Chapter Text
Bruce stared in horror as his mother’s pearl necklace scattered along the concrete ground. The sound of footsteps fading into the distance echoed his pulse as blood spilled from his father’s form. The gunshot rang in his ears, leaving him shivering as he slumped to his knees, skull buzzing slightly. His breathing felt too loud, like thunder echoing even as his tears were washed away by the rain pouring from the skies.
Lightning flashed in his eyes, lighting up the alley in front of him, revealing mud covered, slimy heels. He blinked and looked up, staring unseeingly at the woman standing in front of him. She wore a black evening gown, though the hem was ripped and rotting around her knees and covered in suspicious stains that leaked a reddish brown fluid.
(Just like the red oozing from his mother and father, bodies cooling quickly within arm's reach.)
The pearls on her necklace (so much like the ones scattered on the ground around him) were framed and set into what looked like bottlecaps, the delicate chain missing links and replaced with thicker, common steel chain links. Her opera gloves were stained with green sludge and red brown smears on the fingers. They were covered in cuts, holes, and rips as well, even completely missing the middle fingers on both gloves.
Her hair was thick and grimy, whatever style it had once been carefully arranged in mussed and ruined. It hung around her face, which he had to actually focus and squint to see. Her face seemed to change every time he blinked, one moment being gaunt with starvation with bloodshot eyes and smeared makeup, and the next being full cheeked with empty eye sockets and sharp scars slicing across her face.
She smirked, lips twitching as she stared at him, as though he weren’t kneeling in a puddle of his parents' blood with their corpses lying beside him.
“Who…?” His voice was barely audible over the rain as he spoke. She reached forward, hand grasping his chin and tilting his head side to side. Her thumb smoothed over his cheek, nail delicately scratching his skin as she studied him. Absently, Bruce noted that her visible nails were manicured, but the tips and paint were chipped.
“I’ll see you again,” she murmured, eyes flicking to the mouth of the alley behind him. Her voice was familiar in an alien way. Raspy echoes seemed to hiss underneath a melodic voice, as though a heavy smoker was speaking at the same time as an opera singer. It took Bruce a moment or two before he finally put together what exactly she’d said.
“...what?”
A flash of lightning blinded him for a moment, making him blink. He looked back up and froze, staring at the empty alley. Bruce had grown up with women wearing heels. Heels weren’t quiet. That was a fact he’d learned since he could understand what was going on around him. Yet the Lady had disappeared without a single sound.
And once more he was alone. Alone with the remnants of the dead and the echoes of gunshots in his ears. Shivers ran down his spine as the water seeped down along his spine. The alley was dark in front of him, the gunman long gone.
“Bruce!”
Like the whisper of a former life, Alfred’s voice called to Bruce from a distance. If Bruce couldn’t hear the undertone of fear and worry in his voice, Bruce could’ve fooled himself into believing that Alfred was simply calling him in from the garden for dinner or a gala.
“Young Master Bruce!”
Perhaps even lessons if Bruce were being generous, though that often had a much more fondly annoyed undertone to it.
“Young Master Bruce?!”
The sound of perfectly clean loafers clicked against the sidewalk, approaching the alley. Bruce could hear the soft inhale of horror, even without seeing Alfred. The shoes clicked closer, and Bruce was quickly scooped into the elderly butler’s arms, picking him up out of the puddle of blood. Bruce whined softly, reaching out a hand towards his parents even as Alfred turned him away from them and hurried out of the alleyway.
Alfred slid Bruce into the backseat of the car, having pulled his father’s favorite car around to pick up the Waynes. The car interior was warm, and only got warmer as Alfred pulled a blanket from the trunk of the car and wrapped it around Bruce’s shoulders. Alfred’s hands on his shoulder felt like the only things holding Bruce together as he stared blankly at the bowtie perfectly tied around Alfred’s neck.
“Young Master, please stay here. I need to contact the police for-for your parents. Please stay in the car, I will be back as soon as I can.” The door shut, cutting Bruce off from the rest of the dark, cold, unfamiliar world. Everything seemed wrong, like it had shifted four miles to the right and a solid mile up. His head was fuzzy and distant, like his skin was too tight around his body yet his head was screwed on loosely.
Bruce only came back to the present when flashing red and blue lights flared painfully bright in his vision. He slowly turned his head, eyes stuck to the spot he’d been staring into previously until he forced his eyes to look out the window.
Five police vehicles were parked on the street, lights flashing and throwing the shadows of the city into sharp contrast. Someone was setting yellow tape around the mouth of the alley Alfred had pulled him from, where his parents’ bodies still rested. He could distantly see Alfred talking to a few of the cops, hands carefully clenched and held behind his back as he spoke with them, occasionally gesturing to the alleyway and theater.
“They won’t do anything.”
Bruce didn’t jump, though he felt like he should’ve. He blinked slowly and turned his head to the side. Water dripped from the Lady’s hair as she stared out the window. Her legs were crossed elegantly, heels sharp against her pale skin, but she sprawled in the seat, arms thrown over the back with carefree slothfulness. Her tone was casual, almost cheerful, as though Bruce’s world hadn’t just been completely tipped on its head. Her eyes were sharp and danced with delight as she saw the newly arrived paramedics come out of the alley, carrying two stretchers with white cloth over them.
(The white didn’t last, not with blood still freely pouring from Martha and Thomas Wayne’s bodies like they were bottles with a hole in them.)
“Who won’t?” Bruce asked, voice dull and dead as he stared at her. Her eyes flicked to him and she reached out, pinching his cheek and smirking at him, head lolling to the side lazily. She released his cheek and moved to flicking his wet hair around between her fingers.
“The police.” She chuckled, lips bloodless and blue as she looked back at the paramedics as they hurriedly rushed away in the ambulance. Alfred was still talking to the cops, now gesturing to the car where Bruce sat. Absently Bruce thought that surely someone had seen he wasn’t alone in the car, but if they had then no one seemed at all concerned by it. “They never do. Too much corruption for anyone to make real progress at fixing this city.”
Her eyes gained a cruel gleam to them, nail carefully stroking along Bruce’s jaw just enough to scratch the skin but not hurt him.
“As though the city needs to be fixed in the first place.”
Bruce stared at her silently for a minute before looking back over at Alfred. The butler was approaching the car, quickly opening the driver's seat door and slipping into the car.
“Apologies for the wait, Young Master. We’re going home. It’s…been a long night,” the older gentleman murmured. Bruce blinked before turning to look at the Lady. He felt like he should’ve been surprised that she was no longer there, and the seats were completely clean and dry save for what mess had built up underneath Bruce himself, as if she’d never been there to begin with.
The drive home was silent save for the rain on the roof and the ringing still echoing in Bruce’s ears. The buzzing had faded, but his head still didn’t feel properly attached to his body. He obediently followed Alfred into the house as the butler led him inside and got him cleaned up, mostly, and tucked into bed. Bruce slipped into sleep suspiciously easily, like it was just another normal evening. Like it was just another birthday with his parents.
Happy birthday, Brucie.
With Bruce settled and sleeping in his room, a subtle… magical encouragement to sleep hovering over him and ensuring that he would be deeply unconscious, the Lady wandered through the halls of the Wayne manor. She lit up a cigarette, inhaling and blowing out a breath. Despite that, no smoke exited her lungs as she smirked, tucking the cigarette into her mouth before pulling a syringe out of thin air and easily injecting herself with the fluid contained within it. She dropped it once it was empty, the drugs already flowing through her veins, but the syringe never hit the floor, vanishing the same way it had arrived.
She meandered down the stairs, casually strolling down the kitchen. She leaned on the doorway, taking a drag of her cigarette before blowing it out, cooing at the elderly man already a whiskey bottle deep, draped over a chair. “There’s my Gentleman~”
“You dare appear here? After what you did tonight?” The elderly gentleman sat up and glared at her furiously, rage burning in his eyes and his tone bitter and slurred. “You vicious, treacherous-”
“Watch yourself, Alfie. Or perhaps I need to remind you of your place? Don’t you remember what happened last time you mouthed off at me?” she purred darkly, eyes flashing like daggers gleaming under streetlights or the shine of a rifle muzzle from afar. Her tone was blunt, brutal. Just like the car that had hit Alfred’s daughter when she’d visited him in Gotham. She’d survived, in as much as a comatose vegetable of a human could survive. Alfred sat back in his chair, face flashing with pain and hurt. He pulled a pocket watch out of the inside of his jacket, opening it up and rubbing a thumb over the picture of a little girl smiling from the inside.
“Was it not enough that I distanced myself from them? From my wife? From my daughter?” His voice was hoarse and weak, tears budding in his eyes. “And now you have once more taken someone from me.”
“Interestingly enough, this wasn’t me.” Alfred snorted, snapping the pocket watch shut and tucking it back into its pocket, settled right against his heart.
“You may not have arranged it or deliberately set it up, but you did nothing to stop it even when you knew it would happen. Isn’t that right, my Lady?” She flashed a grin at him, lips curled cruelly as she appeared behind him, draping herself over his shoulders like a lazy housecat.
“You know how I am…I only interfere when it comes to my favored ones. And although I liked Martha and Thomas…that was more because of how they made you feel rather than liking them in particular.” Alfred released a bitter, sharp laugh. Tears burned his eyes as he glared down at the glass still in his hand. A pale grey hand swirled in it, nail leaving scratches on the bottom of the glass itself. The Lady lifted her finger from the whiskey and pressed it against Alfred’s lips, smearing the alcohol like lipstick on him.
“And now you come back, laughing as always. Knowing I am alone and defeated. How many more times must we play these parts before you have taken everything I am?” The Lady pursed her lips in disappointment, frowning at the way the man sat before her. There was almost no strength left in him. She’d broken and twisted him too many times. He was too old now to have anything of interest really left inside him.
A shame, considering how many more years he would be with her.
Mad laughter bubbled in her throat and her lips twitched with amusement, his sorrow all the more delicious for how hopeless it had become. He knew there was no way out. They’d made a Deal. And one way or another he was hers to claim. Hers to torment, hers to torture and adore. After all, he was Her Gentleman.
“Alfie, make me a spot of tea, would you? I’m ever so parched,” she purred, appearing in the seat opposite him as she took another drag from her cigarette. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the cigarette, but he sighed and stood up, remarkably steady for someone who’d been drinking so heavily not five minutes prior. Yet despite that his hands were steady as he made a pot of tea, easily pouring a delicate cup of China full of the liquid. He smoothly set it in front of her, ignoring her smug grin and victorious eyes. She dispelled the cigarette with a thought and downed the tea like she was taking a shot in a bar. She licked her lips as he glared at her.
“I know you do that to annoy me, but I will continue to ask, please don’t drink tea like that,” he grumbled. She shot him a teasing smirk.
“But I love the way you look when you’re annoyed…” Alfred sighed, sitting back down and grabbing the whiskey to take another swig from it.
“What I wouldn’t give for you to lose interest in me,” he mumbled. She stared at him, lips still curled in a smile as her eyes locked onto him the same way a cat might focus on a mouse. He paused, bottle pressed to his lips, studying her for a moment, made cautious by her silence. Every time he’d made such a comment before or comments along the lines of them parting ways she had quickly devolved into furious screams and shouts, throwing furniture around and hissing curses.
Yelling and screaming were predictable. Ride out the rage and she’d come out the other end laughing at the audacity of one of her pets daring to think it could escape her. Fury was familiar, for all that it was frightening.
Silence…
Silence was dangerous.
New.
Unpredictable.
The Lady gestured to her cup, and with a slight, cautious frown, Alfred refilled her drink. She lifted it delicately, sipping from the drink with a small, knowing smile that she knew would raise the hairs on the back of Alfred’s neck. Every instinct he had would be screaming at him the longer she was quiet. She sighed happily as she savored the tea, delicately holding the cup and plate, absently swirling the tea in the glass as she watched him.
“Actually…I think I’ve found a new favorite,” she said easily. Casually, with the same cadence that a woman might tell a close friend she found a new boyfriend. Alfred stiffened, the look in his eyes warring between suspicion and hope. She lifted the teacup to her lips, fighting to keep her smile from reaching her face and giving her away too soon.
“Oh?” Alfred asked, watching her warily. He was tense, arms tight against his body as he delicately wiped down the glass he’d been drinking from. She watched him with a smile before humming thoughtfully.
“I wonder what he should be…perhaps…I’ve been missing a Justice for a while. Ooh! Or Vengeance! Vengeance would certainly be an interesting one to fill.” She hummed thoughtfully as Alfred watched her carefully. “Perhaps he’ll be my Night.”
A giggle echoed through the air, sharply childish in the tense atmosphere as the Lady snickered to herself.
“My Dark Knight, yes. He will be all of those and more for me.” Alfred narrowed his eyes at her, watching cautiously.
“And does your…Dark Knight know? That you’ve chosen him?” Alfred asked cautiously. The Lady laughed, too loud, too bright, making Alfred flinch and pull away from her slightly as her eyes fell on him, gleaming like a cat that got the cream.
“It’s more fun if my pets don’t know of my interest until they’re already mine, isn’t that right, Alfie?” Alfred grimaced at the reminder of his own past, glaring at the whiskey bottle. He’d been young and foolish when he’d first followed the whispers and listened to them during his drunk stupor. He’d only been there to visit, barely stopping for the night in Gotham. And after that…he’d never truly been able to escape for long.
“Who is it, if you’re willing to tell me? Is it someone I know?” The Lady’s grin sharpened, looking for a moment as though she had shark teeth or hyena fangs rather than standard human teeth. Her eyes flicked upwards, towards the left corner of the room, unerringly targeting the small, traumatized child resting higher in the house.
“I’d say you know him very well,” she purred, eyes never leaving. She could see him there, resting almost peacefully in his bed. Dark brown hair, almost black, spilled loosely around flawless skin and a near angelic face. Blue eyes were hidden beneath his pale eyelids, but she could feel how his breathing picked up, eyes flicking rapidly beneath his eyelids as Bruce sank beneath a nightmare’s grasp. So much potential for one so young.
Alfred followed her gaze, frowning as he tried to figure out what she meant. There was nothing in the direction she was looking, nothing but open sea. He wouldn’t know some random fisherman or ship worker…so who was she looking at? When Alfred considered it more closely, his face drained of blood and he staggered, falling to his knees as he realized exactly which room she was gazing at.
Her eyes snapped to him, glowing an unearthly green with delight as she watched the horror grow on his face. He knew. Not a word needed to be said to reveal the identity of her new favorite and already he had pieced together who she had turned her eye to.
“...no. No, no, no!” He laid forward, pressing his head to the floor in a pose that had to be distinctly uncomfortable to him as he laid his hands at her feet. He raised his head, eyes welling with tears as he begged her. “My Lady, please. Anyone but him. He-he has only just lost his parents, he’s too young, please. I will do whatever you wish of me, I will make any Deal you desire, but please, I beg you, leave my Young Master alone.”
She studied him there, head pressed to the floor as sobs began to wrack through his body. She’d tried for so long to see him like this. Sobbing and kneeling before her, yet somehow this was…less amusing than she’d first thought. Perhaps he’d grown too old, perhaps she’d pushed him too far. But either way, seeing Alfred bent and broken before her, begging her to leave his young ward alone…it was just making her angry. A sneer curled her lips and she snapped her fingers sharply.
“Get up.”
Alfred pushed himself to his feet, bones creaking and groaning with age as he forced himself upright. He was disheveled, something she had once longed to see. The silver fox, the intelligence officer, messy and disheveled for Her, was something she had long desired to see. Yet here he was, exactly as she’d wanted him and instead, she was annoyed.
Because he wasn’t begging for Her. He was begging for Him.
“Tell me, Alfred. How many times a day do you think I hear that exact same plea? How many voices, desperately sobbing for me to grant mercy to their friends, their family, to themselves? Hm?”
Alfred lowered his eyes, vision blurring as new tears rose up and a well of hopeless despair yawned open in his chest like a gaping chasm. “More than I can count.”
“Now answer me, Alfred? Am I a manifestation of mercy? An existence of joy and optimism?”
“...no.”
“Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth. We’ve known each other for many years now. Who am I to you?”
There was a moment of hesitation before Alfred spoke again, voice quiet and defeated. “My Mistress, my Lady and Owner. She who has claim to my life and my undeath. She who Rules.”
The Lady nodded, darkness swirling around her, smog curling in her hair like a crown. Pollution tugged at the hem of her skirt, fog swirling beneath it and spreading icy tendrils throughout the room. She glided forward, straightening until she towered over him like the great skyscrapers scattered through the city, eyes still glowing that unearthly green.
“Now tell me, Alfred.”
He flinched at his name, eyes shutting and standing stiffly at attention. Smoke curled around him, sickly and sweet as he breathed in the chemicals poured into her. He choked on them as she came to a halt, staring down at him in all her furious, inhuman glory.
“What. Is. My. Name.”
Alfred’s lips quivered, though whether from fear or sorrow it was hard to tell. His eyes shut and a single tear slipped from the corner, dripping into the fog and disappearing, never truly touching the floor. Hands, cold and dead, warm and living, callused and smooth, caressed his cheeks, lifting his chin as a thumb swept over his lips, nail sharp as it brushed his skin. He stared up at her, eyes dim with sorrow and horrified dawning acceptance.
“Lady of Darkness and Disease. Queen of Cruelty and Crime. You are…Gotham.”
Gotham smirked, cooing softly at him as he trembled within her grasp. He was like a kitten to her. Yowling and hissing whenever she tried to approach but melting helplessly once caged within her grasp.
“Bruce Wayne will be mine. My Dark Knight. My Vengeance. My Justice. My Night.” She brushed her thumbs along Alfred’s sharp cheekbones, wiping away the tears that fell from his eyes. She could hear his mind, screaming apologies and begging forgiveness from Martha and Thomas, for unknowingly drawing his Lady’s gaze upon their young son. His heart broke for the pain his son in all but blood would have to endure. After all…
Gotham never released someone once they were Hers.
“He will be loved. He will be hated. He will be feared and cursed. And he will be Mine in all the ways that matter. Accept this, and do my bidding, My Gentleman. Teach him. Train him as much as you can. Then wait for his return. He will leave and seek out other teachers. He will find them and you will wait for his return. You will aid my Knight. You will assist him. My precious little…Prince.”
Alfred sucked in a horrified breath at the last name she assigned Bruce as she threw back her head and laughed, the echoes of a clown not yet formed, not yet tainted with her madness, bursting from her lips as she vanished like smoke.
Yes. Things would be interesting.
She couldn’t wait to see how they’d turn out.
Things turned out exactly how the Lady had told him. The police came to the house in the morning, asking several questions about what had occurred the night before. Not just what happened, but also the description of the person who’d killed his parents. Yet despite even telling them that his father had called the man by name, they left and no new news came for several weeks.
Bruce had to watch his parents’ caskets get lowered into the ground, with the whispers of “not enough evidence” and “case gone cold” echoing in his mind. His hands clench by his sides as the various strangers wrapped in elegant black shawls and veils stare at him, whispering behind their hands with greed bright in their eyes. He left the funeral last, save for Alfred, refusing to speak to anyone at all. Even Alfred refused to say a word, simply watching Bruce with sorrow and guilt clear in his eyes.
Alfred paused at the door of the Wayne Manor, opening his mouth to speak before pausing and shaking his head, eyes closed and sorrowful before opening the door and letting them both inside the house. Bruce silently retreated to his room, shutting the door behind him and curling up on his bed, tears dripping from his eyes.
“I told you.”
He glared up at the woman sitting casually in the chair next to his bed, right where his mother would sit whenever Bruce became sick. Her pearls looked suspiciously red and brown stained around her neck. She stared at him with a small smile on her painted lips.
“So you came to gloat?” Bruce hissed venomously at her. She snickered at him before taking a drag of her cigarette.
“No, not really. Just to remind you.”
“Remind me what?? That it isn’t fair?!? That my parents are dead and the man who killed them won’t face any consequences for it?? They did everything they could to help this city and now…” He choked on a sob, tears spilling from his eyes as he buried his face in the covers of his bed. The Lady stared at him for a moment before tilting her head curiously.
“Perhaps they weren’t helping right. Perhaps their aid was more insulting than encouraging? Perhaps if they couldn’t help…no, no. Never mind.” Bruce perked up, squinting at her through teary eyes.
“What?” he asked, voice hoarse. The Lady waved her hand dismissively.
“It was a foolish idea, don’t worry about it.” Bruce pushed himself up onto his knees, rubbing aggressively at his eyes. She glanced at him, hand over her mouth as she saw the burning rage and pain in his eyes. Her lip quirked, smirk building behind her glove.
“What is it?” he demanded, pouting at her. She almost cooed at him, but kept herself contained.
“Well…if your parents couldn’t help, and the police won’t help…maybe you could help.” Bruce blinked at her, eyes wide and innocent as though he’d never even considered that he could help.
“...me?” he asked, confused. The Lady nodded.
“You’re not the only one who lost loved ones. You’re not the only one who got told that the case ‘went cold’ or that the police have ‘no leads’ on who the attacker was or what their motivations were. But if the police won’t do anything to help…perhaps you should do it on your own.”
Bruce stared at her silently for a minute before looking back down at his lap. He was silent for a minute, gears clearly turning in his head as the Lady watched. His hands clenched and Bruce looked up, resolve blazing in his eyes as he spoke up.
“What do I have to do?”
A grin spread over the Lady’s face as she appeared on the bed with Bruce, tracing a hand down his cheek.
“I would love nothing more than to tell you.”
“Alred.”
The butler paused where he’d been preparing the Young Master’s dinner, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a moment, hoping beyond hope that Bruce was simply seeking some comfort.
“Yes, Young Master Bruce?”
Alfred felt his heart sink as he took a look at Bruce. The boy was standing in the doorway, chin tucked and fists clenched. His eyes were locked onto Alfred with a cold surety bright in his gaze. He stared at his pseudo son sorrowfully as Bruce spoke.
“I need you to train me.”
“In what, Master Bruce?’
“Everything.”
Teach him. Train him as much as you can.
Alfred closed his eyes, silently sending a prayer for forgiveness to Martha and Thomas before nodding. “Very well, sir. I shall do as you ask. But keep in mind, it will take a while.”
Bruce stared at him silently for a moment before speaking.
“I can wait.”
Bruce disappeared when he was sixteen years old. Eight years, five longer than Alfred had expected the boy to remain, tolerating Alfred delaying his training or insisting he had to perfect his technique before he moved on. Yet soon Alfred was alone yet again and left at the mercy of his Lady’s moods.
“He’ll be back. I won’t let him die out there.”
“You won’t let him die at all, just like how you refuse to let me die,” Alfred grumbled, setting a cup of tea in front of Gotham. She grinned at him, eyes dark and shadowed as she sipped the tea.
“True, but I don’t intend to change him too much. Brucie will probably be the most human out of any of my pets. Even you are more akin to me than he will be.”
“Is that even possible? Considering that you’ve given him five titles rather than one?” Gotham smirked at him, setting her cup back on the table.
“It’s up to me, isn’t it? And I think it’ll be interesting to let him keep his human sanity…mostly.” Alfred sighed slowly in response to her dismissive words. He looked out the window, watching the rain fall for a moment before closing his eyes.
Please return home safely, Bruce.