The Gotham Royal Hotel's Grand Ballroom glittered with the city's wealth and influence. Crystal chandeliers bathed the space in warm light, reflecting off jewelry and champagne glasses with equal brilliance. A twenty-piece orchestra provided an elegant backdrop to the carefully modulated conversations of Gotham's elite.
Bruce Wayne moved through this environment with practiced ease, a champagne flute in hand that appeared perpetually full despite never being seen to drink from it. His tuxedo—custom Tom Ford, perfectly tailored—completed the image of the carefree billionaire playboy that served as his most effective disguise.
"Bruce! Darling!" A socialite whose name he deliberately misremembered greeted him with air kisses. "You must meet the new curator at the Gotham Museum of Modern Art. She's absolutely revolutionizing their contemporary collection."
Bruce allowed himself to be led through the crowd, maintaining his charming smile while his eyes continuously scanned the room. He'd already identified seven potential sniper positions in buildings with lines of sight to the ballroom's floor-to-ceiling windows. Four had been discreetly checked by hotel security under Alfred's direction. Three remained unknown variables.
The Wayne Foundation gala was ostensibly celebrating its urban renewal initiative—a billion-dollar investment in Gotham's infrastructure, particularly in areas like the Narrows that rarely saw corporate attention. In reality, it served multiple purposes. For Bruce Wayne, visible philanthropy reinforced his public image while actually doing genuine good. For Batman, it provided close access to Gotham's power players, many of whom warranted careful observation.
Councilman Peter Grogan stood near the bar, chatting animatedly with several city council members while Commissioner Gordon observed from a short distance away, vigilance evident in his stance despite his formal attire. When their eyes met across the room, Gordon gave Bruce an almost imperceptible nod—acknowledgment of their earlier conversation and the danger they both knew lurked nearby.
Bruce excused himself from the curator with practiced charm and made his way toward Gordon, timing his approach to coincide with Grogan momentarily stepping away from his group.
"Commissioner," Bruce greeted warmly, maintaining his public persona while standing at an angle that allowed him to survey the room. "I'm pleased you could make it tonight. Security arrangements satisfactory?"
The seemingly casual question carried their shared knowledge of Deadshot's presence somewhere in the vicinity.
Gordon nodded, keeping his voice low. "We've implemented the additional measures we discussed. My people are in position." He glanced toward Grogan, who remained oblivious to the danger he was in. "Though our friend still doesn't know he's a target. Thought it best not to alarm him."
"Probably wise," Bruce agreed, sipping champagne he had no intention of actually drinking. "Panic rarely improves security situations."
"Speaking of which," Gordon continued, "I've just received confirmation about the other matter. The circus situation remains... concerning."
"I'm sure our mutual friend is handling it," Bruce replied with deliberate casualness, the double meaning clear to Gordon while maintaining the fiction that Bruce merely funded Batman rather than being him.
Grogan approached, his politician's smile firmly in place. "Wayne! Didn't expect to see Gotham's most eligible bachelor actually showing up to his own charity event. Usually you send a check and your regrets."
Bruce laughed, seamlessly shifting into his playboy persona. "The regrets usually come the morning after, Councilman. Though I've found these events are considerably more tolerable when you build an open bar into the budget."
Gordon watched their interaction with veiled amusement, playing along with the charade he and Bruce had maintained for years.
From the corner of his eye, Bruce spotted a new arrival—Oliver Queen, CEO of Queen Consolidated, entering the ballroom with the confident stride of someone equally at home in boardrooms and high society. At thirty-four, Queen had transformed his family's company over the past two years, pivoting toward sustainable energy and advanced medical technology after a mysterious five-year absence that had left him changed in ways gossip columns endlessly speculated about.
Bruce knew the truth was far more interesting than the tabloids imagined. Queen's carefully maintained playboy reputation concealed the vigilante archer who had become Star City's protector. Like Bruce, he maintained a public persona designed to deflect attention from his nighttime activities.
"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," Bruce said, nodding toward the entrance. "I should greet our cross-country guest."
As Bruce moved through the crowd, he caught sight of Lex Luthor deep in conversation with Norman Osborn near one of the ice sculptures—this one depicting the Gotham skyline, complete with a tiny bat silhouette that the artist had incorporated as a subtle homage to the city's dark guardian. The two CEOs presented a study in contrasts—Luthor's smooth, calculated charm against Osborn's more volatile energy.
"Oliver Queen," Bruce greeted warmly, extending his hand. "Didn't expect to see Star City's favorite son slumming it in Gotham. Especially given your recent regulatory challenges."
Oliver's handshake was firm, his smile practiced. "Bruce. Still throwing the best parties on the east coast, I see." His eyes briefly scanned the room with the same tactical assessment Bruce had performed earlier. "As for the regulatory issues—nothing that can't be handled with the right partnerships. Which is partly why I'm here."
Bruce raised an eyebrow, keeping his expression casually interested rather than alert. "Business at a charity event? You're becoming quite the serious executive, Oliver. Not like the old days."
"We all have to grow up sometime," Oliver replied with a casual shrug that didn't quite hide the intensity beneath. "Five years away provides perspective on what matters."
A server passed with champagne, and Oliver deftly snagged two glasses, offering one to Bruce. "Though I hear you've been doing some maturing yourself. Wayne Enterprises' urban renewal focus, your foundation's expanded humanitarian work—not exactly the Bruce Wayne I remember from our misspent youth."
Bruce accepted the champagne with a practiced laugh. "Don't be fooled by the philanthropy, Oliver. It's all for the tax benefits. And the models, of course. Saving the world is surprisingly effective as a pickup line."
The joke landed as intended, maintaining his carefully crafted image, but Oliver's eyes reflected understanding of the game Bruce was playing. After all, he played a similar one in Star City.
"I heard an interesting rumor," Oliver said, lowering his voice slightly. "About specialized arrows that can withstand extreme conditions. Thought Wayne Enterprises might be interested in discussing carbon fiber applications for Queen Consolidated's mining safety division."
Bruce recognized the request beneath the business jargon—Queen wanted access to the new composite material Fox had developed for Batman's armor. "Sounds like something we should discuss. Though you might need to go through proper channels—R proposals, legal reviews. You know how corporations are these days."
"Of course," Oliver nodded, understanding the deflection. "I'll have my people set something up through your office. No rush."
Bruce steered them toward the center of the room, where visibility was maximized. "Tell me, how's Star City these days? I hear your local vigilante has been making quite an impact on crime statistics."
"The Green Arrow?" Oliver's performance was flawless—just the right mix of casual interest and mild amusement. "He's controversial. Some see him as a criminal, others as a necessary response to systemic failure. The truth is probably somewhere in between."
"Much like our own Batman," Bruce offered. "Though I find the theatrics a bit excessive. A grown man in a costume, jumping off rooftops? Gotham deserves better psychological role models."
Oliver laughed, the sound genuine despite the irony of their conversation. "At least your vigilante doesn't use medieval weaponry. Arrows seem unnecessarily complicated in the age of firearms."
"Mr. Queen," a smooth voice interrupted their banter. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced."
Lex Luthor approached with a smile that never quite reached his eyes, Norman Osborn following a step behind. Bruce watched the subtle shift in Oliver's posture—a nearly imperceptible tensing that most would miss.
"Lex Luthor," Oliver replied, his own smile equally performative. "Your reputation precedes you."
"As does yours," Luthor extended his hand. "Your company's recent advancements in satellite technology are impressive. Almost comparable to Wayne Enterprises' systems, though with more limited range, I understand."
The subtle dig was delivered with such practiced charm that someone less observant might have missed it entirely. Bruce caught the flash of assessment in Oliver's eyes—Queen recognized the same calculation in Luthor that Bruce had observed during their earlier meeting.
"Norman Osborn," the Oscorp CEO introduced himself, stepping forward with the restless energy that seemed his constant state. "Queen Consolidated's biomedical division has produced some fascinating patents recently. Your regenerative tissue research particularly caught my attention."
Bruce noted the slight narrowing of Oliver's eyes at the mention of the research—an area that had personal significance given the numerous injuries his nighttime activities had produced over the years.
"We've had some promising results," Oliver acknowledged neutrally. "Though nothing ready for market discussion."
"Markets evolve," Osborn replied with a dismissive wave. "Visionaries don't wait for regulatory frameworks to catch up with innovation."
Bruce intervened smoothly, redirecting the conversation toward safer territory. "Speaking of innovation, I understand you've all been making substantial charitable commitments recently. The Wayne Foundation always appreciates healthy competition in philanthropy."
"Charity is good business," Luthor said with a thin smile. "The public expects corporate citizenship, especially in these uncertain times."
"Uncertain?" Bruce maintained his expression of casual interest. "The economy's been strong for months."
"I'm referring to more existential uncertainties," Luthor elaborated, his tone taking on that lecturer's quality Bruce had noted earlier. "Metropolis taught us how quickly everything can change when forces beyond our understanding enter the equation. Superman. Batman. The Green Arrow. These so-called heroes operate without oversight, without accountability."
"Some might say the same about corporate power," Oliver countered mildly. "At least vigilantes don't have shareholders demanding quarterly growth."
Osborn barked a laugh. "Spoken like someone whose company weathered an extended absence of its CEO remarkably well. Not all of us could vanish for five years and find our corporate empire intact upon return."
The barb was carefully calculated, probing at what many considered Oliver's vulnerability. But Queen simply smiled, unruffled.
"Family companies have their advantages," he replied. "Legacy matters."
Bruce caught the subtle message in Oliver's words. In the power circles they inhabited, legacy was more than inheritance—it was the mark you left on the world. For men like them, who maintained dual identities, true legacy was often invisible to the public they protected.
Across the room, Bruce noticed one of Gordon's plainclothes officers approaching the commissioner with controlled urgency, whispering something in his ear. Gordon's expression remained professionally neutral, but Bruce could read the tension in his posture. Something had developed.
"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," Bruce said with an apologetic smile. "Hosting duties call. Oliver, we should catch up properly before you return to Star City."
"Count on it," Oliver replied, his eyes briefly meeting Bruce's with unspoken understanding. Queen had noticed the same subtle indicators of a developing situation.
Bruce made his way through the crowd with practiced grace, timing his movements to intersect with Gordon near the side exit without appearing deliberate.
"Commissioner," Bruce said quietly, creating the appearance of casual conversation while positioning himself to block others' view of Gordon's face. "Developments?"
Gordon kept his voice low, the pretense of their relationship allowing for this semi-coded exchange. "Deadshot's been spotted setting up on the Royal Bank building across the street. Thermal imaging confirmed it's him."
"Timing?"
"Based on previous patterns, less than fifteen minutes until he's in position." Gordon glanced toward Grogan, who remained blissfully unaware of the danger as he regaled a group of donors with campaign stories. "We need to extract the councilman without causing a panic."
Bruce nodded, mind already calculating the logistics. "I'll have the Foundation's security team escort him out through the kitchen—claim there's a donor in the back wanting a private conversation about campaign funding. He'll go willingly."
"Good. Meanwhile, if you could inform your... friend about the situation."
"Already handled," Bruce assured him, the irony of the statement lost on Gordon. "But what about the circus situation? I understand there's still concern about the Grayson family."
Gordon's expression darkened. "The officers I sent to the circus haven't reported back. My lieutenant just tried to reach them and couldn't get through. I've got a bad feeling about this, Wayne."
Bruce allowed genuine concern to show on his features. "The circus opened tonight. There must be hundreds of civilians there."
"Which is why I need to go personally," Gordon said firmly. "But first I need to ensure Grogan's safety."
"Let me handle Grogan's extraction," Bruce offered. "You focus on coordinating your people. The sooner we get him to a secure location, the sooner you can address the circus situation."
Gordon studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. My officers will meet you at the service entrance. And Wayne... be careful. These aren't ordinary criminals we're dealing with."
As Gordon departed, Bruce felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He withdrew it discreetly, finding a message from Alfred: "Facial recognition confirmed. Floyd Lawton on hotel roof 300 meters southeast. Carrying specialized equipment."
Bruce slipped the phone back into his pocket, his mind already mapping exit routes and timing. He needed to disappear without drawing attention, change into the Batsuit, intercept Deadshot, and still reach the circus before Deathstroke could make his move against the Graysons. The timing would be brutally tight.
He made his way toward Lucius Fox, who stood near one of the exhibits showcasing the Wayne Foundation's urban renewal blueprints. The older man recognized Bruce's approach and the subtle shift in his posture that signaled Batman business.
"Mr. Fox," Bruce said loudly enough for nearby guests to hear. "I've just had an update from the Japanese investors. They're requesting an immediate virtual meeting about the Osaka proposal."
Fox nodded, understanding the code. "Of course, Mr. Wayne. I've prepared the materials in your private office here at the hotel. Though I'm afraid it may take some time."
"Duty calls," Bruce replied with an exaggerated sigh for the benefit of those nearby. "Please make my apologies to the guests. Perhaps Mr. Queen could say a few words about cross-coastal philanthropy in my absence?"
With his exit established, Bruce moved purposefully toward the service corridors, maintaining his billionaire stride until he was out of sight. Once alone, his entire demeanor shifted—posture straightening, movements becoming precise and economical, eyes hardening with focus.
The hotel's security had been subtly enhanced for the evening, with several Wayne Enterprises "consultants" positioned at key points—all former military or intelligence personnel who didn't ask questions when Bruce Wayne suddenly disappeared during events. One such consultant nodded slightly as Bruce approached the service elevator, inputting an override code that would take him directly to the secure room Fox had prepared.
As the elevator descended, Bruce's mind compartmentalized the various threats converging tonight. Deadshot was positioned to eliminate someone at the gala—most likely Councilman Grogan, given his prominent role in the upcoming Falcone trial. Meanwhile, Deathstroke was reportedly near Haly's Circus, where John Grayson was scheduled to perform. The timing couldn't be coincidence—a coordinated operation to eliminate multiple witnesses in a single night.
The elevator opened to reveal a nondescript maintenance room that had been temporarily repurposed. In one corner stood a reinforced case that hadn't been there an hour ago. Bruce moved toward it with purpose, entering a complex sequence on its biometric lock.
The case opened to reveal the Batsuit—not the older model he'd worn during the Metallo incident, but Fox's latest design. The armor incorporated lessons learned during that confrontation, with enhanced protection against radiation and improved tactical systems. The cowl's white lenses gleamed in the room's low light, the suit itself a dark symphony of protection and functionality.
Bruce began the transformation from billionaire to vigilante, each piece of the armor settling into place with practiced precision. As he secured the utility belt, he activated its built-in communication system.
"Alfred, status update."
"Deadshot appears to be establishing a sniper position, sir," Alfred's voice replied through the cowl's integrated speaker. "Thermal imaging suggests he's assembling a specialized rifle. Local police have been quietly evacuating buildings in his potential line of fire, but they're maintaining distance as per Commissioner Gordon's instructions."
"He's leaving Deadshot for Batman," Bruce concluded, securing the gauntlets that contained some of the suit's most advanced technology. "What about the circus?"
"Facial recognition has confirmed Slade Wilson entered the main tent approximately twenty minutes ago, disguised as maintenance personnel. The Flying Graysons are scheduled to perform in forty-five minutes. I've taken the liberty of alerting Mr. Fox to prepare the Batwing for immediate deployment once you've neutralized the immediate threat."
Bruce pulled the cowl over his head, the suit's systems coming online with a series of subtle indicators in his heads-up display. The transformation was complete—Bruce Wayne had disappeared, replaced by the Dark Knight of Gotham.
"What about Queen?" Batman asked, his voice dropping to the gravelly register he adopted beneath the cowl.
"Still at the gala, though he appears to be making his own discreet exit preparations. His bodyguard delivered what appeared to be an equipment case to his vehicle ten minutes ago."
Batman moved toward the room's concealed exit—a maintenance shaft that had been modified to provide direct roof access without using main elevators or stairwells. "Keep me updated on his movements. Queen's methods are effective but sometimes excessively lethal. The last thing we need tonight is escalation."
"Of course, sir. Though I feel obligated to point out that Mr. Queen might say the same about your own approach."
Batman allowed himself the briefest smile at Alfred's dry observation. "The difference is that I'm right."
With those words, he began his ascent, each movement economical and silent despite the armor's weight. The night's true work was about to begin—a chess match against assassins who had no idea they were being hunted by a far more dangerous predator than their intended prey.
Above, Gotham's night sky was obscured by cloud cover, providing the perfect backdrop for the signal that now illuminated those same clouds—the bat emblem, calling for the city's dark protector. Batman emerged onto the hotel's roof, the wind catching his cape as he surveyed his domain. In the distance, the circus lights created a carnival glow against the urban darkness, while closer, Deadshot's position was marked in Batman's HUD by a subtle indicator.
Two missions. Two lives at stake. One night to stop killers who never failed.
Batman activated his grapnel launcher, the device humming with contained power. "Send the Batmobile to position Alpha. And Alfred...tell Fox I'll need the EMP batarangs. Deadshot's targeting system is going to experience technical difficulties tonight."
The grapnel fired with a muted hiss, its specialized hook securing to a neighboring building. Batman launched himself into the void, cape billowing behind him as he swung toward his first target, leaving Bruce Wayne and the glittering gala far behind.