Wayne of Gotham Read Online Free Page A

the occasional roadblocks set to catch him.
    Bruce walked slowly to the test bench. It was set on the walkway that partially surrounded the turntable on which the car now rested. He set down his cowl, leaned against the bench, and took in several deep, painful breaths. He looked down into the glossy surface, his reflection staring back at him.
    I was young once … or was I? I don’t remember being young. The face is still strong but there are more lines in it than I remember. Dusk to dawn, fall to spring … Did the wheel of the years turn and I never noticed? There are no seasons in this cavern tomb where my soul resides. Does Gotham exist in an eternal rain-soaked night, or do I only see it that way ?
    Bruce turned around, leaning back against the bench. The Batmobile was resting in the center of the turntable. The original entrance to the cavern was flanked now by six dark tunnels—four black maws on the left and two more on the right—that led away down into the forgotten veins beneath Gotham. Older models of his vehicles had once exited through the waterfall beyond the natural access, careening through the night-shrouded woods and onto the back roads of Bristol Township, with the forbidding silhouette of the city just beyond the riverbanks, calling him back toward Crime Alley. Calling him on to the chase once more. He used to relish driving through the cleansing water of the falls—a ritual baptism that sanctified his quest.
    Time changes everything. Time changes nothing.
    Bruce listened to the falling of the water echoing toward him down the cavern’s natural exit. The gentle green of the surrounding forest on his estate lay beyond. It was a different world.
    The tunnels are better than the water. Not perfect … but better.
    â€œMaster Bruce!”
    The irritatingly familiar voice echoed down through the industrial platforms, suspension rods, and turnbuckles throughout the cave. Bruce closed his eyes, considering for a moment whether he would simply not answer, but thought better of it.
    â€œOn the vehicle platform, Alfred,” he called back. The noise of his former butler’s clattering hard-soled shoes on the metal platform grating sounded like the jabbing of an ice pick. “This version of the TS8 performed well tonight.”
    â€œIt should, considering what the components cost,” came the echoing reply. “Mr. Fox wanted me to mention that there may have been some cost overruns—”
    â€œDon’t sweat the ledger, Alfred,” Bruce chuckled. “It’s not in your job description.”
    â€œMy job description, as you put it, has always been a bit nebulous,” Alfred responded, stepping lightly from the metal staircase on the far side of the vehicle turntable. He was a tall, slender man with an anachronistic thin mustache and a mane of white hair combed straight back. Alfred Pennyworth moved in his exquisitely tailored Collezioni charcoal pinstripe suit with an agile confidence that belied his years. He spoke with an upper-crust British accent that had a hint of London about it despite the fact he had been largely raised on the Wayne Estate and only visited London occasionally. His father, Jarvis Pennyworth, had been the family retainer, as such men were so quaintly called during the time of Bruce’s grandfather. The accent, it seemed, came with the family business. To Bruce, the Pennyworths had simply come with the house, like the grounds or the furniture. They had always been there, although to Bruce, Alfred had become the only breathing link to his own past … the only family that he knew.
    Family relationships can be complicated.
    â€œWhat is it, Alfred?” Bruce sighed. “Why are you bothering me?”
    â€œThere are matters that require your attention, Master Bruce, and I had hoped …”
    â€œDon’t call me that,” Bruce snapped.
    â€œBut, sir, I’ve always …”
    â€œJust how the