The Blue Mask - One (1/4)
Sequel to Aren't You Glad.
'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.
Title taken from the Lou Reed 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 warning just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger anyone.
After the crisis ends and the reconstruction is well underway, it's still just as much a matter of overpowering them as it is outthinking them, some refusing to believe the reputation. The media, however, seems to have reached the general consensus that the Batman is a brute but perhaps a necessary one, a ruthless man on a fairly commendable quest to singlehandedly clean up the city. That's what makes the news, after all, only a select few individuals aware there's more to the story. Months go by, and offenders are charged, convicted, and sentenced based on genuine evidence, proof-all of which is eventually logged and processed correctly. Leads an undermanned police force doesn't have the resources to follow up on are accurately authenticated or definitively proved false. Detailed reports are filed through the Major Crimes Unit that in truth no detective stationed there actually writes.
By the sixth month, crime rates in Gotham are the lowest they've been in decades.
Brooke opens her eyes, blinks rapidly. She'd meant to go over the initial crime scene photos of the latest heist uptown. There's a mug of coffee nearby, which she grabs and gulps down-only to realize after the fact that it's ice-cold. Still, it's better than nothing. Replacing the empty mug, she cracks her neck loose and quickly cracks Gordon's hard drive at the MCU, skimming through the new open cases and copying the files of the few the unit managed to close hours earlier. A glance at the clock then shows it's time to shift gears, and she gets up.
The sun sets 23 minutes later, and Batman arrives only a few minutes late for a very important meeting. Alas, the men in charge flee like rabbits as soon as she shows up, their black SUVs screeching away into the night despite her best efforts. She manages to throw a GPS onto the back bumper of Crane's vehicle but then has to turn around because several of the pair's underlings have evidently decided to stay and try their hand at the Batman.
The new taser she's adapted works beautifully in a pinch when paired with a pendulum step back and a quick reverse hook forward. That takes care of two of the Chechen's men and scares off a third. A cut down to a fourth leaves her in good position for when yet another goon comes charging in, this time one of Crane's by the strung-out look of him. He's running up, swinging a haymaker at her and laughing his tweaked head off-and this is her favorite, them coming right to her. She blocks the swing with her left arm by slamming it into the guy's elbow, destroying his momentum and clearly startling him. Then, extending her arm, she's able to chop him in the throat with her hand, punch him in the groin with her other hand, and when he bends over, gasping, struggling for breath, keening with the pain-she grabs him by the back of his exposed neck and pushes him down into the ground, grabbing his arm again as he falls and whipping him around face-up at the last second. Then, Batman promptly stomps on the guy's free hand, crushing his grip on the knife he'd somehow managed to pull out and had no doubt been hoping to stab somewhere-calf, back of the knee, foot, if he were feeling especially stupid. A swift boot to the head knocks him out for the count.
But, two other guys, two more takedowns, and these attacks must have been inspired by her treatment of their buddy to some extent because now it's sloppy, useless kicks that never get above her shin and demonstrate no technique whatsoever. It's more wild fists swinging in her direction too, moves that a few simple pull backs at the waist or well-timed ducks under their arms allow her to avoid. She stop kicks them in turn, locks one's wrist and twists, and this guy doesn't give up, instead just howls and pulls, jerks harder at the hold-and she wrenches, breaking all eight of the bones in his wrist. Then, kneeing him under the chin and sending him sprawling back, she turns to the final guy.
Smartest one of the bunch, he's already backpedaling. He stumbles, falls on his ass and, as she just stares at him, proceeds to try and crabwalk away.
It's almost too easy. . .
The Chechen's out of reach, likely gone to ground for the next week, but Crane's vehicle shows up on the GPS map as a steady red dot making a beeline for Oldtown and the Narrows-shocker. She phones in an anonymous tip, reporting shots fired at the parking garage on Ash and Davis. Surely some of these men must have outstanding warrants, and she'd wager all of them are carrying something.
Once she's in the Tumbler and going after Crane, the direct line she's set up for Gordon beeps, one high-pitched tone sounding instead of either the two tones of Lucius or the single low-pitch of Alfred. Another beep follows the first, signaling that the line's still active, and she pushes the button on the belt.
"Yes?" she asks, steering quickly around a semi and then pressing down harder on the gas.
"Just finishing up here if you wanted to swing by," Gordon says. He sounds tired-and oddly amused. Gallows humor.
She waits a moment, hooking a left and then speeding across the east bridge on Fifth. The traffic's always lighter here, and she's pulling into an alley and turning off the Tumbler within half a minute. Outside, she seizes the grapple gun and sets up the shot for the west side of the closest building before shooting the cable.
Once the line is established and secure, she carefully remarks, "Heard it come over the radio earlier."
Gordon automatically fills in the blanks then, while she hooks up and engages the retraction mechanism. She's towed up to the ledge of the building, at which point she grabs on and flips the rest of the way over, all while Gordon runs through the scene, confirming it's the address from this afternoon as well as the same M.O.-another bank, another group of dead ex-cons, and yet more mocking footage of the goddamned clown.
"Stick around?" Gordon finishes with.
"Be there presently," she quips in return, cutting off the call to the sound of Gordon's huffing chuckle.
Two blocks down, Crane's SUV is parked behind an old movie theater. There's even a convenient second-storey office with nice, wide windows, the glass gone and everything.
Only three little helpers here at the moment, and inside ten minutes of arriving she has Crane by the throat under the Exit sign in the third cinema.
"Going somewhere?" she asks, snapping the restraints and readying the taser-just in case.
Crane smiles serenely and tilts his head, no doubt looking to pick her apart, thinking up some taunt intended to distract her while he scurries away.
"I imagine a girl like yoursel- " he starts to say, before his teeth snap shut and his body goes rigid.
She counts to ten and then powers down the taser, holding it up and shaking it at him when he's coherent enough once more to glare at her.
They come to an agreement free of all pretenses, and the drive back uptown is pleasantly, calmingly silent. She's almost wistful when handing him off to a couple of Gordon's uniforms at the MCU.
Then she darts over to the bank, where she and Gordon manage perhaps three minutes before Ramirez comes wandering into the vault with a sneer and a jab at procedural inconsistencies and evidence tampering, managing to somehow say the words in a tone completely absent any irony whatsoever. Batman then pointedly stares at Ramirez for the next few seconds, during which time the detective shuffles her feet and looks nervous, and even Gordon clears his throat. The hypocrisy of the situation is more than enough incentive to leave, and she makes eye contact with Gordon before backing back out of the vault, Ramirez muttering a disingenuous, "Jeez, sorry," under her breath.
Brooke pictures Gordon shaking his head and turning back to the abandoned stack of irradiated bills. They've got their work cut out for them with this one, if only the buffoons on the force would stay out of the way.
Despite being a good idea in theory, in practice, Gordon's special police division is a mess, mainly because for every decent, clean cop-there are 20 on the take. The other complication stems from the novelty of the MCU and the obligatory restrictions and regulations placed on it and its funding, which in turn translates into counterproductive bureaucracy and red tape and outsider, supposedly objective, administration-meaning everyone in the city, decent and corrupt, has an eye on operations, on the detectives and officers, on the techs and unit investigators, and especially on Gordon.
It makes meeting up with the man that much more difficult. All eyes are on him, and the last thing he needs is to be taken down because of any perceived connection to the vigilante known as 'Batman.'
The timing has to be perfect. He can only linger so long at a crime scene without attracting too much attention, but Batman isn't always free of a night to stop by and chat whenever it's convenient. Daylight is pretty much out of the question, and only once had Gordon suggested she come in sans mask. He backed off it immediately and never mentioned it again, but still she almost smiles at the image of Brooke Wayne strutting into the MCU for an impromptu meeting with Gordon. Less inconspicuous, he thinks? Right.
If only he knew.
***
Batman isn't complicated, not to understand and not to be. It's when she's not the Bat that life is continuously trying to suck her in and chew her up, all the little games and charades, the affectations and forced bubbliness. She imagines she'll be able to get away with solemn once, maybe twice a year, but reserved and taciturn, her natural state-no. It's more exhausting acting as Brooke Wayne than it is being Batman.
And Alfred is merciless.
She doesn't have enough friends, he says.
"Women are not like men," he helpfully points out that morning upon his arrival at the bunker.
"Really?" she responds, and it's not as sarcastic as she'd intended, but then her concentration is divided. Makeup is a major endeavor each day when it's one of the few things able to lend any sort of credence to her supposed wantonness and increasing moral degradation. The red has to be just the right hue in just the right value to accurately read as bruising, hints and tiny amounts of yellow, green, blue, and purple adding to the overall realism. The bite marks have to be spaced properly, the fingerprint bruising applied sparingly. She puts on what is expected and hides whatever isn't. It's surprisingly labor-intensive, some days taking up to two hours to complete-and that's not including the beauty stuff, the foundation and concealer and eye makeup. That's not including the hair, either.
She's bent over the desk with the lamp pointing just slightly away from her forearm, so as not to melt any of the applications with the direct heat, when Alfred comes up and looks over her shoulder.
"It's perceived as far stranger for a woman to be alone than it is for a man." Then, a beat later, "Werewolves this week?" he asks, the displeasure in full force and no trace of humor at all despite the nature of the comment.
"No worse than the actual train wreck on my side," she replies without thinking, instantly regretting bringing it up when Alfred walks away. "Did you bring-pancakes?" she then asks, going off the smell of maple syrup she's picked up on. She pauses, inhaling again. "Bacon too?"
"Maple bacon donuts," he says quietly, and judging by the acoustics he's standing in front of the computer screens, and her guess is it's the third one down that's grabbed his attention. That would certainly explain the tone of his voice, as she currently has the footage she'd retrieved earlier from the camera at the court house playing on a loop.
"Love those things," she remarks, sniffing the air again and smiling. The third cut, the one that looks the deepest, needs to have a slightly more jagged edge in order to be truly convincing, but that's just a matter of judiciously adding darker color. "What's the occasion?" Brooke then asks, trying to shift the focus of this conversation before Alfred can really start in.
"New photos in the tabloids," he says, and his voice is still distracted. "Headlines point out how thin you're becoming."
"Mmm," she responds, huffing a little at the end to show exactly what the tabloid writers' opinions are worth. She puts the finishing touches on the last of the fake cuts and then spins the stool around to look at Alfred. "See anything interesting?" Brooke asks, only it comes out as more of a demand.
Whoops.
Alfred finally turns, meeting her eyes with that hangdog expression. But, he doesn't say anything, instead pointedly looking over at the small box of donuts he's placed on the desk.
Brooke smiles again, turning back around and picking up the blow-dryer. She's already late and still needs to dry the makeup before she can get dressed. Besides, donuts keep for a surprisingly long time.
***
She keeps a digital eye on everyone important-crime families, city officials, known felons and do-gooders. It's necessary for both their protection and hers. Certain individuals, though, do merit a more intense study than others.
She can predict Alfred's actions often down to the second, Lucius' schedule likewise stored and updated daily. Gordon had agreed to carry the modified cell phone around, knowing full well it contains a GPS chip. She receives notifications on all three of them regularly, notifications that each explicitly agreed to.
The problem is she's also tracking people that closely who haven't and wouldn't agree to it, Rachel, Leslie Thompkins-Harvey Dent. They can't know the true state of affairs, but they're all high risk, outspoken troublemakers.
So, she spies on them. It's not fun or even particularly pleasant, but it's necessary, and it's not as though she'd ever use anything she witnesses against them. Of course, it's not like she would ever even have the opportunity to do so, seeing as she has little to no contact with all of them.
Unfortunately, that all changes one night when Brooke Wayne and Natascha Tsyganova make their dinner reservation at eight, only to walk right past a table where-
"Rachel! Hi!" Brooke exclaims, extending a hand and setting it on Natascha's shoulder to keep her from continuing on to their table. Natascha accordingly glances over her shoulder with a smirk and then turns around fully, coming to stand right at Brooke's side.
"Brooke. . . " Rachel says in response, and Brooke doubts it escapes anyone's notice how decidedly lukewarm a reception that is.
"Fancy bumping into you here," Brooke cheerfully goes on, looking from Rachel to Harvey seated across from her, "you and, uh, Harry, isn't it?"
Rachel sighs, but Harvey cracks a small smile, eyes flicking down to his plate before coming back up and locking on Brooke.
"It's Harvey, actually, Ms. Wayne," he says, pushing his chair back and suddenly standing up and holding out his hand.
Brooke glances around, registers the attention they're attracting, Rachel's discomfort, and Natascha's curiosity, and decides a course of action that would likely earn her a stern look from Alfred.
She sticks out her hand and limply shakes Harvey's and then proceeds to loudly suggest, "Hey, why don't we pull a couple tables together and make this a party of four, huh?"
Harvey releases her hand and frowns, looking to Rachel with his eyebrows raised. Rachel, however, is staring at Brooke with that shrewd expression that doesn't exactly bode well.
"Sure," she agrees after a moment, pasting on a fake smile but not even bothering to hide the caginess in her voice. "I mean, it's no great inconvenience, right, Brooke?"
Brooke gamely grins back before turning and lifting a hand, signaling at their befuddled waiter, still lingering about ten feet ahead of them, to come closer.
" 'Course not," Brooke Wayne chirps, as the young guy carefully steps around Natascha, "not when you own the place!"
***
She's done her research and actively tries to steer the conversation away from certain topics, and yet still she manages to find herself a halfhearted participant in a verbal analysis of the effects of the Batman's presence on Gotham City.
This is somehow her life now.
What surprises Brooke isn't truly the stance Natascha takes and definitely not the utter garbage that periodically comes spilling out of her own mouth, but rather it's what Rachel says-and even more what Harvey seems to believe.
'I believe in Harvey Dent.'
Harvey, it turns out, is a staunch supporter of the vigilante; Rachel is most definitely not.
"Obviously," Rachel says at one point in the conversation, "there's some kind of history in play here, a grudge of some sort."
Natascha nods rapidly in agreement, and Brooke smiles. Right again, Rachel.
"What makes you say that?" Harvey asks.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" Rachel responds, and she's clearly fully into the argument, shifting forward on her chair and putting one arm on the table while her other gestures and waves as she speaks. "What drives a person to take this kind of action, knowing full well what's waiting if they're caught?"
"'If,'" Natascha repeats carefully, and like most people when dealing with a somewhat unfamiliar accent, the three of them instantly turn to watch her speak, "or 'when'? I should think it unavoidable this person is-arrested. Surely, your police force is competent enough for that."
Neither Rachel nor Harvey says a word, but the look they exchange speaks volumes. Brooke feels a rush of anger sweep over her then at this proof that she's not the only one who feels this way. Everyone in Gotham knows the degree to which the city is crumbling, Rachel herself the one who, almost eight years ago now, had literally slapped Brooke in the face with it, and yet no one does anything-not one single thing except criticize her.
She must slip in those few seconds. Her face must show something of her thoughts because suddenly Rachel is looking at her and Harvey, as well, and they aren't the kind of looks Brooke Wayne needs directed at her.
She smiles, grins, teeth white and shiny and on full display a moment later when Natascha has followed the others' line of sight and is looking at Brooke with a mildly expectant expression on her oh-so-lovely face. There's a history of pain and struggle behind that perfect body and a sharp mind hidden away inside that gorgeous head, but right now all Brooke sees is the disappointment aimed at her, the polite and bemused tolerance, the forbearance as Natascha reaches out and places a hand on Brooke's arm.
The condescension is palpable as she smiles and remarks, "This is boring you to tears, is it not?" Then, she pats the arm she's touching before deliberately sliding her hand back around Brooke's shoulder.
Ah, and what a pity it is, too, because ten minutes ago Brooke would have most assuredly been game. Natascha's a catch and normally the opposite of a hardship to entertain all night. Now, though, Brooke's face hurts, and her mood has turned sour, and despite being the only one truly to blame here-she can't stand the sight, let alone the soft caresses, of someone who, sitting right next to her, just minutes ago referred to her as a delusional adolescent and a lunatic and, her personal favorite, the embodiment of Americans' obsession with violence and melodrama. The last Brooke finds particularly rich coming from a Russian ballet dancer.
"You have no idea," Brooke says unashamedly, ratcheting the grin up a bit more and rolling her eyes for good measure. She turns and looks at Rachel then, shrugging coyly directly in the face of all that mature censure. "People to do, things to see-you know how it goes, right, Rach?"
A tight smile, a nod, and a poorly concealed expression of relief is Rachel's response. Maybe Brooke should be offended and hurt right now, but that reaction's pretty much exactly what she's been working for. Still.
People tend to give up easily.
Brooke meets Harvey's eyes, as she stands up and holds out a hand for Natascha to do the same.
I've heard good things about you.
I can tell you're not the typical politician.
You can do great things for this city, too, you know.
I know that look on your face, Harvey, and-be careful you don't fall down that rabbit hole.
You're a good man, but I could really use your help. . .
What she actually says is, "You know, you really should get out more, Harvey, hon. I'd bet there are a bunch of folks in this town who'd love to meet someone so-believable. Oh, you know what this calls for? A party!" Brooke exclaims, putting her arm around Natascha's waist.
Rachel is biting her lip, her eyebrows almost at her hairline, but that's a genuine smile on her face, even if it is at Brooke's expense. Harvey, on the other hand, is just staring at her, the confusion slowly being replaced with anxiety.
"Now, Brooke," he starts tentatively, glancing futilely at Rachel for help that's definitely not coming, "that's very kind of you to offer, but I'm afraid I'm not really- "
"Nonsense!" she interrupts. "It will be fun. I promise," she adds a second later after Harvey unintentionally makes a face that is the epitome of skepticism. "Rachel," Brooke whines, turning and pouting, "you know what I'm talking about. My friends, Harv," she says, waving her free hand exaggeratedly at the four of them present, "should know my other friends. Then we can all be friends!"
"Jesus," he whispers, causing Rachel to snort and Natascha to chuckle.
"Just you wait," Brooke says as the nail in the coffin, "because I know how to throw a party! That's a guarantee."
'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.
Title taken from the Lou Reed 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 warning just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger anyone.
After the crisis ends and the reconstruction is well underway, it's still just as much a matter of overpowering them as it is outthinking them, some refusing to believe the reputation. The media, however, seems to have reached the general consensus that the Batman is a brute but perhaps a necessary one, a ruthless man on a fairly commendable quest to singlehandedly clean up the city. That's what makes the news, after all, only a select few individuals aware there's more to the story. Months go by, and offenders are charged, convicted, and sentenced based on genuine evidence, proof-all of which is eventually logged and processed correctly. Leads an undermanned police force doesn't have the resources to follow up on are accurately authenticated or definitively proved false. Detailed reports are filed through the Major Crimes Unit that in truth no detective stationed there actually writes.
By the sixth month, crime rates in Gotham are the lowest they've been in decades.
Brooke opens her eyes, blinks rapidly. She'd meant to go over the initial crime scene photos of the latest heist uptown. There's a mug of coffee nearby, which she grabs and gulps down-only to realize after the fact that it's ice-cold. Still, it's better than nothing. Replacing the empty mug, she cracks her neck loose and quickly cracks Gordon's hard drive at the MCU, skimming through the new open cases and copying the files of the few the unit managed to close hours earlier. A glance at the clock then shows it's time to shift gears, and she gets up.
The sun sets 23 minutes later, and Batman arrives only a few minutes late for a very important meeting. Alas, the men in charge flee like rabbits as soon as she shows up, their black SUVs screeching away into the night despite her best efforts. She manages to throw a GPS onto the back bumper of Crane's vehicle but then has to turn around because several of the pair's underlings have evidently decided to stay and try their hand at the Batman.
The new taser she's adapted works beautifully in a pinch when paired with a pendulum step back and a quick reverse hook forward. That takes care of two of the Chechen's men and scares off a third. A cut down to a fourth leaves her in good position for when yet another goon comes charging in, this time one of Crane's by the strung-out look of him. He's running up, swinging a haymaker at her and laughing his tweaked head off-and this is her favorite, them coming right to her. She blocks the swing with her left arm by slamming it into the guy's elbow, destroying his momentum and clearly startling him. Then, extending her arm, she's able to chop him in the throat with her hand, punch him in the groin with her other hand, and when he bends over, gasping, struggling for breath, keening with the pain-she grabs him by the back of his exposed neck and pushes him down into the ground, grabbing his arm again as he falls and whipping him around face-up at the last second. Then, Batman promptly stomps on the guy's free hand, crushing his grip on the knife he'd somehow managed to pull out and had no doubt been hoping to stab somewhere-calf, back of the knee, foot, if he were feeling especially stupid. A swift boot to the head knocks him out for the count.
But, two other guys, two more takedowns, and these attacks must have been inspired by her treatment of their buddy to some extent because now it's sloppy, useless kicks that never get above her shin and demonstrate no technique whatsoever. It's more wild fists swinging in her direction too, moves that a few simple pull backs at the waist or well-timed ducks under their arms allow her to avoid. She stop kicks them in turn, locks one's wrist and twists, and this guy doesn't give up, instead just howls and pulls, jerks harder at the hold-and she wrenches, breaking all eight of the bones in his wrist. Then, kneeing him under the chin and sending him sprawling back, she turns to the final guy.
Smartest one of the bunch, he's already backpedaling. He stumbles, falls on his ass and, as she just stares at him, proceeds to try and crabwalk away.
It's almost too easy. . .
The Chechen's out of reach, likely gone to ground for the next week, but Crane's vehicle shows up on the GPS map as a steady red dot making a beeline for Oldtown and the Narrows-shocker. She phones in an anonymous tip, reporting shots fired at the parking garage on Ash and Davis. Surely some of these men must have outstanding warrants, and she'd wager all of them are carrying something.
Once she's in the Tumbler and going after Crane, the direct line she's set up for Gordon beeps, one high-pitched tone sounding instead of either the two tones of Lucius or the single low-pitch of Alfred. Another beep follows the first, signaling that the line's still active, and she pushes the button on the belt.
"Yes?" she asks, steering quickly around a semi and then pressing down harder on the gas.
"Just finishing up here if you wanted to swing by," Gordon says. He sounds tired-and oddly amused. Gallows humor.
She waits a moment, hooking a left and then speeding across the east bridge on Fifth. The traffic's always lighter here, and she's pulling into an alley and turning off the Tumbler within half a minute. Outside, she seizes the grapple gun and sets up the shot for the west side of the closest building before shooting the cable.
Once the line is established and secure, she carefully remarks, "Heard it come over the radio earlier."
Gordon automatically fills in the blanks then, while she hooks up and engages the retraction mechanism. She's towed up to the ledge of the building, at which point she grabs on and flips the rest of the way over, all while Gordon runs through the scene, confirming it's the address from this afternoon as well as the same M.O.-another bank, another group of dead ex-cons, and yet more mocking footage of the goddamned clown.
"Stick around?" Gordon finishes with.
"Be there presently," she quips in return, cutting off the call to the sound of Gordon's huffing chuckle.
Two blocks down, Crane's SUV is parked behind an old movie theater. There's even a convenient second-storey office with nice, wide windows, the glass gone and everything.
Only three little helpers here at the moment, and inside ten minutes of arriving she has Crane by the throat under the Exit sign in the third cinema.
"Going somewhere?" she asks, snapping the restraints and readying the taser-just in case.
Crane smiles serenely and tilts his head, no doubt looking to pick her apart, thinking up some taunt intended to distract her while he scurries away.
"I imagine a girl like yoursel- " he starts to say, before his teeth snap shut and his body goes rigid.
She counts to ten and then powers down the taser, holding it up and shaking it at him when he's coherent enough once more to glare at her.
They come to an agreement free of all pretenses, and the drive back uptown is pleasantly, calmingly silent. She's almost wistful when handing him off to a couple of Gordon's uniforms at the MCU.
Then she darts over to the bank, where she and Gordon manage perhaps three minutes before Ramirez comes wandering into the vault with a sneer and a jab at procedural inconsistencies and evidence tampering, managing to somehow say the words in a tone completely absent any irony whatsoever. Batman then pointedly stares at Ramirez for the next few seconds, during which time the detective shuffles her feet and looks nervous, and even Gordon clears his throat. The hypocrisy of the situation is more than enough incentive to leave, and she makes eye contact with Gordon before backing back out of the vault, Ramirez muttering a disingenuous, "Jeez, sorry," under her breath.
Brooke pictures Gordon shaking his head and turning back to the abandoned stack of irradiated bills. They've got their work cut out for them with this one, if only the buffoons on the force would stay out of the way.
Despite being a good idea in theory, in practice, Gordon's special police division is a mess, mainly because for every decent, clean cop-there are 20 on the take. The other complication stems from the novelty of the MCU and the obligatory restrictions and regulations placed on it and its funding, which in turn translates into counterproductive bureaucracy and red tape and outsider, supposedly objective, administration-meaning everyone in the city, decent and corrupt, has an eye on operations, on the detectives and officers, on the techs and unit investigators, and especially on Gordon.
It makes meeting up with the man that much more difficult. All eyes are on him, and the last thing he needs is to be taken down because of any perceived connection to the vigilante known as 'Batman.'
The timing has to be perfect. He can only linger so long at a crime scene without attracting too much attention, but Batman isn't always free of a night to stop by and chat whenever it's convenient. Daylight is pretty much out of the question, and only once had Gordon suggested she come in sans mask. He backed off it immediately and never mentioned it again, but still she almost smiles at the image of Brooke Wayne strutting into the MCU for an impromptu meeting with Gordon. Less inconspicuous, he thinks? Right.
If only he knew.
***
Batman isn't complicated, not to understand and not to be. It's when she's not the Bat that life is continuously trying to suck her in and chew her up, all the little games and charades, the affectations and forced bubbliness. She imagines she'll be able to get away with solemn once, maybe twice a year, but reserved and taciturn, her natural state-no. It's more exhausting acting as Brooke Wayne than it is being Batman.
And Alfred is merciless.
She doesn't have enough friends, he says.
"Women are not like men," he helpfully points out that morning upon his arrival at the bunker.
"Really?" she responds, and it's not as sarcastic as she'd intended, but then her concentration is divided. Makeup is a major endeavor each day when it's one of the few things able to lend any sort of credence to her supposed wantonness and increasing moral degradation. The red has to be just the right hue in just the right value to accurately read as bruising, hints and tiny amounts of yellow, green, blue, and purple adding to the overall realism. The bite marks have to be spaced properly, the fingerprint bruising applied sparingly. She puts on what is expected and hides whatever isn't. It's surprisingly labor-intensive, some days taking up to two hours to complete-and that's not including the beauty stuff, the foundation and concealer and eye makeup. That's not including the hair, either.
She's bent over the desk with the lamp pointing just slightly away from her forearm, so as not to melt any of the applications with the direct heat, when Alfred comes up and looks over her shoulder.
"It's perceived as far stranger for a woman to be alone than it is for a man." Then, a beat later, "Werewolves this week?" he asks, the displeasure in full force and no trace of humor at all despite the nature of the comment.
"No worse than the actual train wreck on my side," she replies without thinking, instantly regretting bringing it up when Alfred walks away. "Did you bring-pancakes?" she then asks, going off the smell of maple syrup she's picked up on. She pauses, inhaling again. "Bacon too?"
"Maple bacon donuts," he says quietly, and judging by the acoustics he's standing in front of the computer screens, and her guess is it's the third one down that's grabbed his attention. That would certainly explain the tone of his voice, as she currently has the footage she'd retrieved earlier from the camera at the court house playing on a loop.
"Love those things," she remarks, sniffing the air again and smiling. The third cut, the one that looks the deepest, needs to have a slightly more jagged edge in order to be truly convincing, but that's just a matter of judiciously adding darker color. "What's the occasion?" Brooke then asks, trying to shift the focus of this conversation before Alfred can really start in.
"New photos in the tabloids," he says, and his voice is still distracted. "Headlines point out how thin you're becoming."
"Mmm," she responds, huffing a little at the end to show exactly what the tabloid writers' opinions are worth. She puts the finishing touches on the last of the fake cuts and then spins the stool around to look at Alfred. "See anything interesting?" Brooke asks, only it comes out as more of a demand.
Whoops.
Alfred finally turns, meeting her eyes with that hangdog expression. But, he doesn't say anything, instead pointedly looking over at the small box of donuts he's placed on the desk.
Brooke smiles again, turning back around and picking up the blow-dryer. She's already late and still needs to dry the makeup before she can get dressed. Besides, donuts keep for a surprisingly long time.
***
She keeps a digital eye on everyone important-crime families, city officials, known felons and do-gooders. It's necessary for both their protection and hers. Certain individuals, though, do merit a more intense study than others.
She can predict Alfred's actions often down to the second, Lucius' schedule likewise stored and updated daily. Gordon had agreed to carry the modified cell phone around, knowing full well it contains a GPS chip. She receives notifications on all three of them regularly, notifications that each explicitly agreed to.
The problem is she's also tracking people that closely who haven't and wouldn't agree to it, Rachel, Leslie Thompkins-Harvey Dent. They can't know the true state of affairs, but they're all high risk, outspoken troublemakers.
So, she spies on them. It's not fun or even particularly pleasant, but it's necessary, and it's not as though she'd ever use anything she witnesses against them. Of course, it's not like she would ever even have the opportunity to do so, seeing as she has little to no contact with all of them.
Unfortunately, that all changes one night when Brooke Wayne and Natascha Tsyganova make their dinner reservation at eight, only to walk right past a table where-
"Rachel! Hi!" Brooke exclaims, extending a hand and setting it on Natascha's shoulder to keep her from continuing on to their table. Natascha accordingly glances over her shoulder with a smirk and then turns around fully, coming to stand right at Brooke's side.
"Brooke. . . " Rachel says in response, and Brooke doubts it escapes anyone's notice how decidedly lukewarm a reception that is.
"Fancy bumping into you here," Brooke cheerfully goes on, looking from Rachel to Harvey seated across from her, "you and, uh, Harry, isn't it?"
Rachel sighs, but Harvey cracks a small smile, eyes flicking down to his plate before coming back up and locking on Brooke.
"It's Harvey, actually, Ms. Wayne," he says, pushing his chair back and suddenly standing up and holding out his hand.
Brooke glances around, registers the attention they're attracting, Rachel's discomfort, and Natascha's curiosity, and decides a course of action that would likely earn her a stern look from Alfred.
She sticks out her hand and limply shakes Harvey's and then proceeds to loudly suggest, "Hey, why don't we pull a couple tables together and make this a party of four, huh?"
Harvey releases her hand and frowns, looking to Rachel with his eyebrows raised. Rachel, however, is staring at Brooke with that shrewd expression that doesn't exactly bode well.
"Sure," she agrees after a moment, pasting on a fake smile but not even bothering to hide the caginess in her voice. "I mean, it's no great inconvenience, right, Brooke?"
Brooke gamely grins back before turning and lifting a hand, signaling at their befuddled waiter, still lingering about ten feet ahead of them, to come closer.
" 'Course not," Brooke Wayne chirps, as the young guy carefully steps around Natascha, "not when you own the place!"
***
She's done her research and actively tries to steer the conversation away from certain topics, and yet still she manages to find herself a halfhearted participant in a verbal analysis of the effects of the Batman's presence on Gotham City.
This is somehow her life now.
What surprises Brooke isn't truly the stance Natascha takes and definitely not the utter garbage that periodically comes spilling out of her own mouth, but rather it's what Rachel says-and even more what Harvey seems to believe.
'I believe in Harvey Dent.'
Harvey, it turns out, is a staunch supporter of the vigilante; Rachel is most definitely not.
"Obviously," Rachel says at one point in the conversation, "there's some kind of history in play here, a grudge of some sort."
Natascha nods rapidly in agreement, and Brooke smiles. Right again, Rachel.
"What makes you say that?" Harvey asks.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" Rachel responds, and she's clearly fully into the argument, shifting forward on her chair and putting one arm on the table while her other gestures and waves as she speaks. "What drives a person to take this kind of action, knowing full well what's waiting if they're caught?"
"'If,'" Natascha repeats carefully, and like most people when dealing with a somewhat unfamiliar accent, the three of them instantly turn to watch her speak, "or 'when'? I should think it unavoidable this person is-arrested. Surely, your police force is competent enough for that."
Neither Rachel nor Harvey says a word, but the look they exchange speaks volumes. Brooke feels a rush of anger sweep over her then at this proof that she's not the only one who feels this way. Everyone in Gotham knows the degree to which the city is crumbling, Rachel herself the one who, almost eight years ago now, had literally slapped Brooke in the face with it, and yet no one does anything-not one single thing except criticize her.
She must slip in those few seconds. Her face must show something of her thoughts because suddenly Rachel is looking at her and Harvey, as well, and they aren't the kind of looks Brooke Wayne needs directed at her.
She smiles, grins, teeth white and shiny and on full display a moment later when Natascha has followed the others' line of sight and is looking at Brooke with a mildly expectant expression on her oh-so-lovely face. There's a history of pain and struggle behind that perfect body and a sharp mind hidden away inside that gorgeous head, but right now all Brooke sees is the disappointment aimed at her, the polite and bemused tolerance, the forbearance as Natascha reaches out and places a hand on Brooke's arm.
The condescension is palpable as she smiles and remarks, "This is boring you to tears, is it not?" Then, she pats the arm she's touching before deliberately sliding her hand back around Brooke's shoulder.
Ah, and what a pity it is, too, because ten minutes ago Brooke would have most assuredly been game. Natascha's a catch and normally the opposite of a hardship to entertain all night. Now, though, Brooke's face hurts, and her mood has turned sour, and despite being the only one truly to blame here-she can't stand the sight, let alone the soft caresses, of someone who, sitting right next to her, just minutes ago referred to her as a delusional adolescent and a lunatic and, her personal favorite, the embodiment of Americans' obsession with violence and melodrama. The last Brooke finds particularly rich coming from a Russian ballet dancer.
"You have no idea," Brooke says unashamedly, ratcheting the grin up a bit more and rolling her eyes for good measure. She turns and looks at Rachel then, shrugging coyly directly in the face of all that mature censure. "People to do, things to see-you know how it goes, right, Rach?"
A tight smile, a nod, and a poorly concealed expression of relief is Rachel's response. Maybe Brooke should be offended and hurt right now, but that reaction's pretty much exactly what she's been working for. Still.
People tend to give up easily.
Brooke meets Harvey's eyes, as she stands up and holds out a hand for Natascha to do the same.
I've heard good things about you.
I can tell you're not the typical politician.
You can do great things for this city, too, you know.
I know that look on your face, Harvey, and-be careful you don't fall down that rabbit hole.
You're a good man, but I could really use your help. . .
What she actually says is, "You know, you really should get out more, Harvey, hon. I'd bet there are a bunch of folks in this town who'd love to meet someone so-believable. Oh, you know what this calls for? A party!" Brooke exclaims, putting her arm around Natascha's waist.
Rachel is biting her lip, her eyebrows almost at her hairline, but that's a genuine smile on her face, even if it is at Brooke's expense. Harvey, on the other hand, is just staring at her, the confusion slowly being replaced with anxiety.
"Now, Brooke," he starts tentatively, glancing futilely at Rachel for help that's definitely not coming, "that's very kind of you to offer, but I'm afraid I'm not really- "
"Nonsense!" she interrupts. "It will be fun. I promise," she adds a second later after Harvey unintentionally makes a face that is the epitome of skepticism. "Rachel," Brooke whines, turning and pouting, "you know what I'm talking about. My friends, Harv," she says, waving her free hand exaggeratedly at the four of them present, "should know my other friends. Then we can all be friends!"
"Jesus," he whispers, causing Rachel to snort and Natascha to chuckle.
"Just you wait," Brooke says as the nail in the coffin, "because I know how to throw a party! That's a guarantee."