Chapter Text
The last time Dick set foot into the Polias Club, he had still been filling Bruce’s role as Batman in Gotham while the man was off being the Batman of the world. Before that, his trips to the establishment were few and always made with Bruce by his side, either for Wayne Enterprise business or to keep up their Brucie and Richie appearances.
The thing about places like this is that they never change. The aristocracy prefers the comfort that comes with the familiar, so the club Dick walks into today looks exactly like the club he walked into at the age of eleven. He would be surprised if it looks very different from the first time Bruce had walked in with his parents.
He’s not a member, loathing the exclusivity requirements that close off the club from most of Gotham. It’s not even in Gotham proper. Instead, the lavish club is set on the very northwestern border of the city. Dick has heard that a few satellite clubs are located within the city in secret locations that even Bruce has never been to.
Even if he could afford the membership — he cannot — and wanted to become a member — he does not — Dick has no doubt that his application for admittance would be denied. Gotham’s elites have never made it a secret that they find him a novelty at best and a scheming parasite at worst. If by some incredible circumstance, he were to be accepted, it would only be due to his continued proximity to Bruce.
The attendant, Gabriel Le Begue, scrutinizes his identification, despite having met Dick over the years. He waits patiently, as always, for whatever appropriate amount of time the man has deemed necessary for his credentials to pass muster.
“I will escort you to your destination,” Le Begue says at last, handing him back his ID. “It is always a pleasure to have Mr. Wayne’s former ward visit our club. I do hope you remember the proper decorum?”
“Have there been any sweeping changes in the last two years?” he asks. “Have you extended membership to women now?”
Dick knows they have not. The Polias Club remains a men’s only club. Le Begue confirms it with a disgusted scoff.
“Certainly not.”
He’s led across the main lounge to the smoking room. Le Begue opens the door, letting the low din escape the room. Two dedicated waiters are bustling between the members, one bringing cigars and cigarettes as requested while the other fulfills the drink orders.
At the far end of the room, the reason for his visit sits in a burgundy chair scrolling through his phone with one hand and holding a cigar in his other. Le Begue leaves only after Dick is delivered to the club member, who waves Le Begue away with a dismissive wave. The man goes back to his phone, no longer scrolling but aggressively punching at the screen with his fingers.
Dick settles into the empty chair. The waiters approach to take his order. He waves the offered selection of cigars away but orders a moderately expensive cognac to Bruce’s tab. It’ll go to waste, which he feels a twinge of guilt over but only because the cost of the glass is more than what many people make in a week. It’s only when Dick has his drink in hand that the man finishes firing off whatever nasty message he was working on and acknowledges him.
Blake Filligan is the fifty-four year old CEO of Dar-Fill Inc., a biotechnology company looking to partner with Wayne Enterprise on their newest project. At eleven years old, the age Dick had been when he first met him, Blake Filligan had seemed pompous, arrogant, and slightly cruel. Thirteen years later, he stands by that assessment.
The displeased scowl that crossed Fillgan’s face upon seeing Dick may be gone but Dick can see it just as clearly in the way the man adjusts himself in his seat, the tension he holds in his shoulders, the too tight pinch of his cigar, and the sharp smile that took its place.
“It’s been quite a while since you and I have crossed paths, Mr. Grayson,” Filligan says with forced joviality before chuckling, “I’m surprised Brucie still allows his former ward to handle such…delicate business negotiations.”
Ah, starting off strong then. As though Dick had never stepped in for Bruce in the past. As though Dick has never handled delicate business negotiations for Wayne Enterprises.
“I do wish Bruce had come himself,” Filligan adds with a sigh.
Usually he would be in agreement. Filligan is poor company and being in the club makes his skin crawl but Bruce had asked him to fill in as a favor. Doing Bruce favors isn’t exactly at the top of Dick’s list, but falling back into some sort of semblance of normalcy after his time away is. It’s taking longer than Dick would like, but that’s often the case when he’s the one making the bulk of the effort.
“While I’m sympathetic to your disappointment,” he tells Filligan, “it’s simply not possible for Bruce to get away today. He’s an incredibly busy man.”
Filligan’s face twists like he had sucked on something sour, clearly hearing the unsaid ‘too busy for you’ in Dick’s statement. Just as he intended.
“But,” he continues, “Bruce has trusted me over the years with his most delicate business. This is nothing I haven’t done before.”
Filligan settles back further into his seat after exchanging his phone for his drink from the nearby table. “Of course,” the man concedes. “I had hoped to meet with Bruce as a tribute to our shared history with Gotham. It was to act as more of a gentleman’s agreement between us before the attorneys descend.”
Dick was right. The man is still pompous and arrogant.
“I’m not here to negotiate,” Dick states bluntly. “I’m here to inform you that Wayne Enterprises will not be partnering with Dar-Fill on this or any foreseeable venture.”
Filligan goes still, the amber liquid sloshing up the side of his glass. His top lip lifts in a snarl, but Dick continues speaking, cutting off the man’s response.
“You see, Bruce is quite fond of the ‘Dar’ half of the Dar-Fill company. So when he heard about the not so amicable separation between you and Vicente Darias, he was quite upset…even more so when Vicente died under mysterious conditions. He decided to look into the matter with a bit more scrutiny.”
That’s putting it mildly. Vicente had made a quick friend of Bruce Wayne - not to be confused with Brucie Wayne - when he first moved to Gotham. The man is a rarity on the Gotham business scene, conducting his activities with kindness and honesty. After his death, Bruce had conducted an investigation on the level of Batman, and what he had found was a disturbing trail of corruption leading to Filligan. Bruce had discovered that Vicente had also become aware of his business partner’s activities and, as Bruce’s investigation had concluded, was about to go to the authorities.
Filligan’s pallor goes gray, clearly caught off-guard by Bruce’s decision. Whether or not he’s deduced that his troubles will be extending beyond a failed business deal, Dick doesn’t know.
Dick lowers his voice, “Bruce would have never partnered with you, Blake. With Mr. Darias still alive…perhaps. But now? Not a chance. And with legal issues in your future, you can see how Wayne Enterprises needs to keep itself unconnected to Dar-Fill.”
He sets his drink down, untouched, and stands. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Filligan.”
Outside the club, he taps out a text to Bruce, telling him his message has been delivered. Dick tips the valet upon delivery of his car, likely the most unimpressive vehicle she has parked during all of her employment, and starts his trek back to Bludhaven.
Skirting the borders of Gotham, he fights with his stereo which refuses to connect to his phone, forcing him to scan fading radio stations. Five minutes later, a wave of dizziness hits him. It’s a familiar feeling, one that puts him into action immediately, before action is no longer an option.
He takes his foot from the accelerator, letting the car drift over to the shoulder. He fumbles with his phone, pressing the power button in rapid succession with the distress code, then reaches under the steering column to trigger his backup distress beacon. He presses the beacon trigger once, then twice. It’s designed to be silent, but there’s a slight click that can be felt when the button is depressed. Dick feels nothing.
With his numb hands, the door is nearly beyond his ability to operate, but it finally opens. Relieved, Dick shifts his weight to the door. Traffic is light, but he should be able to flag someone down for help.
“Let me help you there, friend,” a voice says from the open door. Dick tries to move, to focus on the voice’s owner, to tell them that he’s been drugged and needs help. He doesn’t get an opportunity to do any of those things. There’s a sharp pinch at his neck and then nothing.