Wayne Manor, Late Afternoon
Bruce Wayne stood at the window of his bedroom, watching as afternoon shadows stretched across the manicured grounds of Wayne Manor. The golden light of approaching sunset cast the estate in a warm glow that belied the gravity of what lay ahead this evening. His reflection in the window glass showed a man composed and controlled, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed the tension he carried.
Six days of relentless threats. Six days of barely contained chaos in Gotham. And tonight, the culmination—Lady Shiva making her move against Harvey Dent, with the wild card of Bullseye lurking somewhere in the wings. All while he maintained the public facade of Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist, attending a charity gala as if the city wasn't hanging by a thread.
The subtle chirp of his secure phone broke his reverie. Lucius Fox's name appeared on the screen.
"Lucius," he answered, moving away from the window. "Tell me you have good news."
"Depends on your definition of 'good,'" Lucius replied, his voice betraying both exhaustion and determination. "I've completed both requested items for tonight's... event. The primary package has been tested thoroughly and is ready for deployment. The secondary package, however..."
Bruce understood the careful phrasing—discussing Robin's suit and Batman's upgraded armor over a phone line, even a secure one, required discretion.
"Issues with the secondary?" he asked, keeping his own language equally vague.
"Not issues so much as a lack of proper testing," Lucius clarified. "It's functional—all components integrated, systems operational—but without field verification, I can't guarantee reliability under extreme conditions."
Bruce considered this information, weighing risks and variables with practiced efficiency. "Observation only for the secondary, as planned. No direct engagement unless absolutely necessary."
"A wise precaution," Lucius agreed. "I've arranged for both packages to be delivered to the event venue as requested. Alfred will find them in the usual location."
"What about the special detection equipment?" Bruce asked, moving to his closet where a precisely tailored tuxedo hung ready. "Any progress on facial recognition against the database you compiled?"
"That's the actual good news," Lucius replied, his tone brightening slightly. "The micro-scanners in your glasses are working better than expected. Range is approximately forty feet in optimal conditions, with ninety-two percent accuracy against known subjects. I've loaded the international database you requested, with specific priority flagging for our... persons of interest."
"And the other eye technology?" Bruce pressed, running his fingers along the seam of his tuxedo jacket, checking for the concealed pouches Alfred had added to the design years ago.
"Thermal and ultraviolet capabilities fully functional. Toggle controls on the right temple arm, disguised as adjusting the fit. Just don't let anyone else try them on—they'll see more than Wayne Enterprises' latest fashion accessory."
Bruce allowed himself a small smile. "Unlikely to be an issue. Thank you, Lucius. For everything."
"Just doing my part," Lucius replied. After a brief pause, he added, "How's the young man holding up? First formal mission, even in an observation capacity... that's a significant milestone."
Bruce glanced toward the door, listening for any sign of Dick approaching in the hallway. "He's... excited. Focused. Taking it seriously, but still processing what it means. Alfred's helping him prepare."
"Not unlike another young man I once knew," Lucius observed, a hint of warmth in his voice. "Though perhaps with a bit more enthusiasm."
"Different circumstances," Bruce acknowledged. "Different person."
"Indeed," Lucius agreed. "Well, I should let you finish preparing. I'll be at the event as well, of course. Wayne Enterprises' support for the Burnside Children's Home predates both of us."
"I remember," Bruce said quietly. His father and grandfather had been one of the founding donors, establishing the connection between the Wayne family and the home nearly forty years ago. Thomas Wayne had believed strongly in providing safe havens for Gotham's most vulnerable children—a mission that had taken on special resonance for Bruce after his own parents' deaths.
After ending the call, Bruce turned his attention to his evening preparations. The tuxedo was standard formal wear, classic black, perfectly tailored to his physique while still concealing the muscle mass that might raise questions among Gotham's elite. What wasn't standard were the numerous modifications: reinforced seams that could withstand extreme exertion, strategically placed armored panels thin enough to remain invisible under the fabric, and hidden pockets housing specialized equipment disguised as ordinary accessories.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in," Bruce called, straightening his shirt cuffs.
Dick entered, already dressed in the base components of his own formal attire, black trousers and a crisp white shirt that was clearly fresh from Alfred's expert ironing. In his hands, he carried a bow tie with an expression of complete bewilderment.
"Bruce? I think I need help with this," he admitted, holding up the strip of black fabric. "I tried following a YouTube tutorial, but it kept coming out looking like a dead moth."
Bruce felt an unexpected wave of emotion at the sight, this boy, who had faced Kraven the Hunter, Deathstroke, and Bane with unflinching courage, defeated by formal neckwear. For a moment, he was reminded powerfully of himself at a similar age, standing in his father's study while Thomas Wayne patiently demonstrated proper tie technique before some charity event or board meeting.
"Come here," he said, gesturing Dick forward. "It's all about muscle memory. Once you've done it enough times, your fingers just remember."
Dick approached, handing over the bow tie with evident relief. "Alfred offered to help, but he's on the phone with the catering staff for the event. Apparently there's some crisis involving the vegetarian options."
Bruce positioned himself behind Dick, reaching around to place the tie around the boy's collar. Using the mirror on the closet door, he began the familiar sequence of folds and loops.
"Watch what I'm doing," he instructed, his voice slipping into the same patient cadence his father had once used with him. "Over, under, around, through. The key is keeping the tension consistent without pulling too tight."
Dick observed intently, his natural aptitude for physical learning evident in how closely he tracked each movement. "My dad used to wear bow ties for special performances," he said quietly. "He said they were more practical than regular ties for acrobatics—less chance of getting caught on something during a flip."
Bruce's hands stilled momentarily at the mention of John Grayson, then continued their work with deliberate care. These moments were rare, Dick speaking about his parents without the sharp edge of grief overwhelming his voice. Progress, slowly but surely, in the same halting pattern Bruce had experienced in his own journey through loss.
"He was right," Bruce replied, adjusting the final loop. "Bow ties are practical from a safety perspective. They're also a statement—classic, timeless, resistant to changing fashions."
"Is that why you wear them?" Dick asked, studying their reflection in the mirror. "Because they're practical?"
"Partly," Bruce admitted. "And partly because it's what my father always wore to these events. There's a... continuity in maintaining certain traditions."
The admission—simple, unplanned—hung in the air between them. Bruce rarely spoke of Thomas Wayne to anyone, even Alfred. Yet here he was, sharing a small but significant memory with Dick. The parallels weren't lost on either of them—fathers teaching sons, traditions passed down, legacies continued in unexpected ways.
"There," Bruce said, completing the tie with a final adjustment. "Perfect."
Dick studied his reflection, turning his head to view the bow tie from different angles. "It actually looks pretty good," he admitted, sounding surprised. "Thanks."
Bruce stepped back, returning to his own preparations. "Your suit jacket is laid out in your room. Alfred had it tailored yesterday while you were studying."
"When did he have time to do that?" Dick wondered, still admiring the bow tie in the mirror. "He's been helping with the cave reconstruction, cooking, cleaning, patching us both up after Bane, and now dealing with catering emergencies."
"Alfred has always been exceptional at time management," Bruce replied, the understatement deliberate. "He raised me, maintained the estate, served as field medic, combat trainer, and tactical advisor—all while ensuring dinner was served promptly at seven."
Dick grinned. "He's pretty much a superhero without a cape."
"Don't let him hear you say that," Bruce warned, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "He'll insist that 'proper butlering' simply includes all those skills as standard."
As Dick turned to leave, Bruce stopped him with a light touch on the shoulder. "One more thing," he said, reaching into his dresser drawer. He withdrew a small velvet box and handed it to Dick. "These might be useful tonight."
Dick opened the box with curious fingers, his expression shifting to surprise when he saw the contents, a pair of elegant silver cufflinks bearing the Wayne family crest, the stylized 'W' surrounded by intricate art deco patterning.
"Are these—"
"The Wayne family sigil," Bruce confirmed. "These belonged to my father. Before that, to my grandfather, Patrick Wayne."
Dick's eyes widened as he made the connection to the photograph he'd discovered in Bruce's study—the one showing Patrick Wayne with the Justice Society during World War II. "Your grandfather who was chairman of the—"
"Yes," Bruce interrupted gently, aware that some topics remained sensitive even within the manor's secure walls. "They've been passed down through generations of Wayne men. I thought they might be appropriate for your first formal event as... part of the family."
The careful phrasing wasn't lost on Dick. Not just a ward attending a charity function, but family participating in a tradition. The offering of the Wayne family crest, something deeply personal, a piece of Bruce's carefully guarded heritage.
Dick swallowed hard, clearly struggling with a surge of emotion. "I—thank you," he managed, carefully removing the cufflinks from their velvet nest. "They're perfect."
Bruce helped him secure them to his shirt cuffs, the simple act reminiscent of his father doing the same for him decades earlier. Another tradition passed forward, another connection made across generations of loss and renewal.
"You should finish getting ready," Bruce said, his voice returning to its usual practical tone. "We need to leave in thirty minutes to arrive on schedule."
Dick nodded, composing himself with visible effort. "Right. Operation 'Fancy Party Surveillance' is a go."
As he left, Bruce found himself struck by how quickly adaptations occurred—how the manor, which had stood empty of childish energy for decades, now resonated with Dick's presence. How rooms that had been preserved like mausoleums were coming back to life, used for their intended purposes rather than maintained as shrines to the past.
He resumed his own preparations, slipping into the tuxedo jacket with practiced ease. The weight of the concealed equipment was familiar, balanced precisely to maintain the garment's natural drape. To anyone observing, Bruce Wayne would appear as nothing more than a wealthy socialite in expensive formal wear—exactly as intended.
As he adjusted his cufflinks—simple platinum squares that had been his father's—Bruce caught his reflection in the mirror. The face that looked back at him was composed, focused, ready for the complexities of the evening ahead. Bruce Wayne, preparing to charm Gotham's elite. Batman, preparing to confront one of the world's deadliest assassins. Both identities, both missions, integrated within a single purpose.
Protect Harvey. Identify Shiva. Preserve the case against Falcone. Keep Dick safe throughout.
A soft knock preceded Alfred's entrance, the butler impeccably dressed in his own formal attire. Despite the events of the past week—the fight with Bane, the destruction of the cave, the accelerated preparations for tonight—Alfred appeared as composed and professional as ever, though Bruce could detect the subtle signs of fatigue in the deeper lines around his eyes.
"The car is prepared, sir," Alfred announced. "And I've confirmed receipt of the special deliveries at the hotel's service entrance. Everything is in place for this evening's... contingencies."
Bruce nodded, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Thank you, Alfred. How's Dick coming along?"
"Master Richard is just finishing with his hair, which has proven somewhat resistant to formal styling," Alfred replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "The young man's natural exuberance extends, it seems, to his grooming habits."
"We need to discuss additional security protocols for him," Bruce said, lowering his voice slightly though Dick was well out of earshot. "If Shiva identifies me, or if Bullseye makes an appearance—"
"Master Richard will remain under observation at all times," Alfred assured him. "I've coordinated with Mr. Fox to ensure redundant monitoring systems are in place. The moment anything appears amiss, extraction protocols will be activated."
Bruce nodded, knowing Alfred would have anticipated his concerns and addressed them with characteristic thoroughness. "And the special equipment?"
"Awaiting us in the service corridor adjacent to the east ballroom," Alfred confirmed. "Accessible within forty-five seconds from any point in the main event space. The hotel's security chief has been informed of a 'special Wayne Enterprises demonstration' requiring secured storage. No further questions were asked—particularly after the size of the Wayne Foundation's donation to tonight's event was mentioned."
Bruce allowed himself a small smile. Money still opened doors in Gotham, especially when deployed by Alfred with his particular brand of distinguished persuasion.
"Standard communications protocol," Bruce confirmed. "Earpieces disguised as medical devices for minor hearing loss—common enough among Gotham's elite after years of charity galas with overpowered sound systems. You'll monitor from the perimeter while coordinating with Lucius on identification."
"Indeed, sir. And I've taken the liberty of providing Master Richard with a pocket square matching his tie that contains an integrated emergency beacon. Should circumstances necessitate immediate evacuation, he need only remove it from his pocket to activate the signal."
Bruce nodded approvingly. Alfred's attention to detail remained unparalleled, especially when it came to protective measures for those in his care.
The sound of approaching footsteps announced Dick's arrival. The boy appeared in the doorway, now fully dressed in his formal attire—the tailored suit transforming him from energetic acrobat to polished young gentleman. His hair had been somewhat tamed, though a rebellious cowlick still defied gravity at the back of his head.
"How do I look?" he asked, spreading his arms with a showman's flair that betrayed his circus upbringing. "Ready to mingle with Gotham's one percent?"
"Quite presentable, Master Richard," Alfred approved. "Though perhaps one final attempt at subduing that wayward lock of hair..."
"Leave it," Bruce said, surprising both Alfred and Dick with the interruption. "It's... distinctive. Makes him memorable as Bruce Wayne's ward rather than just another polished society child."
Dick blinked, clearly not having expected Bruce to countermand Alfred on a matter of appearance. "Really? I've been fighting with it for like twenty minutes."
"Bruce Wayne would notice and comment on it," Bruce explained with the hint of a smile. "Part of maintaining the public persona—appearing to care more about social details than substance."
"Ah, the carefully crafted carelessness of the wealthy," Alfred observed dryly. "A curious phenomenon I've observed for decades."
Bruce moved to the dresser, where a pair of seemingly ordinary glasses in a stylish frame awaited. He slipped them into his inner pocket—Lucius's special reconnaissance technology, disguised as a fashion accessory. A few more checks of hidden equipment, and he was ready.
"Remember," he said to Dick as they prepared to leave the room, "tonight you're observing only. Your position in the mezzanine overlooking the main ballroom gives you visual advantage without exposing you to direct risk. If you identify any anomalies—behavior patterns that don't match expected social interaction, anyone paying particular attention to Harvey Dent—you relay that information through the comms to Alfred or myself."
Dick nodded, his expression shifting from youthful excitement to focused determination. "I've been studying the dossier on Lady Shiva. I know what to look for—artificially constrained movement patterns, controlled breathing even during social laughter, perfect posture regardless of situation. Plus, the micro-scanner in my program will flag known associates from the database."
Bruce felt a momentary surge of pride at the boy's thorough preparation, though he kept his expression neutral. "Good. But remember, Shiva is a master of disguise and infiltration. She may have techniques to counter standard recognition methods."
"That's why I've been working on supplementary identification protocols based on biomechanical analysis," Dick replied, pulling a small notebook from his inner pocket. He flipped it open to reveal detailed diagrams of human movement patterns, annotated with his own observations. "I borrowed some concepts from my acrobatic training. Everyone has signature movements they can't fully disguise—weight distribution patterns when standing still, unconscious adjustments in balance, micro-expressions during conversation transitions."
Bruce examined the notes with genuine interest, once again impressed by the boy's innovative approach. The diagrams showed a sophisticated understanding of human kinesthetics, with particular attention to how trained fighters moved differently from civilians even when attempting to disguise their capabilities.
"This is good work," he acknowledged, returning the notebook. "Keep it accessible but not visible during the event. And maintain your cover as an easily bored teenager who'd rather be anywhere else. That gives you freedom to observe without drawing attention."
"Got it. Slouch occasionally, check my watch too often, look longingly at exit doors," Dick summarized with a grin.
"Not overly dramatic," Alfred cautioned. "Master Bruce developed quite a reputation in his younger years for his theatrical displays of adolescent ennui. We're aiming for believable disinterest, not performance art."
Bruce shot Alfred a look that the butler returned with innocent composure.
"The car awaits, gentlemen," Alfred reminded them, gesturing toward the hallway. "And punctuality remains the virtue of kings—and vigilantes with evening appointments."
As they made their way through Wayne Manor's grand corridors toward the main entrance, Bruce found himself acutely aware of the contrast between their current preparations and those of just a week earlier. Before Dick's arrival, before the sequence of assassins targeting the Falcone case, before Bane's attack on the cave—the rhythm of his double life had been solitary, established, secure. Now everything had shifted, variables multiplying exponentially with the addition of a partner, the violation of his sanctuary, the escalation of threats against Gotham's justice system.
Yet alongside the complications came unexpected adaptations. Dick's presence had already changed how he approached problems, introducing new perspectives and methodologies. The boy's natural creativity complemented Bruce's disciplined analysis, creating solutions neither would have developed alone.
Outside, the evening had settled fully across the manor grounds, the last golden light of sunset giving way to the deep blue of approaching night. The Bentley awaited them at the bottom of the steps, its polished surface reflecting the warm lights from the manor's windows.
Alfred held the rear door as Bruce and Dick approached, his posture shifting subtly from family confidant to professional chauffeur as they transitioned into their public roles. Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist, and his young ward, Richard Grayson, making his first public appearance since the tragedy at Haly's Circus just five days ago—a narrative that would undoubtedly draw scrutiny from both the press and Gotham's elite.
As they settled into the Bentley's luxurious interior, Bruce noted Dick's momentary hesitation before entering the car—a brief glance toward the night sky, an instinctive check for dark shapes moving against darker backgrounds. The boy was already developing the habits of vigilance that defined Batman's existence, the constant awareness of surroundings that had kept Bruce alive through countless dangerous encounters.
"First public event since coming to the manor," Bruce observed as Alfred pulled away down the long driveway. "How are you feeling about it?"
Dick considered the question, his fingers absently touching the robin cufflinks. "Kind of excited, actually," he admitted, surprising both himself and Bruce. "I mean, I'm still..." He paused, collecting himself. "I still miss them every second. But this—having a purpose, a mission tonight—it helps."
It had been less than a week since he'd watched his parents fall to their deaths, their bodies crumpling on the circus floor while he stood helpless. Less than a week since he'd been rushed to Gotham Children's Services, interviewed by police and social workers, and ultimately placed in Bruce Wayne's temporary guardianship. Yet somehow, in those five whirlwind days, Dick had begun finding pieces of himself again—his natural resilience reasserting itself through action rather than passive grief.
"Ms. Chen from Children's Services will be there," Bruce said, noting the spark returning to Dick's eyes. "Part of the standard follow-up protocol. She'll want to check how you're adjusting."
Dick nodded, a hint of his natural confidence showing through. "What am I supposed to tell her? That in the five days since my parents were murdered, I've discovered Batman's secret identity, fought Bane in the Batcave, and now I'm about to become Robin?" The question carried a touch of his emerging humor, a sign that the overwhelming darkness was beginning to recede.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Bruce felt a genuine smile tug at his lips. "Perhaps leave those details out. Focus on the parts that would make sense to her—that you're safe, that Alfred makes excellent meals, that you have your own room and privacy when you need it."
"Not lies, just selective truth," Dick summarized, showing a sophistication beyond his years. "Like wearing a mask without the mask."
"Exactly," Bruce confirmed, impressed by the insight. "Bruce Wayne, carefree billionaire, is as much a construct as Batman—just designed for a different purpose."
"Which one is real?" Dick asked, his voice quiet but intent.
Bruce met his gaze directly. "Both. Neither. The divisions aren't as clean as they might appear."
Alfred's eyes met Bruce's briefly in the rearview mirror—a moment of silent acknowledgment. The past five days had transformed the dynamic between all three of them, accelerated by crisis and shared danger. What might have taken months to develop under normal circumstances had crystallized in less than a week through the crucible of Bane's attack and their mutual decision that Dick would become Robin.
The Bentley traveled smoothly through Gotham's evening traffic, the familiar skyline rising around them as they approached the city center. Street lamps cast pools of light that did little to dispel the deeper shadows between buildings. The contrast had always struck Bruce as uniquely representative of Gotham itself—islands of illumination surrounded by vast territories of darkness.
"Remember," Bruce said as they approached the hotel district, "once we arrive, we're operating in character at all times. Bruce Wayne has no special interest in Harvey Dent beyond a casual political acquaintance. He's attending because the Wayne Foundation is the primary donor to the Burnside Children's Home, as it has been for forty years."
"And I'm just the grief-stricken orphan being introduced to society," Dick added with a hint of bitterness.
"You're a resilient young man making an admirable effort to adjust to difficult circumstances," Bruce corrected gently. "No one expects you to be perfectly composed. In fact, moments of visible emotion would be entirely natural."
Dick considered this, then nodded slowly. "So I don't have to pretend everything's fine."
"Quite the opposite," Alfred contributed from the front seat. "It would appear suspicious if you showed no signs of the trauma you've experienced. The key is channeling genuine emotion in ways that support rather than compromise your cover."
"Social Services will be evaluating your placement with me," Bruce explained. "They'll be looking to see if you're safe, if you're beginning to establish stability after trauma. Appropriate grief is expected. What they shouldn't see is any hint that you're being trained as a vigilante."
"Got it. I can be sad about my parents—that's real enough—but not excited about becoming Robin," Dick summarized. "What about questions about how I ended up with you? The papers have been speculating like crazy."
Bruce nodded, having anticipated this concern. "Keep it simple and truthful where possible. You were placed in emergency fostering through the Wayne Foundation after your parents' deaths. I was supposed to be at the circus that night and felt a connection to your situation given my own background."
"You mean watching your parents die in front of you," Dick said bluntly.
"Yes," Bruce confirmed, not shying away from the parallel that had initially connected them. "That shared experience created a foundation for understanding that social services recognized as potentially beneficial for your recovery."
"Ms. Chen didn't seem convinced when you first offered," Dick recalled, remembering the social worker's skeptical expression at the children's services facility. "She thought you were just doing it for publicity."
"A reasonable concern," Bruce acknowledged. "My public persona isn't exactly associated with responsible guardianship. Part of tonight is demonstrating that her initial skepticism was unfounded."
As they turned onto Kane Avenue, the Gotham Royal Hotel came into view—a grand Art Deco structure whose golden-lit windows spilled light onto the street below. A queue of limousines and luxury cars waited to deposit their wealthy occupants at the entrance, where red carpet and velvet ropes created the appropriate atmosphere of exclusivity.
"Quite the spectacle," Dick observed, leaning forward to observe the arriving guests. "Is it always like this?"
"The Burnside benefit is Gotham's premier charity event of the season," Bruce explained, his voice already shifting subtly into the public Bruce Wayne cadence—slightly higher, more animated, less precise. "Old money, new money, political aspirants, and social climbers—everyone who matters or wants to matter will be there."
"Makes it the perfect hunting ground for someone like Shiva," Dick noted quietly, his analytical mind already at work. "Maximum impact, minimum escape routes, complex social dynamics to exploit."
Bruce nodded approvingly. "Exactly why we need to identify her before she can make her move. Gordon's people will be handling perimeter security and general surveillance. Our focus is specifically on detecting Shiva through methods they can't employ."
Alfred guided the Bentley into the VIP lane, bypassing the main queue—a privilege afforded to the Wayne Foundation as the event's primary sponsor. As they approached the entrance, Bruce could see the carefully concealed security measures beneath the veneer of glamour—plainclothes officers positioned strategically, rooftop teams barely visible in the gathering darkness, discreet scanning equipment disguised as architectural elements.
"Gordon has been thorough," Bruce observed with quiet approval. "Good containment protocols, multiple protective layers, appropriate distribution of response teams."
"All for nothing if Shiva's already inside," Dick pointed out, exhibiting the tactical awareness Bruce had been cultivating in him over their intensive five-day crash course in vigilantism.
"Hence our specialized approach," Bruce agreed.
Alfred brought the vehicle to a smooth stop at the main entrance, where liveried staff immediately moved to open the doors. "Remember, sir," he said softly, "Wayne Enterprises is currently displaying its prototype facial recognition glasses as part of an 'integrated lifestyle technology' exhibit on the mezzanine level. Should anyone inquire about your eyewear."
Bruce nodded slightly, reaching into his pocket for the specialized glasses as Alfred exited to open the rear door with perfect chauffeur formality.
"Show time," Dick murmured, taking a deep breath and adjusting his expression to one of subdued politeness—the very image of a traumatized child making a brave effort at social participation.
Bruce placed a supportive hand on his shoulder before Alfred opened the door. "You'll do fine. Just remember—"
"I know," Dick cut in with unexpected conviction. "I spent my whole life performing for audiences. This is just another show, right? Except the stakes are higher and the costume is fancier."
The insight struck Bruce deeply—Dick's circus background had indeed prepared him for this particular type of deception in ways Bruce hadn't fully appreciated. The boy had grown up creating personas for the ring, playing a specific role to entertain crowds. That experience might serve him well tonight.
Bruce slipped the glasses on, immediately noting the subtle display activating in his peripheral vision. Lucius had outdone himself with the integration—to anyone observing, they appeared to be nothing more than stylish frames, while providing Bruce with continuous scanning capability linked to international databases.