DC Oneshots Vol. 1

One Chance

Prompt:  Never had I seen someone look so lost in their own home before.

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Everyone knew that Bruce Wayne hadn't been out in years. He had been seen occasionally, but mostly remained locked up in his manor. No one knew what he did while he was in there, but if he left, it was all over the papers.

I set the newspaper I was skimming through beside me, realizing that I was no longer focusing on the words. Placing my hands on the armrests of my comfortable chair, I pushed myself to my feet, sighing as I moved to look out the window.

The sky in Gotham was never bright: instead being a muggy brown color when it wasn't pitch black outside.

My eyes raked over the skyline, observing the loud city from the comfort of my apartment. I wasn't foolish enough to call it 'safe'. No one in Gotham was ever safe. Not really. Crime lurked around every corner, under every piece of litter and between every dirty building.

Journalism was always a way to try to spread the news about the city: to send the word to every decent person in Gotham that it needs help. To my displeasure, no one ever did.

Bruce Wayne had been on my mind for as long as I had been a journalist. His parents had a large impact on Gotham before they had been found dead. I simply wondered why Bruce Wayne had done nothing to help the city like his parents had.

I was determined to find out.

Picking up my bag, I slung it over my shoulder, grabbing my keys from off my writing desk, and walked out the door. I was sure to lock it behind me. Stepping out onto the street, I climbed onto my motorcycle, heading for Wayne Manor. Too many times I had tried to catch Bruce Wayne out somewhere. I couldn't rely on that. I had to be direct.

Driving through the streets of Gotham always made my hair stand on end; as if someone was about to jump out of the shadows and attack me. The streets and muggy, dark atmosphere always felt suffocating.

I pulled up to Wayne Manor, taking the helmet off my head. Stepping off the motorcycle, I placed the helmet on the seat and grabbed my bag before I approached the door, pulling my brown hair out of its ponytail and rolling my hair-tie onto my wrist. I knocked on the door three times.

The sound echoed loudly before quieting again, taking the silence and amplifying it.

I readjusted my dress shirt, waiting for someone to answer the door. I didn't have to wait long.

An average sized, well-dressed, older gentleman opened the door. His gray facial hair was well-kept, and he looked surprised to see me. "Good evening, miss," he said, a curious tone to his voice.

I could pick out a faint British accent. "Hello. I'm Emily Miller." I extended my hand for him to shake.

He accepted the offer, smiling slightly in return. "The journalist?"

"Yes." Retracting my hand, I cut to the point. "I've come to speak with Bruce Wayne. I," I paused, "assume he's here."

The man smiled, but I could see a hint of sadness in it. "He's here right now." Opening the door wider, he stepped to the side. "Come in."

I smiled, muttering a quiet "thank you" as I walked in. Instantly, I was struck with how big and extravagant the inside was.

The ceiling was tall, far taller than seemed realistic or at all convenient. Everything seemed gothic and dramatic, having intricate designs everywhere.

I could only imagine how hard this was to clean.

"Follow me, miss." The man walked away, me shortly behind him.