1.
A barrage of camera flashes carve shadows deep into the walls of the damp alley. The man stands over a wilted bouquet of flowers, unmoving.
"Has he said anything about it?"
"No, Miss Gordon. He arrived home last night, packed up his equipment and departed without a word. I joined him here once I heard the press had caught wind of it."
"He'll have to, eventually."
The first rays of sun fight through the smoggy Gotham air and maze of skyscrapers as the man turns towards the growing crowd of reporters. He nudges his way past microphones and probing questions.
"Mr. Wayne, the anniversary of your parents death isn't for another week. Is that the reason for this public display of mourning?"
"Mr. Wayne! I know you and the Batman have had some run-ins over the years. Do you have anything to say regarding the recent murder?"
"Mr. Wayne, is this perhaps some kind of stunt to drum up interest in the recent Gotham Youth Center project you pledged support towards? Showing that even someone who suffered tragedy like yourself can grow up to be a successful and upstanding citizen, with nothing but Daddy's company and billions in inheritance?"
Their words never reach the man's ears as he slinks into the back of a limousine and is driven away.
2.
The manor sits darkened but for one light struggling to shine through a curtained window. The man sits limp in an armchair by the last sparks in the fireplace.
"A visitor, Sir."
The man's eyes dart upwards towards Alfred. In them showed a fear, a weakness that he had seen only once before. Alfred interprets approval from the noise the man makes, and opens the living room door.
A head of bright red hair is swept aside by the inrush of air as Barbara wheels herself inside. She deftly maneuvers between scattered photo albums, empty bottles, and other trash as she positions herself across from the man in the chair. The screech of wheelchair brakes engaging rouses the man from his torpor.
"Hey."
Crackles from the fireplace offer the only answer to her introduction. She carefully lays a newspaper on the side table, headline blaring in bold text:
BAT-KILLER? CROOK ON CRIME SPREE CAUGHT BY CAPED CRUSADER SUFFERS 30 STORY FALL
"Whole city's heard what happened. Dad's been swamped trying to quiet down the riot at Gotham PD. The whole force wants to drop right on Batman's head for this.
I just... want to know what happened. I wasn't in the command center last night, you were all by yourself out there. So what'd this guy do? He say something that finally get to you? Did he put up that much of a fight? No, there's no way...
Please, I have to know."
The man's eyes bore holes into the floorboards as he refuses to meet Barbara's gaze.
"Please, just tell us what happened. I just need to know if there's anything I could have done... Some way I could have helped?"
The crack of a log in the fire pierces the air. The man flinches at the noise, while Barbara's wheelchair lurches against its brakes as she snaps forward.
"Had to have been worse than Joker. What he did to Jason, kidnapping and torturing dad, crippling me, that wasn't enough for you to finally do it... If anyone deserved it, it was him...
SO WHAT DID THIS ONE DO TO FINALLY MAKE YOU CROSS THAT LINE, HUH? WAS IT WORTH IT? TELL ME! PLEASE...!"
Alfred slips into the room, handing Barbara an embroidered handkerchief to soak up the tears.
"I just... I thought you were unbreakable. That you were better than this...
I'm sorry, I have to go."
A short sniffle puts an end to the sobs as Barbara exits. The door slams shut behind her, snuffing the last embers in the fireplace.
3.
The man is awoken from restless sleep by a creak in the floorboards. He offers no resistance to this intrusion but a pitiful glance towards this would-be assailant. His eyes meet Alfred's, armed with a silver tray bearing tea, cups, and snacks.
"I had hoped not to disturb whatever rest you may have been getting, Sir."
Alfred does not wait for a response as he places the tray down to set a fresh log on the fireplace. A restrained sigh escapes his mouth as it fails to light. He prepares two cups of tea, setting one down on the table for the man. He takes the second cup and the seat beside him.
"I know how it feels."
"Do you?"
"I was apart of MI5 during the Panjshir offensives. We were directed to clear out a village that MI6 suspected was storing mines that were being set along the border. During the cleanup, we found the corpse of a young lady, no older than 20. Pregnant.
I will never know if I fired the shot that killed her, but I still feel the weight of her death on my shoulders. I wish I knew her name."
"I... can't do it anymore."
"Sir?"
"I still hear the crunch of his body hitting the street. Replays in my head over and over. Every possible thing I could have done differently."
"Sir, you should take some time to rest. Master Grayson and Miss Gordon can handle Gotham for a while."
"I failed them. Failed Gotham. Barb said it best.
I'm... not fit to wear the cowl."
"Master Bruce, I believe that you are the only one who can."
The fresh log finally flares to life, casting a soft glow into the room. The morning sun peeks through the curtains for the first time in days.
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