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Ted can’t believe he actually took a bet where the loser had to tell the Knight he’d look better with a cape. Years of mercenary activity, and this’ll be what kills him, he thinks, steeling himself, unwilling to lose face in front of the guys. People who don’t respect you don’t have your back, and you’ll die anyway, stupid bet or not.
Ted’s never worked directly with the Knight, never seen his face like some of the higher up guys have. All of them say that’s he’s young, and scarred, and angry. Angry, and skilled, enough to take down rooms full of armed men without a thought. Maybe angry enough to blow a hole in Ted’s brain. He hopes his kid will understand; Johnny still doesn’t know where his Dad goes every couple months, and this job was supposed to give Ted enough money to retire so he’d never have to. Now he’ll never get to see him again, probably.
The Knight is off in his own corner, methodically disassembling and reassembling his guns, the panels on his helmet switching from screen to screen in a dizzying array. Will it be better or worse to be killed by a man with no face? Everyone in the room is watching him, he can feel their eyes on his back as he starts moving like a doomed man going to his execution.
He gets within five feet before the Knight looks up, tilting his head in a considering way. “What?” he asks, the voice coming through the filters deep and mechanical. Ted shuffles in place, looking anywhere but at that blank mask, regretting every shitty decision that led him here, he just had to be an adrenaline junky.
“Um…” he starts, clearing his throat when the words get stuck there before deciding fuck it, he might as well go full in. “So, me and the guys have been thinking.”
The Knight puts his gun together faster than anyone Ted’s ever seen, effortlessly, and slides it back into its holster. “And?” There’s always some anger in his tone, banked, but right now Ted can barely sense it, can still see the storm coming at him in a few seconds.
“And we think you might look better with a cape,” Ted blurts out, all in a rush, bracing himself for the inevitable blow. Gunshot, if he’s lucky. Beaten to death, if he’s not. Maybe the Knight will be kind and make it fast.
When he dares to open his eyes, grateful for the facemask they all wear, the Knight hasn’t moved, body language giving nothing away. After a moment he reaches for the catches on his helmet, sliding it off with a hiss, blinking at Ted with big blue eyes, and Jesus Christ the guys were not kidding about him being young. Ted feels a sudden, ridiculous surge of protectiveness, wondering how the hell a kid this young got into a job like this. He keeps his eyes away from the J scar on the Knight’s cheek, remembering warnings that he’s touchy about it.
When the Knight speaks again his voice isn’t the deep growl from the mask, higher and with a telltale Gotham accent. “Do I look like Batman to you?” he asks, and now there’s something dangerous in his voice, in the way his eyes examine Ted’s face. And of course, the Knight does, he looks just like the Bat and everyone knows it. The Bat is who they’re after.
“Um. No, sir.”
As quickly as a match sparked there’s humor in the Knight’s face, bitter, ugly humor, and Ted wonders again how old he is. Seventeen? Eighteen? Not old enough to have a look like that on his face. “Yeah, I do.” He puts the mask on, sliding back into the Knight persona like he never left, turning back to his computer and typing rapidly; Ted feels like he’s been granted a reprieve from a firing squad. “But no capes.”
It’s a clear enough dismissal that Ted nods and backs away, forcing himself not to run. When he gets back to his buddies they all clap him on the back, impressed, but all Ted can think about is how the man who’s leading them into battle isn’t much older than his son.