FicWad

Three Hours Before

“Master Grayson, enough of your slouching. It is rather unbecoming of a young man with your status.”

“Sorry Alfie. But do I have to go?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid you do. You’ve only just taken the reins of Wayne Enterprises in Master Bruce’s…absence and I daresay the press will be crazed by your involvement with this charity.”

Dick let out a long suffering groan, running a hand through his glossy black hair. A grimace snuck onto his features. His hair was shorter than it had been in the past few years, in order to accommodate the restriction of the cowl, and he was still getting used to it.

“But why Europe?” he complained petulantly. “We should be back in Gotham, Alfie. Things still need to be cleaned up.”

The butler in question raised a single eyebrow, giving his young charge a chastising look. “Master Richard,” he started primly. “Must I give you the same lecture Master Bruce always received?”

Dick looked away, out the window of his master suite towards where London’s iconic Big Ben stood resolutely. Sadness colored his blue eyes a shade darker than before, highlighting the well-disguised bruises of exhaustion that plagued his expression. A sigh escaped his parted lips, and he slowly shook his head in answer to the previous question.

“No, Alfred,” he commented heavily, eyes drawn to the saturation of pinks and oranges that followed the descent of the sun on the horizon. Shooting the always-professional English butler a beaming smile, which effectively hid his exhaustion once more, he continued in a cheery fashion much like his typical disposition. “I’ll be a good little billionaire! Wouldn’t want to disappoint all the lovely ladies,” he waggled his eyebrows.

“Of course not, sir,” Alfred agreed. “I assume I do not need to remind you of your manners?”

“Only if I have too much to drink,” Dick remarked with a cheeky smirk.

“What am I ever to do with you, Master Richard?’ the gentleman’s gentleman rolled his eyes heavenward, before finishing up with the young man’s tie.

True to his form, Dick let out a warm chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the pleasant sound. Alfred held out his Armani suit jacket, helping the younger man into it, before professionally straightening it for him. With a scowl, the heir for one of the world’s largest corporations tried to loosen his tie, but his hand was lightly slapped away by the English butler.

“No more fidgeting, Master Richard,” he chided. “Now, go out and enjoy yourself. Strike up a conversation, have a few drinks, not to many, need I remind you? And, above all else, sir, don’t make a fool of yourself,” the butler sighed in barely concealed exasperation.

That earned him a pout. “It was only a few times, Alfie,” Dick grumbled. “And I promise not to show-off anymore in front of the press,” he added, sounding like a child in a time-out.

“Very good, sir,” Alfred nodded. “Now, shall we be on our way? You have a party to attend.”

“And we’ll be arriving fashionably late,” Dick grinned.



“I’ll be waiting in the car should you require my services, Master Richard,” the ever-loyal butler bid his charge farewell.

“Thanks, Alfie,” Dick smiled gratefully.

At that, Richard Grayson, better known as ‘Richie Wayne’ by the leading members of society that surrounded him, was left alone in a sea of strangers. He had attended galas, and charities, and everything else before, but he had always had someone with him, at the very least. Typically, he went to such social gatherings with Bruce, although he had been known to arrive at several with Babs or Tim in the past.

Unfortunately, he was on his own.

No one had really been available to go to England with him for his impromptu ‘vacation’. And by that, he meant that no one had wanted to leave Gotham. Or maybe they simply didn’t wish to spend all that time with him. It seemed to be a growing problem in Dick’s life, one that he wasn’t especially use to. He considered himself a pretty nice guy, maybe ‘overly affectionate’ or ‘quirky’ in some people’s eyes, but decent enough company altogether. So, why was it that he had been all but alone for the past few weeks?

After their latest falling out, Barbara wouldn’t even stop to give Dick the time, unless, of course, it was as Batman and Oracle, in which the redhead had already saved his life dozens of times. Jason was around…somewhere, but Dick didn’t know where, and he figured that Jason would never want him to know where. Cass had moved out to Hong Kong after Bruce’s death, and hadn’t really stayed in touch with her family lately (not on lack of trying from Dick’s side, he might add). Tim had stormed off after Dick had taken up the cowl, refusing to believe Bruce’s untimely departure and was currently off in some Middle Eastern country trying to find clues, while Steph had since gone off to join her close friend in the pursuit.

He blamed the cowl. It was some sort of ancient curse, he just knew it. While, yes, he had in fact gotten into plenty of argumentsf and fights with his family over the years, never before had it been with every single one of them at once. Nor had it ever been when he was working as the Batman. So, the most logical cause was the cowl itself. Maybe that’s what being Batman was all about. Not the fear, or the paranoia, or even the admittedly awesome weapons and gadgets.

No, being Batman was about being alone.

But being Richie Wayne was all about looking good for the camera and charming the pants off of people, quite literally at times. And that’s what he was there to do, not to feel sorry for himself. Self-pity never did look good on him, and he was man enough to admit that maybe, just maybe, he cared a bit much for his image, at least concerning his social standing among the socialite peers he had been forced to mingle with.

“Richard?” a vaguely familiar voice called over the din of the charity gathering. “Richie!” the person called again once they confirmed it was him.

“Louis?” Dick smiled, turning to face the recognizable young man that was roughly his own age. “It’s been years since I last saw you, Lou!”

Louis in question let out a comfortable bark of laughter, taking Dick’s proffered hand and immediately pulling the raven-haired man into a quick friendly hug. “Jeez, it has been a while, man, hasn’t it?” he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your eighteenth party, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, when you spiked the punch and got the both of us in trouble,” Dick laughed openly, Louis soon joining in unabashedly.

“So how’ve you been, Dick?” the English white-collar boy wondered genuinely. “Heard your old man passed down the business to you while he’s off around the world. That must be a pretty rough change,” he offered sympathetically.

Louis Cathcart was the twenty-three year old son of Charles Cathcart, a leading business tycoon in Europe most well-known for his shipping company. Cathcart Industries had long been a good partner and ally with Wayne Enterprises, and Louis had been one of the few and far between friends of Dick’s that hadn’t been a complete and utter brat. In fact, for all the pleasantries and niceties of his life, Louis was a rather down to Earth guy that was easy to get along with, and was someone that Dick had oftentimes pulled pranks with at socialite parties.

Dick barely held back a wince at the mention of his ‘old man’, but managed to plaster a believable grin on his face before Louis noticed his hesitation. “Yeah,” he shrugged, casually placing his hands in his pants’ pockets. They clenched into fists, thankfully unseen by anyone. “He decided to go and ‘rediscover’ himself, or something like that,” Dick joked.

His only friend in the entire building laughed smoothly. “Mid-life crisis?” the Brit questioned with a knowing gleam in his verdant eyes.

“Don’t tell him that,” Dick whispered conspiratorially.

“Wouldn’t dare,” Louis agreed with faked somberness, before a smirk split his features. “My pops is going through the same thing,” he related reassuringly. “He’s trying to hand Cathcart Industries off to Junior.”

“Your older brother?”

“The one and only,” he rolled his eyes. “But Charlie is going to run the company into the ground,” Louis scoffed. “My ten-year-old sister would have better luck than him.”

“And you?” Dick wondered in honest curiosity.

Louis shrugged indifferently. “I’m not much one for business, but if dad came to his senses and realized that even I would be better than Charlie, well, I wouldn’t possibly argue,” he reasoned with his patented aloof seriousness. “You, on the other hand, I’m positive can handle WE perfectly fine.”

“Thanks, Lou. I could really use that,” he grinned in relief.

“Everybody’s trying to eat you up, aren’t they?” the brunette Englishman cocked an arching eyebrow.

“What else would they possibly do with their lives?” Dick remarked playfully.

His friend seemed to honestly consider the question. “Watch Jersey Shore?”

Both of them descended into laughter, until a waiter with a serving dish of champagne walked past, wearing a distinctly disdainful look upon his weathered face. Dick grabbed two high-end flutes filled with the amber liquid, handing one of them to the brunette beside him. They joking called off ‘cheers’ before sipping at the thankfully numbing drink. It was an unspoken agreement that they’d both need at least a buzz to survive the ‘Action for Africa’ charity.

“Richie Wayne,” a seductive voice interrupted the young men, causing both of them to look over at a curvaceous figure nearby. “We meet at last.”

Dick had to suppress a shiver at just how predatory the statement sounded. But the voluptuous woman seemed harmless enough, if not overly-flirty and showing just a bit too much skin. Her long blonde hair hung in carefully styled waves, cascading over her shoulders and framing her much-too-obvious cleavage. She was tall and leggy, and with her towering heels she ended up being just slightly taller than Dick (who was once more cursing his knack for being vertically challenged).

“Amelia Bennett,” ‘Richie’ immediately recognized the beautiful woman, sending her a flirtatious smile to go with his playboy image. “I’ve heard nothing but glowing praise about you,” he continued unashamedly, offering his hand to her palm up.

She delicately placed her hand on his, and he elegantly raised it to his lips to press a lingering kiss on her milky white skin. A girlish giggle and a light blush followed his gentlemanly acts, and Amelia eyed Dick with a distinctly dangerous glint in her deep brown irises.

He had to consciously remind himself that it was a different kind of dangerous. Amelia wasn’t going to chop off his head, or bite off any of his fingers, or any other sort of crazed, demented action that he’d expect from some Gotham psychopath. She simply had the hots for him, and was still yet incapable at concealing it very well. Dick vaguely wondered if that’s how Bruce ever felt.

Stop it, Grayson, he groaned to himself. Comparing yourself to him all the time is just going to leave you all emotional and crap. You don’t need that right now.

“My, my, Mr. Wayne,” Amelia commented appreciatively, “you look much more handsome in person.”

“Please,” Dick waved his hand casually. “Call me Dick. Mr. Wayne was my father.”

A commotion from the main stage of the fundraiser started up over the crowd, causing Dick and his two companions to turn towards the source. Dick offered his arm to Amelia, remembering Alfred’s earlier warning about manners, and led her and Louis to join the gathering crowd. Mr. Ellington, the sponsor and host of the ‘Action for Africa’ charity, was just about to give his big speech and give out thinly veiled thanks to everyone in attendance.

Such a typical occurrence that Dick didn’t even consider being suspicious.

At least, not until all the windows exploded and familiar black-clad figures dropped into the room. The effect was instantaneous. Screams erupted from the normally composed socialites and a stampede was already in the works. Heels and loafers alike went flying as everyone settled into panic and attempted to shove their way to safety. Knowing that he had to keep up his image, Dick hesitantly blended into the crowd and tried his best not to stumble and fall.

The ninja were wreaking havoc. They had instantly gone for Mr. Ellington, more than likely just for show than anything. After all, Dick reasoned, what would the League of Assassins possibly want with an unimportant business tycoon? Unless they were secretly planning something. Again.

Why couldn’t he ever catch a break?

“Master Richard!” an achingly familiar voice cried over the crowd.

Dick, having thankfully managed to get to the edge of the stampede, pinpointed whoever had spoken. He made quick work of reaching the only slightly frazzled butler, who was shielded in a conveniently placed side hallway. Alfred tossed an inconspicuous briefcase to his young charge, and Richie Wayne soon disappeared into the shadows.

He always hated changing in public, but the Batsuit was too heavy and bulky to effectively wear underneath any of his clothes (yet another change that he detested about the switch from Nightwing to Batman). It took longer than it ever had with his Nightwing suit, but he was still fully dressed within minutes and exiting the hallway to join the battle. All in all, the Batsuit weighed down on him oppressively, and he knew that he was going to be exhausted after dealing with the ninja assassins.

Honestly, how had Bruce ever dealt with all this?

Ten ninja. Two were occupied with Mr. Ellington. Five were on ‘crowd control’, efficiently terrorizing everyone. And three were headed in his direction, swords held expertly and aimed for him.

The first swing was always the easiest to dodge, and he smoothly rolled to the side, letting fly two batarangs. They hit their intended target, causing the trained assassin to drop her hold on the sword. It clattered to the ground, but not before the other two lunged for him. Ducking one blade and catching the other with the spikes on his gauntlet, he lashed out with one foot and swept the legs out from under one assassin to knock them aside, while simultaneously catching the other with a well-placed elbow to the nose.

Blood dripped from the assassin’s nose, and she was temporarily thrown off guard, but these were professionals. Dick needed to up the ante if he wanted to come out of this alive. He attacked before she could regain her bearings, kneeing her in the gut and smashing her head into the wall with a sickening crack. One down, nine to go.

The next advance was felt more than seen or heard, and Dick reacted accordingly. Backflipping to land behind the two assassins that had been about to attack, he leaped into the air and performed an aerial straddles, effectively knocking out two ninja with one stone. Well, they weren’t exactly knocked out, so Dick had to follow through with a joint-lock and a full shoulder throw to one, and a violent upwards hammerblow to the other. And that was two and three.

Still seven left.

This was not going well. Bruce would have already been done with at least five of them.

Focus, Grayson, you damn fool! You’ve got more important problems!

But his lapse in concentration screwed him over, and he found himself on the receiving end of a well-placed kick to the back of his head. He rolled with the impact, digging his heels into the ground to stop and straighten himself back up. They didn’t give him the chance to recover. Swords swung violently in his direction, one or two catching on his suit and tearing through past his flesh. Lashing out with a powerful right hook and sweep kick, he vaulted over his gathering opponents’ heads. His feet made contact with one of the black-clad figures, and he used them as a springboard to give him momentum that powered his next spin kick.

Four succumbed to the kick. Five followed shortly after.

Halfway done.

A steel-toed boot connected with his jaw. He might’ve heard a faint crack, although it was hard to tell with the adrenaline rushing through his veins. The two that had previously been harassing Mr. Ellington had abandoned him in favor of attacking Dick, leaving him to face off one against five. And the odds were not in his favor. If he wanted to survive, he’d have to divide and conquer. And get to more familiar turf.

Where else to go but up? Dick was very much an aerial fighter. So he quickly grappled onto the huge art display that spanned the height of three stories, knowing that the remaining assassins would follow him. It was becoming more and more apparent that the ninja were focused on him. And that he had been the intended target all along.

“This is flattering and all, but you guys really shouldn’t have visited,” he commented roughly, dodging a sword that had been thrown at him and retaliating with a spinning hook kick.

As always, the assassins stayed resolutely silent. More than anyone, their kind were the worst at not talking back to him. Brick walls were more entertaining.

Scratch that. Brick walls were not more entertaining, especially not when you were the one being thrown into one.

A sword slashed across his stomach, and he just barely managed to avoid another strike to his neck, leaping out of the way and clinging to the mobile that served as the centerpiece of the cavernous room. He kept his footing, only just, and landed a snap kick straight at an assailant’s temple. The kick itself just threw the ninja off balance, but the fall three stories down did the rest of the work for him. He didn’t give himself time to feel guilty, instead concentrating on the four remaining.

Four left. That was doable, even if he was bleeding a bit profusely then.

At least, he had thought it would be doable, until their collective efforts sent his head reeling and his vision darkening. A blade cut roughly into his arm, closely followed by a diagonal knee strike across his chest and a roundhouse to one of his eyes. The final blow was an open palm achingly shoved right into his solar plexus, which, although mightily protected by his suit’s armor, still managed to leave him breathless and light-headed.

His vision was quickly narrowing, even past the restricted view of the cowl. Thoughts became incoherent and garbled, as he lost his footing and tumbled from the art piece. He fumbled for his grapple, but his fingers were stiff and heavy and wouldn’t cooperate. There was nothing he could do, and now he was the plaything of the League of Assassins. If they decided to keep him alive.

Shit.