Chapter Text
BLACKBIRD SYSTEM JOURNAL:
January 4, 1987. ??? Batman (added later for clarity —Wayne)
Hm. ‘New’ is misleading. I’m not new here, but I suppose I should introduce myself. I don’t have a name, but I’ve been keeping you safe, Bruce. Wayne? Both of you. The magician and the warrior both know me already. I have trained with them to be able to utilize their skills. I don’t often enter that castle of yours, but you may be able to find me in the bell tower. I can hear the echoes from all around in there. Be warned if you seek me out; my features may be startling if you’re expecting a human face.
I remember that night. I was there, with Wayne. He knows the night I mean.
Couldn’t tell you if it was him or me who first came up with this plan. To protect the people of Gotham from violence and corruption. To safeguard the children so none suffer as we have. The last years abroad, the training, the studying, will serve us well to these ends. I can fight. I can solve mysteries. I’m ready.
We’re ready.
2007. Gotham Shipyard. Near midnight.
He remembers when he was new at this, how easily his opponents could surprise him, how unpredictable criminals felt. Especially the more atypical ones. He’d studied criminal psychology, the socio-economic forces behind gangs, the profiles of serial killers, mafia dons. The debate between punishment and rehabilitation. At one point, it was theoretical to him and he was quickly taught by experience that some learning can’t be done with books.
Now? After almost twenty years on the job, there’s a sense of familiarity, even in the extraordinary.
People view Batman as territorial, refusing to allow vigilantes he doesn’t know or trust to operate within Gotham. There have been times he’s spent almost as much energy chasing vigilantes out as he’s spent actually fighting crime. He’s heard what they say. Arrogant. Solitary. Stubborn. And maybe he is all of those things, but those aren’t the reason he’s so particular about who works within his city.
Not understanding what you’re getting into, in any situation, can get you hurt. Not understanding Gotham gets people killed. Of equal importance, it causes excessive harm to the criminals, in particular the group who’ve come to be called the Rogues. A collection of people—and he must always remember that they are people—who each seem a case study of unique conditions, physically, mentally, or sociologically. Someone unfamiliar with Riddler’s compulsions may assume a riddle means he’s being uncooperative, when in that moment, it’s the only answer he’s able to give. No amount of physical force will give him the ability to answer questions directly and trying puts him through unnecessary pain.
There is nothing Batman abhors more than senseless violence, no matter which side of the law it comes from.
Tonight, Batman has one major priority: rescue a child and return him to his family safely. First obstacle: the kidnapper. Waylon Jones, given the moniker “Killer Croc” by the press and authorities. Second obstacle, because of the $10 million dollar ransom and the young Edward Lamont’s family, the FBI and the DEO are very insistent on being involved. The feds can’t be trusted, even if they’re competent (and they’re usually not when they come to Gotham), they don’t follow Batman’s code. They don’t understand—or care to understand—the Rogues. “Supervillains”, a word Batman detests.
Jones had, last Batman checked, absconded from Gotham and retired from crime. Why is he back? What does he need ten mill for? The questions circulate in the back of his mind as he breaks through the lock, entering the ship where the boy is being held. Jones is temporarily out, leaving only some hired guns. If Batman can get Edward out and to safety before Jones returns, the night will go that much more smoothly. One problem to solve at a time.
The four gunmen are familiar faces as well, easily seen through the night-vision the cowl provides him. Gotham has almost a perpetual rotation of men with guns and a desire to make quick cash. Some are born and bred Gothamites, some are from out of town, hearing about Gotham’s reputation and thinking they can handle a man in a bat costume.
He’d pity them for getting more than they bargained for, if they weren’t making their livings off the suffering of others.
A batarang to the hand disarms one, a grapple sends a cable snaking around the largest. He dazes the third with a swift kick to the head, then elbows the last in the ribs—turning a bruise from three nights ago into a fracture. Maybe this time, Hancock will stay out of the game for more than a couple nights.
Each of the four charge high rates for their services. The ransom would cover it and then some, but for someone more than capable of going toe-to-toe with Batman alone, he can’t help but wonder why Jones would need the gang. He’ll figure that out later.
The boy is curled up on the tile floor of makeshift cell, the door welded shut. Batman can see him shivering in the night air. So small, fragile, still in his private school uniform. Batman crouches to inspect the door for a moment, then straightens up.
His shadow falls over Edward and the little boy scrambles to his feet, eyes wide with fear as he looks up, unsure if this is a rescuer or another captor. “Back away from the door, close your eyes, and cover your ears,” Batman instructs, speaking quickly, but clearly. Once Edward is as far from the door as he can get, Batman uses thermite to free the door from the frame. He pulls it off and tosses it aside, stepping partway through the opening and holding out his hand. “Come with me, Edward.”
Tentatively, the boy takes the outstretched hand, tiny compared to Batman’s. “You’re Batman?”
“Yes.” He remembers another little boy like Edward, trembling in an alley, trying in vain to gather all the pearls that fell to the ground. There had once been fear in Bruce Wayne’s eyes when he saw images of Batman, like there’s fear in Edward’s eyes. That’s the downside to relying on fear for an advantage in a fight—it’s hard to scare hardened criminals without also scaring the innocent. He can’t dwell on that, though. Priorities.
Batman lifts Edward up, wrapping his cape around him to shield him from the still-hot metal of the door frame. The cape does little to stop Edward’s shivering. He doesn’t have the time to sooth him. Jones could be back any second now. He slips through the ship’s corridors to the service shaft, shooting a grapple up to the top of the ship to get back out on the deck. Not far to go now. He can pass Edward off to the FBI and then return to handle Jones. Get to the bottom of the real reason for the kidnapping.
Wind rushes by their ears. They squeeze the child protectively to their chest. This is exhilarating for them, as close to flying as they get, but hanging from one cable above the abyss is terrifying to most. They emerge through the porthole onto the deck, exhaling slowly.
“Look out—”
He sees the reflection in Edward’s glasses just in time to duck out of the way of a clawed hand. Claws—? Jones shouldn’t have claws. Batman pushes Edward away as he drops to the ground, getting a proper look at Waylon. What’s happened to him?
Jones had a unique skin condition, leading people to treat him like an animal, but he’s not an animal. Something has happened to him, something was done to him—
“You shouldn’t be here!” Jones hits Batman over the head with the briefcase of money. The feds didn’t buy Batman enough time to get the child to safety. Typical.
No time for talk. He plants a kick to Jones’ kneecap, but it’s like kicking a brick wall. He’s gotten stronger. His skin is harder. He quickly adjust strategy, using the force of the kick to push himself away, scooping the boy up again to get him further away from the danger. Batman gets to his feet and turns to face Jones again, getting between him and Edward again just in time to take another hit to chin, tasting blood in his mouth.
“Stay outta this! I need this!”
It doesn’t take the world’s greatest detective to have a guess what that means. If something’s been done to Jones, it’ll cost him to get it undone. He’s seen Kirk Langstrom in similar frantic states. “I can help—” The attempt at outreach is cut off by a punch to the jaw that feels like getting kicked by a horse.
Sometimes I wonder why you bother.
Batman rolls out of the way of the next punch, then delivers a kick to the side of his head. It’s hard enough to knock a couple teeth out, but Jones is barely even slowed. What has he been given—? But the Detective is right, in a sense. Now isn’t the time. He can see to Jones better once he’s contained, once there isn’t a child in danger.
Jones takes another swipe at him with his now-clawed hands. Batman jumps, leaping over his head, dropping a hypersonic disk to the nape of his neck. The buzzing dazes Jones for a moment and he stumbles. Batman gets him with another kick, knocking him into a large pipe. Knocked out. But he won’t be for long.
There’s a coil of chains nearby and Batman grabs them quickly, tying him down to the pipe, then exhaling, regulating his breathing. It does him no good to look like these things take effort.
The chains will have to hold Jones until the DEO takes him. Batman would rather be able to talk to Waylon now, but the top priority is still getting Edward to safely. The boy has gone from terrified to excited, letting out a triumphant cry as he realizes the action is over. “Be quiet,” Batman hisses, maybe a little harsher than necessary. A spotlight from a helicopter lights up from overhead and he instinctively readies himself for more fighting. Under his cape, he prepares a grapple to abscond as quickly as possible.
FBI and DEO agents start to surround him, some going to Edward, some approaching Batman. Their guns aren’t raised, but he doesn’t appreciate their presence. The lead agent turns to Batman. “Not how we would have handled it, but good job getting the kid to safety. Where’s the money, then we can all call this a night.”
Batman narrows his eyes, then switches his cowl to heat vision. An all-too-familiar figure swings from one building to another, quickly fleeing from the shipyard. Without saying a word to the FBI agents, he shoots his grapple and pursues.
This is a chase he’s done many times before. A strange sort of routine he’s developed. Some of the Rogues are painful, brutal to deal with, a constant erosion on his mind, body, and soul. But some, he can barely find it in himself to dislike their crimes. Catwoman and Riddler make up that category. Sportsmanlike. Neither go out of their way to endanger civilians, usually, neither are interested in being especially sadistic. And even Selina’s high profile thefts, Batman can’t really bring himself to waste precious energy being angry about. When stealing from the hyper-wealthy and corporations, even millions in cash is barely a dent.
Batman doesn’t like to mix business and pleasure, but closing a night with leaping through the rooftops and maybe a pleasant conversation if Selina is feeling sociable isn’t the worst way to wind down.
Still, he plays his part. Can’t risk it being known that he has fun. “Catwoman!” His shout echoes through the dark alleys beneath them.
Selina glances back with a smirk before picking up the pace. “Almost thought you missed me,” she says, flipping through the air before tossing her rope out and swinging away.
“Not this time.” He keeps up with her, not quite gaining on her. She’s faster than he is, but he has more endurance. If she manages to get out of his line of sight, she usually gets away, but if he can keep eyes on her, he can outlast her.
They both know it. It’s a dance they’ve done for years. A dance they both privately enjoy.
He wonders as he runs and leaps off the edge of a roof if she’s getting his attention on purpose. She had to know he’d be in the area when she decided to steal the ransom money from Jones. Either that, or she was hired for this. In-fighting has done as much to keep the Rogues from gaining any lasting power in Gotham as Batman himself has. He’ll find out soon enough, he’s sure. Selina’s too professional to give him the name of her employee, if she has one, but asking the right questions will give him a trail to follow.
Some things in Gotham never change and he counts on those precious pieces of stability. He doesn’t have to look where he throws his grapples, he knows where the buildings are. He knows the alleys and the rooftops better than he knows the nooks and crannies of his own house. He knows Selina’s moves, admires her skills, delights in her confidence.
He’s swinging upwards to make a grab for her as she flashes a grin back at him. “Enjoying the view?”
And then—
Like a kite that just had its string cut, he’s falling.
Wind rushes past their ears.
Focus.
He spreads the cape out to try to slow his descent. The cable shouldn’t break. What cut it?
Selina’s landed on the roof and disappeared from view. Probably hasn’t even noticed she lost him yet. She was barely trying to lose him.
He catches a gargoyle, but hits it too hard, too fast. He stifles the cry of pain, feeling hot fire shoot through his shoulder, bones and sinew tearing out of place. The gargoyle crumbles and he’s falling again, barely slowed by the brief pause.
Wind rushes past their ears and they desperately try to gain control of the fall. They’ve fallen before. They always get back up. But their right arm won’t move. No, no no… not again— Flashes of something half-remembered tug at their mind. They force their body to relax, hit the alert button on their belt. They don’t have enough time to stop themself from hitting the ground, but help will be on the way soon.
They tuck their head in, but not enough before slamming against the concrete. A silhouetted face peeks over the edge of the building, then the feline form disappears again and they fade from awareness.
“Beautiful night for a chase, isn’t it, Batman?” Selina looks back again, but he’s not there. She hears a faint shout below her and turns back, looking over the edge of the rooftop. “Batman…?”
Something is wrong. He’s fallen. She can make out blood around his body on a pile of broken crates. She silently wills him to get up, but he doesn’t move. He’s fallen before. His people will be coming to collect him soon. He’ll be okay. She has to believe that and move on.
And she has somewhere else to be tonight.
It’s not long before she gets to Ivy’s base—some apartment she’s taken over for the time being—entering via the balcony. Ivy lounges in an over-sized sweater, reading out-loud from a botany journal to some of her potted plants, making occasional critiques about the research methods or findings. She looks up when she hears someone at the window and nods in acknowledgment. “Any problems?”
Selina shrugs. “Not really. Batman tried to make some, but he… couldn’t keep up.”
Ivy tilts her head. “You sound upset.”
“Maybe. Does it matter?” She sets the briefcase on the table and pops it open, taking her cut. “I did the job. We done here?”
Ivy nods. “You are.”
Selina turns to go, then stops, turning back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ivy waves her hand dismissively, going back to her reading.
“And what happened to Croc? He looked… different.”
“Don’t trouble yourself over him,” Ivy says. “As I said, you’re done here.”
It’s pointless to argue the point with Ivy. Compassion is a foreign concept to her now and Selina isn’t going to embarrass herself trying to explain it. She shakes her head, leaving the way she came, but something doesn’t sit right about this. Why did Batman fall like that? What was the point in hiring her to lift money off of Croc? And what did Ivy know that she didn’t?