Neon lights smeared across the evening streets of Gotham City. Few cars were on the road at this hour, and all Bruce could hear was the rush of pavement and wind, the sound of his car tearing down the freeway. That was what drew him to machines. They followed algorithms, not emotion; when Bruce pushed his foot down on the pedal, the car only responded in one way.
Somewhere behind him, he could see the headlights of paparazzi attempting to follow him. Bruce allowed himself a cynical smile and edged the speedometer higher and higher. The world blurred around him.
A harsh beep rang out in the car, followed by an electronic voice. “Speed not recommended for this road,” it said, and at the same time, one corner of the windshield lit up with a recommended speed and a blinking marker telling Bruce to slow down.
“Override,” Bruce replied. The alerts faded. He could feel the car lock itself tighter in position on the road, so that if he seemed to be even slightly shaky, the car would compensate by steadying itself.
At least WayneTech’s features were working as they should, he thought darkly. Lucius would be happy to hear it.
The car’s phone rang, echoing in Bruce’s ears. When he glanced down at the caller ID, he saw that it was Dianne. Bruce let it ring a few times before he finally answered. Dianne’s voice filled the car, along with the din of the party behind her.
“Bruce?” she shouted over the noise. “Where’d you go? I saw you step away with Richard, but then I heard you left, and—”
“I did leave,” Bruce replied.
“What? Are you okay?” That was Harvey’s voice, anxious.
“I’m fine,” Bruce reassured them. “Don’t worry. I just needed to get some air and clear my head.”
There was a pause on the other end before Dianne spoke up again. “Do what you need to do,” she replied.
“And if you need us,” Harvey added, “we’ll head to you.”
Bruce relaxed a little at their words. The three of them had all gotten to the point where they could sense each other’s moods, so that none of them needed to explain a thing. They just knew.
“Thanks.” Then he hung up.
He had no idea where he was driving to, but after a while he realized he was taking a long route back in the direction of the manor. Bruce exited the freeway onto a local street, passing rows of dilapidated apartment buildings, their walls permanently stained from decades of water and filth. Clothes hung limply on lines strung from one window to another. Steam billowed up from vents. He swerved neatly through traffic, then made a sharp turn at an intersection, where he paused at a stoplight.
Outside his car window, an old man was crawling into his makeshift tent, while at the end of the block another man was stuffing old newspaper into his shoes. A pair of kids played in an alley piled high with trash.
Bruce looked away. He shouldn’t be here. And yet here he was, driving through the slums in a car that probably cost more than what a person living here could earn in a lifetime. Did he have a right to ever feel sad, with everything he had in his life?
These were the streets that his parents had fought all their lives to improve, and they were the same streets where their blood had been shed. Bruce took a deep breath as the light turned green and he revved his engine. Gotham City was broken in many ways, but it wasn’t beyond repair. He would find a way to fix it. It was the mantle he’d been handed.
Soon the streets changed back to unbroken streetlights and unbarred windows. The paparazzi were slowly but surely gaining on him; if he didn’t throw them off now, they would end up parked outside his mansion gates, fabricating tabloid headlines for why he left his party early. Bruce’s eyes darkened at the thought, and he sped up until the car’s warning beep went off again.
It wasn’t until he reached another series of stoplights that he heard the echo of police sirens.
Bruce wondered for an instant if the sirens were for him, the police busting him for speeding. Then he realized that the sound was coming from somewhere up ahead—and not just from a single vehicle, but from what must be dozens.
Curiosity cut through his dark mood. Bruce frowned as he listened to the wails. He had spent enough time following criminal cases on his own that the sound of sirens always made him sit up straighter. For this area of the city, an upscale shopping neighborhood, the sheer intensity of them seemed out of place. Bruce took a detour from the route that would have taken him back toward Wayne Manor, and instead headed in the direction of the sirens.
As he rounded another bend, the wails suddenly turned deafening, and a mass of flashing red and blue lights blinked against the buildings near the end of the street. White barricades and yellow police tape completely blocked the intersection. Even from here, Bruce could see fire engines and black SWAT trucks clustered together, the silhouettes of police running back and forth in front of the headlights.
Inside his car, the electronic voice came on again, followed by a transparent map overlaid against his windshield. “Heavy police activity ahead. Alternate route suggested.”
A sense of dread filled his chest.
Bruce flicked away the map and pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the barricade—right as the unmistakable pop-pop-pop of gunfire rang out in the night air.
He remembered the sound all too well. The memory of his parents’ deaths sent a wave of dizziness through him. Another robbery. A murder. That’s what all this is.
Then he shook his head. No, that can’t be right. There were far too many cops here for a simple robbery.
“Step out of your vehicle, and put your hands in the air!” a police officer shouted through a megaphone, her voice echoing along the block. Bruce’s head jerked toward her. For an instant, he thought her command was directed at him, but then he saw that her back was turned, her attention fixed on the corner of the building bearing the name BELLINGHAM INDUSTRIES & CO. “We have you surrounded, Nightwalker! This is your final warning!”
Another officer came running over to Bruce’s car. He whirled an arm exaggeratedly for Bruce to turn his car around. His voice harsh with panic, he warned, “Turn back now. It’s not safe!”
Before Bruce could reply, a blinding fireball exploded behind the officer. The street rocked.
Even from inside his car, Bruce felt the heat of the blast. Every window in the building burst simultaneously, a million shards of glass raining down on the pavement below. The police ducked in unison, their arms shielding their heads. Fragments of glass dinged like hail against Bruce’s windshield.
From inside the blockade, a white car veered around the corner at top speed. Bruce saw immediately what the car was aiming for—a slim gap between the police barricades where a SWAT team truck had just pulled through.
The car raced right toward the gap.
“I said, get out of here!” the officer shouted at Bruce. A thin ribbon of blood trickled down the man’s face. “That is an order!”
Bruce heard the scream of the getaway car’s tires against the asphalt. He’d been in his father’s garage a thousand times, helping him tinker with an endless number of engines from the best cars in the world. At WayneTech, Bruce had watched in fascination as tests were conducted on custom engines, conceptual jets, stealth tech, new vehicles of every kind.
And so he knew: whatever was installed under that hood was faster than anything the GCPD could hope to have.