Chicago - Palmer House Hotel
Benjamin Poindexter wiped the blood from his leather gloves with practiced efficiency. The Chicago job had required closer contact than he preferred—the client had specifically requested that the target understand why he was dying—but the execution itself had been flawless. Fifteen seconds from entry to exit, the corporate executive dead with a fountain pen driven through his eye socket at precisely the correct angle to penetrate the brain.
Methodical. Clean. Boring.
That was the problem with most contracts these days. Routine. Predictable. Opponents unworthy of his particular skills. Poindexter craved challenge—targets that required more than mere execution but genuine ingenuity. Art, not just craft.
The encrypted phone on the nightstand vibrated once. Only one person had that number. Poindexter removed his gloves before answering.
"Sir."
"Benjamin," Fisk's voice carried the unique mixture of authority and respect that had earned Poindexter's loyalty. "I trust Chicago concluded satisfactorily?"
"The message was delivered and received," Poindexter confirmed, his tone neutral despite his dissatisfaction. "Though the parameters offered limited technical challenge."
"I thought you might feel that way," Fisk replied. "I believe I have something more worthy of your abilities. A contract that would test even your remarkable precision."
Poindexter's interest stirred for the first time in months. "I'm listening."
"Carmine Falcone requires assistance in Gotham City," Fisk explained. "A two-target operation of considerable complexity and risk. The first is a family matter requiring the utmost discretion. The second..." Fisk paused, clearly for dramatic effect. "The second is the Batman."
Poindexter straightened, a coiled tension suddenly animated in his frame. "The Batman." He'd studied reports of the vigilante's activities for years, analyzing his combat methodology, gadgetry, and tactical approach with professional interest. "Now that's an actual challenge."
"I thought you might see it that way," Fisk replied, satisfaction evident in his tone. "The terms include your standard fee plus significant performance bonuses. More importantly, Falcone has authorized what he calls 'creative latitude' in addressing the vigilante target."
"Creative latitude," Poindexter repeated, a rare smile forming. "That's a welcome change."
"I understand the Batman presents unique challenges," Fisk continued. "His combat capabilities are reportedly exceptional, and his equipment provides significant tactical advantages. No ordinary approach would suffice."
"Good." Poindexter moved to the window, watching Chicago's skyline with renewed focus. "I've grown tired of ordinary. The Batman represents something different—a worthy test of skill. They say he's never been truly defeated."
"Records exist to be broken," Fisk observed. "The necessary details will arrive through our secure channel within the hour. I've arranged private transportation to Gotham, departing at midnight."
"I'll be ready," Poindexter assured him. "And sir? Thank you for thinking of me for this."
As the call ended, Poindexter began mentally cataloging the specialized equipment he'd need. The Batman represented the ultimate challenge—a vigilante who had defeated countless opponents through superior training, equipment, and tactical approach. A target who moved through darkness, struck from shadows, and disappeared like smoke.
But Poindexter had spent his life perfecting his own art—the ability to turn anything into a deadly projectile with unerring accuracy. What was a batarang but another object to be caught and returned with lethal precision? What was body armor but a puzzle of vulnerable seams and joints waiting to be exploited?
For the first time in years, Benjamin Poindexter felt true anticipation. Not the mechanical preparation for another contract execution, but the electric thrill of genuine challenge. The Batman had faced many enemies, but never one who could turn the Dark Knight's own weapons against him with perfect, deadly precision.
The hotel room suddenly felt too small, too confining. Poindexter opened his equipment case and removed a deck of playing cards—ordinary objects transformed into lethal implements through his gift. He shuffled them with practiced hands, then sent one flying across the room with a flick of his wrist. The card embedded itself in the wall clock, splitting the second hand precisely at its center.
Perfect accuracy. Every time.
Batman thought he owned the night. He thought his skills, his technology, his reputation made him untouchable. But he had never faced someone like Bullseye—a man who never missed, who found beauty in precision, who turned killing into art.
Gotham's Dark Knight was about to face an opponent beyond his experience. And Benjamin Poindexter couldn't wait to see the look in those eyes when the Bat realized, too late, that he had finally met his match.
—
Wayne Manor
Dick Grayson stared at his reflection in the mirror, trying to compose himself for the upcoming training session with Bruce. The argument from that morning still hung heavy in the air of Wayne Manor, their words echoing in his mind with painful clarity.
"You're not ready."
"You're not my father!"
He winced at the memory. He hadn't meant to say that—not really. But the frustration had boiled over, his grief and determination colliding with Bruce's cold, unyielding resistance. Now, with their lesson scheduled for noon, tension knotted his stomach into a tight ball.
Dick checked his watch. Still over an hour before he was expected in the cave. Too much time to sit alone with his thoughts, replaying the argument, imagining worst-case scenarios for their upcoming interaction.
"I need to clear my head," he muttered to his reflection.
The manor stretched around him like a museum—grand, imposing, and filled with history he barely understood. In the three days since discovering Bruce's secret identity, Dick had barely explored beyond the essential routes: bedroom to kitchen, kitchen to cave, cave to gymnasium. The rest remained a mystery of closed doors and hushed corridors.
Today, with restless energy coursing through him and time to fill, he decided to change that.
The eastern wing of the manor was primarily composed of formal rooms—spaces designed more for impression than comfort. Dick moved through them quietly, noting the subtle signs of disuse: furniture arranged too perfectly, cushions without indentations, surfaces free of the casual clutter that marked truly inhabited spaces.
A pair of double doors at the end of the corridor stood slightly ajar, sunlight spilling through the gap and across the polished floor. Dick approached cautiously, drawn by curiosity but mindful of boundaries in this house that wasn't truly his home.
The study beyond the doors was breathtaking—walls lined with books from floor to ceiling, massive windows overlooking the estate's grounds, a substantial desk positioned to capture the perfect balance of light and shadow. Unlike the other formal rooms, this one showed signs of regular use: papers organized in neat stacks on the desk, a half-empty coffee cup on a coaster, reading glasses placed precisely beside an open ledger.
"Bruce's study," Dick realized, hesitating at the threshold. Entering felt like an invasion of privacy, especially after their morning's confrontation. Yet something about the room called to him—perhaps the promise of understanding the man whose approval he so desperately sought.
The massive portraits above the fireplace decided the matter. Thomas and Martha Wayne gazed out from ornate frames, their painted expressions capturing both dignity and compassion. Bruce's parents—murdered when he was even younger than Dick was now, their deaths shaping him into the complicated, driven man who now served as Dick's reluctant guardian.
Dick stepped into the study, drawn toward the portraits as if pulled by an invisible force. Thomas Wayne had Bruce's eyes exactly—that same intensity, that same penetrating focus. Martha's smile held a warmth that Dick had yet to see in her son's expression, though he thought he'd caught glimpses of it in unguarded moments.
"Hello," he said softly, feeling both foolish and compelled to acknowledge them somehow. "I'm Dick Grayson. I'm staying with your son. He's... complicated."
The painted figures offered no response, but something about addressing them directly eased the tightness in Dick's chest. These people had loved Bruce, had shaped his early years before tragedy tore them away. Understanding them might be the key to understanding their son.
Dick noticed a series of smaller framed photographs arranged along the mantelpiece—family moments captured in time. Bruce as a serious-looking child, his parents' hands on his shoulders. Thomas in surgical scrubs, exhausted but triumphant. Martha at a charity gala, elegant and commanding.
And there, slightly apart from the others, a photograph of a younger man who carried the unmistakable Wayne features with a different energy—something both harder and more mischievous in his expression. The silver frame bore a simple inscription: "Patrick Wayne, 1945."
Bruce's grandfather. The man who had transformed Wayne Enterprises from a modest manufacturing company into a global corporate leader, who had established the philanthropic ethos that defined the Wayne legacy, who had—according to Alfred's occasional remarks—lived a life of remarkable adventure before settling in Gotham to raise his family.
Dick carefully lifted the photograph for a closer look. Patrick Wayne had the same strong jawline as his son and grandson, the same broad shoulders, but his eyes held a gleam of humor that seemed notably absent in his descendants. He was undeniably handsome, with perfectly coiffed dark hair and a smile that suggested he knew secrets others could only guess at.
Setting the photograph back in its place, Dick's attention shifted to the desk. Unlike the other formal rooms of the manor, this space felt genuinely lived in—the leather chair worn smooth in places from regular use, the desktop organized with meticulous precision that could only be Bruce's doing.
Dick hesitated, conscious of boundaries. Looking at photographs displayed on the mantel was one thing; investigating Bruce's desk was quite another. But their argument that morning had left him desperate to understand the man who held his future in his hands. If Bruce wouldn't explain himself, perhaps his possessions would offer insight.
The top drawer yielded nothing personal—just office supplies arranged with mathematical precision. The second contained files labeled with project names and dates, all formal Wayne Enterprises or Foundation business. Professional, impersonal, revealing nothing of the man behind the work.
The third drawer was locked.
Dick stared at it, suddenly intensely curious. What would Bruce Wayne, who lived a double life as Batman, keep locked in a desk drawer? What secrets required additional security beyond the fortress-like manor and its state-of-the-art systems?
Training with Bruce had already taught Dick basic lock-picking. The mechanism was simple—designed for privacy rather than serious security. Using a paper clip from the top drawer, Dick manipulated the lock with careful precision, feeling a small surge of satisfaction when it clicked open.
His triumph immediately gave way to unease. The drawer contained items arranged with none of the meticulous organization that characterized the rest of Bruce's space. Instead, they lay in careful disarray, as if their owner couldn't bear to organize them but couldn't discard them either.
A pearl necklace with a broken strand. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses. A worn Die Hard ticket stub. A small-caliber handgun carefully unloaded.
Relics of that night in Crime Alley, Dick realized with a shock of recognition. Physical remnants of the moment that had transformed Bruce Wayne into the man who would become Batman.
He started to close the drawer, suddenly feeling like an intruder in someone's private grief, when his eye caught a thick leather-bound album partially hidden beneath the other items. It bore no title, only a simple embossed design—a circle within a shield
Curiosity overcame hesitation. Dick carefully extracted the album and carried it to the window seat, where midday sunlight provided better illumination. The album's cover was worn smooth with age and handling, its leather softened by decades of touch. Opening it revealed a handwritten inscription on the flyleaf:
"To Patrick—Some memories are too important to trust to history's unreliable record.The Society stands with you, as always.—Alan"
The first pages contained what Dick initially took to be standard historical photographs—Patrick Wayne shaking hands with presidents and prime ministers, conferring with military leaders in war rooms, examining technological devices alongside men in lab coats. Impressive for a business leader, certainly, but not extraordinary.
Until Dick noticed the dates.
Patrick meeting with President Roosevelt in what appeared to be the Oval Office—1943. Standard enough. But on the following page, Patrick examining technical schematics with Albert Einstein and Howard Stark—also 1943.
"What is this?" Dick whispered, turning pages with increasing urgency.
The album seemed to chronicle an entirely different history than the one taught in schools. Here was Patrick Wayne at the 1943 Stark Expo, sitting in the crowd with an embarrassed smile as Howard Stark demonstrated his flying car prototype. The caption beneath noted Howard's insistence that Patrick join him on stage, despite the Wayne heir's obvious discomfort in the spotlight. The flying car hovered impressively for a few seconds before crashing back to the platform—but what caught Dick's eye was the way Patrick and Howard laughed together afterward, their friendship evident even in this moment of technical failure.
Another photograph showed Patrick in what appeared to be a secret laboratory, watching a procedure from behind reinforced glass. The caption simply read: "Project Rebirth:The day everything changed, 1943." Unlike Howard, who was actively adjusting machinery in the background, Patrick stood with Colonel Phillips and other officials, clearly present as an observer and supplier rather than a scientist. His Wayne Enterprises badge identified him as part of the Strategic Scientific Reserve's supply chain, providing specialized components for the experimental chamber.
The next image in the sequence was even more remarkable. The same laboratory, now in disarray—equipment destroyed, scientists taking cover. And emerging from the smoking chamber was a transformed figure—no longer scrawny but powerfully built, looking dazed but determined. Patrick Wayne stood nearby with Howard Stark, both men looking simultaneously amazed and vindicated. The caption: "Steve emerges—First success—Wayne/Stark materials withstand the procedure."
Dick turned the page to find a photograph that had clearly been taken in Europe—a military camp with mud-spattered tents and exhausted soldiers. At its center stood Captain America in his first, improvised uniform, surrounded by cheering men. Patrick Wayne stood just behind him, clipboard in hand as he reviewed supply manifests with another officer. The caption explained: "Return from Azzano—Steve's first real mission—Wayne Tech field equipment performs beyond expectations—1943."
The next several photographs documented an extraordinary sequence: the team Dick had glimpsed in later images, gradually assembling throughout 1943 and 1944. Patrick Wayne with a growing circle of remarkable individuals—some in military uniforms, others in distinctive costumes that marked them as something beyond conventional soldiers. They gathered in war rooms, field headquarters, makeshift camps across the European theater.
Then came a series of formal photographs that made Dick sit up straighter. Patrick Wayne and the assembled team receiving medals from President Roosevelt in the White House. The President looked frail but determined as he pinned commendations on each member.
An even more remarkable photograph followed—the team being honored by King George VI at Buckingham Palace, with a young Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip in attendance. The princess, barely eighteen, regarded the assembled heroes with undisguised fascination, while Prince Philip, in naval uniform, spoke earnestly with the man Dick would later identify as Aquaman. Patrick Wayne was captured in mid-conversation with King George, their expressions suggesting a discussion of supply logistics for the ongoing war effort.
The photographs continued, documenting Patrick's extraordinary wartime journey as a supplier and supporter of these remarkable individuals. But interspersed with these historical moments were more personal images—snapshots of a life beyond the secret war.
Patrick Wayne on his wedding day in 1946, looking impossibly young and happy beside a beautiful dark-haired woman identified as Eleanor Spencer. Howard Stark served as best man, his celebratory toast apparently causing the groom to blush fiercely if the caption was to be believed. Several members of the mysterious team attended, now in civilian clothes but unmistakable to Dick's newly educated eye.
A hospital photograph from 1948: Patrick holding newborn Thomas Wayne with an expression of wonder and terror that transcended generations. Eleanor looked exhausted but radiant in her hospital bed, while a gathering of friends including Howard Stark and his date for the occasion beamed at the new addition to their extended family.
The album continued through the decades Thomas growing from solemn child to accomplished young man, Patrick transitioning from military supplier to business leader to family patriarch. Wayne Manor appeared in the background of many photographs, its rooms bright and filled with life, so different from the mausoleum-like atmosphere that now pervaded its corridors.
A particularly touching photograph from 1980 showed an aging Patrick holding infant Bruce while Thomas and Martha looked on with pride. The Stark family crowded into the frame as well Howard and Maria now in their senior years, Tony as a young noy already showing his father's charismatic confidence. The Christmas decorations in the background and the genuine joy on every face presented a vision of Wayne Manor that seemed impossibly distant from its current state, a home filled with light and family and connection.
The final pages showed Patrick in his later years, still surrounded by surviving members of his wartime team at various gatherings—reunions, memorial services, private celebrations. Though they aged (some more visibly than others, Dick noted with curiosity), the bond between them remained evident in every image. Patrick Wayne had lived a life interwoven with extraordinary people and events, yet grounded in family and friendship.
Dick found himself lingering over these family photographs, trying to reconcile them with the cold, empty manor he now inhabited. There had been warmth here once, genuine joy within these walls. The contrast with the present was stark—the solitary, driven Bruce Wayne seemed to inhabit a different universe from his grandfather's vibrant social circle and deep connections.
As Dick turned back to the wartime photographs, one in particular caught his attention—a Christmas celebration, dated 1944.
The image showed a military mess hall transformed for the holiday, with pine boughs strung along the walls and handmade decorations crafted from whatever materials soldiers could scrounge. A modest Christmas tree stood in one corner, adorned with ornaments fashioned from repurposed bullet casings and a star made from polished metal. Multicolored lights cast a warm glow over the gathered figures, creating an island of celebration amid a world at war.
What made Dick's breath catch wasn't the decorations but the people.
Patrick Wayne occupied the center of the frame, dressed but in formal attire. He stood with an arm slung around Howard Stark's shoulders, both men raising glasses in a toast, their expressions conveying the deep bond of men who had faced death together and emerged stronger for it. Around them clustered the others some in military dress, others in the fantastic costumes Dick had glimpsed in earlier photos.
The man in the star-spangled uniform the only figure Dick recognized instantly as Captain America had removed his cowl for the occasion, revealing handsome features and neatly combed blonde hair. He stood with his arm wrapped around a beautiful woman in military dress, their postures suggesting they were far more than colleagues. The woman's dark hair was styled in perfect victory rolls, and even in a black and white photograph, her commanding presence was evident.
Beside them stood another couple that mirrored their dynamic: a man in Naval Intelligence uniform stood close to a tall, regal woman whose armor combined ancient Greek designs with practical protection. A golden lasso hung at her hip, catching light in a way that seemed to transcend the photograph's monochrome limitations.
Dick's gaze moved across the gathered figures, each more fantastic than the last. A man with a glowing lantern that somehow appeared green even in the black and white image. Another whose winged helmet bore lightning bolts at the temples, his edges slightly blurred as if he'd been in motion when the photograph was taken. A regal Black man in an elegant uniform beside a woman whose distinctive necklace seemed to pulse with power even across decades.
Warriors with massive wings folded behind them. A man whose entire body seemed to generate light. A distinguished-looking Canadian officer whose intense gaze belied his formal posture. A figure in a golden helmet that concealed his features entirely. A man whose formal attire incorporated unmistakably aquatic elements, his bearing marking him clearly as royalty.
A powerful-looking man with a boxer's physique stood with his arm wrapped protectively around a beautiful woman. Other figures filled the frame—a speedster caught mid-laugh, a woman with a star emblem, men in distinctive uniforms that represented different Allied nations, a figure holding what appeared to be a cosmic rod, another perched with impossible agility on a nearby railing, someone checking a watch as if timing even this moment of celebration.
And there, standing slightly apart at the edge of the frame, was a figure who seemed to belong to an entirely different category of being. Unlike the others in military dress or specialized uniforms, this man wore an immaculately tailored suit that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. His handsome features bore a sardonic smile as he raised a crystal tumbler in salute, and despite the photograph's age, Dick could have sworn his eyes held an unnatural gleam. Everything about him radiated dangerous charm—a predator comfortable among warriors only because they had found common cause.
With careful fingers, Dick removed the photograph from its mounting, turning it over to find words written in fading blue ink:
Christmas 1944 – The Justice Society & Friends:Victory in sight at last
Below that, in meticulous handwriting, were the identities of everyone present—names that read like a roster of impossible heroes. Captain America (Steve Rogers). Wonder Woman (Diana Prince). Green Lantern (Alan Scott). The Flash (Jay Garrick). Hawkman and Hawkgirl (Carter and Shiera Hall). Black Panther (King Azzuri of Wakanda and Zambesi). Vixen (Queen Amaya Jiwe of Zambesi and Wakanda). Blue Marvel (Adam Brashear). Human Torch (Jim Hammond). Wolverine (James Howlett). Doctor Fate (Kent Nelson). Aquaman (Prince Orion of Atlantis). Wildcat (Ted Grant). Black Siren (Dinah Grant). Whizzer (Robert Frank). Miss America (Madeline Joyce). Union Jack (James Montgomery Falsworth). Black Fox (Robert Paine). Starman (Ted Knight). Slinger (Peter Parker). Hourman (Rex Tyler).
At the center of the list, with no code name but a simple designation that somehow carried more weight than any superhero title: "Patrick Wayne - Society Chairman."
And at the bottom, next to the elegant man with the dangerous smile, a simple note that sent shivers down Dick's spine:Lucifer (Himself) - unexpected but welcome ally against greater evils.
Dick's mind reeled with implications. Heroes with incredible abilities, fighting a secret war alongside conventional forces. And Patrick Wayne had been among them—not as a costumed hero but as "Society Chairman," according to the notation beside his name.
The sound of a throat clearing at the doorway made Dick jump. He looked up to find Alfred standing there, his expression a complex mixture of surprise, resignation, and something that might have been relief.
"Master Dick," Alfred said, stepping into the study. "I see you've discovered some rather significant family history."
Dick held up the Christmas photograph, his mind bursting with questions. "Alfred, what is this? Who were these people? Were they actually heroes with powers? And why isn't any of this in history books?"
Instead of the reprimand Dick expected for snooping through Bruce's private possessions, Alfred approached with evident interest, taking the photograph with careful hands. As he studied the image, years seemed to fall away from the butler's face, replaced by an expression of fond reminiscence.
"Ah, the Society's Christmas celebration of 1944," Alfred said softly. "Just after the Battle of the Bulge, if I recall correctly." His fingers traced the faces in the image with genuine affection. "I was present for this, you know. I was a very young man then, serving as a junior attaché to the British delegation."
Dick's eyes widened. "You were there? You knew these people?"
Alfred smiled, the expression transforming his usually proper features. "Indeed I did, Master Dick. Not all of them, mind you—some came and went according to mission requirements—but I had the privilege of serving alongside many of them in various capacities." He handed the photograph back to Dick. "I see you've been exploring Master Wayne's family history rather thoroughly."
"I didn't mean to snoop," Dick said, though they both knew that wasn't entirely true. "I was just trying to understand more about Bruce—about his family."
"A natural curiosity, given your current circumstances," Alfred acknowledged, moving to straighten items on Bruce's desk with practiced efficiency. "And perhaps one that might prove valuable to both of you, in time."
Dick looked back at the photograph. "But who were they, really? The Society? Were they actually heroes with powers? Like in comic books?"
Alfred's expression grew more measured. "They were extraordinary individuals, certainly—some with abilities that science still struggles to explain, others with exceptional skills or technologies. They came together during humanity's darkest hour to confront threats beyond what conventional forces could address."
"And Bruce's grandfather was their leader? Even though he didn't have powers?"
"Patrick Wayne was a remarkable man—brilliant, courageous, and possessed of an unusual talent for bringing disparate personalities together toward common purpose." Alfred's gaze shifted to Patrick's portrait on the mantel. "He understood something that many forget—that true strength comes not from solitary action but from unity of purpose."
The implication hung in the air between them. Bruce, unlike his grandfather, had chosen a solitary path—becoming Batman without allies, without a team, without sharing his burden.
Until Dick had entered his life.
"Does Bruce know?" Dick asked, the question that had been burning in his mind since he first opened the album. "About all of this? About what his grandfather did?"
Alfred hesitated. "Master Bruce knows certain aspects of his family history. Other elements remain... unexplored. His focus since that night in Crime Alley has been singular, perhaps to the exclusion of broader perspectives his grandfather might have endorsed."
Dick looked back at the Christmas photograph, studying the faces of these extraordinary people—heroes from a war fought on levels most history books never mentioned. "Will you tell me about them? About what they really did?"
"Perhaps," Alfred said, his tone noncommittal but not dismissive. "There are stories in Patrick's journals that deserve to be remembered. But for now—" he glanced at his watch "—I believe you have a training session with Master Bruce in twenty minutes."
Dick had almost forgotten about the impending lesson, so captivated had he been by this discovery. "Right," he said, reluctantly closing the album. He started to return it to the drawer, then paused. "Alfred? Can I keep this photograph? Just for now?"
Alfred studied him for a moment, then nodded. "I believe that would be appropriate, Master Dick. But perhaps keep it to yourself for the time being. Master Bruce may not be... ready for such discussions, particularly given this morning's disagreement."
As Dick carefully tucked the Christmas photograph into his pocket, Alfred added, "I would suggest returning the album to its proper place, however. Some discoveries are best made in their own time."
Dick nodded, replacing the album and closing the drawer. As he followed Alfred from the study, he glanced back at the portraits of Thomas and Martha Wayne, seeing them with new understanding. They weren't just Bruce's murdered parents—they were part of a legacy much larger than Gotham, much broader than Wayne Enterprises, much more complex than even Batman himself seemed to recognize.
"Alfred?" Dick asked as they walked toward the cave entrance. "This man—the one labeled 'Lucifer'?" He kept his voice casual, though the question was anything but. "Was that just a code name, or...?"
Alfred's expression grew guarded. "A complicated ally," he said after a moment's consideration. "He knew how to have fun, certainly, but was very, very dangerous as well. Still, a good person to have on one's side, and a better friend than many expected." He gave Dick a sidelong glance. "Some questions are best left for another time, Master Dick."