make mine a double. [trigger #10.]

**continuation of Trigger #5**

Bruce made the long walk back to Gotham.

Every part of him hurt.

The back of his head was throbbing, but had finally stopped bleeding. His face was raw, his left eye swollen, his lip fat and busted. The sharp aches screaming through his ribs and kidneys made him wonder what the hell Falcone’s goons had done with his body while he was unconscious. All that was topped off by a healthy dose of cold rain, chilling him to the bone.

All he wanted to do was walk back home, get some sleep, and then get in touch with Selena Kyle; but first he needed to try and confirm a suspicion that had been growing. That meant it was time to see Grayson again.

Even after two years, Grayson was still something of a mystery in Gotham. When arriving in town, he claimed he was moving over from Blüdhaven. That was about as much as he’d said about his past, and no one seemed to be able to settle on what his story was. There were all sorts of outlandish tales about who he was, the most absurd being that he’d grown up travelling with the circus. Bruce was in the dark about this 20something kid, a reality he’d need to remedy very soon. For now, he just hoped Grayson might have some more information.

Grayson had provided Bruce with the Falcone lead, and always seemed to know what was happening around Gotham. While somehow never directly involved in any of the city’s shady dealings, he was never ignorant of them either. It was as if he had a preternatural ability to feel the pulse of the criminal underworld. He was a wiseass, but somehow always knew just when to back off to avoid an beating. In spite of himself, Bruce like the kid.

Bruce made his way to Finger’s Pub in Old Town, glad as he swung the door open that Grayson was there, true to form, sitting in a booth by himself nursing a scotch on the rocks.

Bruce gingerly slid in across from Grayson.

“Well, Dick. You were right.”

“Jesus, what the hell happened to your face, Bruce?”

“Like I said, you were right.”

“What’d you do, just knock on Falcone’s door and ask him if he was involved?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Grayson just whistled through his teeth and rolled his glass between his hands.

The waitress came up and looked at Bruce. “You need something, sweetie?” The sweetie did nothing to dent the unmistakable bordem she exuded. She was already walking away by the time he spoke.

“I’ll have what he’s having. But, make mine a double.”

An affirmative wave of her hand over her shoulder was the only response.

rain began pelting his sun-chapped face. [trigger #5]

Bruce woke up at his desk. He’d fallen asleep at his office. It wasn’t the first time that month, or even that week.

He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of Browncoat Whiskey and took a swig. The whiskey stayed out on his desk, he’d need some more in his morning coffee.

Bruce had that dream again. It was so vivid and insane. It always starts with him as a child, with his parents. They’re leaving the theater when a figure emerges from the shadows. The figure becomes a man, then the man and his parents talk back and forth with raised voices until an explosion of sound rings out. BANG! BANG! He hears his mother scream. Nothing like this ever happened to him, or even anyone he knows, but in the dream it seems so real.

Then the dream continues, he’s a child at his parents’ funeral. It’s mad. The dream moments feel like actual memories. His father was still alive, son of a bitch that he was. His mother hadn’t taken her own life until Bruce was nearly 30. Yet, moments after waking he’s almost convinced he once was a small, terrified boy watching them put his parents in the ground.

Bruce thought on that for a minute, about what it would have been like if his parents had died when he was a young child. They were still heroes to him then, still perfect and virtuous. His father still seemed superhuman. Maybe it would have been better if they’d died in that perfect state, before his illusions could be shattered by reality.

He took another pre-coffee swig of whiskey, tried to push both the dream and reality from his mind. Through the open door of his office he could see the door to the hallway, could make out the words on the glass telling anyone who passes that his services as a private investigator were available to whoever could pay.

It was time to follow another lead on the Selena Kyle case. Since the Kyle woman had come in asking for his help, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head. She was intoxicatingly beautiful, and there was even more to it than that. She had this unquantifiable sensuality he couldn’t put his finger on, that along with her gorgeous black hair and green eyes were just a few of the very good reasons he couldn’t stop thinking about her. That was going to be dangerous as he moved forward with the case she brought him.

His next lead was about to take him somewhere he had no desire to go, but the only other alternative was to call the case a failure. Selena Kyle’s hips swayed in his mind as she left his office in his memory. She’d almost purred as she said goodbye. He’d give this case one more shot, even if it did mean talking to Falcone.

He took the Cross Gotham Expressway to the other side of town, double parked, and made his way up the street to the dry cleaners he knew acted as a front for one of Falcone’s favorite hideouts. Entering the alley to the side of the building, he pounded on a rusted door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in decades. An eye slot slid open. “What the hell you want?”

“It’s Wayne, I’m here to see Falcone.”

“Good for you, nobody named Falcone here. Go away.”

“C’mon, give me a break. It’s Wednesday, so we both know that if Falcone’s not in there, then he will be shortly. Just let me in. I’m not carrying.”

The eye slot slams shut. Over the next 20 seconds what sounds like a dozen locks are switched to unlocked before the door swings open.

Bruce entered, “Is he in yet? I’m running on a tight…” Before getting another word out of his mouth, the back of his head explodes in pain and everything goes dark.

He woke briefly, for a moment. He was lying on his back, the sun high and brutally hot overhead. His thoughts were insulated by the pain in his head, everything coming to him slowly.

He was dreaming again. More false memories. There was him, growing up in an empty house with no one but Alfred. Him, training mercilessly, filled with rage and a righteous desire for vengeance. The idea of a costume, like the one the lunatic ‘capes’ wear, flashed through the dream. That dream’s a new one, and even stranger than the ones before. He wondered for a moment if it has something to do with that boyscout he’s been hearing about over in Metropolis.

Back in the waking world of reality, a voice to his left says, “Hey, Frankie, he’s awake. Put his lights out again.” Another explosion of pain. More darkness.

He woke again. The sky was cloudy and gray. His face and bare arms ached as if they’d had a tussle with the business end of a hot frying pan.

Thunder pealed in the distance as rain began pelting his sun-chapped face. Realizing how painful it would be, he steeled himself and pulled up to a sitting position anyway. Carefully, he rubbed the back of his neck, wincing at how remarkably sore every muscle felt.

He was still alive, but out in the middle of nowhere. The message had been sent, leave well-enough alone. Well, at least he knew his lead toward Falcone had been on the mark. Time to get word back Kyle. Maybe this sunburned face and the two lumps on his head would lead to some sympathy from the woman. He smiled at the possibility of a much needed silver-lining.