A couple days passed, and the Russians were yet to come after me. My bullet wound healed, and I carried on with life as usual. I'd gotten pretty lucky at work; I had a little office booth to myself in the corner of my floor. It allowed me to work in peace, but I also reminded me of how alone I was. It looked like a landfill site. Stacks of manilla folders and binders, Steve's notebook, a Marvin Gaye album, and a wall clock that told the wrong time.
I scrolled though pages and pages of java script, looking for any bugs in the system and updating the software and hardware. In my spare time I worked on recreating some of S.H.E.I.L.Ds security programs, cross referencing them with notes to make sure they weren't HYDRA while corresponding with Morgan Freeman from the Applied Sciences Division.
There was a soft knock at the entrance to my boot and I swung around in my spinny chair. It was a young man, mid-twenties maybe with shaggy dark hair and a lean build under his suit. He smiled with just a hint of mischief in it. "Hi. Dick Grayson."
"Jane Wallace," I said. "Step into my office General, what can I do fur you?"
Dick took the invitation and sat opposite me in the spare chair. "I'm having some trouble with my laptop..." He produced the computer and placed it on the deck in front of him. "...And Lucius told me that you were the guy to come and see."
The laptop was riddled with bullet holes. 40 S&W 9mm Luger Parabellum rounds by the looks of it. He must've picked it up on his night job. I looked Dick in the eyes and raised a brow. He had the decency to look abashed.
"I was at my coffee shop, and I spilt a latte on it."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"So did your latte happen to be holding a semi-automatic handgun?"
Dick scratched the back of his neck. "Look I'm trying to be nonchalant about this—"
"You can be chalant as you like," I said, cutting him off.
"My coffee shop is in a bad neighbourhood." He gave a tight-lipped smile. "If there is anything that you can salvage from it... I would really appreciate it."
"I can do that."
Luckily the bullets hadn't touched the computer's hard drive and I plugged it into mine. I then ran a keylogger program, a small piece of software that would backtrace every keystroke and sort out which files on the computer were used most often. I opened a file to blueprints, a timetable and a brief inventory, and saw it was in Cyrillic, the Russian script. The letters were like tunnels and gates. It had been a long time since I had read it.
Fifteen years give or take. Not since HYDRA and that other place.
Dick had dozed off while I'd been working, and I gave his shoulder a little shake. His head snapped up and he looked a little startled but shuffled his chair around to sit next to me.
"It looks like blueprints," I said.
"Do you know what of?"
I squinted at the Cyrillic. "Gotham Harbour. A shipment's going out in a couple days."
"You read Russian?" Dick asked, sounding a little surprised.
"Aye," I said. "So do you normally write felonies in Cyrillic?"
"Uh... what?"
I point at the screen. "This is a list of goods and people that are about to be trafficked to Russia."
"Did I mention I'm a cop," he said, and showed me his badge. "I was trying to keep it on the downlow."
"And you've done a wonderful job." I gave him a bit of a stink eye but nodded anyway as I download the files onto a stick. I handed it to him.
"Is your arm ok?" he asked out of the blue.
"What?"
"It's just looked a little stiff when you moved it, and I was just wondering."
"Well, uh... I got into fight the other night and a bullet grazed me." Dick raised his eyebrows. "Would've been a bit more than that if Batman had swooped in."
"You met Batman?"
"And Nightwing." I gave Dick a small smile. "He stitched up my arm."
"Sounds like a nice guy," he said, standing up and tucking the USB in his pocket.
"Be careful, ok?" Sure, I knew he ran around in bulletproof spandex, but I still worry. I knew the danger of the job and the toll it could take.
Dick spun on his heel and spread his arms. "I'm always careful."
[Bruce Wayne]
Bruce rubbed his temples, the lights hanging over him were too bright for his liking and the white were hard to look at. Twenty years of his night job had turned him into a nocturnal animal. And here he was, doing paperwork while he should be focusing on this new case. Blocks in Crime Alley were being sold, leaving the residents homeless, and there had been and heavy up take in trafficking.
Bruce wished he could say he was making a difference. But he didn't know. Murder. Robbery. Assault. Twenty years later, they're still up. This city was eating itself. Maybe it was beyond saving. But Bruce had to try. PUSH HIMSELF. The nights all roll together in the rush, behind the mask. Sometimes in the morning, he had to force himself to remember everything that happened.
He ignored this thought and pushed himself into an upright position, the sound of his office door opening sending his glaze in that direction. Bruce was met with a smile and a USB stick in his face.
"Hey B," Dick said. "I got that intel you were waiting on."
Bruce looked up, a little surprised. Which didn't happen often. "That was fast." It had only been half an hour, the laptop shot full of holes and heavily encrypted.
Dick nodded. "I know." Bruce noticed the way he pursed his lips, the way he did went he was thinking hard. He gave Bruce a meaningful look. "I think we should talk about that."
"About?"
"Jane Wallace Beaufort-Stuart," Dick said shortly. "The woman from the other night, the one who took a bullet without flinching. She's seriously overqualified for her job in I.T."
Bruce pursed his lips, the memory of the woman – Jane – momentarily flashed through his mind. She's known to brace his head when he smashed through the window. "Right, but what does—"
"Bruce, you're swamped. You've got that Expo coming up, you could use an assistant."
Bruce stopped, turning to look at his adopted son for any sign at he was joking, maybe had bribed him to play a prank on him. But there was no hint of humour. "Dick, I don't need to be telling another person about my—"
"That's not what I'm saying," Dick cut off his complaints. "If you're worried about your identity, Jane could cover this side of work while you run around dressed like a bat. And Alfred's getting old, she could help him with some of the house chores."
He wasn't oblivious, he knew how old Alfred was getting but it felt wrong to have someone come in as replacement of sorts. Still, Dick had made some fair points and the ability to leave an event in a time of need and have some cover for him would be a better plan then none. And it might be a good idea to keep a close eye on her. The way she had been so composed when anyone else would have been distraught, that took discipline.
"I'll think about it," he told Dick.
>>>><<<<
Bruce didn't believe in fate or magic, but sometimes he wished they did exist, because you have something to blame when things go wrong. For instance, when you are being swamped by a work load, a new gang trying to gain turf, and it's raining on top of everything else, most people might think that's just really bad luck; but when you spend the last twenty year fighting crime dress as a bat, you understand that some divine force is really trying to mess up you day.
The sky had turned to night, that suited Bruce fine, the temperature had dropped rapidly as the rain came in. You had three options in Gotham: hot, cold, or rain. A black wind was shrieking though the streets. Furious thunder boomed overhead. Lightening speared across the sky.
As he approached the doors, Bruce caught sight of someone standing just outside under the entrance to the building holding her hand into the rain. She was tall, attractive, built like an Amazon, she wore a black trench coat and a baseball cap on her head. Golden yellow braids came down either side of her shoulders. Despite her seeming relaxed pose, there was something about the way she herself that made him frown – something in the way she squared her shoulders that spoke of military level discipline.
Thought he could not see her face, Bruce was sure this was Jane Wallace Beaufort-Stuart. He pushed through the revolving doors and stepped outside. He stood next to her and cleared his throat. "Not a fan of the rain?"
Her lips twitched slightly into a barley there smile as she faced him. "Quite the opposite actually." Her accent was unlike any Bruce had heard. He thought it could've been Landed Gentry like Alfred's but a Scottish burr to it. Her eyes were a bright blue and gleamed slightly in the darkness.
He leaned forward slightly to offered her his hand. "My name is Bruce, Bruce Wayne."
She didn't give him the usual reaction of giggling or blushing, she simply reached out with her left hand before realising her mistake and swapping to her right. She had a firm, but not threatening grip, and made sure she didn't hold onto his fingers for too long, but he didn't miss the unnatural coolness of it through her gloves, or how solid it felt. "Jane Wallace Beaufort-Stuart," she said easily.
A sleek black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb, Bruce opened his umbrella and nodded towards the car. "Can I offer you a ride?"
Jane looked down the street then back to Bruce. "I have to pick up my neighbour, she doesn't like to walk alone, but thanks for the offer."
He hummed. "It's not safe for you to walk alone either," he said. "Alfred can drop you off at the diner."
Jane squinted at him for a moment like she was trying to figure out if he was messing with her or not. After a moment she nodded, and they stepped under the umbrella together. She stayed close as they walked to the car, but not close enough to touch him.
Bruce opened the door and climbed in after her.
[Indiana Stark]
Thunder boomed overhead as I climbed into the car and removed my cap. It was a comfort to know Thor was still looking out for me. If not in body, then in spirit. And I didn't mind the rain either, the longer I could chase the rain, the less likely it was that my appearance would draw unwanted attention. Mismatched layers and leather gloves would start to raise suspicions in the heat.
Though Bruce was probably already suspicious. Now I was in his car, sitting next to him. Bruce was built, he had a kind face, thought it was devoid of emotion. There were no wrinkles around his eyes, like me, he didn't smile much.
"And who might the lass be Master Bruce?" a voice asked from the front seat. It was old, British. Alfred Pennyworth. "A guest?"
I almost choked on my spit. I could see him in the review mirror. He wore a fresh pressed suit and a pair of white gloves, and practically radiated refinement. Alfred had grey streaked hair, a tweed moustache, and soft grey eyes. Permanent worry lines were creased across his forehead.
Bruce cleared his throat. "Alfred, this is Jane Wallace Beaufort-Stuart. I was hoping to discuss a job offer with her."
"A Wallace and a Stuart." Alfred shook his head. "Terribly sorry for the misunderstanding Lady Jane."
"It's alright Alfred, I'm thick-skinned. And just Jane is fine, I'm only a Lady on paper." Sometimes it still felt weird to introduce myself as Jane. Another name. Another place.
"I will compromise with Miss Jane. Beaufort and Stuart are both names of Scottish queens; I can't quite lower myself to just Jane." He smiled sincerely which I returned.
"Now, Jane..." Bruce said, "I am impressed that you were able to help Dick so quickly." He studied me. "What other jobs have you worked?"
I felt a bit panicked. I wasn't sure if he was testing me or not. Bruce had a face like a brick wall. Why is it that I stand out, no matter how hard I tried not to? I knew why. I had too much Stark in me. I had to think about what I had actually done between my assassin days and joining the Avengers.
"Uh... I graduated from high school at sixteen and went to MIT." I wasn't as good as Tony had been, but I was good enough. "I've worked a couple trades, but somehow I don't think that's what you're looking for." I don't think I'd ever worked before HYDRA abducted me, all I had was what I did after. And even then, I was always moving around, never staying in one place for more than two years. Until New York. "I worked as a Private Investigator for a law firm in Hell's Kitchen. Oh! And I do have a degree in law, too. So I have experience with paperwork."
"And you can understand Russian?"
"I can speak it but reading and writing is harder."
Bruce looked at me curiously. "Do you know any other languages?"
"Slovak, Czech, Polish, French, German and ASL, if that counts as speaking a language," I answered. "What exactly is this job?"
Bruce tilted his head. 'I'm impressed.' Though he said it quietly. "You have a capacity for languages. You know, I'm a little tied up with the workload at the moment. Would you like to work as my assistant?"
I realised the opportunity but also recognised the stress dealing with Tony that had put on Pepper. But I could mess with Bruce a little more like this. "I would like that."
I shook hands with Bruce and agreed on a meeting tomorrow to work out the finer details. Then Bruce gave me another look, a once over and his eyes landed on dog tags around my neck. My stomach churned.
"You didn't say you'd been in the military."
"I wasn't. They're Steve's."
"Steve?"
If you have someone you love and they die, do you stop saying you love them? Or are you always a partner, even when the other half of the equation is gone? "He is – was my fiancé. He was killed in action." We were going to get married, sooner or later. But never really got the chance, just went from one world-ending disaster to the next.
Gone. Killed.
The Avengers were gone. I thought it mercilessly, over and over again – was the first time I'd said it out loud – the Avengers had been killed. All of them. The soldier, warrior, assassin and spies, the science bros. They were all dead and there was nothing I could do.
Why had it been me? I'd thought it a hundred times since Ultron. Why had I survived? I wasn't the strongest Avenger (that was obviously Clint), I wasn't even a hero, and yet I was the one alive when so many others had died. I asked the question so often because I knew the answer. I hated facing it, as painful as it was. I'd survived because I had run. Steve had asked me to live and I had run away, and because of that I was alive whether I deserved to be or not.
Then something unexpected happened – Bruce placed his hand on my shoulder in silent understanding.
Meme of the day