Hi. This is an experimental story. I'm just getting some practice in. If enough people are interested, I'll continue it. It took a lot of patience and a lot of time to do this one little bit, so try not to have high hopes for more.

Prelude--

The ballroom was filled with marble and granite. The light from the candle chandelier and six foot lamps scattered throughout gave the whole room a golden glow that left the room feeling like an enchanted dream. The green and blue of scattered paintings created a sense of liveliness and beauty. Above, a skylight looked up to a blank night sky. The lights of Gotham dimmed the stars themselves leaving shadows casting the city, but inside there was life.

The people of the room were of stark contrast to the liveliness of the room. The men all wore the same tuxedo and stood as still as they were bred to do. The women were dressed in elegant gowns that had to be held with one hand while walking. They stood in their little groups moving only to pivot their waists to look at the people around them. The only motion throughout the room is the white dressed waiters weaving through the crowd with trays at shoulder level holding salmon, pâté and caviar.

Not many people wanted to be there, but almost all wanted to be seen within the walls of the room. An invite only crowd mingled in the quaintest shallow conversation possible. Another fundraiser to feed the poor or cure someone… something in which no one really cared about except the ones receiving the proceeds. One person in particular had asked his butler to send the money and be done with it. The butler, however, commented on how his duties to appear in brighter clothing was being neglected and convinced the man to accept the invitation… for the children… or the poor… or sick--one of them.

This man was having a particularly draining conversation with a "good friend" that he couldn't quite remember ever meeting. "… and increase your investment three-fold within the fiscal year."

The man parroted, "Three fold within the fiscal year?" and proceeded to wish he was anywhere else right now.

The "friend" continued on, "Yes, the overhaul of the import alone will….." and the rest was noise until his timbre sounded like he was getting to a particular point.

The man's eyes wandered throughout the room. In the distant, he saw a particular social circle he desperately wished to be a member of, but was trapped in this particular conversation. They were easy to spot what with them being the only two lively and distinct people throughout the sea of the upper-class. A young man of his mid-twenties and a black man of his early fifties laughing like good friends from long ago.

The old man was the infamous Lucius Fox. He's been one of the best money makers that have ever entered the city limits of Gotham City, head organizer of most of Wayne Enterprises' subsidiaries and one of the oldest true friends of the man looking fondly from a distance. The young man was Dick Grayson; a man that was raised of poverty and privilege, love and loss and above all faith and loyalty. He was the ward of Bruce Wayne until time healed both of their wounds and became the legally adopted son of the richest man in Gotham.

The man was in some social death like grip with… What was his name, Todd? Finally, he was getting to a point. "So what do you think?"

"Of what?"

"The investment. The project could start from the deduction from this event."

"Deduction?"

"Yeah, charitable deduction. You can get most of your money back from this event."

"That kind of defeats the purpose of charity, doesn't it?

"Well, you get your money back so you can invest in other business ventures."

"Then why would I give the charities the money instead of having governments give them a grant… This seems a little confusing to me."

"It's simple you see--"

"Can I hold you on that thought? I really have to go see these pictures before I invest in them."

"What about--"

"You know what? Why don't you talk to Lucius Fox? He'll understand the stuff so much more… I've just, really got to go."

With that, the man was able to pull away from the conversation and be a good distance to catch his breath. Part of him wished he was beating up a clown at that moment. His thought was interrupted by a voice.

"Mr. Wayne… how good of you to come."

With that voice, he wouldhave settled for punching a ventriloquist with a Tommy gun.

The voice called out his name again and he finally recognized it as a woman's voice. He turned around to see a fairly beautiful woman.

His analytical mind took in her characteristics… a 5'7" woman with brunette hair. She wore a modest blue dress that showed a lack of elegance that littered the room though that most definitely wasn't a bad thing. That, added to the lack of expensive jewelry, led to the assumption that she wasn't born into money. It also showed her concerns concentrate more on working than networking. She was most obviously a member of the auction society.

"Forgive me, Miss?"

"Fanshaw. Cynthia Fanshaw."

"Have we met?"

"Oh no, I'm--"

"Oh, thank goodness," he sighed, "I was afraid I'd have to go through that whole dance around the subject of how I know you."

After a moment's pause, she shakes off a thought and says, "Well I don't think that's necessary."

"What a relief. Did you receive an invitation through Donald as well?"

"Donald Sizemore? No he--"

"He was very obsessive about this exhibit. He believes these pictures might actually rise in value."

"Well that's--"

"Personally, I just want something that'll look good."

Again she paused expecting him to continue his thought, but Mr. Wayne wanted to prolong the annoying pompous routine further. When she tried to get a word in, he interrupted.

"So how much are you planning on spending?"

With a cracked smile she finally saw an opening for a few words. "I'm the curator here."

"Oh," he faked surprise and continued, "You're not bidding, then?"

"No, it's slightly outside my price range."

After a slight pause, she smiled and said, "I'd have imagined the dress would have given it away."

He smiled back at her and replied, "With all due respect Miss. Fanshaw, I think you look rather enchanting this evening." In an awkward silence, Bruce said, "In all honesty, my butler dressed me for this event."

She laughed at that last comment, "Well, my compliments to the butler." After she said this, her eyes instantly went wide in embarrassment. She began figuring out which was worse, the fact she said it to such a handsome man or the thought that it was said to the billionaireproactively funding the event.

Bruce looked around the ballroom and then faced her again and with a comforting smile said, "I don't suppose you could give me any advice on some of these pieces."

She rolled her eyes behind closed eyes and agreed. Bruce looked back at his previous desired location to find Mr. Grayson looking back smiling. He raised his eyebrows toward the beautiful woman escorting Bruce and nodded. With considerable effort, Bruce forced his face to remain stoic and not smile back.

They both approached a large portrait filled with dark shadows of red and blue. "This painting is a self portrait of a German painter named Arthur Liest. People find the lack of balance shows instability in the artist. This is very evident in a lot of his other works. A concentration of bright colors in the corners with cascading shadows pointing outwards and engulfing the rest of the work."

"You said it was the artist who was instable?"

"Well, it's a common trend among artists," she laughed at her own joke only to look back at Mr. Wayne's confusion and stopped immediately. "Many people believe that artwork is an expression of the artist. Common trends in the artist's might show parts of his personality. In Mr. Liest, it's a case of large shadows and sparse areas of bright colors."

Of course, Bruce Wayne was a veteran of psychological interpretation, but sometimes, the proper face to wear is confusion. With this in mind, Bruce Wayne asked, "Does this mean that people like to pay for artists to say they're crazy?"

Cynthia cracked a smile and replied, "There are many reasons for someone to buy art, Mr. Wayne. Some people like to see an intensity of an emotion they feel, whether its despair or joy. In this case, someone's willing to pay two hundred thousand dollars for this painting of pain… most likely because the buyer wants everyone to think he either feels this emotion, or he feels because it's worth that much to someone else who does have that emotion and the buyer likes to see those around him with a face of envy." She chuckled at what she just said and glanced back at the painting.

"Honestly, I just like the painting." Cynthia eyes went wide immediately at this phrase. She couldn't even look at Mr. Wayne at this moment. "In fact I never really saw the shadows until you mentioned them. I actually bought it because this is a charity benefit and the asking price was two hundred thousand dollars."

Realizing that her mouth was agape, she quickly closed it saying, "I didn't mean anything by it… I just"

Mr. Wayne looked at her expectantly for a moment while she stammered for some coherent response. After a time, he decided to break the awkward silence.

"Perhaps we should move on to another piece. Preferably one, I haven't already purchased."

She closed her eyes and signed lightly. "Of course, Mr. Wayne."

They walked out of the room filled with paintings and entered one filled with room filled antiquities. There were a great varied pieces of art from granite statues of Greek descent to wooden antiques from colonial times. Mr. Wayne's attention was drawn to a small chest close to the entrance. It was two foot by three foot with thick varnish over a hickory oak. It was decorated with expensive jewels in the center of the top and a floral design carved in the side.

"I wouldn't look too intently at that particular item, Mr. Wayne."

"And why would you say that?"

Miss. Fanshaw took a moment to gather her thoughts and explained as professionally as was within her limits. "The box is said to be an artifact of the Samson Bros. collection. It was produced in 1764, slightly before the Revolutionary War. It heavily supported English rule and exported most of its designs the imperialist France and England. After the war, the company couldn't find buyers so they closed down. The Samson Bros. were excellent at fine crafting their craft and decorating these boxes with a wide variety of rare stones. They used pearls and emeralds to accent the box's lid and along the bottom rim."

Bruce looked back at Miss. Fanshaw. "I'm afraid; I don't quite understand. It would seem that a box of such rich history should have a high appreciation."

"Well, an object like this is highly sought after, and that's part of the problem. If you look on the back… this hinge was replaced. The left corner of the lid was completely replaced and reassembled with shoddy workmanship. It's quite possible; someone tried to steal it, and dropped it while running from one costumed vigilante or another. In all honesty, very little of the original box remains."

Brucetouched it lightlywith his hands. He'd admittedly noticed how the box was refurbished many times through the years, but he was curious as to why she was so forthcoming on the matter. After all, she was receiving funding for her museum through this event, why would she devalue something that, quite easily, could have been overlooked.

"You're not used to selling the pieces, are you Miss. Fanshaw."

"What do you mean?"

"I was just curious why you would point out this piece as something that I shouldn't look at. It just seems odd."

Upon hearing the question, her pulse raced. She began to flush a little across her cheek. "Well, I thought it was better to show that I'm not trying to sell you anything. Well, I mean… you know… I don't want you to think I'm dishonest or…. I'm sorry." She took a deep breath and continued. "Mr. Wayne, some of my colleagues see you as a prominent figure to be on good terms with. They're looking forward to future business, and asked that I… well… be honest with you."

She was, thankfully interrupted by a most curiously handsome stranger.

"Don't let him scare you, Miss. He's developed a terrible habit of rousing people."

They both turned to see Dick Grayson holding two flutes of champagne in his hands. He handed one filled with champagne to the young lady

"Oh, no. It wasn't like that… I mean."

"You're Cynthia Fanshaw. Am I correct?" She responded with a mere nod while rolling her eyes.

Dick Grayson leaned into her and whispered, "It's okay. Here, take this, and I'll just borrow him for one minute. I promise that he'll be more docile."

She smiled with the crystal in her hand, and whispered, "I'm sorry, I…"

"You've got nothing to apologize for. Take a few sips… breathe… you're doing fine."

Dick took two steps back, looked her with a reassuring nod and turned to Mr. Wayne. Dick handed him the other champagne glass. Dick smiled and led him around the room to a large staircase; they walked down the case to a small area devoid of prying ears. "I thought Alfred told you to let Bruce Wayne out for a stroll. You know, give Batman a rest."

Bruce's face almost changed instantly. It became a stoic stone with one course of thought. "Did you bring it?"

Dick Grayson rolled his eyes and shook his head. He then looked at him and nodded.

"Yeah, mine are hidden in the rafters. You know, when you called me up to invite me to this gala, I was hoping it was a sign of you finally learning to relax."

Bruceput the flute to his mouth and tilted the glass, keeping his mouth closed. The champagne lightly touched his lips and he took it away. "Penguin, Mad Hatter and King Tut are still unaccounted for."

"Penguin's running arms on that shipment in two weeks, and wouldn't risk exposing himself this close to the deal. He would only use artwork to launder his funds, Mad Hatter doesn't fit the profile and…. King Tut? Okay, you're just reaching at this point."

Bruce looked at Dick with an icy glare. "You know how it works. There are millions of dollars worth of artwork in here. It's a prime target for anyone. And if it's not attacked, then it's being protected by someone worse."

Dick scratched his temple and replied, "Or maybe we're actually doing something more than fighting crime and are successfully preventing it." Bruce looked away toward the sea of faces. Dick continued, "Look, we can follow the money afterwards easily. We're as prepared as we need to be for any direct problems. Try to relax."

"It never hurts to be prepared."

Dick chuckled at that and said, "Well, it might traumatize the stuttering femme fatale." He looked around to see Cynthia standing by a railing for stairwell. He smiled and nodded. She in turn looked away bottoming out the champagne and grabbing another one from a passing busboy.

"Just try to relax around her."

"How do you know her?"

Dick began to walk toward her with Bruce following his lead. "She's one of the curators who organized this event. Her niece is autistic, so her efforts with the ACF for this event are probably more emotional than professional. She's hoping to have a strong relationship with the Wayne Foundation."

Bruce stopped walking. Dick paused a moment and looked behind him. Dick asked, "What?" Bruce didn't respond. "I already researched the event and its main publicly known contributories. Again, you don't invite me to these things very often. I thought Ra's al Ghul was messing with us again."

Bruce almost smiled and continued walking. When they were within earshot of Cynthia, Bruce said, "And that's why Gradner is making up a portfolio."

Dick responded, "Makes sense, I'll definitely have to look into it right away." Dick nodded to her and continued, "…and we're back to where we started. I'll leave you with the lovely lady."

He took the lady by the hand, held it up and close to him, leaned into her and whispered, "Calm down. Remember, he's just a regular guy." He looked back to Bruce and nodded and continued his way back toward Lucius Fox.

"Who was that?"

Bruce looked her in the eyes and said, "That, was my and a guest. His name's Dick Grayson. He's my… well… he's my son." For some strange reason, that didn't sound right to Bruce at that moment. Brother?

He thought for a moment how much easier it is for him to think of their relationship as Batman and Robin or Batman and Nightwing than as Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson. Partners. Brothers. Heroes. It's so much easier to wear costumes.

Bruce noticed there was a slight confusion in her face, so he explained, "My adopted son. He kept his parent's surname out of respect of their memory."

Understanding breezed across her face, if only temporarily.

"You were telling me about this chest."

"Well, Mr. Wayne, frankly, there's not much else to tell. Again, it's been damaged thus devaluing it and the refurbishing was shoddy. Look at this." She held up the lid and pulled out a mini, plastic pointer. She pointed at the pearls along the borders.

"Do you see the discoloration of these stones and pearls… well the sizes are also altered slightly. They're not supposed to be so evenly aligned. The Samson Bros. had the center of the chest be the focal point and the descending sizes back around to the end. These seven pearls are all the same size and the stones were ground down to keep it even. Furthermore, the pearls themselves have been repaired."

Bruce paused for a moment. "They repaired the chest with chipped pearls?"

She shook her head, "Not chipped, bored. Do you see this faint little white dot here?" Bruce looked at the pearl. He could definitely notice a slight shade lighter discoloration. He nodded to her and she continued, "it appears on each of the pearls. They tried to hide it by leaving the restoration so close edge, but we're very thorough here."

"Why use flawed pearls to fix it?"

She smiled at him and said, "Who knows. Maybe they were lazy. Most likely, it's because they were sized in something. They were part of another structure or a piece of jewelry like a bracelet or a necklace."

The last word echoed in Mr. Wayne's mind. Necklace.

"Again this is all speculation."

Necklace.

"Mr. Wayne?"

"What? Oh. I apologize."

"Is something wrong?"

Bruce rubbed his fingers along the lid feeling the pearls beneath his hand. He thought to himself, "Too small. Too much of a coincidence. It's nothing."

"Mr. Wayne?"

"It's nothing." He's said aloud. Almost too loud. He quickly cleared his voice and repeated himself more professionally. "It's nothing." He smiled.

"Should we move onto something else?"

It's nothing.

"Of course."

The words kept repeating in his head, trying to convince himself. It's nothing.

"Right this way."

"I trust the evening was a success?" said the British voice of another of his most valued friends.

Bruce Wayne said nothing. It ended up being an uneventful event as Dick suggested. Nothing happened. And he kept telling himself nothing happened as he sat in his limousine.

"I'm surprised you didn't wish to stay longer. Master Grayson appeared to be enjoying himself with the company. Perhaps you could learn something from him?"

Bruce Wayne just sat and stared out the window, thinking. Thinking about nothing.

Alfred noticed that he was being ignored. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw the blank expression of Master Wayne. He decided to test the waters

"I regret to inform you sir, the mansion burned to the ground. Selena Kyle has just given birth to an albino child with a curiously large grin on his face and it appears the earth has been designated to be colonized by a species of vagrant thugs from some star system Master Grayson is familiar with, most likely because he has been intimate with several of the female of their species."

Bruce Wayne continued to stare out the window.

Alfred sighed, "I really hope this new lady friend isn't going to end up fighting you clad in spandex like the last four."

"I'm sorry. Did you say something Alfred?"

"Nothing, sir."

He rubbed the ridges of the ledge of the two foot by three foot chest sitting next to him as he thought about nothing.

To be continued...

Okay, this is another of my WTF stories. All suggestions and help are greatly appreciated. Thank you.