Bruce stood in the middle of the ballroom, surveying the damage.

A bullet had embedded itself into the far wall, the pristine white marred by an intrusive crater. The blood, a small pool in the center of the room, was being attended to by Alex with a mop. Bruce sighed as he took a seat in one of the remaining chairs yet to be cleaned up.

Bruce had always known about the crime in Gotham- of course he had, he'd lived here his whole life. But being rich and privileged had distanced himself from that reality, whether he wanted to admit it or not. His whole life had been surrounded by smiles and money and pampering. The last time he'd been this close to a crime- to death, and its awful ringing- he'd been eight.

Sighing, he fiddled with his suit. Sometimes he wondered if donating and raising funds for charity was enough. Should he be doing something more? What would that even be?

"Bruce, there you are!"

Bruce turned and gave a half-hearted smile. "Hey mom. Just... checking things out here."

Martha pursed her lips. "It wasn't a total disaster. We raised a lot of money, you know-"

"Right. Money."

"Bruce..."

"I... Sorry, mom. It's just..." Bruce tried to sort out his thoughts, order them in a way she could understand. "Those guests could've died, and I could've done nothing about it."

"You're just one man, Bruce. What do you think you could've done?"

"Something!" Bruce turned to face Martha, fists clenched. "We've donated and donated and donated, yet nothing ever gets better. The slums are still there, people are just as poor as ever! And the crime never stops either- walk down the streets and you can see it. It sometimes feels like none of us are making a difference."

"Oh, honey, where did this all come from?" She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I don't know. I don't... it doesn't matter. It's just paranoia, or something stupid."

"No. No, it's not stupid to want to save the world, Bruce. It's noble."

"It'd be more noble if we could go and do it."

Martha sighed. "You're so much like your father, you know. He became a surgeon because he wanted to help people in need. And he did, he does, and so do you. You may think we're not making a difference, but talk to someone we've helped. Someone who now has a job, because of our initiative- because of us."

Bruce gave Martha a forced smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess we have helped, huh."

But something inside Bruce refused to let him sit idle. Some strange feeling had erupted inside his chest, like a strange longing.

He sighed. Whatever it was, there was nothing he could do about it now.

The cold morning air bit at Tim's cheek.

Well, 'morning' was kind of a stretch. The pale dawn light filtered its way through heavy clouds, casting shadows around Gotham. It was an ugly blotchy orange, reminding Tim of an irradiated sky. Smoke hung heavy in the air.

He clutched his camera close to his chest. Alarm bells were ringing in his mind- what exactly did he intend to do here? Sure, he had been so full of purpose, so sure of himself when he had been leaving. But here, now, before the world woke and when the criminals still lingered, fear began leaving its cold fingerprints on his skin.

Maybe he should turn back. Maybe he should just go to sleep.

But before he could make up his mind, he suddenly froze. Inside a darkened alleyway he could see two men, gathered around a crate.

"Ah, look at this!" a man exclaimed, blonde hair catching the thin shaft of light from above.

"Told ya I got good sources. Whatcha gonna do with it?"

"With these babies? Anything I want!" His voice lowered. "Heard there's a sale at the Gotham Bank. Bring a gun, get a million dollars."

Their laughter sent shots of ice through Tim's veins. There was no doubt that guns were contained in that crate.

"Man, Zucco also knows what a man needs," the man with the blonde hair said. Taking out what looked to be a pistol, he held it to his face. "Beautiful. Just... beautiful."

"Hey Arthur-"

Tim suddenly spun around, turning to face a a long, lanky man holding a gun. His breath caught in his throat. The man's eyes widened as he took in Tim's presence, and then landed on the camera clutched tightly in Tim's fingers.

"Hey-!"

Tim took off, running as fast as he could, which unfortunately was not very fast. He had never been the most athletic person, and what was more, he was rather short for his age. The three men soon surrounded them, each carrying their own fancy weapon.

"Well well well boys, look what we have here." The blonde-haired man sneered at Tim.

"I... I didn't..." Tim was at a loss for words. "I didn't... take any pictures..."

"Oh no, I'm sure you didn't," said the man that had first seen Tim. His shirt was dotted with stains, like polka-dots. "But just in case, we'll take that."

"No!" Tim lunged forwards but they had snatched the camera up high. The blonde-haired man- their seeming leader- inspected it, before promptly smashing it on the ground.

Tim immediately dived to the ground, picking up the bits and pieces of metal. Tears started welling in his eyes. It had been a gift from his parents many years ago, special because it had been one he'd actually liked. Years and years of birthdays, holidays, memories, moments- all gone in an instant, bleeding out onto the cracked tarmac.

"Aw, poor little baby, about to cry," the third man mocked. "Shouldn't we do something?"

"Well, let's put this poor thing out of his misery, hm? You're not going to be telling anyone anything, are you?"

Tim shook his head frantically, tears spilling over.

The polka-dot man laughed. "Too bad we can't take any chances. Arthur?"

Arthur- the leader- put his gun to Tim's forehead. "Don't mind if I do."

Suddenly, a flying blur came out of nowhere, knocking the pistol out of Arthur's hands. The other two men barely had a second to gasp before being knocked out cold by a girl dressed in purple pajamas, a black scarf covering half her face. She delivered a solid roundhouse kick to Arthur, sending him tumbling to the asphalt. All Tim could hear was the groans of the men, and the ringing in his ears of an averted disaster.

"Sorry 'bout that," the girl said, kneeling down next to him. "It seemed like a nice camera."

"I-It's okay," Tim stuttered, once he found his voice. "Who... are you?"

The girl stood up, offering her hand to him. "The name's Stephanie," she declared proudly. "But you can call me Spoiler."

The air conditioner must have had something stuck inside it, because Jason was feeling very, very uncomfortable.

He chafed at the handcuffs and groaned. It was no use even jailing him, because Black Mask had cops on the inside who'd get him out as soon as Gordon turned the other way. That wouldn't stop him though, because Jim was an optimist, which Jason knew would get Jim nowhere.

The heavy door swung open and Jason tensed, ready to bear Jim's incessant questioning. However, it wasn't the Commissioner that stepped through the door.

"You," Jason said, a tone of surprise in his voice he couldn't mask.

The man who he had fought in the gala took a seat, and Jason couldn't help noticing his uniform. Of course he was a cop, Jason just had that kind of luck.

"Jason, right?" The man said, opening his file. "Jason Peter Todd."

"Yes, thank you for reminding me of my full name. I was afraid I was going to forget."

The ends of his mouth quirked up, and Jason took this in. A sense of humour. That was better than 90% of the other cops here, at least.

"You gonna introduce yourself?"

The man scrunched up his nose. "If I do, you're not allowed to joke about it."

"Joke about it?" Jason raised his eyebrow. "Well now I'm curious. No guarantees, though."

"I'm Officer Grayson," the man started slowly. "But... you can call me Dick."

Jason couldn't help the guffaw that burst out of his mouth. Dick- oh god this is too good- sent him a glare, but his smile betrayed his amusement.

"So you're asking me to call you Dick?"

"Yes. But if you want to be immature, Officer Grayson is fine."

"Geez, I'm sorry, man," Jason said after the laughter subsided. "Your parents must really hate you."

The smile on Dick's face disappeared, and Jason immediately felt a stone drop into his stomach. He reassessed the man in front of him. Perhaps he wasn't as squeaky clean as Jason had originally thought.

"...What did you want, anyway?" Jason broke the silence first. "It's hot as hell in here, so you didn't come in here to relax."

Dick shifted around in his seat. "No, of course not. I just... wanted to talk to you."

Jason leaned back in his chair. "That's a first."

"Really? Nobody's ever wanted to talk to you?

"Well, no goody-two-shoes cop, that's for sure. Especially not someone I've tried to kill."

"Except you didn't."

"What?"

"Except you didn't try to kill me," Dick repeated, blue eyes shining in something akin to determination. "You could've, but you didn't. Why?"

Jason shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, feeling even hotter under his intense gaze. "I had a target. Why waste my time on you?"

"Except you didn't kill him, either," Dick pointed out.

"Oh, so you're scolding me for not murdering your boss? I'll gladly do it if you let me out, then."

Dick gave him a look that said he wasn't taking the bait. Jason gave a sigh of frustration.

"Look, I just didn't feel like killing you, okay? You were already tied up. There was no point."

"You didn't shoot Barbara, either. She was the only one in your way."

"Okay! Yes, I was being an idiot, is that what you want me to say? What do you want from me?!"

Dick stared at Jason, head cocked slightly, as if reading his mind. And Jason hated this. He slumped down in his chair.

"...Why did you become a criminal?"

"What?" Jason shot him a skeptical glare. "Are you serious? You're not a psychiatrist. I'm not just gonna spill my problems to you."

Dick frowned. "I don't think you're as bad a person as you pretend to be, Jason. So I want to help you."

"Help me?" Jason laughed, and then stopped when he saw Dick's face. "Oh. You're not kidding." He shrugged. "Listen, whatever you think you can do here, no matter how skilled you are at fighting or talking or if you're good-looking or whatever, you're not going to change this place. Or me."

"I can try."

Jason searched his face for a sign of sarcasm, or anything, really. But all he saw was fierce determination. It could have been inspiring, if it weren't so sad.

"Look, Dick- I spared your life and hers. That doesn't make me a good person. And one day, you're going to lose something in Gotham, and realise that nothing here is worth saving. Least of all the criminals. So take my advice from earlier and get out of here."

The door swung open once again, and this time the Commissioner did step through, pausing when he saw Dick.

"Officer," the Commissioner said, "what-"

"We were just having a chat," Dick said quickly. He stood up to leave, but not before turning back to Jason one last time. Jason tensed, waiting.

But he didn't say anything, instead walking out of the room wordlessly, shutting the door behind him.

Hey guys! Okay, okay, I know it's been a century since I last updated. But I hope this makes up for the long wait! It also just occurred to me how frustratingly difficult it is to write Bruce, since he's not the same Batman that we all know (and love). So, yeah, if he's not quite in character, that's because his whole backstory's different and he never went all dark and broody.

Thanks for every single review I've gotten, and all the likes and follows too! If you enjoyed this, please feel free to leave a like/follow/review, and check out my profile for some of my other stories.

Until next time (cross your fingers it isn't next year)!