#batfall

❛ stories . . . ❜ she's heard her fair share, spun a web of her own. rumours about how the virus originated, memories of lives long lost, myths to make children run scared at night. myths no longer. the creatures that go bump in the night now govern the streets in broad daylight, nature reclaiming the soil that was taken from it. if they weren't so deep in the thick of it, she thinks she could stop to admire : it's kind of beautiful, really. for anyone other than the humans that have to deal with it. picking up the remnants left behind.

❝ you've never been ? ❞ lara asks, genuinely curious as she walks him towards the reception, nestled into the heart of her study , previously her father's , where she entertains private company. it makes his acceptance of her invitation intriguing, lucius fox seems very keen on making this charade a reality. but lara has to wonder if bruce feels the same way. ❝ i would have given you a proper tour if i had known. ❞

in the privacy of the manor, lara doesn't dress for guests. instead, she's almost always dressed for a run, or practice, or on the odd part of dusk in her gardening attire. winston disapproved, of course, and reminded her of the importance of impressions. so the monochrome dresspants and hastily buttoned shirt blend her into the manor's earth tones, still her hair is swept in its familiar, loose braid. the whole point of the visit is the comfort of her own territory in this negotiation, and she's not willing to give it up just yet.

❝ how do you take your tea ? ❞ lara's fingers already pass over the ceramic pot to tip hot water into tea cups for both of them. ❝ did you get a chance to rest after your trip ? ❞ she asks, she wishes she could pretend like she already knows the answer, but everything about him eludes her, and it annoys her more than anything. she expected a cookie-cutter poster boy for america's most privileged. bruce wayne ... is certainly not that and lara's not a big fan of being wrong.

Nothing of consequence ever transpired between Arkham’s main entrance and its preliminary security checkpoint. Crane avoided The Institutions large - vaulted - doors to the best of his ability, fearing he’d become roped into what he described as 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘥𝘦𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘣. Officials of Gotham City’s Police Department and The District Attorney’s office drifted in a flock of contentious banter, filling the grand hall with a steady hum of chatter. Likely discussing the overindulgence of funds put towards research or which inmates would be better accommodated at Stonegate,

“ You were right — ” The Good Doctor nearly succumbed to his vexation at being addressed the second he stepped through The Asylum’s vaulted entryway. He watched impatiently as an ADA weaved through a crowd of pampered hair and pressed suits. “ I often am ... ” Crane muttered dryly, continuing his urgent pace to the other end of the polished floor.

The ADA, ever so eager to exchange rumor for financial gratification, chased after Crane. His steps quickened to match The Doctor’s purposeful footfall, “ Nobody’s heard from her in days — her office is paranoid, they already launched an investigation. ” The Doctor’s poised stride ceased. He considered the assistant district attorney’s words and lowered his voice, “ we’d better talk. ”

“ There he is, Doctor — ? ” It was time he better acquaint himself with Arkham’s secure ward entrance …

He turned with an inaudible 𝘩𝘶𝘧𝘧. A member of Arkham’s board Waved him over to a man Crane didn’t recognize. He joined them reluctantly. “ This is our Chief Administrator, Doctor Jonathan Crane. ” Though a practiced smile parted Crane’s lips he moved his briefcase to his front, gripping its handle with two hands so that he wasn’t entitled to offer one in greeting. “ Mr. Wayne has taken an interest in Arkham’s distribution of funds. Maybe you can entertain him with your good work. ”

𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘯𝘦 ? It was just a name. He had forgotten there was a living entity still attached to its legacy. The Doctor studied the visage associated with the name, surprised he hadn’t recognized someone of such acclaim standing in his Institution. “ oh, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your business at the asylum. ”

Despite her silly mood (being around people from her childhood, but especially men, always made her feel little sister-ish, cheeky and impertinent) she also wanted to impress him. She supposed this too was a childhood hang-up. The same motivation that pushed her to apply for medical school despite having a fear of blood; the same force than makes her overly argumentative from time to time. The need to prove herself; beyond just being a girl, beyond being seen for just her looks. To ensure, once and for all, she wasn't just pegged as the pretty one. There were brains there too.

But, she reassures herself, Bruce isn't going to do that to her. After all, he's offering to show her around. If he really believed she couldn't grasp his work, he surely wouldn't;t be wasting his time on a tour. But her curious eyes weren't a charade; admittedly, her journalistic mind is already whirring with a million questions.

It was journalism she should have majored in, not medicine. Or law. Not even English, her third attempt at a degree. It wasn't that she wasn't capable (she even was starting to be able to sit through a biology class without feeling sick by the second term of medicine) but a genuine lack of interest. It wasn't until she began writing, and really writing, not just columns about what she did at the weekend, that she found her niche. And her talent. Stories about people, about ideas; world-changing ones.