing as he is in her family home and attempting to force her to his exalted will, he is in this moment the very personification of corruption. Whatever decency he'd had in him before that she'd gravitated towards-it's long gone now.
"You burn down my home," he says, the tiniest thread of anger lurking under the words, almost a growl running parallel, "and leave me for dead, and when I confront you-you dare play the injured party?" His expression turns cold, and his body, perhaps subconsciously, shifts into a fighting stance. "We opened our doors to you, and you refused us, betrayed us, and now you expect that all is forgiven-that everything has somehow been forgotten?"
Ra's reaches out, and Brooke moves quickly, immediately, but it's not fast enough. The two men on either side of her grab her, seeking to hold her still, and what keeps her that way and makes her toe the line is the meaningful glance Ra's throws over his shoulder when she attempts to buck the control.
"You'll understand," Ra's then says quietly, his eyes burning with hatred, "if I'm not so quick to let bygones be bygones. In fact, I'm somewhat inclined to return the favor. . . " And, again, he looks out over the grand ballroom floor of Wayne Manor, filled to the brim with people both close but mostly distant to her personally, all gathered to be seen wishing her the best on this, her birthday. "How many of our number do you suppose perished that day?" Ra's asks conversationally, as they both now look at her guests. "Fifty? One hundred? And how many," he says, leaning over to hiss in her ear, "of your sycophants would you think I'd have to kill to make up even a quarter of that number?"
"These are innocent people," she says, and Ra's and both of his men snort and laugh at her, at the very idea of Gothamites and these Gothamites in particular as being anything resembling 'innocent,' but she continues regardless. "They have no place in this- this feud, and what you're talking of is murder, not justice."
"It's revenge," Ra's snaps back, turning his head to meet her eyes, as the man on Brooke's right squeezes her arm harder, showing the physical outrage his master doesn't.
"Revenge," Brooke then says, recalling Rachel's words from years ago, more powerful now than she'll ever know, "is not the same as justice. It's only about making yourself feel better."
Ra's sneers, but he doesn't question her, and that is both telling and sad. She'd almost be willing to chalk all of this up to a temporary leave of sense, a fit of rage at her seeming betrayal of the League's principles and Henri's trust. But, to see that Henri recognizes the logic of her argument, acknowledges her point as legitimate-that means he's in his right mind and none of this is over. It means it's hopeless; Henri's hopeless.
He has always been this man as long as she's known him, and he will go on being this man. He is perfectly sane and exceedingly capable, and there's no turning back. It's over. This must stop.
"Let them go," she says, pitching her voice carefully and phrasing it just so. "Your quarrel is with me. . . "
A moment of silence then follows, stretching out interminably until Brooke fears some hapless guest will stumble upon their tableau here and ruin whatever chance she has of gaining them all a stay of execution.
"Ok," he finally whispers, looking out at the guests with a wicked, nasty smirk on his face. "Explain to them why they must leave immediately, and if they go-why, no harm here will befall them." Then, with a nod of his head, he signals the Shadows holding her to let go.
Their hands release her, and she moves forward, adjusting her dress and hair and modifying her walk back onto the floor until she's all but staggering-the drunken, belligerent heiress: Brooke Wayne in all her sullied glory.
***
At least Alfred is safe, safe back in the Palisades, safe down the road at the gate, safe watching from the driver's seat of the Rolls as the Manor burns to the ground because all Gotham City emergency personnel are a little too busy right now-what, with the mass panic brought on as the culmination of the League's brilliant master plan to finally lay waste to the city. Yeah, Alfred's safe.
Brooke herself feels invincible, immune to the fear toxin as she is courtesy of Lucius' antidote and full to bursting with wrath and righteous fury. What's before the Bat is Evil being committed by Evil men, and she brings low all Shadows placed in her path, all Arkham patients stumbling into it.
Then, as she's making her way to the heart of this menace, straight to Ra's and his thievery of her own company's technology, like a cancerous tumor appearing at the center of all she's trying to do for this city, she sees down below at a dead-end-that hopeful, excited little boy from the other night being guarded by none other than Rachel.
And Batman scoops the two of them to safety, temporary as it might be, pulling them up onto the roof and giving them at least some semblance of a better chance at wading through this disaster. Time waits for no man, however, and she's all set to jump back out into the fray when Rachel calls out.
" . . . at least tell me your name," she says, so concerned, and Brooke can see the moment Rachel recognizes her as a woman, the flicker of shock and slight increase in worry and fear.
She almost gives it away, too, almost gives in, the words floating on her tongue. But, it would be dangerous to Rachel and purely selfish.
And it would be too much like asking for approval, validation, forgiveness for something not within Rachel's power to forgive. Thus the moment passes, the chance evaporates.
Batman looks Rachel Dawes in the eyes and then returns to the fight. She moves forward and doesn't look back.
***
She devises a counterattack, Gordon racing ahead to derail the train with the stolen Wayne Enterprises microwave emitter, while the Bat scales the train itself, coming face-to-face with the cause of all this pain and suffering.
"Still missing the point, I see!" Ra's shouts above the noise of the rushing train. "You're fighting on the wrong side!" He then attempts to bring her down but fails because he mistakes her goal as being neutralizing him instead of what it is, namely ensuring the quick and permanent destruction of everything in this train car. She cranks the speed as high as it goes and then decimates the controls with several quick stabs of Ra's own purloined knife to the console. Now it's up to Gordon. If he's failed, then they're likely all doomed.
Still, there's Plan B, and she makes her best attempt at carrying it out too. Ra's isn't distracted enough to allow her the edge, though, despite his insistence at carrying on a conversation. It's his trademark, after all; he likes his mind games.
He throws her guilt back in her face, mocks her anger and methods. She doesn't go down, but neither does he. They are currently at an impasse when she glances up and sees a sad and beautiful sight ahead-the track broken, the suspended rails fallen to the street below.
Last stop. End of the line.
She turns back to look at Ra's and sees by the expression on his face that he had followed her eyes. But, then he turns back to her, and this is it.
"You've finally gained the courage to do what is necessary," he says, his voice ringing out clearly despite the noise.
"I've always done what's necessary," she counters. Then, pulling out an explosive and throwing it back to blow out the rear of the car, Brooke shouts to him a farewell. "Let bygones be bygones!"
Then she opens the cape and shoots the electricity through the frame, and the same force that pulls her out and up is what drives Ra's and the emitter down into the ground.
***
Alfred has already been on the phone, setting up accommodations for Brooke and then coordinating with Lucius. She manages to clean up somewhat in the cave with rubbing alcohol and Kleenex, and Alfred hands her clothes to change into. Lucius is on his way out with a truck. They'll clear out everything they can and take it out to the docks. People from the city won't be in until tomorrow at the earliest.
The shirt Alfred gives her is sleeveless, but he hands her a sweatshirt to go over it. Good thing, too, because her arms have several fingerprint bruises, and there's a large scrape across her collarbone.
They're standing together in the cave, she halfheartedly organizing in preparation for the move and Alfred blatantly evaluating her.
Finally, Brooke says, "Thank you, Alfred, for earlier."
She can hear his sigh but doesn't turn around, instead adding quietly and as detached as she can, "I know this is hard on you, what I do, what- what I'm trying to do. And I appreciate the position I've put you in," she says, remembering earlier on the rooftop, when everything in her was begging to tell Rachel the truth just so she wouldn't be alone, just so someone else would understand.
Rachel, of all of them, would understand the best. Brooke knows she would, and maybe that's exactly why she can't tell her. It would ruin it, negate everything she's done so far. If she does it for someone, or if it's someone else's idea-then it wouldn't really be her, would it? She's already pushing it with Alfred and Lucius, with Jim Gordon. How many more people will she drag into this freak show?
Just because she's lonely. Just because she's weak, because she's-afraid.
"What would they think, I wonder," she whispers before she can help it.
"I imagine," Alfred responds, and his voice sounds much closer than before, which is understandable when she looks behind and sees he's just a few feet away now, "that there would be a great deal of worrying and a stern lecture on unnecessary personal risk."
Brooke nods, smiling slightly even as she swallows back the ache and longing.
"But then, Madame," he adds, coming up slowly beside her and just standing there, comforting and familiar and so solid, "I'd wager a hug wouldn't be out of order, either."
"And a good shake to try and get some sense into me," she responds, remembering.
Alfred puts his hand on her shoulder then, and she blinks and breathes deeply.
***
If Gordon's surprised when she shows up, he doesn't show it.
"Reconstruction has to be a top priority," she points out in Batman's voice. Gordon's mustache twitches, but she mentally rolls her eyes and writes it off as his recent promotion and the high of actually doing something productive for the city for once.
"I notice Wayne Enterprises at the front of the pack in that regard," Gordon remarks-perhaps too casually.
She looks at him closely, but he could have meant any number of things with that comment. It's too vague to tell if he-knows, or thinks he knows, or is just mentioning it, or perhaps is criticizing the company's involvement.
"The more, the merrier," she growls back, attempting to sound dismissive and sarcastic. "What's this I hear about a string of bank robberies?"
The mustache twitches at the blatant change in conversation, but he follows her lead.
Nodding, Gordon says, "Three hit so far-always men, always masked. According to witness accounts, one man walks away with the haul, while the others are killed right there at the scene."
She angles her body slightly away, turning to make ready for a quick exit. "The clown," she agrees.
Gordon reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an evidence bag containing a single playing card. "Leaves a calling card each time," he says, and something in his voice, something about the tone, makes her hesitate, causes her to turn back.
"You're worried," she says eventually, surprised despite herself.
He nods unashamedly, turning to look out at the city, jerking his head towards the wrecked portion of the train rails down the block. "Where do we go from here?" he asks, rhetorically.
She calls him on it, though, unwilling to let him fall into that trap again of self-doubt and futility.
"We do what we must," she says. "We do our best, go beyond what's expected."
"Fight fire with fire?" he asks, glancing at her, and she thinks carefully of what to say next. He's wanting to help. He just needs a reason to, the right reason.
"Best way to put out a fire," she says, "is to smother it. We have to be efficient, practical."
"And pray the escalation stops here?" he asks, humorlessly. "I didn't take you for an optimist."
She turns her head and meets his eyes. "We're all optimists, living here, getting up every morning, going to work like it makes a difference. If we weren't, Gordon, we'd be dead."
He stares at her then blinks, and she nods in return, backing up slowly and then moving quickly to the far edge of the rooftop so she can head back to the Narrows from here.
Just when she gets up onto the ledge, he calls out, "I didn't get a chance to thank you!"
Without turning back, without looking back, she answers, "I don't need your gratitude, just your help."
Then the Bat jumps from the roof.
Click to viewThe End.
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