The Batcave was silent, save for the rhythmic dripping of condensation from the stalactites and the harsh scrubbing sound of a stiff-bristle brush against Kevlar.
Bruce had been scrubbing his gloves for forty minutes.
He was still wearing the suit, minus the cowl. His hair was matted with sweat. His eyes were red-rimmed, staring at the black knuckles of his gauntlets. There was no blood on them. There was no chemical residue. They were perfectly clean.
But he wouldn't stop scrubbing.
"Out, damned spot," I whispered to myself from the shadows, quoting Macbeth.
I stepped into the light, carrying a silver tray with a single crystal tumbler and a decanter of amber liquid.
"Young Master," I said firmly. "If you scrub any harder, you will compromise the structural integrity of the weave. Those gloves cost ten thousand dollars a pair."
Bruce didn't look up. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
"I could have reached him," Bruce muttered. His voice was hollow. "I hesitated. Just for a second. I hesitated because I was disgusted by what he was doing. And because of that second... a man is dead."
"We do not know he is dead," I reminded him, placing the tray on the medical table.
"He fell into a vat of unrefined acid, Sebastian! Nobody survives that!" Bruce threw the brush across the room. It clattered loudly against the stone floor. "I'm supposed to save people. Even the scum. If I start letting them die, I'm just... I'm just another killer with a mask."
He slumped against the table, burying his face in his hands.
I looked at him. A human butler—like the late Mr. Pennyworth—would have offered a hug. He would have offered platitudes about how "he did his best."
But I am not Alfred. I am a demon. And demons know that guilt is a useless emotion unless it is weaponized.
I walked over to Bruce and grabbed him by the back of his tactical collar. With one hand, I hauled him upright and spun him around to face the mirror.
"Look at yourself," I commanded. My voice wasn't kind. It was cold steel.
Bruce blinked, surprised by the aggression.
"You are not a god, Bruce Wayne," I hissed, my eyes glowing faintly. "You are a man in a fancy suit. You cannot control gravity. You cannot control the choices of others. That criminal chose to climb the railing. He chose to step backward."
"But I—"
"Silence!" I tightened my grip. "You want to wallow in self-pity? You want to cry because the world is cruel? Then take off the mask. Go back upstairs, buy a yacht, and pretend the darkness doesn't exist. Let the Falcones and the Cobblepots burn this city to ash."
I let him go, shoving him slightly.
"But if you want to be the Batman... then you must accept a hard truth. You will fail. People will die. The question is not 'how do I save everyone?' The question is 'who do I save next?'"
Bruce stared at his reflection. He looked angry. Not at me, but at the truth of it.
"I can't let it happen again," he whispered.
"Then train harder," I said, smoothing my own lapels. "Be faster. Be smarter. But do not waste my time with this brooding. It is unbecoming of a Wayne."
I picked up the crystal tumbler.
"Now. Drink."
Bruce looked at the glass. "Alcohol? You know I don't drink. It dulls the senses."
"It is not whiskey," I rolled my eyes. "It is a ginger, turmeric, and honey reduction. It will settle your stomach and reduce the inflammation in your shoulder from where you slammed into the railing. Drink it."
Bruce took the glass. He took a sip. He grimaced, but the color started to return to his cheeks.
"You're a jerk, Sebastian," Bruce said, but the despair was gone, replaced by exhaustion.
"I am a butler, sir. Sometimes, the two are indistinguishable."
Meow.
We both looked down.
Sir Pounce, the calico kitten, had wandered down the stairs. He trotted over to Bruce's combat boots and began aggressively head-butting his shin guard.
Bruce looked down. For the first time all night, his face softened.
"He wants food," Bruce said.
"He wants your food," I corrected. "He has developed a taste for that expensive sashimi you import."
Bruce bent down and picked up the cat. The tiny creature purred like a diesel engine against the armor plating.
"He fell," Bruce said again, but softly this time. "The Red Hood. When he fell... he was laughing. Did you hear that?"
I paused. I had heard it. A gurgling, manic sound.
"Hysteria," I lied smoothly. "The mind snaps under stress."
"Yeah," Bruce stroked the cat. "I guess."
I checked my pocket watch. "It is 4:00 AM. You have a board meeting at 9:00. Go to bed, Young Master. I will finish cleaning the equipment."
Bruce nodded. He set the cat down and walked toward the elevator.
"Sebastian?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"Get some sleep, sir."
I watched the elevator doors close.
As soon as he was gone, I turned back to the medical table. I picked up the scrub brush Bruce had thrown.
"He was laughing," I whispered to the empty cave.
I allowed myself a small, terrifying smile.
"And what a joke it must have been."
I could feel it in the air. The chemical residue on Bruce's suit hadn't just been acid. It smelled of change. The balance of Gotham had shifted tonight. Order had tried to save Chaos, and Chaos had slipped through its fingers.
"Well," I said, turning off the main lights, leaving the cave in darkness. "I suppose I should prepare the guest room. I have a feeling we will be hosting madness very soon."
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