Lucius raised an eyebrow at him, unable to hide a slight smile at his comment, then sighed and shook his head. At least he didn’t have the panicked look on his face today that he did when he first visited Bruce at the hospital and saw him strapped to an IV. “It’s my fault,” he replied. “I shouldn’t have asked you to take that car to the benefit in the first place.”
“Well, I ended up in the right place at the right time.”
“Or the wrong place at the wrong time, Bruce. Why did you do it? You suddenly felt a need to dole out justice?”
It was the question the police had asked him first, too, but Bruce still wasn’t sure how to answer. “Because I knew I could stop him, I guess,” he replied. “And the police couldn’t. Was I just supposed to stand by and watch?”
“You’re not in law enforcement, Bruce,” Lucius said. “You can’t just intervene like that.” The man’s eyes turned stern for a moment. “If you didn’t look the way you did, the police might have shot you dead for pulling a stunt like that.”
Guilt hit him, and Bruce couldn’t answer. If he could have intervened in that alley where his parents died so many years ago, his life might have turned out very differently. Lucius was right, of course, and it sent a thread of shame through him. His pale skin may have saved his life. “I won’t do it again,” he said instead, softly.
The video panned to police shouting at the other driver to come out, and the man being pulled out of the wreckage. “A low-ranking member of the Nightwalkers,” the reporter said. “Little is known about the group, although authorities have released their symbol, one that appears at the locations of each target.”
Nightwalkers. Bruce recalled the word being shouted by the police that night. He’d heard this group’s name mentioned on the news more frequently over the past year; in fact, the primary suspect in the murder of that businessman—Sir Robert Grant—was considered a Nightwalker, too. On the TV, an image appeared of a coin engulfed in flames, then of that symbol sprayed on the side of buildings at various crime scenes. There was something ominously personal about the symbol, the burning of wealth, like the Nightwalkers would gladly do it to Bruce himself if given the chance.
“Well, Bruce,” Lucius said as the footage began to repeat. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand absently over his closely cropped dark curls. The lights in the room cast a faint blue highlight against his brown skin. “I suppose our summer plans will have to change.”
Bruce turned to face his mentor. For being the new head of research and development at WayneTech, Lucius Fox was remarkably young. His smile was quick, his eyes bright and alert, and his step energetic in a way that made it seem like he was perpetually eager to change the world.
“I can still come into the lab in my spare time,” Bruce suggested, giving Lucius a hopeful look. “Just make sure I’m not the one driving.”
Lucius let out a soft laugh at that. “We’ll figure things out around your new schedule.” He nodded toward a tablet lying between them on the table. “The world’s more dangerous than you give it credit for, Bruce. We’re just trying to watch your back, okay?”
Bruce studied the tablet. It was currently logged in to his bank accounts, accessible only with his fingerprints and a code, showing off the new security technology Lucius and WayneTech had developed. If your accounts are opened suspiciously, say, with the wrong code, Lucius had told him, it’ll send our security network an alert and remotely disable the offending computer in an instant.
Bruce gave Lucius a nod. “Thanks for this,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing all your team’s been up to.”
Lucius’s brown eyes lit up. “Our security drones aren’t ready to patrol Gotham City just yet—although we’ve already successfully pitched our Advanced Defense Armament to Metropolis. They’re going in on a huge buy for us.”
The Advanced Defense Armament project. It was a mission that Lucius and Bruce shared a common passion for—encryption tech to secure Gotham City’s banks just as it secured Bruce’s accounts, drone machines to secure the city’s streets. Technology, on all fronts, to save them. “That’s good. This city needs to be safer,” he said quietly. “We’ll make it happen with this—I’m sure of it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce could see the news once again showing footage of the Nightwalker. He had killed himself in jail by slashing both his wrists with a smuggled razor the day before detectives were going to interrogate him. The police still had no idea what the Nightwalkers had been up to inside that building—and now, with their only suspect dead, they had lost their biggest lead.
Bruce studied the mug shot on the screen, trying to come to terms with the fact that this man he’d seen alive just two weeks ago was now dead. The thought made his stomach turn. This guy must have been either intensely loyal to or terrified of his boss, whoever that was.
Lucius nodded at the TV. “With Nightwalkers in the streets, it needs to happen sooner rather than later.” A silence lingered between them, the memory of his late parents suddenly heavy in the air, before Lucius finally got to his feet. He walked over to Bruce’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Steady, Bruce,” he said kindly.
Bruce remembered this look from when he would visit WayneTech with his father and listen as Lucius—then a promising intern—gave his father a rundown of new projects he was working on. Now Bruce smiled back at his mentor. “Sorry for the trouble, Lucius.”
Lucius gave him another pat on the shoulder. “Someday I’ll let you in on all the trouble I got into when I was your age.” Then he bid him goodbye and stepped out of the room.
Bruce’s phone dinged. He looked down to see a group text from Harvey and Dianne.
Harvey: hey, so, what’s the official verdict?
Bruce: What else? Guilty.
Harvey: sorry, man. What’s your sentence?
Bruce: Probation for five weeks, and community service.
Harvey: nooooo.
Dianne: that’s like half the summer! and finals and graduation are coming up! Did they say where you have to do it?
Bruce: Not yet.
Harvey didn’t respond to that, but Dianne texted back a string of sad-face emojis. Let’s hang out soon, she said. To celebrate that you survived without breaking your neck. We’re overdue for our birthday diner trip. A pause. You’re going to be ok, ok?
Bruce cracked a smile at that. Thanks, he texted back.
Just when he was starting to wonder how much longer he’d have to stay in the room, two police officers stepped inside. One of them nodded for Bruce to follow them out. “You’re free to go,” he said. “We’ll take you home. Your guardian will meet you there, along with Detective Draccon.”
“Detective Draccon?” Bruce asked as they went.
“She’s discussing your sentence with Mr. Pennyworth.” The officer looked uninterested in saying more on the subject, leaving Bruce to speculate on who the detective might be.
Half an hour later, they pulled up at the elaborate, gilded gates of the Wayne estate. The four pillars bordering the manor’s front entrance came into view, along with the set of stone stairs leading up to the massive double doors. Twin towers rising three stories high peaked at either end of the manor. Iron light poles, their lamps not yet lit in the early afternoon, adorned the sides of the cobblestone path leading from the gate up to the stairs.