Rating: R – for adult language and adult situations.
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Batman: Fall to Grace
By E Kelly
Part One: THE DIE IS CAST
"They say a city in the desert lies –
The vanity of an ancient king.
The city lies in broken pieces,
Where the wind howls and the vultures sing…"
- Sting
Chapter One
Money and power are like lovers. Self-absorbed and self-sustaining, they need only each other to exist. Perfect soulmates, they were created at the dawn of civilization, and have been rutting joyfully throughout the ages, feeding endlessly on human industry and human greed. Money and power danced together in the bright Gotham night. And the rich and powerful of Gotham danced with them.
Stretch limousines clogged the quarter-mile long circular drive before the Mayor's mansion. The mansion itself was filled to bursting with CEO's, celebrities, bluebloods, paparazzi and politicians. Thick with extravagance, the air held a shimmer that hung over the gathering, perhaps the collective glitter of all the gold and jewels, clasping skin bronzed by the Mediterranean sun and set in hair sculpted by obscenely expensive artisans of vanity.
Affected laughter and the buzz of wheeling and dealing clashed with the requisite white bread pop band in the corner of the ballroom. Ambition was palpable in the air, some material, some the lust for power and some the fever for flesh. Vamps, male and female, stalked the ballroom with hungry eyes. It was a subculture that always existed around the wealthy and influential, a ripe undercurrent of decadent sensuality that must accompany the egos of the powerful.
If one were there simply to observe, to listen, all sorts of fascinating details could be gleaned from overheard conversation. A sharp eye and a keen ear had all the power of Gotham in a single room for careful perusal. Lawmakers basked among their entourages, ripe for a meaningful suggestion from an influential mover and shaker. Business-men and -women joked about exorbitant taxes and employee health benefits and did casual million dollar deals between drinks. Flunkies dashed to and fro, slobbering decorously, spilling secrets as breathlessly as they spilled their drinks.
"Fifty million, I said, fifty million! You must be trying to fuck me, Salinger! Fifty million for the rights to all the chemicals and their by-products to be discovered in that country in the next fifteen years. We're talking pure South American rain forest. The cure for goddamned cancer's probably sitting there right now in some butterfly's balls just waiting for us to come and harvest…"
"So I called Nedry at the ACLU and told him that if he didn't get off my back his little East Side apartment and its occupants were going to be all over the front page…"
"That situation was taken care of last night, Mr. Kallenbach."
"Of course, of course the education of Gotham's children is paramount; however, the time to move for further appropriations in the budget must be carefully selected…"
"Look, look, Teresa's moving in on Charlie Wales. She won't spread her legs for anyone worth less than a hundred mil you know…"
Bruce Wayne stood on the mezzanine, impeccably dressed in a black, velvet-trimmed Armani tuxedo. He leaned on the banister, appearing to be casually and rather apathetically watching the crowd below. But the hand in his pocket operated a miniature wireless multi-channel transceiver. In his ear was a nearly invisible speaker, which he tuned selectively to the network of tiny bugs with which he had seeded the room during his arrival rounds.
My eyes move slowly over the milling crowd below me. Somewhere among these capricious, oblivious people walks my prey.
I look to my first suspect, the rather short, lean fifty year old in the southwest corner of the room. Christopher Jameson, self-made financier, very tight with labor interests, several good friends in Washington. Given the traditional criminal connections with labor unions, and Callas' involvement with the Teamsters, Jameson might have been the one.
I cut my eyes to the far end of the ballroom, suspect two, Michael Marion, Deputy Director, Eastern Division, Federal Bureau of Investigation. His agents managed to corrupt the evidence, and since they've already been sacrificed as scapegoats, that points to Marion.
And suspect number three – has not yet made an appearance.
"Excuse me," a feminine voice with a heavy Czech accent breaks in on my thoughts, "You are Bruce Wayne?"
I turn to see Emily Enow, looking even more emaciated in person than she did in her fashion spreads. Automatically I turn on the smile.
"I've been wanting to meet you, but none of the women who know you would introduce me," she broke into a high-pitched giggle. I can see from her dilated pupils that she is high on some drug or another. "They are jealous. They all want to keep you for themselves."
"No woman has accomplished that yet," I say smoothly. "But maybe you can be the first."
She slinks up beside me, draping herself on my shoulder, and I keep her going by dropping sexual innuendos as my eyes search the crowd. Where is he? I know he's in Gotham; he should be here. One of these three men had pulled the strings to get Mason Callas off.
I hold my anger tightly in check, thinking of Callas walking free. Even if he was gone from Gotham (and had best not ever contemplate returning), even if his organization was in a shambles, Callas should not have escaped justice. Someone had made a serious mistake, getting that murderer off. A very serious mistake.
"No, I've never been to Prague."
"Oh, it is terrible, no place to shop." That got her going. She went on nonstop about the horrors of Prague's retail situation.
It had not been a simple thing to even narrow down who might be responsible for Callas' escape. Callas himself had sat right at the crux of the system where the lines of power disappeared into the hazy web of tangled alliances between industry, politics and crime. Therefore I had had to look for my next target amongst those well removed from open criminal activity. Whoever had manipulated that Grand Jury investigation was a man with power enough to not have to go outside the law. He could use the law for his own purposes.
Then I catch sight of the last one – John Fagen – coming down the stairs from the private residence on the third floor with his arm around a young woman's waist. US Senator and industrialist, his family has been a power in Gotham as long as mine. He put Jefferson on the bench so it follows that he could have influenced the Grand Jury with ease.
He whispers something in the woman's ear and leaves her to move down the crowded main staircase, pressing the flesh every step of the way.
"Excuse me, Emily," I say, breaking into her chatter. "I have always thought no woman could be too shallow for me, but apparently I was wrong." I leave her there, brow furrowing in confusion. Behind me I hear the guttural Czech word for "asshole".
The woman who had come down with Fagen had watched him for a moment, then slipped out the French doors that led onto the balcony. I don't recognize her from Fagen's known associates, so I follow her out.
She hears me approach, but she doesn't turn. Nice figure, simple flowing hairstyle, classically elegant dress.
"Good evening," I say, leaning on the ledge beside her and giving her a smile. "I saw you and I just had to introduce myself." I drop my voice to an intimate timbre as she finally turns her head to look at me briefly. "You're the most beautiful woman I've seen tonight. I'm…"
Her voice is flat as she cuts me off, "Please go away."
That surprises me a little, but I step back and say deferentially, "I apologize for bothering you," and I turn to leave. Then I stop and turn back to her, "Please forgive me. I don't mean to intrude, but…are you all right?"
I see just a glimmer of response to my concern in her eyes, but it is momentary, for she turns away quickly. She smiles – and it chills me. I notice that she actually is beautiful. Her features are southern European, maybe Spanish ancestry, with dark eyes and bee-stung lips, framed by long, thick, dark auburn hair. Around her slim throat is a single strand of perfect white pearls.
White pearls. Falling.
A small, cynical laugh escapes her lips, and her voice is very soft, "All right? As all right as I get, I guess." Her eyes close for a moment, then she looks at me, really looks at me for the first time.
I'm familiar with being the object of avaricious female glances, but this is not the same. Her eyes are so dark they appear completely black. And they look straight into mine. She doesn't see my clothes, or my physique, or even my face, just my eyes.
Slowly, she says, "You are…kind to ask. I'm fine. Please leave me alone now."
"Would you at least tell me your name?"
"Marlowe DeSeve."
"Thank you." I try the smile again, but she looks away. I sigh, as if accepting defeat. "I hope your evening improves."
She glances up, a wave of her thick hair falling across her shoulder and masking half her face. Pushing it back with one hand, she smiles just a little and shakes her head at me. That's right, dismiss me. I'm just another smooth operator. She turns, again, to her contemplation of the darkness.
I head back into the ballroom, adding her name to my list.
It was after midnight when Alfred received the call to bring the car around.
"I trust your evening was successful, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked as he pulled the car away from the Mayor's mansion.
"I gathered some leads. Nothing that helped narrow down the suspects," Bruce said. Then he added, "Yet." He pulled down the computer concealed in the back of the seat and began checking the names of every person he'd seen with his targets.
At the manor he went straight to the cave to correlate the information he had so far. But, hours later, nothing was any clearer. Jameson had spoken with businessmen, Marion with politicians, and Fagen with both. They even shared some associates between them. It was all so blurry at this level, and they were all so well protected, hidden behind layers of power and money. Each one had respectability, position, and each was so deeply interconnected with others in power.
"Sir?"
He'd heard Alfred approach, but didn't look up until he spoke. "What is it, Alfred?"
The butler poured a fresh cup of coffee and set the pot down, "That is what I was about to ask you."
Bruce sat back, rubbing his eyes. "It's…complicated, is what it is. Uncovering these men is a bit more challenging than your average criminal."
"Yes," Alfred said mildly, "I imagine it would be. One might even wonder whether it is wise to attempt taking on such a foe."
"Wise?" Bruce smiled wryly. "Probably not." The smile faded as his face settled into its usual somber lines. "Probably not," he repeated thoughtfully.
"But, Heaven forbid you should let a lack of wisdom stop you."
Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. "Say I let it stop me. Then what am I doing?" He nodded around the cave. "What is all this?"
Alfred's eyebrows went up, "Borderline psychosis?"
Bruce shot him a narrowed glance, "Besides that. What good does it do me to bring in a crime boss like Callas if someone can just let him go free? Why does someone do that – let an animal like Callas escape justice? Because they think they can get away with it. They think no one can get to them."
"Perhaps no one can," Alfred paused, "Think about what you are taking on. A man who controls judges on a Grand Jury, who can influence a federal investigation. This is taking things to a much higher level than ever before."
Bruce nodded slowly. "It's not even like going after the Police Commissioner, or the Mayor." He scowled, "For all the good that did."
"It has made a difference in the police. Captain Gordon…"
"That's a step in the right direction, but it's not enough."
"What will be enough?"
The question hung in the still air of the cave. Bruce met the gaze of the only person who knew him at all.
"I don't know, Alfred," he said.
Alfred Pennyworth watched the man he had raised from childhood turn away from the light between them and plunge his face into the shadows. Would anything ever be enough? Could Bruce not stop, no matter how high he had to go, no matter how dangerous it became for him?
There had been a time, long ago it seemed, when Alfred still had hope that somehow the inexorable course Bruce's life had taken could be diverted. Though it had been plain to him how deeply Bruce had been changed by that terrible night, how could he possibly have imagined, then? Even when Bruce had come to him, more serious than any twelve-year-old boy should ever be, and asked, no – ordered – him to make arrangements for an extended trip to China, he had thought it a childish whim and tried to dissuade him.
"Don't be silly, Master Bruce. You cannot leave school."
"They are not teaching me what I need to know. I want to go to school in China."
"What can they teach you there that you cannot learn here?" Alfred asked in genuine confusion.
"Martial arts. They teach them to children younger than me. I checked."
"Well, there are people who can teach you those things here."
"No. It's not the same."
"Master Bruce, you cannot…"
"I can and I will." Alfred remembered the look of frightening intensity with which he'd said it. Yes, frightening was what it was – that deep, dark well of pure will in the eyes of a child. And the young master had simply refused to argue any more about it.
Now, as he could see the arc of Bruce's life emerging, Alfred wondered how he could have ever thought it a whim. Now, he realized that Bruce had never had a whim, never a frivolous desire, never a diversion from this one fate.
But what fate was it to be?
Perhaps, Alfred reflected, I should have seen it all coming the first time he returned home, which had not been until just before his sixteenth birthday. He had allowed Alfred to stay in the East for eight months and assure himself Bruce had proper guardians, before sending him back to look after the Manor. And though Alfred had kept in constant contact and checked on him frequently in person, Bruce took no breaks in his instruction in the intervening years. He had been so unlike a teenager then, already so disciplined, so driven. Alfred's brow furrowed, making his eyes look pained as he thought of Bruce's second visit, at twenty, when he had finally told Alfred everything he was planning, and, so grave, asked if he wanted to stay.
"I know it sounds crazy, Alfred -"
"Yes, sir," he had replied mildly, "It is quite mad."
"This is how it's going to be," Master Bruce had said, unwavering, "I can use your help, but I'll do it alone if I have to."
"You do not have to do it alone."
There had been no question in his mind, nor the slightest hesitation in his response. Perhaps he had not really believed Bruce, even then. Perhaps he had. It would not have made a difference.
Then came the night a little over a year ago, when Bruce had rung from the study just before dawn and Alfred had found him, a bullet wound through his shoulder, half-dead from loss of blood and the window shattered in a thousand glittering pieces on the floor. As he'd worked to save Bruce's life, he had barely heard the delirious mutterings issuing from the young man's mouth, though the words had come together in his mind later.
"I shall become a bat."
Iacta alea est, as Caesar said. And the foreboding terror Alfred had experienced that night, seeing his boy so close to death, had not left him since then.
Something had changed irrevocably that night. And each night that had passed since it had grown. The cape and cowl had done more than give Bruce the fighting edge he had said was the original intention behind it. The Batman had become something else, what, Alfred was not sure. He wondered if even Bruce was fully aware of what he had created. Had he foreseen the waves that would ripple out from his actions the first time he'd put it on? Had he known how it would change him?
Because Alfred knew that there was to be no turning back. The question now was – how far will it go? Where would it end?
What will, finally, be enough?
Alfred feared the answer.