God, that's a lot of people...

Well, of course that's a lot of people, Bruce, it's the Wayne Gala, Gotham's most anticipated vanity fair and Batman's most dreaded night. Because he can't be Batman tonight, no, gotta wear the tux, sip the kiddy champagne and pretend it's Prosecco, talk to the elites...

"Hm." Bruce grunts, hiding behind his flute. Kiddy champagne dammit.

But oh, how oblivious is the crowd, they're all happy to just be eating out of the Waynes' pocket. The man of the house, looking slick and crisp, like a Hollywood's star, puts on his 'Brucie' mask immediately. Gotta go talk, everyone is here: the Mayor, the Chief of Police, every half-assed corrupted dirtbag from the City Hall... journalists.

"Bruce!"

"Ah, there he is, the man of the hour!"

"Bruce, come here!"

That and much more he'll be hearing all evening. But Batman wouldn't be Batman, if he wasn't adaptive. Bruce boy slips into the conversation and very persuadingly pretends that it's actually interesting.

On the other side of the Main Hall, Dick is forced to drag Jason out of a 'heated' conversation with the chairman of the City Hall. Unlike Bruce, Jason doesn't have a No-Drink rule—same as he doesn't have a No-Kill rule too—and Bruce seems to feel that through the air, in a spike of migraine. Dick successfully throws a dozen 'sorry', hauling his grumbling, champ-gulping brother off to the side.

Tim is on the third floor of the atrium, overlooking the crowd below, mostly just staring into his phone. Of course, though, he is regularly pestered by everyone passing by. Sole proprietor of Drake Industries just stuck in his phone—one older socialite even threw the classic 'kids these days', to which Tim just flipped him off.

Steph is in a stupid-ass drinking contest, actually Jason dared her earlier this evening. Duke is trying his honest best to try and talk her out of grabbing another glass. Cass is looking as lost as a kitten in a dumpster—too much happening, too much to focus on. Thankfully, Alfred passes by, gives her a grape juice box and snatches the flute from Ms Brown.

Alfred trails off, literally, doing the rounds. Cass is following Alfred now.

Bruce is deep into the most boring, unenthusiastic conversation of the year, but still flashing that billion dollar smile and chuckling at every unfunny joke. Then, though, his blue eyes snap to—oh my fucking God, Damian looks ready to stab somebody with an ice pick. Not even kiddy champagne can hide the micro-twitch of Bruce Wayne's eye. "Excuse me." He apologizes and immediately leaves the conversation to go save his son, and the potential victims of his son.

Barbara is observing everything from the corner, her father stands over her, itching to smoke.

"... Babs, pumpkin, what are we doing here?" Commissioner Gordon sighs, exasperated already, watching Dick Grayson pull Jason Todd away from punching the chairman in the jaw. Hey not that he says he shouldn't, just not NOW.

"Socializing, dad." Barbara shrugs her shoulders. It is the one damn opportunity a year to wear a fancy dress—Bruce paid for it—she's going to damn use it! Even if it's just sitting in a wheelchair and watching for collateral, with champagne.

"Great. Socializing..." Jim mutters. He has to watch over his handicapped daughter, billionaire-playboy-idiot Brucie Wayne, a swarm of socialites and politicians and his drink. This evening sucks. "Wanna go raid Wayne's snack bar at least?"

"YES." Very determined 'yes'.

This will be dragging on all night... Or close to all night, anyway, welcome to hell for the pretentious pricks and lying billionaires!