A Gotham glowed at the center of the Batcave.
The city model had originally stood in the Wayne Enterprises exhibition hall, used to show directors, reporters, and the municipal committee the construction plans for the next ten years. Later, Bruce had the main model moved back to the Manor, leaving only a scaled-down version for public tours.
The public version handled the pretty words.
The one underground handled the truth.
Wayne Tower, Gotham Commercial Bank, Arkham's east gate, the Iceberg Lounge, St. Joseph's Church, the Old Town Community Center, and Harry Osborn's Circus's temporary camp were all pinned to the model. Small lights of different colors lit up along the blocks: blue for Wayne shelters, white for medical vehicle routes, and yellow for the Iceberg Lounge's delivery routes.
A handwritten annotation had been added beside St. Joseph's Church. Clearly, the model's owner paid particular attention to certain matters concerning that location.
Bruce stood beside the model, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his tie long since pulled off and tossed beside the console.
He held a new white marker between his fingers, ready to place it at the temporary hospital in the South End.
The marker stopped in midair.
The letter was still open on the right side of the screen.
Bruce Wayne.
The Court of Owls sentences you to death.
Bruce Wayne generally paid little mind to villains who went out of their way to challenge him to a fight.
Alfred set a cup of coffee on the edge of the model without pushing it any farther. The surfaces in the Batcave were now covered with photographs, reports, old blueprints, and opened envelopes. Half an inch farther, and the coffee would get a chance to participate in Gotham's urban planning.
"The seventh shipment of blankets has gone out."