Part Two:
“I hope you’re not doing this on my behalf, Bruce,” Barbara Gordon said glumly, wheeling herself across the batcave.
She was only recently released from Gotham General after the doctors removed the bullet from her spine. Still, the sight of Bruce Wayne rummaging through her makeup collection, pursing his lips to paint them with glossy crimson, gave her the first smile she’d had since the Joker’s attack.
“Batgirl is a symbol for this city,” Bruce growled, studying his lipstick in a mirror. “One the criminal fraternity rightly fear. If they notice her missing from the streets, if they smell weakness, the innocent citizens will suffer for it. I can’t let that symbol die.”
He shifted his cowl forward to fix the long, auburn wig into place over his shaved scalp. Alfred tended to his body hair with a combined chemical epilation and wax, smearing his skin with caustic goo, layering him with paper strips and tearing them off to leave behind smooth skin. Bruce didn’t wince once, even as Alfred tackled his bikini zone.
It was Robin’s duty to manage Bruce's chest alteration. The Boy Wonder’s hands were steady as they guided the needle into Bruce’s chest, just below his nipple, and depressed the syringe, pumping in a bolus of flesh-mimicking silicone gel. Bruce’s chest distended, becoming a small mound that blossomed into a glorious orb. Robin repeated the process with the left pectoral, until it too resembled a womanly breast.
Robin noticed the right was now slightly smaller and topped it up with a dollop of silicone. Now the left was smaller. He repeated the process, altering between each tit, until Bruce hit him with a withering stare.
“Remember that I still need to fit in Barbara’s armor, Robin,” he reminded his young ward curtly.
Her armor was as she’d left it, and still held traces of her perfume. Bruce had been starving himself for days, using ascetic Tibetan meditation to erode his body fat and musculature, but Batgirl’s armor was still a tight fit. The leather and latex glided over his waxed skin, providing at least some support as it cupped and lifted his breasts. Accustomed to a codpiece, his mighty manhood was crushed against the flat, unyielding crotch, though he endured the pain masterfully.
A command to the suit’s computer interface made the armored plates constrict, as they were designed to do to apply pressure to stem bleeding wounds, though now they served to crush his figure into an hourglass. Bruce inhaled his last full breath of the night as his waist and diaphragm were forced in and upwards, his chest and hips flaring in comparison. The reduction in lung capacity had the effect of reducing his deep rumble to a breathy purr.
“Feels strange looking at myself,” Barbara said, staring up at Batgirl stretching her muscular limbs.
“I’ll keep the armor warm until you’re ready to wear it again,” Bruce said, sashaying towards Batgirl’s motorbike, swinging his silicone-plumped buttocks onto the leather seat. “You just rest, knowing the streets will be safe thanks to Batgirl.”