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Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

“Had I interfered in the manner which I admit, and which I admit has been fairly proved (for I admire the truthfulness and candor of the greater portion of the witnesses who have testified in this case)–had I so interfered in behalf of the rich, the powerful, the intelligent, the so-called great, or in behalf of any of their friends–either father, mother, brother, sister, wife, or children, or any of that class–and suffered and sacrificed what I have in this interference, it would have been all right; and every man in this court would have deemed it an act worthy of reward rather than punishment.”

JOHN BROWN, ABOLITIONIST; AT HIS SENTENCING; NOVEMBER 2, 1859

A City on the Rise

Dimitri Vladkov turned back to his comrades in silence as Alexander Luthor walked back and started scribbling something on a piece of paper at the small table he occupied with his –– what, Assistant? Wife? Mistress?

All three men were struck dumb. Dimitri was a bit shellshocked from the flying man, but this meeting seemed to compound his confoundedness. Of course, everyone in the Skylight Club knew who Lex Luthor was; the rumor was that he owned the place, or partially owned it, but Lex Luthor didn’t just speak to patrons. A drink –– vodka and tonic water with a twist of lime –– arrived at the table in a highball glass, and Dimitri quickly downed it.

“Sorry mack, but Dimitri’s had a bit of a rough day. Seeing bird men and all,” explained Saul, slapping his hand on Dimitri’s shoulder and gripping it a bit too tightly as if to tell him get it together. Saul maintained eye contact and a grin with the irishman at the table. “What did you say your name was, pal? Warren?”

“Warner,” the man replied in a thick Irish brogue. “Liam Warner, and I’d say I’ve got an opportunity that could make the two of you a pretty penny.”

Dimitri straightened up at that. It had been hard to find a consistent job in Metropolis; in spite of the glittering glamour of the city, the Unions seemed to prioritize their access to President Roosevelt over their bargaining power with the new administration.

“Why don’t you tell us a little bit more about this opportunity,” Dimitri hoped he had used the right amount of subtle emphasis on the word “opportunity” to indicate that he was willing enough to do work of a less-than-legal nature.

“Well lads, I’ve got a company on the verge of being acquired. Originally, we did imports and exports,” the irishman continued to tell them about his company, their recent foray into radio tower parts, and how he’d made a fortune during the Great War contracting with the US Military to install telephone lines. Now, there was a bidding war between two American industrialists: Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne.

“And this is where you come in, lads,” Warner smiled, his bushy beard seeming to creep up higher on his face. “See, I’ll be wantin’ to start a new venture stateside. Custom luxury and security installations including cutting edge telephony. Once this acquisition is finalized, I can shore up a contract with the federal government inside of a month, given our history, and with a steady stream of cash from President Rosie, we’ll be able to build out radio and telephone infrastructure while we build our book of business. Crystal clear call quality, nationwi––“

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Liam,” Dimitri sounded very drunk. His heavy Eastern European accent coming through. “It sounds like you’ve got a lot of money coming your way, but uhh, Saul, how did you meet this guy? And where exactly, do we fit in?”

“My apologies, Mr. Warner,” Saul shot Liam a smile, then continued in Russian. [“I met this man in the lobby of the hotel this morning. He noticed my ledger, and asked me if I knew a ‘talented’ accountant in the city. After telling him about the work I’ve done for Mr. Calhoun, he asked me if I had any connections to good managers. Foremen who could scale his operation fast. Please don’t be so hostile”]

[“I didn’t think you believed in coincidences, brother.”]

[“I don’t. I believe that God has seen fit to bless us with this opportunity. If that means cooking the books to make two men with much more than they’ll ever need drive up the price of this working man’s company, then I am sure as hell going to get in early. Play it cool.”]

Liam Warner set down his drink as the men finished their discussion. He understood every word, but he didn’t need them to know that.

“Everything alright, lads?”

“My apologies, Mr. Warner, please, go on.”

Liam started to explain his plan to the two, reading from a script he held in his mind. In his peripheral vision, he saw Lex Luthor stand up, tear up a piece of scrap paper, ball it into a napkin, and toss it into a nearby rubbish bin.

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When they understood their roles and deadlines, Liam handed each of the men his business card, and requested a check-in call the following week.

The three men shook hands, and Liam Warner headed to the bar to settle his check.

“Mr. Luthor said you three were his guests today, and everything’s been taken care of,” the bartender beamed at Liam.

“How gener–– oh!” a crisp sawbuck fell from Liam’s hand into the wastebasket, and he leaned over to pick it up. “Sorry, mate. Cheers!” he exclaimed, handing the bill to the bartender with a slightly drunken wink.

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As he arrived back at the hotel, the concierge sprang to life, telling Liam that a telegram had been delivered for him. Liam opened the note, reading it to himself:

YM RICHARD GIVING STRONG CONSIDERATION TO YOUR SUGGESTIONS.

SCHEDULING A FUNDRAISER TENTATIVELY FOR A WEEK FROM WEDNESDAY.

YOU’LL ALLOW HIM TO SCALE BACK ON HIS WORK IN THE EVENINGS, I’M SURE.

IN SERVICE, AP

The sender using punctuation, which cost extra, instead of saying “STOP” indicated a slightly careless attitude towards money, meaning that the sender was either very wealthy, or spending someone else’s money to send the message. 

Liam slipped the concierge a five dollar bill, and headed for the elevator, itching at his beard. 

His room was well-appointed, as would be becoming of a successful businessman, especially an international businessman.

But it was crowded, with tabloid clippings including headlines like 

ARE SHADOWS STALKING SCUM IN GOTHAM? and

WHO ARE THE “GHOSTS OF GOTHAM?”

and with notebooks bearing the scrawlings of a man on the brink of a mental breakdown.

Times and locations of sightings of Gotham City’s so-called Ghosts. None of the papers printing these stories were exactly what one might call credible, of course, but the publisher of both of these tabloids, Parliament Publishing, had similar rags up and down the East Coast and as far west as Colorado. 

There was a Red Flash in the Central City Caller known for being seen just before near-miss automobile accidents; the Smallville Smear was an oft-sighted blur that would, inexplicably, rescue cats from trees and once was said to have saved a school bus full of children from a twister.

Many of the stories in these papers could be called urban legends, but Liam was, first and foremost, a talented forecaster. And when the Metropolis Informer reported a blue blur stopping a mugging of some tourists more than a year after the last attributed sighting of the Smear, he began to start connecting lines and concocting theories.

Researching, planning, preparing, and interviewing.

When people talk about good detective work, they never mention the importance of asking the right questions.

Liam looked out the window at the dusk sky of Metropolis, Industry City, as it had been dubbed by a former mayor, and felt the ground tremble beneath him for a brief moment; followed by what could be described as a blue blur streaking past his window, followed shortly by a sound not unlike a whip crack.

The irishman bolted to the window, throwing it open to look out, seeing little more than a dot on the horizon, but flags blew violently in the wind, halyards clanging  against their poles.

Liam noted the time on his watch, and scribbled it and the date and more-or-less precise coordinates, then tried to calculate the speed of the object that just flew by.

“Three thousand feet per second, forty percent humidity, twenty stories above sea level,” Liam remarked to the empty room while writing the estimates into his notebook. “Way above muzzle velocity for a Browning M1917. That’s faster than a speeding bullet.”

The phone in the room rang, it was the concierge.

“Mr. Warner, there’s a call for you. A man called Henry Butler. Shall I connect you?”

“Yes, please, but first, do you know anything about the building shaking just now?”

“Metropolis is a city on the rise, Mr. Warner. There are new skyscrapers being built all the time. I’ll connect you now.”

“Thank you.”

A series of clicks, then “Jesus. Henry Butler? Let’s get you a less obvious list of aliases, Alfred.”

“I maintain that you are, as ever, too paranoid, Mister Wayne, but you’ll note that while I am trained in subterfuge, I do enjoy a good chuckle now and again. How is the recruiting and…er…research coming along, sir?”

“I’ve just seen it. Well…almost, kind of. As for the recruiting, I’ve got two fellas who are interested, and, as luck would have it, the one with the flying man story just so happens to be a union man.”

“Very well then. Solidarity, forever, Mister Bruce.”

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In May of 1920, six months prior to General Election, and one month before the Gotham City Primary Election, Henry Ford, the man credited with the “invention” of the modern assembly line, published a series of antisemitic stories in his newspaper, The Dearborn Independent.

Those stories would go on to become a series of pamphlets called The International Jew.

In June of that same year, just six days prior to the Primary Election, the Wayne family, as well as the workers of Wayne Enterprises declared that they would no longer be doing business with Mr. Ford. 

“The Jewish men and women of Gotham have served our fine city from bank counter to barbershop,” began Martha’s brief public statement on the matter. “It is, frankly, unconscionable and unchristian to reject these families or differentiate them in any way. Gotham is stronger because of the diverse experiences that stitch together the fabric of our city. To people of the Jewish faith who work for Mr. Ford, I encourage you to come, make your homes in Gotham City. Man or woman, white or black, Irish, Italian, Cuban, catholic, protestant, or Jew: regardless of who you are or what you believe, you are welcome in Gotham.”

That evening, radio announcers reported that the stock prices for General Motors had closed at a seven-month high, and attributed that gain to Martha Wayne’s bold condemnation of Henry Ford.

Just two weeks later, an outburst of arts and culture exploded in Black neighborhoods and eventually across the city in what would come to be known as the Gotham Renaissance.

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Since its founding in 1920, none of the many cars or trucks owned by The Pennyworth Foundation and its associated companies, including Wayne Enterprises, were built by Ford.

Their private collection of cars included the 1933 Pontiac Eight Convertible.

It was a little too attractive to the police, which Alfred chalked up to the color, “though whether of the car or driver is up for debate.” 

This specific 1933 Pontiac Eight Convertible had a media red paint job, with a cream ragtop, black fenders and trim, and brown leather seats, all standard. And it just so happened that red suited Dick Grayson just fine.

It was an overcast day when Dick left Wayne Manor, but that almost never stopped Dick putting the top down.

The rush of  air throughout the cabin on a cool day like today, on a drive through the winding roads and hills of Gotham County were just what Dick needed to clear his mind and really think about Alfred’s inquiry.

Mayor of Gotham City. 

At only 22 years old, he would, if elected, be the youngest mayor in the Gotham history, by almost ten years. That the idea had come from Bruce spoke to how he was, perhaps, handling –– no, that wasn’t the right word –– moving on from the shellshock of his parents’ assassination just fourteen years ago. 

It was clear that there was an opportunity here. Dick had a lane, and a very obvious path to victory. 

Mayor Basil Karlo was not exactly popular, not anymore at least –– a B-list actor who decided to try his hand at politics. He was often called Clayface, because of his somehow equally forgettable and highly-expressive face. 

He had the uncanny ability to meet someone and make them feel like he was authentically mirroring their priorities for the city in the seconds between handshakes. It was said that he could meet twenty men with competing values, and have them all believe that he was fighting for them by the end of a fundraiser. 

By the second month of his first term, he was known as Killer Karlo. His advocacy for and institution of “tough-on-crime” policies gave the cops more arrests and convictions than ever, but crime just seemed to get more organized, more improvised, and far, far less elegant.

It was Gotham’s worst-kept secret that Mayor Karlo was on the take from at least one of the city’s manifold racketeering operations.

Conveniently, or perhaps not (for his opponent), violent crime took a precipitous drop in the final year of his first term. 

Owing primarily to rumors of a secret society called the Yīnyǐng –– vigilante criminals trained in the oriental fighting arts, violent crimes fell, even as The Depression caused countless crimes of desperation throughout the country. 

The movement of crime from behind a gun to behind a desk sent Karlo to a tight win; just one hundred and three votes. Everyone in the city got the uneasy sense that the cops were just as corrupt as Karlo, and even Mayor Karlo had privately said to the few people he really trusted that he got the sense that he was being extorted “comin’-and-goin’.” But as the Yīnyǐng scaled back or disappeared, violence once again seemed to be cropping up in Gotham. 

The thought occurred to Dick: as Mayor, he could set the agenda on crime; the opportunity to create a local jobs-and-housing guarantee, and enhance the protections of The Roosevelt Administration was there, but so too was the chance to stop the exploitation of working men and women: setting a minimum wage for workers, or alternatively, a maximum wage for executives would mean lifting thousands of Gothamites out of poverty, and giving them alternatives to the shakedown lifestyle so many had turned to.

Dick looked in the rearview mirror. His eyes wore the lines of a much older man. A faded smudge of grease paint that he originally assumed was a bruise remained above his cheekbone.

“This is how we save the most lives,” he muttered to himself while wiping off the smudge. “But that doesn’t mean you let yourself get soft.”

He dug his foot into the accelerator with a new sense of resolve.

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Bruce Wayne took in the lunacy scrawled on the scraps of paper on his hotel table and itched at his beard. Rough sketches and scribbled words like “Bungee?” were accompanied by flawed-but-sufficient arithmetic. Lex Luthor was skeptical of the veracity of the flying man stories, but not so skeptical that he thought he needed to be more careful with his thought process.

It was clear from the notes that Luthor had much more research to do, and so did Bruce.

Bruce Wayne muttered a couple words in his faux brogue, and slipped into the character of Liam Warner. He visualized the tics, both verbal and physical, and let Liam become him. 

Levels and levels of faux persona came naturally to the man who had been wearing a mask since the world ended on his thirteenth birthday.

Liam Warner picked up the phone in his room and asked the operator to connect him to the concierge.

“Mr. Warner? Something that you need?” the voice on the other end of the line sounded genuinely enthusiastic to help with any arrangements.

“I’ll be checking out late this evening. Please charge the full day to my account. I’ll leave the room key on the pillow. Thank you.”

“Very well Mr. Warner. We hope you enjoyed your stay.”

Liam Warner hung up the phone and watched the sun fully set over Industry City.

He stood at the open window and took a deep breath of the rapidly cooling evening air. 

He pulled a knitted mask over his head, cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and tied his boots tightly.

Bruce Wayne, formerly the Ghost of Gotham, and member of the Yīnyǐng, leapt out of the window and into the night.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2

“There is no shortcut to achievement, Life requires thorough preparation—veneer isn’t worth anything.”

GEORGE WASHINGTON CARVER

That’s Something We Could Test

Wayne Manor, The Library

July 1920

The first time that Bruce Wayne read The Hound of The Baskervilles, he thought it was the best thing he’d ever read.

When Bruce Wayne was a child, his parents would read to him. He became, in turn, a voracious reader and seeker of knowledge. The bookshelves of his family’s ancestral home were packed edge-to-edge with texts; tomes from academia and collected works that previously were published as pulp stories.

There was almost no genre of fiction or nonfiction that Bruce didn’t have a favorite book within.

By far his favorite books were mysteries, but Sherlock Holmes had fallen out of his preference in favor of detective stories where the reader could actually solve the mystery.

Two months after the murder of his mother and father in a robbery-gone-wrong, Bruce, formerly a playful and spirited boy, had become a brooding, traumatized young man.

During a re-read of Hound, Bruce became crestfallen, almost to the point of tears. He put down the volume and relayed the source of his disappointment to nobody-in-particular.

“Impossible. There’s no real way Holmes could’ve known these specific details. This isn’t ‘elementary,’ it’s magical.”

“Magical, Mister Bruce?” Replied Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce’s adoptive father.

It was always a surprise, though not always a pleasant one: the way Alfred could just appear in a room. At the time, Alfred explained the “trick” as “the tendency of white folks to ignore colored folks,” but Bruce knew in his gut that there was more to it than that. It would be years before he found out the truth.

“Holmes, Alfred,” replied the grim boy. “He always has the correct answer, but –– you’ve read Hound of the Baskervilles –– Holmes doesn’t show his work. He even goes so far as to have to construct an entrapment scheme to nail down Stapleton, and that only works because Lestrade witnesses the plot from a dark vantage point. And then Stapleton dies. 

“Is that Justice?” Bruce asked with the faint glisten of moisture in his eyes. 

“I see great empathy in you Mister Bruce,” replied Alfred. “I’m afraid the things you believe you enjoy will absolutely destroy you if you apply such an unforgiving judge to them as The Truth.”

“I suppose,” the boy conceded. “I’ll just have to enjoy things as the pulp that it is, and ignore the nagging thought that ‘this-isn’t-how-things-work’ that pokes me in the back of the mind as I read them? Fun and function will need to remain separate.”

“I didn’t say that, Mister Bruce. As long as you’re holed up in dark rooms full of books, why not create the stories you’d want to read? Write an improved Sherlock Holmes.”

“But how? I don’t know the first thing about writing a story like that. And I read that Doyle is a physician, he’s smart enough to write a character who knows these things, but I’m not.”

“Ah, Mister Bruce, that’s where you’re wrong!” Alfred excitedly produced a leather folio containing a notepad and an expensive looking fountain pen, handing them to Bruce. “The reason you found this story unrealistic is because you’re smart enough to know that the blanks that Doyle leaves for the reader can’t be filled in. The wages of a detective like Holmes versus the wages of a pulp writer like Doyle don’t even compare; wouldn’t Doyle just become a great detective if he was so knowledgable about the qualities that make up a Great Detective?”

Bruce thought about this for a moment. Then he thought longer.

“Where do I start?” Bruce asked.

“They always say write what you know,” replied Alfred with a somewhat exasperated sigh. “But I’ve found that too many people don’t know anything useful. So how about we instead start with a list?”

The twitching of a smile that was forming on Bruce’s face relaxed into a look of confusion.

“A list?”

“A list of things you need to know, or to learn. A collection of all of the characteristics you believe a truly great detective needs. You can even start with Holmes. What do you like about him? What does he do that seems important to being a Great Detective?”

“Um,” Bruce bit his lip as he thought of an answer. “He’s a great fighter. And it seems very useful, but I’m not sure if that’s because a real detective needs to fight all the time, or if it’s because Doyle writes him into situations where he becomes entangled in fisticuffs.”

“Well let’s put that down anyway. ‘Number One, he should be a great fighter.’ not because he should fight all the time, but perhaps because he should be prepared to fight at any time.”

Bruce began to scribble, and Alfred vanished from the room, reappearing with two pairs of well-used boxing gloves.

“Before we decide on anything else that a great detective needs, I’m going to teach you to fight, Mister Bruce. And I’m going to do it by punching you until you’re able to stop me from punching you. Let’s go out into the backyard.”

Alfred didn’t say anything else. He had seen his share of tragedies and traumas. He didn’t think Bruce was sad. He believed Bruce was lost. He believed Bruce needed, more than anything, to feel something lest he retreat into this numb void of despair completely.

Bruce put down the pen, stood from his chair, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

He took the smaller pair of boxing gloves from Alfred –– they smelled like his father: Mahogany, leather, and the rough salt of old sweat.

“You’re on,” said the boy, never breaking eye contact with the man.

And thus concludes the story of how Alfred Pennyworth used the promise of repeated punches to his person to convince the young Bruce Wayne to leave the house for the first time in two months to enjoy a sunny summer day. 

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Wayne Manor, The Library

1934

Misses Ella Worthing delivered various newspapers directly to Alfred Pennyworth every morning. Some were high-quality papers of record, and some were…not.

Some of the papers were for Bruce, who liked to keep abreast of news across the United States and internationally.  Alfred’s stack of papers included the three major papers that were owned (at least in part) or operated by Wayne Industries: The Gotham Voice, The Daily Planet, and The Chicago Wind.

Bruce Wayne chose at that moment to simply appear in the library, with a mug of steaming coffee in each hand.

Alfred didn’t even look up as he held out his hands, to relieve Bruce of one of the mugs and hand off Bruce’s stack of papers.

Both men dropped a number of papers to the floors beside them in their chairs, removed pens from their breast pockets, and started reading the front page of The Daily Planet.

EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH THE MAN OF STEEL

This was it. The first interview ever given with “Superman,” the mysterious metahuman that Bruce had been tracking had leapt from urban legend to reality in the span of a couple weeks.

Alfred and Bruce began underlining relevant quotes in the interview, scribbling notes, and intermittently muttering to themselves as they read.

It made reading the news a time-consuming affair, but it was a better way to catalog important things.

Human memory was notoriously unreliable, and it was important to be able to reference data as they were, not as you remembered them, at least whenever that was possible.

When Alfred folded his paper and placed it on his lap, they began to compare their observations.

“An alien from a dying planet,” they both remarked almost in unison.

“He says here that he has super-hearing,” Bruce was incredulous. “In addition to being a stupid name for it––“ 

Alfred smirked at this, remembering a time in the not-too-distant past when a certain urban legend became obsessed with bats, even going so far as insisting on styling his shuriken as bats, and calling them batarangs.

“––it doesn’t make any sense,” Bruce sighed, a bit performatively. “Sound dampens over distance. The energy dissipates. Creatures like –– cats –– that have far more sensitive hearing than we do don’t just hear things farther away. In fact, the farthest distance any mammal can hear with any reliable acuity is something like ten miles?”

“Cats? Don’t bats have famously powerful hearing?” Alfred snickered.

“You’re not planning on letting me live that down, are you?” Bruce relaxed for a moment while Alfred finished laughing. “The point is that you can’t just hear things happening on the other side of the planet. You can’t just hear conversations fifty miles away. If you could, you’d go deaf as a post. Anyone speaking in the same room as you, at a normal volume, would sound like an explosion going off right in your eardrums. How could he discern a discussion two towns over from, say, his own thoughts?”

“Perhaps he can tune in to certain words. Maybe he’s trained himself to listen for words like ‘fire’ or ‘help’ and he can largely ignore other words and phrases.”

“That’s something we could test, you know,” Bruce responded, scribbling something into his notebook.

“I was just thinking the same thing, Mister Bruce.”

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Wayne Manor

August 7, 1920

It took a full week before Bruce Wayne could defend against any of Alfred’s punches. When considering that Alfred refused to punch the thirteen year old in the head, or their differences in height and even factoring for reach, and for assumptions about the speed of a military-trained covert operative in his early thirties compared to a boy starting his journey into pubescence, that still seemed to Alfred like a long time to learn the principle of “you don’t need to let yourself get hit.”

After their very first session, Miss Margaret, who Bruce somewhat suspected Alfred was seeing, brought the pair a pitcher of lemonade that she’d kept in the icebox.

Alfred took Bruce to the smaller garage, where he explained that he often used the space for calisthenics, though he didn’t dare bring up the subject of workouts with the late Mr. Wayne. On some level, Bruce almost remembered watching the two men spar when he was much younger.

The younger man noted punching bags, but before he could make his way over to them, Alfred bid him remove his gloves, and handed him a rope to skip.

“Constant Motion, Mister Bruce,” the elder instructed, rolling up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and producing a skipping rope of his own. “A racing heart feeds a keen mind.”

Bruce stared on in amazement, Alfred was almost completely inaudible but for the sound the rope made as it cut through the air. He didn’t hear his shoes as they briefly bounced against the concrete, nor did he hear the expected sound of the rope hitting the ground as Alfred jumped over it.

The man seemed almost to float up and down in space.

After a time, Alfred looked Bruce in the eye, and said “if you can punch me, or if you can skip rope for two minutes without me hearing it, you’ll be allowed full use of this space. Until then: practice being silent with your skipping rope.

Each day, Alfred would wake Bruce Wayne and take him outside, first thing in the morning to spar.

The dew of the morning would stain his boots, and many times, especially as fall began to approach, it was still dark when they would leave the manor for the grounds.

Bruce did it without complaint, never commenting on the soreness or bruises on his body.

Alfred would teach the boy as they sparred, or jogged around the property’s expansive campus, or laid on their backs in the dewy grass to do sit-ups, or throw a leather medicine ball at one another.

Every so often, Bruce would crack a smile at some new fact Alfred taught him, or some new technique he wanted to try out in their next spar.

More often, Bruce would have completely unprompted breakdowns. Falling on his hands and knees, weeping and lamenting the loss of his parents.

In those times, Alfred would always kneel down beside him, and embrace him. 

One particularly painful incident involved Bruce being overcome with the guilt of his parents’ murder, tearfully throwing a haymaker, hitting only air, and physically falling to the ground. 

Alfred knelt beside the boy as he wept, almost uncontrollably.

“Why do you think we fall, Mister Bruce?”

Bruce backed out of the hug, wiping his red eyes with his wrist, sniffling, and brushed some of the dirt from his shorts, beginning to stand.

“To get back uhh––“ he began grimly.

“–– Because sometimes, we need to,” Alfred interrupted him, and the boy collapsed back into Alfred’s arms and sobbed for a very long time.

The day that Bruce Wayne would finally hit Alfred would be a cool morning in middle September.

By then, Bruce had learned much about the history of the Wayne and Kane families. 

He had learned that it was important to challenge everything. Especially authority, but including, perhaps most importantly, the things he believed to be true.

He’d learned that, though Maryland was a slave state in the Civil War, it was critically important strategically, and thus was a part of the Union. Maryland became a throughway of sorts for men and women who’d escaped enslavement, and that the Underground Railroad had important historically significant sites throughout the North, but, for Alfred Pennyworth, the house and property in Gotham, New Jersey that would later become Wayne Manor was the most significant, because the now-abandoned argentiferous galena mines beneath the western acreage of the homestead are where his family sheltered for a number of years, it is where his mother was born, and it was the place to which she returned when she and his father learned she was with child and they needed to find work.

It was the day that Bruce learned that the police weren’t going to help solve the murder of his parents, and that they would never be the allies of people seeking Justice. 

And it was the day that Bruce learned that Alfred Pennyworth had reason to believe that his parents weren’t arbitrarily murdered in a mugging-gone-wrong, but that they were assassinated for their political beliefs.

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Prospect Hill Memorial Park (Gotham County Limits)

1934

The 1883 Krakatoa eruption in the Dutch East Indes ejected something like six cubic miles of stone and sediment. The explosion could, at least anecdotally, be heard as far as 3,000 miles away in Australia.

The center of Gotham City proper was only fifty-eight miles away from downtown Metropolis, and all signs pointed to Superman having a significant preference for ending American distress, and most of those signs pointed to him having a preference for Metropolis, specifically.

Since the Industrial Revolution, Gotham City had been one of the economic engines of the United States. 

It was, for a brief time, number one on the list of most productive cities in America.

It was displaced by a sprawling, ever-growing cosmopolitan city less than sixty miles away across the Delaware Bay. You could get to Metropolis in less than two hours on a good day, and you could do it in your car thanks to Sisters Ferry, so-named for the Sister Cities of Gotham and Metropolis.

Metropolis in 1934 had been the most economically productive city in the country for more than a decade. Gotham had been as high as second place again since Metropolis passed it, but had then fallen, year after year until settling in a virtual tie for fourth place. 

The Gotham Renaissance of the late 1910s did a lot to help Gotham stabilize –– Gotham spent quite a long time looking rather bleak before that, but Metropolis surged.

Bruce stood something like twenty feet away from Alfred.

“The experiment is begun. Assuming that he can’t hear us,” Bruce called from across a stone walkway with a centerpiece  fountain to Alfred, “what results would almost certainly not happen; what would surprise you?”

Alfred smiled a bit to himself, and then, his face fell. He cleared his throat, rather dramatically. “I think we should head back to the car.” 

Bruce crossed the distance to his adoptive father, brandishing a notepad, writing WHY? in large letters across the page.

Alfred took the pen and pad, and started to write out a message, then turned it toward Bruce:

If he can hear us, he already knows about this. We need to be more paranoid.

“Paranoid” was circled multiple times.

The two men strode, enjoying a completely forgettable conversation, got back into the car, and drove back to Wayne Manor in near silence.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Wayne Manor

September 13, 1920

If Bruce hadn’t been seated, he probably would’ve experienced a dizzy spell and fallen to the ground.

He had trouble believing what Alfred had said about his parents; it was in this confusion that Alfred had been training him: recognize your confusion, question inwardly, and, if you are reasonably sure you are safe, question outwardly. to question outwardly, and especially to question those that assert themselves as authorities.

“Why would someone want to kill them‽” Bruce was cold and grim again, but even the gathering moisture in his eyes seemed to reveal something darker.

“Note what you feel, Mister Bruce. Write it down if you need to. Don’t let your anger get the better of you, but be angry. I’ve found that I often am able to achieve exceptional clarity-of-thought when I am engaged in anger. 

Take two full minutes to consider this information, and write down any other questions you might have for me. When two minutes has passed, I’ll tell you what I believe, and why I believe it. And then, I’ll try to answer your other questions.”

Bruce wanted to hit the man. Bruce could hit the man. Bruce considered that Alfred had never really held back in their training, aside from never hitting him in the head, he never let Bruce win. When Bruce had finally hit Alfred for the first time, he’d earned it.

Bruce considered Alfred’s advice: spending two full minutes considering the information, noting his feelings, writing down his observations. Alfred, for his part, was looking at a watch, and doing everything he could to avoid the young man seeing the tears that were welling in his eyes.

The son of Gotham began to write furiously:

• Why can’t I trust the police?
• Have the police been lying?
• Why can I trust Alfred?
• Am I in danger?
• Is that the reason we’ve been training?
• If not, what is the reason we’ve been training?
• What can we do?
• What can we do?
• What canwedo?

Bruce took a deep breath and started cataloguing his emotions, what he was feeling. What did those feelings suggest? What had materially changed about the way he understood the world? What was the utility in being angry and why had Alfred insisted he lean into it instead of shying away from it?

He looked down at the page and noticed that he’d just written “MAD!” “ANGRY!” “CONFUSED!” and myriad other synonyms among the margins around his list of questions.

“Well, Mister Bruce,” began Alfred, using the back of his forearm to wipe his eyes. “Let’s begin.”

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Wayne Manor, The Study

1934

“If it’s quite the same to you, Alfred, I’m going to spend some time on my correspondence.”

“Actually, Mister Bruce, I have some letter writing of my own to catch up on,” replied Alfred. “I’ll be in my office.”

The two men walked into the study, sitting behind the twin desks, and began to peck away at the keys on the black Remington typewriters.

Alfred wrote:

IF WE ASSUME THAT HE CANNOT HEAR US, I THINK WE ARE LEAVING FAR TOO MUCH TO CHANCE. IT IS EXCEEDINGLY DIFFICULT TO PROVE A NEGATIVE, IN ANY CASE. IF WE ASSUME THAT HE CAN HEAR US, THEN HE ALREADY HAS, AND HE KNOWS WE’RE CONDUCTING AN EXPERIMENT. IN EITHER CASE, WE HAVE ALREADY POTENTIALLY JEOPARDIZED ANY KIND OF STERILITY IN OUR EXPERIMENTS. 

Bruce replied: 

I TEND TO AGREE, BUT I WONDER HOW MUCH INFORMATION “BIG RED” LEAKED IN THE INTERVIEW IN ORDER TO BUILD HIS LEGEND? IF HE’S TRULY AN INTERGALACTIC ALIEN, THEN IT STANDS TO REASON THAT, EVEN WITHOUT HIS SUPERHUMAN STRENGTH AND POWERS, HE WOULD HAVE ACCESS TO TECHNOLOGY THAT WOULD OUTCLASS US IN WAYS THAT WE CAN’T EVEN BEGIN TO FATHOM.

Alfred considered this for a moment, then took to typing again:

THERE ARE CERTAINLY MORE MUNDANE CONCERNS FOR EXAMPLE. HE COULD KNOW ABOUT YOUR ADVOCACY WORK. HE COULD KNOW ABOUT ALL OF IT.

Bruce wrote back: 

OUR DATA WON’T BE AS RELIABLE OR AS CLEAN AS EITHER OF US WANT, BUT IT WILL BE SOMETHING. I PROPOSE THAT WE TAKE SOME TIME TO REALLY DEVELOP SOME EXPERIMENTS AND IN THE INTERIM, MAYBE WE CAN TALK TO OUR FRIENDS IN METROPOLIS.

Alfred looked Bruce in the eye and nodded. He continued to type.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Wayne Manor, The Study

September 13, 1920

Alfred Pennyworth was a man who often minced words. Whether this was because of his experience in subterfuge as an enlisted man, because his parents had both been servants to inconceivably wealthy people, or some combination of those factors was not easily observed. But Alfred often sugarcoated information if he thought it to be too much to take in.

“Your mother was a Revolutionary, Mister Bruce. It’s important that you understand that this is not some politicized word that I’m using to describe her more radical policy positions; I mean that she was a Revolutionary. Your father made Gotham a welcoming place to Neo-Bolsheviks and radical labor organizers when he unionized Wayne Enterprises.

“And those same people knew he was serious when he gave up his position as the CEO and allowed the company to become a worker cooperative. Martha –– your mother –– did a lot to push him in that direction.

“Your mother was running for mayor because she thought that her name recognition and her worker-centered policy proposals would prevent the violence of a New American Revolution that she believed to be coming. A win for the working class by a high profile, wealthy heiress could convince other wealthy people that they could do more good by helping than by hoarding,” Alfred paused. He was speaking of Martha fondly, like an aunt that he missed.

“Some of us, myself included, believe that someone connected to Spencer Stagg’s campaign, possibly Stagg himself, used connections he had within Gotham Police Department to identify an accused hitman, and to send the same to kill your parents, and to make it look like a botched robbery.”

“Alfred, I need you to stop,” Bruce had been trying to figure out how to ask the question, but decided to just come out with it: “are you and I in danger?”

“Not immediate danger, no ––“ a beat. “–– the truth is the truth. The likelihood of someone coming to find and hurt you or me didn’t just increase because you know it.” 

Alfred continued to explain, answering the young man’s questions, and, on occasion, surreptitiously massaging his ribs, where Bruce had hit him hard enough that he expected that if he were a lighter skinned man, bruising would become quite apparent.

When Bruce seemed satisfied with his answers, Alfred encouraged him to second guess those answers. To do his own research. 

After some time, the pair walked back out onto the property where Wayne Manor was built, both doffing their shirts. Bruce threw wild haymakers at Alfred like he had on the first day that they had boxed together. Alfred paused the fight.

“Use the anger, Bruce. Allow it to enhance your focus.”

Alfred put many bruises on Bruce’s body that day. By the end of their sparring, both man and boy were winded, sitting in the grass, removing their gloves with their teeth.

“I don’t mind telling you to search for more information for yourself,” Alfred broke the silence first, “because the truth is immutable. If I’m wrong, I want to know it. If the truth is that we’re both safe from a clumsy, moneyed, and ruthless conspiracy because that conspiracy doesn’t exist, then that’s what I want to believe.”

“But if there is a clumsy, moneyed, and ruthless conspiracy? What then?” the boy asked, his chest rising and falling in great heaving breaths.

“Well,” said Alfred after a thoughtful pause. “I hope that we’ve just taken a good first step on the path to making you into a better detective. Now what else do you think a detective needs?”

Bruce thought about the question, but his mind wasn’t supplying an answer. He kept thinking of Holmes, but he no longer believed that Holmes was a Great Detective as much as a powerful magician, capable of magically producing answers from the ether.

Neither broke the silence as the older and younger man walked back to the house.  

Their conversation had turned into new questions that Bruce wanted answers for. And then it hit him.

Bruce walked into the library, and over to his folio, which sat closed on his desk, paged back to the top of the notepad, where the phrase “A great fighter.” was written beside a bullet point.

He unscrewed the cap of the pen, and put the nib to the pad, creating another bullet point, and wrote.

“He gets answers.” 

Chapter Text

In 1934, there was nothing more exclusive than being a billionaire, except, perhaps, being the Man of Steel.

You could count on  one hand the number of billionaires in the United States: Lex Luthor and Henry Ford were, somewhat consistently, the wealthiest or second wealthiest man in America, depending on the day of the week that you looked into it. Number four and five were banker and former Secretary of the Treasury, Andrew Mellon, and famed “oil man” H.L. Hunt, respectively.

The third wealthiest man in the United States, as was customary for him, was taking dinner in his home at Wayne Manor, joined by his adoptive family.

Dick Grayson didn’t much care for the food Alfred typically had prepared at Wayne Manor, but tonight they were eating his favorite: barbecued spareribs. A specialty of Alfred’s and one that he, not the cooks, tended to for several hours, starting at an hour that would be very early for most families, Alfred would head out to the pit at 4:30 a.m. to start the charcoal, then come back inside for black coffee. About an hour later, he follows this with placing the “overnight-rubbed” ribs on indirect heat, adding some quantity of additional wood at some point or points after the meat is placed, and then muttering to himself for the next six to seven hours.

Dick Grayson was eleven years old, and had been living with Alfred and Bruce for almost a year when he asked Alfred if he could help with the ribs. Alfred replied that a pit master must be an apprentice first, often for several years, before he receives the blessing of his mentor. 

Dick insisted that he wanted to study under Alfred who dismissed him several times before letting him brush the sauce onto the ribs to “sizzle and caramelize,” (the final step in the grilling process). For a number of years, Dick “helped” Alfred with this step, or occasionally with getting Alfred a fresh cup of black coffee. 

The apprenticeship Dick Grayson would eventually take on was not one that was conducive to waking up at four thirty in the morning.

So it was that this evening, two of the three men finished their meals while the youngest among them, maroon-stained cloth napkin still tucked into his collar, went on a long trek to the kitchen to get more ribs.

“He’s a growing boy,” noted Alfred.

“I want the next mayor to be an everyman, but I don’t think that picking pork from your teeth in a debate would be a particularly sympathetic look,” retorted Bruce, wiping his fingers clean with a damp, warm towelette. They were available in a lidded, silver chafing bowl in the middle of the dinner table. “Did you have a chance to read this?” Bruce motioned to the brass-fastened “scientific paper” that sat next to Alfred’s elbow.

Non-Röntgenian Vision; An Exploration from Inference was a title that Alfred Pennyworth had toiled over before deciding to move on to the rest of the paper. To call it self-aggrandizing or non sequitur would be to understate the chaos of the piece. 

From what Alfred understood, it was about Superman’s ability to see or not see through certain materials, and theorized that he was unable to discern materials behind lead shielding.

“If he’s unable to see through such materials…” Alfred’s mouth was agape.

“Convenient, wouldn’t you say?” Bruce replied, beaming.

Bruce had come to the same conclusion on his read of the paper, and had set off to do some research. That netted him what appeared to be an unremarkable story about a Dutch businessman who was buying up lead mines and traders, with the hopes to present a demonstration of its ability to stop Superman surveilling you.

The experiment, which was hardly an experiment was a challenge to Superman’s ability to see through lead; the dutchman offered a reward of one hundred thousand USD to an orphanage in Metropolis’ Southside if Superman would show up and prove, conclusively, that he could see through the material.

The Man of Steel didn’t show up, and orders for NIVAShield® were overwhelming.

Dick reappeared licking his thumbs with a plate full of ribs (and one jutting out of his mouth) and joined the other two men at the table.

“S’goin’ on?” Dick said, finding their excitement inscrutable.

“It would appear our friend,” Alfred looked quickly toward the ceiling, “has trouble seeing through lead.”

“Weird,” Dick snapped back, chewing a bit of fat off of the bone in his hand. A beat, then “Oh! The mi––“ he stopped himself before speaking the words aloud. “Well if we’re going downstairs, I guess I better set these back in the kitchen. Can’t take them down there. Mildew everywhere. Too damp. But holy cow, are these good. They’re always good Al, but these taste like they came from an actual holy cow.”

“I do suspect that the cow who once contained these ribs has a few holes in it,” Alfred quipped in one of his dry, almost English, bouts of humor.

≡≡≡ 🦇 ≡≡≡

Myotis lucifugus, or “Little Brown Bats” are a species of mouse-eared vesper bats commonly found in New Jersey. 

There are two types of batcall: constant frequency, and frequency modulated. 

Constant frequency batcalls are used to detect objects in a bat’s range, and frequency modulated calls are used to determine the distance of those objects: prey, predators, walls, et cetera. 

Batcalls are microsecond-long pulses of audio that are frequently at the upper range of human hearing if not outside of that range altogether. Echolocation, a sense also used by dolphins, uses silences between the pulsed calls to form a more accurate assessment of a bat’s environment; the space between silence and a bat’s identification of its unique call tell the bat a more-or-less exact distance between the bat itself and the other objects in the night sky.

Leading chiropterologists theorize that bats use the Doppler effect to determine their place in space as they fly, hunt, or roost.

Before the proliferation of humans, bats lived mostly in forests and natural caverns on every continent in the world, save Antarctica. Humans have created problems and solutions for bats; they are an extraordinarily adaptable creature, and for each cave that became a tourist attraction or forest that became a mansion, a church, or warehouse, or an old mine would become divested and abandoned. And bats are willing to use abandoned mines or industrial sites as hibernacula (no relation) when a cavern is not readily available.

One such abandoned mine was located beneath an overgrown pine barren on what is now described as the “western acreage” of Wayne Manor. Argentiferous Galena is Lead Sulfide which has a higher-than normal occurrence of Silver. 

When the mine was active, it was an economically important site for the jobs it provided in Gotham County, but also for the minerals being extracted. However, as the deposits of lead grew less accessible, and the occurrence of silver lower and lower in concentration, the mine became more expensive to operate than the resources it provided.

It was, at last, fully decommissioned for mining operations following a land rights dispute, and eventually purchased as a parcel of land that may have been originally intended to be developed; speculators found that the original disputes persisted and that developing above a soft-metal extraction operation in a state of disrepair was the type of thing you only did if you were interested in making all of your money in insurance fraud, which was to say nothing of the difficulty of providing unpolluted water to any development that may have sprung forth.

And so it was that the property became a bit of a quagmire for anyone investing in it, but became an ideal roost for more than 75,000 little brown bats.

It also became the base of operations for a criminal organization in Gotham called the Yīnyǐng. Conjecturally, the bookmakers, capos, and crime bosses  in Gotham’s once-flourishing ecosystem of underworld crime suspected that there were as many as fifty Yīnyǐng. And they began to suspect that the Yīnyǐng were recruiting new members from their own foot soldiers.

The reality, which is so frequently less complex than Gotham’s underground would have you believe, was that being a henchman was not particularly rewarding work. 

When faced with the choice of making three sawbucks a week, and possibly be confronted by what one tabloid described as “demon shades sent straight from hell!” or make almost twenty-four dollars a week at one of the factory jobs in downtown Gotham (and, if you put in your time, you could actually have a share of the profits!). Well, a man, honest or otherwise, could be nudged into making good choices when truly good choices were available to him. And what is a henchman if not a man? A good job with an honest living and a willingness to “look the other way when it came to criminal records” wasn’t a hard choice at all, and it was a good choice, to boot.

 In fact, the mythos of the Yīnyǐng were much larger than the organization itself.  There was usually only one patrolling member,  and there had never been more than three people who could truly call themselves “initiates.”

And at this moment, in an abandoned mine filled with little brown bats emitting the screeches of dusk’s first hunt, the Yīnyǐng: Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne, and Dick Grayson convened their clandestine business.

“So, am I correct to assume this is about the campaign?” Dick Grayson said, turning his eyes to the ceiling of the cave.

“As it happens, your assumptions are correct,” came a snappy reply from Bruce. “There is evidence –– though not sufficient evidence –– that suggests that his ability to visualize private settings is hindered by a natural resource that we happen to very conveniently have in abundance,” Bruce spread his arms wide. Life wasn’t a story, but sometimes, reality felt quite like a plot device.

Dick cradled his chin in his hand, tapping his index finger against his lips, and thought. Bruce noticed he and Alfred were both doing the same, then stood up straight and opened his mouth to speak.

“We’ve been talking about developing some experiments to test what kind of things get his attention,” he began. “Al and I actually began to perform one, but thought that it might give too much away. We can do quite a bit without exposure, and certainly without putting us or the people we care about at great risk.”

“And you two wiseguys didn’t think that someone else, or multiple someone else’s might already be deep into this ‘research?’ Why perform experiments ourselves, or allow unknowing subjects to perform them when we can just cheat?” Dick wasn’t as talented a thinker as Alfred or Bruce, but he had a talent for putting things plainly, and for taking an outside view on things. 

“Do you really think we can afford to trust someone else’s observations when we’re talking about literal Godlike power? Su––Saturn is all four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Is total annihilation worth the risk?” Alfred was blunt, and both Dick and Bruce had to consider his words carefully. 

“I think we may be letting perfect be the enemy of good here,” Dick quipped.

“Perfect beats good every single time; and we may very well be facing a perfect threat, an unstoppable force that’s also an immovable object,“ Bruce cut in. “…and thus far all of our defenses are superficial at best.” He walked off toward a large desk with a switchboard array –– complete with an integrated microfiche, wireless, two-way communication radio, a telephotography machine, and many other gadgets of variable utility –– and began to sketch.

“I would add,” Alfred broke the silence, “that if perfect is the enemy of good, that I am honored to stand with the two of you against perfect.”

≡≡≡ 🦇 ≡≡≡

Alfred Pennyworth and Dick Grayson were developing a simple verbal conversation code while Bruce Wayne sketched feverishly. Simple substitutions of words like “Saturn” for “Superman” or “Apollyon” for “Alien” would be easy enough to learn for now, even if they didn’t place a particularly high priority on operational security.

“When Mister Bruce is working on his high concept ideas, it is best to give him time,” was a maxim that Alfred Pennyworth often issued to anyone bold enough to even appear to have an inclination to be a bother when Bruce was holding pencil and pad. “He once took two years to develop a preliminary list of traits that a master detective would have,” Alfred further explained to Dick.

As dusk more forcefully asserted itself into evening, the din of the bats began to wane as more and more of them left to hunt, and Alfred and Dick could be seen discussing and demonstrating sparring techniques. Bruce stood up from his workstation, murmured something to himself, and approached, sketches and notes in hand.

“Well Bruce, lead is a soft metal and easy to work with, but…” Dick opened his mouth to continue, then closed it and thought for a moment. “But a couple hundred bits of lead in this armor isn’t going to be enough to stop a guy who’s supposed to be ‘more powerful than a locomotive.’”

“You’ve missed a detail,” Bruce responded, smiling a bit to himself.

Alfred relieved Dick of the sketches, turning them around in his hand while the latter hovered over them, trying to read them upside down.

“Tubes,” remarked Alfred. “And I see our friend Vlad is back.” Bruce rolled his eyes at that. “But what is inside the tubes, Mr. Stoker?”

“Non-Newtonian fluid,” Bruce gushed.

“Hm,” uttered Alfred.

“Hey, Holy Roman Empire, can we have that in something other than latin, please?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, annoyed at the way Dick sometimes reveled so willfully in his own ignorance.

“Non-Newtonian fluids don’t follow the traditional expectations of liquids,” Alfred supplied. “For example: your blood runs rapidly through your veins as pressure is supplied by your pumping heart, but it –– usually –– leaves a cut slowly. But what will this do Mister Bruce?”

“I’m reasonably confident it will break a fall. But better than that, if my hypothesis is correct, it’ll possibly work as an on-demand glider and maybe even stop bullets.” Bruce was trumpeting the words, but then pulled back. “I should revise that. It should slow bullets down enough to make them much less lethal.”

“But Saturn is basically an omnipotent god from beyond the stars. How will this stop him?”

“Well, I don’t even know if this will work,” Bruce began, “but short, manual bursts of pressurized gas into the tubes will cause the cornstarch solution to thicken in the chest piece.” He pointed to his sketch. “Between that and the lead birdshot scattered throughout the innermost layer, slugs should slow down to the point that they don’t kill. Now here, in the cape though, that’s where it becomes more interesting. The capillaries in the cape have a constant flow of pressurized gas when you want to use them, which stiffens them into almost a Da Vinci glider shape –– yes Al, like bat wings –– when held close to the body, it acts like a parachute, but, when held out from the body, it should make jumping to an adjacent rooftop considerably less reliant on the initial jump.”

“I saw him in Metropolis. I don’t know if he was moving at his top speed, but force still equals mass times velocity. If he’s as heavy…or dense rather…as I think he is, he could shatter a human with a punch. But the goal of this isn’t to survive a punch from him, it’s hoping he’ll hold back so that we conceivably could survive an escape from him, and make it much less convenient for him to pursue. If this has the utility of making Gotham’s underworld believe that we’re also metahumans, well, all the better. ”

“Won’t gas be too heavy?” Dick asked skeptically. “Or run out before getting to the next rooftop?”

“No, I don’t think so. In the armor, just quickly hitting the gas when you hear the gunshot should increase the viscosity of the liquid enough so that a bullet would hit something already viscous –– that’s why you don’t need four inches of fluid in the armor –– as for gliding, after a moment, the upward force of the air while falling should be be enough to keep the veins thick and sustain the glide.” Bruce held up a small, silver cartridge. “I think a dozen or two of these attached to a utility belt would do the trick. They’ll need to be refilled before every patrol, but they’re cheap, light, and, ideally, won’t even impact maneuverability too much.”

“Sounds like it’s going to be a late evening,” advised Alfred.

“Should I assume this won’t be a patrol night?” asked Dick.

“We’re going to be able to do some testing tonight, but maybe not in-field,” answered Bruce. A beat, then: “Actually, maybe there is someone I could drop in on.”

Chapter Text

Martha Wayne (née Martha Kane) was an heiress to the Kane Chemical family fortune. In her early years, she may have been described as a debutante, or, more charitably, as a socialite, but her sense of social justice became galvanized in college, where she helped organize a student government on campus at The Gotham Ladies Academy for Distinction.

The Gotham Ladies Academy for Distinction or GLAD (which would later become co-educational and be known as Gotham Harbor College), was a private women’s college that was, truth be told, even farther away from Gotham City proper than Wayne Manor. GLAD’s mostly-male administrators thought it a farce to allow its young women to play at the formation of a student government when women weren’t afforded the right to vote in the United States. 

Martha would tell you she was radicalized by Professor Amanda Klotzman, a German expatriate teaching mathematics at GLAD who encouraged Martha to join the Gladhanders. Professor Klotzman described the Gladhanders as a social club, but left out the whole “involving yourself in campus politics” part.

“The promise of Democracy is to be treated as an adult” called Martha into her megaphone, holding a handful of leaflets and shouting from atop an actual soapbox. “Our parents make decisions for us when we are babes, but we are the ladies in Gotham Ladies Academy for Distinction! Shouldn’t we distinguish ourselves by governing ourselves?”

It was a simple rallying cry, but it made sense to the girls who passed what would come to be known as Martha’s Crossing, on mornings before their classes.

When she graduated, Martha Kane had not sought electoral office, but instead, helped young ladies whose vision for the school she believed in. Her hand was behind all three of the Presidents of the GLAD student government. 

Martha found herself bored when she returned home to her family. That is until one evening, at her parents’ insistence, she attended a fundraiser for the reelection of District Attorney Tucker Cobblepot, whose tough-on-criminals policy toward law enforcement seemed to be making Gotham worse –– there were more police, and more arrests, but nobody seemed to want to tell that to the increasingly more bold criminals. 

It was at this fundraiser that she was charmed by Thomas Wayne, an up-and-coming corporate executive who seemed every bit as disinterested in this kind of political theater as she was.

Their courtship was, remarkably, blessed by her parents, who typically bent away from new money. In Thomas, Martha saw an opportunity: for a family that would have the grounding of an unlikely tycoon from a blue collar background, to do the most good. Her parents saw an opportunity to get Martha out of their house and married like a proper young woman. It was no small bonus that they wouldn’t have to account for her political boisterousness once she was married off.

Martha’s Parents would live to see their engagement and wedding, but not to see the birth of their only grandchild: Bruce Wayne, in 1907.

By 1912, Thomas Wayne was a wealthy industrialist having a crisis of consciousness: How could his family have so much when there were so many who had very little?

The American Experiment was failing, and Thomas Wayne, one of its newest and most famous success stories, was being courted by radical labor organizers, and they were persuasive.

Not “persuasive” as is often thought of when radical labor is discussed. There were no threats of violence. Persuasive as in Thomas Wayne was able to see, with clarity that was quite uncommon for a man of great wealth, that a rising tide lifts all ships.

Wayne Enterprises unionized in March of 1915, and became a democratically controlled worker cooperative in December. Thomas Wayne stepped down from his position as Chairman of the Board in early 1916, but continued to work for the company he had built as a part time inspector. He donated his salary to the company pension fund, and dedicated his off-work time and substantial resources to improving the lives of Gotham’s most vulnerable. 

Bruce Wayne was an only child, but he had myriad brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles: families who were down on their luck were always welcome for a hot meal and a place to stay at Wayne Manor, some of them would be taken on as workers on the grounds, and others were advocated for fiercely by Thomas for jobs at Wayne Enterprises.

A group of workers from Wayne Enterprises, with the backing of union bosses from across Gotham started to encourage Thomas Wayne to run for Mayor of Gotham City in the 1916 municipal election. His name recognition would be second-to-none and he could make significant policy advancements for working people throughout the city. Thomas, to the disappointment of many (and more than one stern admonition from Martha) refused on the grounds that until his wife had the right to vote for him, he would not consider the suggestion.

Of course, when you are a person of great wealth and fame, statements that are politically unpopular with vast swaths of the country make headlines, and thus it was that Gotham City, New Jersey, became a stronghold for the Women’s Suffrage movement, with Martha Wayne and her husband Thomas, as staunch and outspoken advocates.

When the Nineteenth Amendment passed, the celebration at Wayne Manor was legendary, not for debauchery or excess, but for Martha’s announcement that she, not Thomas, would be running for Mayor of Gotham in the election. 

If elected, she would be the first woman mayor of any major city in the United States, and she was the immediate frontrunner.

Thomas was a vociferous supporter, and, very authentically, played the role of a doting husband and cheerleader for Martha. The campaign, which many speculated would be self-funded, received an unprecedented number of donations: The Wayne family had changed lives in Gotham, and people wanted to return the favor by supporting in any way that they could.

Martha’s only Primary Election opponent, Councilman Douglas Lutz, decided to withdraw his candidacy the day after the Ford statement, and Martha easily won the nomination with more than three times as many votes as her eventual opponent in the General Election in November, Spencer Stagg. 

The campaign was heated and contentious –– partisans rallied around their respective candidates, but Martha’s ability to sell complicated ideas packaged as digestible, plain-spoken, common sense combined with Thomas’s relationships with some of the most talented journalists on the East Coast made for a campaign that could practically write its own headlines. When Wayne Enterprises, Gotham’s largest employer, announced that Election Day would be a paid holiday for their workers, it made the front page of The Daily Planet.

Councilman Lutz was gracious in his concession, and that relationship may have secured his eventual seat on the board of Kane Chemical, a company founded by Martha’s late father.

Kane Chemical frequently hosted tours of their facility for investors, politicians, and schoolchildren, and it was during one of these tours (including the student’s of young Bruce Wayne’s junior high school class), that Councilman Lutz announced his endorsement of Martha Wayne for Mayor of Gotham and that Kane Chemical would be following Wayne Enterprises’ lead and paying workers for a day off on Election Day.

Bruce, separated from his class to join his mother at the councilman’s announcement looked down from the catwalk at bubbling vats of toxic chemicals, and his mind raced. He and his mother were photographed with the councilman following the endorsement, and he verbalized his concern.

“This seems dangerous. Why did grandpa build this scaffolding above hazardous chemicals?” The boy asked. “The fumes seem like they could make you dizzy, and, that could lead to somebody falling in, couldn’t it?”

“A cover while the chemicals are heating to mix could ruin the solution, or build up pressure and explode,” replied Councilman Lutz.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated at the tendency of adults to constantly underestimate him.

“Use a metal gate,” Bruce sighed.

Douglas chuckled at a boy he assumed was being precocious, but Martha knew better; she escorted Bruce down to where the lead engineers were discussing something.

“Gentlemen,” she began, thrusting Bruce front and center, “this is my son, Bruce. And he had an idea about some ways to make the main floor safer. Bruce?”

“I just mentioned that the tanks being open might lead to people falling in from the catwalks. It seems needlessly dangerous,” Bruce said. “Maybe you could cover them with a grate to keep pressure from building up; it’s unlikely to protect from pollutants, but at least people and large debris wouldn’t fall in…and maybe throw a circus net in between the catwalks for good measure?”

The two men in lab coats conferred for a moment, and the younger-looking one leaving abruptly.

“Mister Wayne,” the older-looking man said, extending his hand to Bruce, “I believe we met at the Christmas party when you were a bit younger. What an excellent idea. Barney just left to begin doing some sketches. Bright boy you’ve got here Martha. Really going places!”

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Martha and Thomas Wayne were true stewards of Gotham City and the people in their employ. They were building a legacy –– in public, and in real time –– for all of Gotham, and much of America to witness.

They also made the time to be good parents. Busy, and sometimes overworked, to be sure, but they were supportive and nurturing to their child, and tried to engender in young Bruce a standard of empathy and compassion toward those less fortunate than him.

When neither could be with the boy, he could often be found exploring the grounds with Alfred Pennyworth, who the couple lovingly referred to as the household’s chief of staff. Alfred was an indispensable family member to the Waynes, having grown up in the house where his mother and father worked. When he left them for Europe in 1917, it took three workers just to do an acceptable impression of Alfred. Bruce had idolized the man in the same way a boy might idolize his much older brother, and sought Alfred’s guidance on everything from schoolwork to romance.

Bruce’s other haunt was their well-appointed library, reading whatever piqued his interest when he arrived. He was an insatiable reader, absorbing even the most esoteric volumes in the library, and often progressing through two or three books at once.

Fearing that he would consume every book they owned, Martha sent away for several magazines; weekly digests with multiple stories that Bruce could read and anticipate and talk to his parents (and Alfred) about.

Martha and Thomas knew that the sun was setting on their son’s requited affection for them. He’d grown up too fast, as is the way with children. But his eagerness to share the stories he was reading  with the family was a way to delay the dusk just a little longer.

In 1919, one of these pulp magazines, All-Story Weekly, published the first installment of a serialized novel titled The Curse Of Capistrano. It was the first appearance of the masked, swashbuckling swordsman in the black cape, Zorro.

Bruce loved the fantasy of costumed heroics, and mystery stories. He wouldn’t call these his favorite genre, but the boy definitely had a certain affinity for the fast paced stories of heroes seeking to avenge an injustice.

Throughout Martha’s campaign, Bruce revisited The Curse Of Capistrano many times, often discovering new elements to the story in his rereads or his discussions about it with Alfred.

The rumor, which had been supplied to Bruce by his parents and substantiated by the director himself, was that Capistrano would be made into a movie by Mr. Douglas Fairbanks’ new production company United Artists, and Bruce would picture the story being adapted into a motion picture in his mind’s eye.

And so it was that a telegram came in the morning on Thursday, April 1^st, April Fool’s Day, and the Feast of the Ascension:

TOM AND MARTHA

I HAVE AN EXCITING MOTION PICTURE IN PRODUCTION WHICH I BELIEVE I’VE MENTIONED.
 
I WOULD LOVE FOR YOU AND YOUR SON TO JOIN ME ON APRIL 17 AT SIX SHARP FOR A PRIVATE RECEPTION FOLLOWED IMMEDIATELY BY A SCREENING OF 

THE MARK OF ZORRO

HOSTED AT THE HIGHWAYMAN THEATRE.

PLEASE WON’T YOU JOIN ME?

SIGNED, DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS

April 17^th. Bruce’s thirteenth birthday.

Typically for his birthday, Bruce would be taken to dinner at his favorite restaurant, Casa Giannerini. Thomas didn’t think pushing the reservation back to Friday would be a problem, and Martha made the call herself to confirm. 

Surprising Bruce with an early showing of The Mark of Zorro would certainly make this a memorable birthday celebration. 

And maybe it would delay the dusk just a little longer.

Chapter Text

"My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.
I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine?   
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.   
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody’s serious but me.   
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again."

ALLEN GINSBERG; "AMERICA"

 

A Dance With The Devil

The sun was setting, and Dimitri Vladkov was running late for a meeting on the docks at Gotham Harbor. 

Not a meeting, exactly, but, a private acquisition. A favor, for his employer, Liam Warner. 

Dimitri had trouble understanding why this couldn’t be done during the day, or at the office and why the shipment needed to be carried out in a place with a less than shimmering reputation for safety. 

Which was to say nothing of how unpleasant driving a big truck like this one was, and Dimitri was out of practice.

When he arrived at the Port of Gotham, the cargo ship containing the shipment had already arrived and was beginning to be unloaded.

“Four crates, which should be opened and checked for contents. Make sure you bring a prybar, and a pair of gloves, because there’s like to be loads of broken glass in each container,” explained Warner on their phone call earlier in the morning.

All told, Dimitri felt inconvenienced, but not too bad about these kinds of favors. Sure, they took an hour or two out of your night, but Dimitri could mostly plan around them, and they bought plenty of goodwill with the boss.

Before he’d seen Superman, he’d been unemployed for almost a year. The Depression seemed to be winding down for everyone but Dimitri.  But to meet Lex Luthor, then Liam Warner –– it was like seeing Superman that day was an augur of positive things to come.

Now he was in charge of operations and logistics for Shamrock Home Electro-Lock, Ltd. A company that was less than a month old, and that had been, like Mr. Warner had said, the subject of a bidding war between Wayne Enterprises and LexCorp. 

“Connecting people,” Liam Warner would say “that’s the mission.” And they’d connected thousands already. The federal contract had come through exactly as his boss had predicted; government buildings were being fitted with lead insulation all the time –– and plenty of private homes, too.

When he hopped down from the cab to investigate the shipment, he checked in with the longshoremen, who couldn’t find anything for the crates which was…odd. In spite of the general inconvenience of it all, this did seem like a small, at least fair price to pay for the turnaround in Dimitri’s life over the past several weeks.

“What’s yer name, mack?” demanded a longshoreman holding a clipboard who stank of tobacco spit.

“I’m here with Shamro––“

“Yer name, mack. I don’t got any Shamrock on the board, pal.”

“Dimitri. Dimitri Vladkov,” he replied, puzzled. Freight shipments never got addressed to individuals.

“There ya are, those three crates. Whoops, sorry pal,” the longshoreman literally spat. “Four crates.”

Dimitri made his way to the shipment, and was followed by the roustabout who continually spit as they walked more or less in step.

“Need help getting these onto yer truck? I don’t think your dolly is gonna do it, mack.”

He was right. Dimitri inserted the prybar into the seam on one of the crates and began exerting some pressure to open it.

“Sure. How much?” he asked after finishing one side of the crate.

“Don’t worry about it, mack. Short manifest tonight, and it’s this or we pay the boys to play cards for three hours.”

Dimitri nodded at the clipboard-wielding man, who ran off toward the other dockhands, shouting.

By the time he’d opened the first crate, he was surrounded by the foreman and four other dockhands with bigger, diesel-powered dollies. He started to reach into the packing straw then remembered his gloves. Clearing some of the straw away, there were easily thirty thousand small, glass somethings. And it looked like more than half of them had been broken.

“What are these?” he asked skeptically under his breath examining a handful of glass pieces. They looked like small test tubes with tiny, pinprick holes and three little chambers within. The glass was razor sharp and paper thin, these things would break under even the slightest pressure. What could you even use something like this for?

Dimitri thought better of inspecting the other crates; it didn’t seem worth the effort, and he could just open them at the office in the morning –– Mr. Warner was unlikely to be in tomorrow anyway, so there was no rush, and he directed the other workers to his truck. He removed one glove and ferreted away a handful of the tiny tubes into the finger hollows.

He thanked each worker and handed the men a couple bits, each, then got back into his truck, and began driving away from the docks.

Shamrock Home Electro-Lock, Ltd. wouldn’t have anyone working this late, so no one would be available to help unload the crates tonight, but it was close enough to a hotel that he could walk over and immediately get a Quick-Cab back to Metropolis, which beat the hell out of driving this truck back across the bridge in the earliest hours of the morning after a late night.

The narrow streets leading from the docks to the office were paved with brick and optimized for streetcars, not trucks like this one, not that any car was exactly a smooth ride on brick, but the truck seemed to jostle and toss Dimitri even at the slow pace he took to his destination. At one point, he hit some kind of a bump in the road, briefly thought of stopping, and then just muttered something to himself about it probably being a rat and moved along.

Dimitri couldn’t escape the feeling that more and more of these tiny tubes would be breaking with every block he drove, and was relieved to finally see the dark warehouse that housed Shamrock appear on the horizon.

He backed the truck up to a loading dock, and gave the tires a once-over to see if there was any damage or if it was just some stray that he’d run over, but under the low light of a Gotham evening, he couldn’t see anything that evidenced damage or a dead rat.

Dimitri planned to open the door to the warehouse, but the faint sound of a piece of glass hitting the pavement and shattering turned his attention suddenly to the truck. The man cautiously approached the vehicle, placing his hand on the handle of the black Colt 1911 holstered inside his jacket. Another plink followed by the sound of glass breaking prompted him to draw his weapon.

“Who’s there?” he called out into the night. “I gotta gun!” But the only reply was another tiny glass break.

Rounding the back of the truck, Dimitri lowered the weapon, staring at the rear door of the vehicle that he was certain he’d latched, but it was opened ever so slightly. Dimitri raised the gun again, pulling the door fully open, and all of the crates had been pried open. There was straw and glass all over the floor of the cargo hold of the truck, and Dimitri was struck dumb for a moment.

He looked into each of the crates, and they’d all been emptied by at least half, if not completely relieved of their contents.

The man was perplexed, holstering his gun and closing up the truck, securing the door for the second time this evening, and running to the front door of the warehouse: he needed to make a call.

He lit the lamp in his office and pulled out his address book, finding the number for Mr. Warner.

“Liam Warner here,” came the Irish brogue over the receiver after a second ring.

“Boss, I –– I think I got hijacked bringing those crates back to the warehouse,” Dimitri was still struggling to figure out how.

“You think?” came the voice over the phone. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just…I dunno what happened exactly. I loaded the goods into the truck, and when I got back to the office, the crates were all missing at least half of these little…what are these glass things anyway?”

“Rijke acoustic tubes,” Mr. Warner supplied. “They’re part of an experiment in privacy technology. They vibrate at a specific frequency, and the hope is that that background noise could help prevent eavesdropping. Are there any left?”

“There’s plenty of broken ones, and maybe one full crate of good ones in the whole truck. Look, I’m really sorry about this, I don’t know how this coulda happened Mr. Warner.”

“Dimitri,” Liam started in a warm, calm voice. “I’m just glad that nobody got hurt. Go on home now, I appreciate the work you’ve done for me this evening, and I’ll salvage what I can when I get in if you’ll put the remaining tubes in my office.”

“Not a problem, boss. Good evening,” and Dimitri hung up the phone, running his fingers through his hair.

It didn’t feel right. It was downright confusing. Why go through all the trouble for an experimental technology, why ship it in Dimitri’s name, and why be so absolutely calm about an outcome where Dimitri lost most of the cargo?

Then Dimitri remembered something he’d been told by Saul right after the acquisition.

“I know this is strange, but you’ve met him, and he’s a strange guy. If you’re ever confused by something at Shamrock, and you can’t get a sensible answer, or you feel like a sensible answer might not exist, call the number on this card.”

Dimitri flipped to the back pocket of the address book, nervously removing the card that was tucked into the pocket, and began dialing the number, not knowing who he’d be connected to.

“LexCorp, Mercy Graves speaking,” came the answer after less than a full ring.

“Hiya Miss Graves. My name is Dimitri, and I work for Mr. Luthor in Gotham.” Dimitri’s statements had the intonation of questions. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was told to uhh…to call this number if I was ever confused by something?”

“One moment,” snapped Mercy. A clicking sound, and then, an inhalation on the other end of the phone.

“This is Mister Luthor, Dimitri. Tell me more about why you’re calling.”

Dimitri told the whole story, being asked to begin again a number of times to include what seemed like very minor details, while Lex Luthor asked questions and took notes.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

”It’s difficult to determine what is and isn’t important,” Lex remarked to the open air of his office, knowing that Mercy was unlikely to respond directly unless prompted. “Can you make heads or tails of this man’s story?”

“I think a lot of this might be solved if you met with Mr. Warner face-to-face. You’ve entrusted an awful lot to a fella you’ve only met once in person.”

Lex began to wave her off, but then lowered his hand.

“While I’ve bought and sold several dozen companies without ever meeting the workers, it was extraordinarily convenient that a company dealing in matters poised to make such an overwhelming profit in an industry that I personally practically willed into existence would fall into my lap just like that.”

“Is it possible you were emboldened by a string of victories? Or maybe this threat from the pages of a pulp magazine?” Mercy extended a pinky toward the ceiling of Lex’s office and made a soft slide-whistle noise through her teeth while looking obviously upward.

“I suppose either of those could be the case,” replied Lex, rounding his desk. “Although if this was a setup –– especially if it was a setup by him, I may have to second guess every business deal of the past…what would even be safe given those circumstances? Three months? Six?” Lex didn’t say it, but the subtext was read perfectly by Mercy –– this of course included the manifold deals that weren’t done by Lex directly, and that couldn’t be traced to him or LexCorp.

“I’ll set something up with Mr. Warner for the next time he’s stateside,” Mercy spoke the idea as though it were a foregone conclusion. Lex Luthor wasn’t the type of person who allowed plots to unfold under his nose without his hand influencing them. Especially not plots with the potential to be catastrophically dangerous.

“Of course, thank you,” Lex replied sternly. “And Mercy,” he cleared his throat, “let’s start reviewing every acquisition that LexCorp or one of my closer confederates have made in the last…eight months, please.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir.”

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Dimitri closed everything up, turned off the lights in the warehouse, and checked and rechecked that the doors were locked. He wasn’t from this side of the bridge, and already Dimitri had a tendency towards being a little nervous. As he left the building, he walked over to the truck and slapped a padlock on the cargo door to at least deter an attempt at coming back for more of the little glass tubes.

He walked off the lot and toward the hotel, giving a paranoid look over his shoulder every so often. The scurrying of a rat, or the rolling of gravel drew twitchy turns of his head. Dimitri heard the clang of metal on metal from a distant flagpole and whipped around, drawing his pistol and leveling it at nothing but open air.

Somehow, the three quarters of a mile between here and the hotel seemed much farther. The nervous man felt much safer in Metropolis. Even Suicide Slums was less of a hellhole than this. He saw a homeless man under the bridge ahead of him, sleeping under a ragged coat, and the thought that maybe Lenin had a point crossed his mind, but the Ukrainian immigrant shook it off; letters from home had suggested that the Soviets were slowly starving anyone making an attempt at freedom.

Dimitri holstered his gun, and increased his walking pace through the shadows of the overpass.

“Dimitri,” came a whisper on the wind, and the same broke into a near sprint, hoping to clear the darkness of the bridge before whatever had just whispered his name caught up to him. 

Children often scare themselves with fairytales or superstitions to explain the noises or shadows in their dark bedrooms or cellars. They invent shields against these imaginary monsters: If I don’t turn around, it can’t hurt me, or If I close the closet door, it can’t get out. 

The monsters aren’t real, but these defenses wouldn’t work against even the least enterprising things that go bump in the night.

Dimitri’s belief that getting to the sidewalk, under the syncopated light of a streetlamp would save him from the whispers was, unfortunately, more childish than his belief that he had heard something whisper his name. 

When he emerged from the overpass, he felt a foolish relief immediately before he heard a sound like a waving flag.

“Dimitri,” came the whisper again, and he unholstered his Colt, promising never to let it leave his hand again if he just made it through this. He turned around slowly, tears beginning to well in his eyes, and leveled the gun at –– what was it?

“Zalište mene u spokoyi.” Dimitri wanted to scream it, but only managed to whisper back.

Before him, stood flowing, matte blackness taking vaguely human form. The blackness was so absolute that it looked like a hole in reality. Its eyes reflected light like a wolf’s, giving them an eerie, green-orange glow.

Dimitri moved his thumb toward the safety on his gun, when a black blur shot out of the mass in front of him like the shadow of a striking cobra, and he was certain he would die. The slide on the 1911 fell loudly to the ground at the same time as the magazine slid out of the receiver, leaving Dimitri holding a disassembled, mostly harmless hunk of metal.

“Dimitri,” whispered the blackness, “I need to know who you spoke to tonight. Take a deep breath. Be calm and no harm will come to you.”

Dimitri’s feelings of loyalty toward Liam Warner were strong, but the chances were much higher that if this dyyavol was working for someone, it was Lex Luthor –– what if this was a test?

“Just the man who runs the company. H-h-he’s an Irishman.”

“Who else?” replied the whisper like it already knew.

“No one!” He shrieked, and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the blackness had vanished, leaving him absolutely beside himself.

He backed away slowly from where he stood, needing to watch the spot where the specter had been, scanning all around him, up and down, and seeing nothing. Recovering the gun would be useless; if the thing came back, it could just disarm him again, and it wouldn’t make him any safer to be fumbling with reassembling the thing as he walked.

He took another step back and bumped into the devil.

“Calmly,” whispered the blackness, putting a heavy hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “Tell me who else you spoke with tonight.”

Dimitri took a deep breath.

“Lex Luthor…and his secretary. Miss Graves.”

The hand slipped from his shoulder.

“Luthor is a warlord. Don’t speak to either of them anymore.” 

“I-I almost never! This is the second time I’ve ever spoken with him, and the first time I’ve spoken with the dame. Once was when they came here to look at the warehouse after buying us out…I swear, I––hello?”

Dimitri turned around slowly, and the dark figure was gone. The Ukrainian man didn’t bother to consider where it might have gone, and bolted the remainder of the way to the hotel without ever looking back.

On arrival at the hotel, Dimitri decided he needed something to calm his nerves before he went back to his apartment in Metropolis. He entered the lobby and walked to the bar, which was not particularly busy.

He ordered a vodka and tonic water with a twist of lime, then thought better of it and asked for two. The bartender shot him a concerned look, but Dimitri didn’t respond when the barkeep asked him if he was alright. He just stared off at a nonexistent point in the distance and let out a sardonic chuckle.

"You'd think I was pullin' your leg," remarked Dimitri, feigning a smile that quickly vanished from his face. The bartender raised one eyebrow, then went back to filling the order.

For quite some time Dimitri had felt that he owed Saul for this job, and he had. But Saul was involved with some of the shadier characters in Metropolis, and there was no telling whether Saul was commingling his dealings with Calhoun with his work at Shamrock. Dimitri had a bit of nerve to give Saul the what-for, but then began telling himself that Saul wouldn’t even have believed him. His drinks arrived, and he promptly paid the bartender, downing the first in a single swig.

To Dimitri: him and Saul were even. No more favors, no more side jobs. No more under-the-table stuff. 

And, even with a gun to his goddamn head, no more Lex Luthor.

Chapter Text

“First sacrifice to the warriors who once had their home in this island,

Laid in the tombs of heroes with their faces turned to the sunset,”

– The Pythia (Oracle at Delphi), to Solon, 594 BCE

 

Meeting The Oracle

Barbara Gordon didn’t understand why she was here. She’d been working at Wayne Enterprises for about three months, and, at least per her coworkers, was doing a pretty solid job as an audit accountant.

Wayne Enterprises had been one of the few local places that was willing to hire a young woman just out of junior college, but there was this whole worker cooperative thing that she didn’t quite understand. If Wayne was owned by the employees, what happened if she decided to leave to pursue a better degree.

Not that she needed it. Barbara was talented with numbers and with information. She saw connections in places where others wouldn’t look. But for the life of her, she didn’t know why she was here. 

It was Mr. Wayne’s office, not that he was ever using it. Mostly it was used for meetings and interviews, and on the off chance that Bruce Wayne was downtown and needed to make a phone call. She had seen him…once since she’d been at Wayne Enterprises.

She knew she was doing well at work though. But her provisional contract wasn’t up for review for another six months, and, to her knowledge, cooperatives didn’t vote people in early. Especially not federated cooperatives like Wayne.

Could she be getting fired? She steeled herself for the possibility. It didn’t make any sense, unless. She did notice a string of accounts errors going back for about a year, maybe she’d discovered some kind of embezzlement plot and this was retaliatory.

She scanned the room, looking for something, something she could use to give herself some security. Maybe they’ll let her stop at her desk and they won’t watch her while she packs her things.

Wait, no. Tommy was the one responsible for the errors, and he copped, and it was only a couple grand. Certainly a lot of money to her, but for a company as big as this, nothing to get worked up over, especially if it wasn’t a pattern. 

Barbara chuckled inwardly at her own paranoia and relaxed. It wasn’t like the library wouldn’t want her back.

“Miss Gordon,” came the pleasant, almost calming voice of an older man. Probably negro. She couldn’t place it. It wasn’t someone she’d met before. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Lucius Fox, and I direct a lot of the day-to-day operations here,” Lucius extended a hand to Barbara as he took his place behind the desk; she rose to shake it.

“Your colleagues tell me you’re doing some wonderful work, and I wanted to talk to you about a job that I think might be a perfect fit for you, assuming you’re interested.”

“An opportunity?” Barbara’s guard felt like it was unable to go up around this man. He had such a kind, grandfatherly way about him.

“Yes Miss Gordon,” Fox’s words seemed to smile along with him. “Have you met Bruce Wayne?”

There’s the other shoe.

Barbara Gordon had met Bruce Wayne once. She believed that he’d invited her to a gala to benefit the library after making an enormous contribution –– including some very rare reference books –– and she’d been so flustered at the audacity of some blueblood inviting her as his date to an event that she was already invited to as library staff that she ended up telling him off in what had to be the loudest outburst the library had heard in years.

She was of course, deeply embarrassed when he clarified that he didn’t mean as a date, but was inviting her to be a part of the planning committee, as they didn’t have any library employees helping to plan the event, and that seemed like a foolish oversight. Barbara suggested Mable Martin instead, politely declining the invitation; in fact, Barbara was so mortified that she skipped the gala altogether, and the free tickets to the annual fundraiser were half the reason that she took the part time job working at the library in the first place.

She blushed a little at the memory.

Wayne was never here, though. And he wouldn’t have remembered her just by name. He couldn’t personally review every single employee who worked here, could he?

In any case, she had no plans to be a pawn in some matchmaking game for the absentee, eponymous boss, regardless of how eligible a bachelor he was. But she was smart. And she wouldn’t let her offense at this unrealized prospect embarrass her a second time.

Barbara Gordon fixed her face into something like a disinterested scowl and replied.

“I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Wonderful,” beamed Lucius, looking over the nondisclosure document that Barbara had signed prior to the meeting. “It just so happens that he has a younger adopted brother named Dick Grayson, and Dick is running for mayor of Gotham. He’s putting together a campaign team, and I think you’d make an excellent choice for his campaign manager.”

Barbara exhaled, and had to force herself to smile.

“Mister Fox, I’m flattered, truly, but…” she searched for the right words. “I don’t have any experience with politics. I might not be right for this job.”

“Well, Miss Gordon, we’re not going to ask you to do anything you wouldn’t be comfortable with, but here are a few of the important details. First, if you take the job, it’s a raise, a considerable one. Secondly, we’d pause your probationary contract here for the duration of the campaign, so there would be a position for you when you return. Finally, everyone here would be rooting for you. Win or lose, it’s likely that you’d get converted to a worker-owner as soon as you returned.”

Barbara’s mind was racing. The pay at Wayne Enterprises was already better than most places, a raise would let her start saving a considerable amount of money. She feigned thinking about it for a moment.

“I’ll take it!” she practically shouted it with the kind of confidence that would of course lead her to blush in mere moments.

“Not so fast Miss Gordon,” chuckled Lucius. “We’ll give you the rest of the day off –– paid, of course –– but you’ll need to head out to Wayne Manor for a formal interview.”

Barbara’s face was hot, and she was certain a glowing, sunburnt shade of red to match her hair.

“Don’t fret Miss Gordon. For what it’s worth, and I suspect it’s worth quite a bit, you’re the only candidate who I’ve written a letter of recommendation for,” Mr. Fox’s smile quelled most of her embarrassment.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “But, I don’t know if I can ride my bike all the way to Wayne Manor by the end of the day.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡  

Interviews had started in earnest for Dick Grayson’s campaign team, and had left a number of applicants vexed.

It was less than traditional to feed people you were interviewing for a job. It was downright confusing to have to sign paperwork and then be sent, with a private driver, to speak to Mr. Wayne for something like a promotion, but when you’re a worker at Wayne Industries, there are certain courtesies that are observed in honor of the family that started the businesses –– no matter how eccentric that Bruce Wayne might seem sometimes.

“I liked her, what was wrong with her?” Dick said as an applicant, a very blonde applicant,  left, and the car could be heard pulling off.

“She was impressive on a number of metrics, but she didn’t have what you’re looking for,” replied Bruce.

“Oh, and what exactly am I looking for Bruce?”

“Someone who makes your flaws into strengths.”

Dick gave Bruce a blank expression.

“You’re supposed to be better than formulaic bullshit,” he said in a monotone.

“Formulaic bullshit doesn’t make it untrue.”

“Okay, Sigmund. How would you make hotheaded into a strength?”

“First of all,” started Bruce, “you have exceptional mental clarity when you’re angry. You’re focused, you’re quick, and you’re good at adapting. However, on the campaign trail, you’ll need someone to help you train your mind to be more clear when you’re not angry, and to direct that anger into something productive. Ultimately, th––”

“I believe our next candidate is here,” announced Alfred.

Dick tried to breathe deeply and hide the annoyance he was feeling for Bruce. It wasn’t that Bruce was wrong, it was that it wasn’t going to be as easy as he made it sound. But Dick would play it cool for now.

“Miss Barbara Gordon,” Alfred’s voice boomed as he held the door open for the well-dressed, bespectacled woman who looked rather stuffy (owing to the tight bun of auburn hair atop her head with not a single strand out of place, and her unsmiling lips) to Bruce and Dick. “Please, have a seat.”

Barbara refused the suggested seat, approaching Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson at the end of the long, dark wood dining table. She extended her hand to the men for a shake. Her grip was firm, and betrayed a quiet confidence that was about to get much louder. She took the chair opposite Bruce, nearest to Dick who was standing at the head of the table with his hands flat on its surface.

“Tell me more about your campaign, Dick,” she said, not bothering with any of the formalities. “Why are you running to be the next mayor of Gotham?”

Bruce began to reply, but Dick held up his hand. He’d prepared for this question:

“Listen, I’ve been extraordinarily fortunate, considering my modest beginnings. My parents died when I was ten, and, honestly, I’m lucky that I didn’t.” Barbara produced a notepad and a pen, jotting down details as Dick spoke.

“When my parents died, I was able to ‘bounce back’ because I was taken in by a family. I was given emotional and financial support by these brilliant men. And every day in Gotham, I see young people who are on the precipice of falling through the cracks. 

“Thing is, Gotham is a city with a wealth of talent, but we are incredibly poor when it comes to opportunity. We spend too much money on police to make people like Bruce and me more comfortable, but we aren’t investing public dollars in the President’s jobs programs. In fact, Wayne Enterprises is the only company with reliable work and fair wages that seems to have started hiring again…”

Barbara liked what she was hearing, even if a lot of it felt like the types of things that Karlo would say, Dick had an authenticity to his words, and it didn’t hurt that he had boyish good looks and had the wealthiest man in the city behind him.

“…which is to say, that it would be easy to ignore the growing violence in our city, and just keep churning through police commissioners who would rather just fill jails than get people the help they need. But we need someone who will be an advocate for the every day Gothamite. And that needs to include everyone: Women, men, kids. Blacks, whites, and whoever else comes to our city looking for a safety net,” Dick paused, his eyes shifting to Bruce, then to Barbara, with just the slightest hint of a smile on his face.

Barbara looked down at her notes, seeing the scribbled words “circus” and “acrobat family,” and understood it to be an attempt at humor. She forced a snicker, while Bruce muttered “cut that.” Dick rolled his eyes and continued:

“My vision of Gotham is a safe place to start. I want our city to be a place where hard work is rewarded with community; people who will attribute their success to our nurturing city, and be excited to pay it forward.”

“So,” Barbara raised an eyebrow without lifting her eyes from her notepad, “I guess we can expect higher taxes if you win?” the question was earnest, if a bit cynical.

“I don’t think the people of Gotham are going to be upset about higher taxes if they see their money being invested in their community. If the trash is picked up on time, and the bus runs on schedule, and the streets are safe and the parks are green, who’s gonna complain? The problem we have now is that Karlo is charging you an arm and a leg, between the permits and the cost of living, and you can’t even get a school bus stop in your neighborhood if you’re by the docks.”

Barbara nodded, acknowledging Dick’s thesis. “So what’s your plan?” How will you connect with voters? Do you know who else is planning a primary run?”

Dick put his index finger in the air and opened his mouth to say something, but then his expression fell. 

“If I may,” Bruce cut in. “It’s early on enough that if Wayne Enterprises is backing Dick, it should clear the field for the primary, barring some scandal that we don’t know about,” Bruce eyed Dick, half-serious.

“Wayne Enterprises is the biggest employer of Gothamites in Gotham by quite a bit. Obviously there’s nothing at stake, everything will continue if Dick isn’t elected –– but we do feel like our thumb is on the scale for him. Of course you’ll understand, none of that means we can take Karlo for granted. The corruption in Gotham might only be an inch across, but it’s a mile deep; we’ll need to be ready for Karlo’s dirty tricks and his dirtier friends.”

“Hmm,” Barbara pondered audibly, pushing her glasses up further on her nose. “I’d need to do some more research, but what else can you tell me about your expectations of me?”

“With respect Miss Gordon, we haven’t even offered you the job.” Dick shot back with some severity.  Barbara was caught a bit off guard, and scanned the faces across the table: Bruce, built like an olympic wrestler, was stoic, not revealing anything. Alfred, however, was a little older and perhaps less of a card player. He showed the first signs of grey hair on his head and in his mustache; and slight wrinkles by his twinkling eyes; he smiled ever-so-briefly, and Barbara took that as a positive.

“Mr. Fox said he’d be personally recommending me because of my analytical abilities, and while I don’t want to assume anything, I think the question marks and lines through the other names on your notepad there make it a safe bet that I’m at least in the running.” She smiled the words, masking the annoyance at the younger man playing coy. “So, again, what can you tell me about your expectations of me?”

“Why don’t you tell us what you think would give this position an ideal fit?” asked Alfred with the warm, pleasant strength of earl grey with just a spoon of honey.

“Well, I think I’d want to be a resource,” Barbara began, “I’m a strong writer, so I could help with speeches, and I’m very well organized, so as we staff up, I could keep close track of your calendar.” She said we as though she were already on the team. It was a clever way to make the candidate and his family feel a little more comfortable with her. “I’d really want to direct our opposition research, too. I only moved back to Gotham about eight months ago, but I grew up here, and I absorbed a lot of interesting local history while I worked at the library on breaks from school my friends –– and there aren’t too many of them left, which is a little embarrassing, actually, so many marriages and little house makers settling down –– they call me The Oracle, because I just know a lot.” she rolled her eyes, and seemed to suddenly realize that she’d revealed some very personal information. 

She chewed her lip, a bit nervously. “Sorry.”

Dick narrowed his eyes, but then opened them more widely, and smiled that million-dollar smile. All of his skepticism seemed to melt away, and he, Bruce, Alfred, and Barbara, started discussing their voter-outreach plans.

By the end of the conversation, Bruce had made Barbara a formal offer, which, in her words, she would “need to think about, but it feels like the right move.” The foursome seemed satisfied with the results and the interaction, and made their goodbyes.

Alfred walked her back to the car, and spoke briefly with the driver. Barbara thanked Alfred (more emphatically than she had thanked Bruce or Dick), and the car departed the manor to take Barbara home for the evening.

They really don’t trust the police, the thought repeated in her head, over and over.

“Excuse me,” she spoke out loud to the driver. “Would you mind dropping me off at the Harborview Library downtown?”

“Not a problem, Miss Gordon,” the driver said in singsong tones.

Gotham City Police Department’s Central District Headquarters was just across the street, and it had been too long since she’d had dinner with her father.

Chapter Text

So this Faustus having godly parents, and seeing him to be of a toward wit, were very desirous to bring him up in those virtuous studies, namely, of Divinity: but he gave himself secretly to study Necromancy and Conjuration, in so much that few or none could perceive his profession 

– P.F. Gent[leman], The historye of the damnable life and deserued death of Doctor Iohn Faustus. Newly imprinted, and in conuenient places, imperfect matter amended: according to the true coppy printed at Franckfort, and translated into English

First Contact

Istanbul.

Kyoto.

Metropolis.

St. Louis.

Sacramento.

Metropolis.

Kinshasa.

Smallville.

Arequipa.

Brockton Bay.

Metropolis. 

Bombay.

Montpelier.

Cardiff.

Metropolis.

Renton.

Hougang.

Hanoi.

Keystone City.

Los Angeles.

Mecca.

Metropolis.

Metropolis.

Berlin.

Marseille.

Metropolis.

Coast City.

Great Bend.

Havana.

Civic City.

Fort Worth.

Metropolis.

Kópavogur.

Metropolis.

Washington, D.C.

London.

Metropolis.

Crucible.

Metropolis.

Kermanshah.

Mexico City.

Topeka.

Ithaca.

Sydney.

Branson.

Newspapers from cities with reports of Superman over a random thirty day period laid sprawled in the old mine beneath Wayne Manor. 

Usually, these were front page stories, although sometimes ––in Metropolis for example ––Superman’s exploits were still exciting, but if it wasn’t an interview, it might not be the lead story.

In the papers from smaller cities, they always led with Superman. Of the stories that Bruce could read, they seemed to follow  pattern: A picture of Superman as a blurry man in the sky, or the people he saved, or the police smiling with the alleged criminals that the Man of Steel had apprehended (although in the Topeka story, the image was a little girl squeezing a white cat close to her face). Several quotes from witnesses or beneficiaries, maybe a quote from the police. A quick anecdote or reference to another place where he’d rescued someone, and some version of the conclusive “he refused any reward but thanks.”

Bruce stood with his hand on his chin, brooding over the stories, some much more reliable than others. Radio personalities, especially Skip Freeley, The Gotham Gossip had begun to speculate on the nature of Superman, based mostly on wild conjecture, outright lies, and poorly-educated-guesses. One thing that all of the purported Superman “experts” seemed to agree on was that he was based in Metropolis, and the limited data that Bruce had been able to sample certainly seemed to suggest as much.

Skip Freeley and a handful of other Superfans postulated that Superman had a thing for Lois Lane. She was a very talented reporter, the best and most prolific one at the Daily Planet.  And Superman basically gave her the Pulitzer Prize with his interview (which was long-deserved, Bruce thought, at least since her excellent work covering the ’32 elections and the postmortem she got from Hoover himself that almost made that dullard seem sympathetic. Almost.). 

Bruce started scribbling notes onto scrap sheets of paper, and clipping those to each of the newspapers. Mostly about time-of-day, but if any other details jumped out at him, he’d jot those down too. 

“Thursday Morning.”

“Wendesday after school.”

“Ten o’clock in the morning, or so.”

“The caper was interrupted at 3:55 p.m…”

There were a handful of exceptions, but Superman, even on foreign soil, seemed to work only during the relative day. That added some credibility to the rumor that he didn’t sleep, or at least that he didn’t need to sleep.

No wars, it would seem, and nothing even vaguely political (Superman purported to be a crimefighter, but did nothing to apprehend Dillinger, perhaps owing to the gangster’s Robin Hood façade, and it’s fair to consider the rumors that Dillinger was receiving plastic surgery to make himself more difficult to identify). 

“Coward,” thought Bruce aloud.

It would be unreasonable to ask a man to save everyone, but here was an alien who could; instead he played at “neutrality” to avoid…what, exactly? Criticism? Feedback? Superman wasn’t accountable to anyone, but choosing to save a cat from a tree in Topeka instead of dousing a fire in Hokkaido seemed like a pretty explicit statement of your morals to Bruce. Which was to say nothing of the Austrian Civil War or the coup attempt in France. 

“Oppression requires action,” Alfred had retorted once, when Bruce was barely thirteen, after positing a hypothetical question about the abolitionists who presaged the War Between The States. 

Bruce had suggested that he believed Nat Turner deserved his freedom, but should have chose to avoid violence. “Comfort is not Justice. It’s cowardice,” Alfred explained. “If you have the power to act to defend oppressed people, then using that power must be your first priority.”

There was more than a little objective evidence that Superman was willing to abide fascism, and as a potential one man apocalypse, the shadow of malevolent authoritarianism under a steel fist loomed larger than even Bruce Wayne could be appropriately paranoid for.

Bruce continued combing the papers and his notes from the various “Superfans” for details.  He needed a new perspective on this, and removed a box of colored pushpins from a drawer, unfurling one of the many maps he’d been using to track reports of the urban legends from tabloids, and started pressing pins into the map, color coding in a vaguely chronological order (with only five colors of pin, this seemed like the best system to start with to Bruce).

He took a step back, put his hand to his chin, tapping on his lips with his index finger.

“Huh,” he said aloud.

Nothing. Nothing he could call a pattern was jumping out at him.

Metropolis had the most colored pins by far, with pops of color throughout the States, and the same on other continents.

Geography didn’t seem to be much of a barrier to Superman, and it was alleged that he could get anywhere in the world in less than an hour, though Bruce was concerned that Superman had been holding back, which might suggest he could move much faster than had been observed.

Bruce Wayne pulled every pin out of the map, and tried something different.

Foreign countries: Red.

The East Coast: Blue.

The Midwest: Yellow.

The Southwest: Green.

The West Coast: Black.

Metropolis almost had to be his home base with more pins in that one city than any other whole region, but Bruce had previously discarded a theory about Superman’s origin as an urban-legend-cum-tabloid-headline. 

Now, he thought he might’ve been a bit too premature in casting the hypothesis off.

The Midwest was crowded. And the areas in the immediate vicinity of Kansas were anomalously overrepresented.

Superman is The Smallville Smear.

Bruce thought about the evidence, but considered that he might be giving too much weight to this hypothesis, and turned on the simplex radio, asking Alfred to join him “downstairs.”

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

“These are sightings of Superman,” Bruce explained to Alfred who looked concernedly at the pockmarked map. “Take a few minutes, and let me know what you think this suggests.”

Alfred pondered for a moment, crossing his arms, and licking his teeth through closed lips while he thought.

After four minutes, Bruce joined Alfred, offering a mug of black coffee. The two men sipped, in near silence, nodding in the general direction of the map.

Bats roosting in the cave above them began to stir, prompting both men to cover their drinks with a free hand.

Alfred walked over to the map, and placed a finger on Kansas, looking back at Bruce, and raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

Bruce Wayne smiled, and nodded once at his adoptive father.

“Will you be traveling soon, Mister Bruce?”

“I think we may have some fundraisers to schedule for Dick, but tonight,” Bruce paused to set down his coffee,  “I’ll be running some more equipment tests.”

Alfred surveyed the sewing table, picking up a tiny, impossibly thin glass tubes with 3 separate chambers.

“I’m quite sure these are intended to break very easily. What’s inside of this, and what happens when it mixes?”

“Nitric acid in the first chamber. Everclear soaked sawdust in the second chamber, and a mixture of saltpeter and confectioner’s sugar in the third. Toss it away from us.”

Alfred did, followed by the tinkling sound of glass breaking, a brief spark, and sudden, heavy white smoke, both men stepped back.

“This can’t be safe to breathe,” Alfred said, covering his mouth and nose with his hand.

“It’s not, but it should provide some cover in an emergency, some confusion as well, and a chance to escape, or at least reorient, if needed.”

“Aren’t you worried about smoke billowing out of your pants pockets?” Alfred posed the question with a grin. Bruce rolled his eyes.

“That’s what this is for,” the younger man said, holding up a complex-looking, dark military belt outfitted with myriad rigid bronze colored pockets. “The satchels seal hermetically.” Bruce smiled, but then the smile fell from his face and he walked back to his workbench, grabbing a drill.

“Not interested in walking around with a pinless hand grenade attached to your waist?” Alfred joked. “Why the color? I thought that black and grey were more your fashion.”

“It was the only leaded paint I had sitting around,” Bruce replied, drilling holes into the tops of two of the pouches.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Charles Arthur “Pretty Boy” Floyd had been hiding in Gotham City if the rumors could be believed. A gangster and a bank robber, labeled by Melvin Purvis and Ed Hoover as the number two on the most wanted list of Public Enemies (Dillinger was Public Enemy number 1).

Public Enemy. Even the sentiment was propaganda. Floyd was no saint, but bank robbing had been a big business since the start of the Depression; Floyd was singled out because, in the process of taking cash from the banks (who had taken so much from vulnerable people), he would burn mortgage records, freeing poor and working class families from their enslavement to debt.

For the crime of “giving people an opportunity at a fresh start,” Floyd was framed for a shootout called the Kansas City Massacre; Floyd has publicly stated he had nothing to do with the gunfight, and wasn’t even present –– and he had previously taken credit for most of his other heists –– but the police are a poorly-trained, cowardly lot. It was easy to believe that some or all of the deaths in the shootout was friendly fire.

In East Gotham, a man in all black waited in the shadows in an alley behind The Featherly Family Drugstore. Rats scampered past his feet while whispers and footsteps approached.

A hand is placed onto a wooden plank barring a poorly boarded up door. A knob is twisted, and the door is bumped off of its hinges with the butt of a man’s palm. 

A muted sound like a quick exhalation, a moment of panic.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You didn’t hear that–– I don’t know, sounded like somebody following us.”

“Nobody followed us, get in there.”

The two men entered through the gap in the boards, pulling the plank up behind them.

Pretty Boy Floyd and Andy Crutchfield were quiet as church mice walking through the abandoned brownstone, taking extra care when they walked the creaking stairs to the second floor, expertly dodging steps that were particularly rotted or unreliable. 

The men arrive at the top of the stairs to unspeakable horror: A horned demon, easily looming seven feet tall, with glowing eyes. 

Sustained panic.

Adrenaline.

Drawn guns.

A whisper.

“Quiet, nothing above a whisper. We’ll be safer if you put those guns down. I’m here to help.”

“I think I’d feel safer if you didn’t move, pal,” retorted Floyd in a fierce whisper. “Who the hell sent you? What the hell are you?”

“I wasn’t sent by anyone,” said the demon. “Call me an admirer of some of your work.”

Crutchfield and Floyd glanced at each other for a moment. The sound of wind-filled canvas, disassembled gun pieces falling silently into the phantom’s eerie, flowing blackness.

The demon set the pieces of the guns on the ground.

“When I leave, you can put these back together,” a deep breath, then, “like I said, I’m here to help. You have to get out of Gotham City. We’re too close to Metropolis.”

“Metropolis?” Crutchfield shot back “we’re across a bay. And everybody knows Super––“

“Don’t say his name!” Commanded the flowing darkness of the demon.

“You’re real superstitious for a ghost, pal,” quipped Floyd. “Anyway, we don’t wanna attract any attention from no flying cops, so we’re staying out of Metropolis, and we’re just passing through Gotham.”

“You should leave here tonight if you can,” came whispers from the dark figure. “Failing that, sleep in the basement, and keep watch in shifts.” A pause. “It’s been painted with lead paint. Do you have a car?”

“Only something the cops have already made. We ditched it by the docks when we go––”

“Hey,”  Floyd interrupted, “how the hell did you know we were here?”

A silver key flew through the air, and Pretty Boy Floyd easily snatched it mid-flight.

“There’s a black Buick 90 parked at the corner of Ward and West streets. It has false tags, but it hasn’t been reported stolen. There’s some shoe polish in the glove compartment. Use it to color your hair until you can get a better disguise. Lay low for a few weeks, and get away from the east coast. Maybe head to Mexico.”

The two gangsters exchanged glances, and seemed to finally exhale.

“Hey uhh, thanks, pal. How do we get in touch with you if we need you?” Floyd asked cautiously.

“You don’t,” spoke the blackness. “Take a deep breath,” the guns slid across the floor to the duo, who picked them up, “then go.”

The sound of glass on a hard floor. Sudden, consuming fog.

Two panicking men with disassembled guns pulled their jackets across their faces and hurried down the stairs. They crossed the floor of the ground level to a bronze colored trap door, and headed into the cellar. It was dirty and unfinished, but it had been appointed with a pair of cots and some bedding.

For an hour, the shadow crouched on a rooftop at the corner of Ward and West Streets, hoping the car would be taken and observing the block where Featherly Family Drugstore was located with binoculars from one of the satchels in his belt.

The car didn’t move.

A sudden crash in the distance. The echo of gunshots.

Moments later, Superman emerged from the collapsed rooftop of the abandoned brownstone with Floyd and Crutchfield held in either arm.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

At Wayne Manor, there was an increasing atmosphere of paranoia.

Coded speech, typed notes, and more time spent in the cave beneath the estate.

Three men and about 75,000 little brown bats occupied the cave, working, discussing, and planning.

While Dick and Alfred spoke in earnest about Dick’s campaign, early fundraisers, direct action opportunities, and the newly onboarded campaign manager, Barbara Gordon.

Bruce tinkered at his workbench, with Dick and Alfred’s curiosity piqued by the new sounds coming from Bruce’s direction. 

Static, like a radio being tuned, then a voice:

“CAR 21, WE HAVE A 10-96 AT 33^rd AND FINGER AVE. SUSPECT IS A WHITE 55 YEAR OLD MALE HARASSING RESIDENTS OF WILLIAM TOWER, PLEASE RESPOND.”

“THIS IS FLASS, 10-4.”

 More static, then silence.

“The Gotham Police have started using a two-way a.m. radio,” Bruce began explaining. “It makes dispatch more efficient. I’m trying to figure out how to duplicate this for the new suit –– so that we can communicate with each other –– but for now, I’ve been able to scan the police frequency with a high gain antenna.” Bruce held up a modified version of the face mask he’d adapted to attach to the cape. The eyes were mirrored, a technology that Bruce had implemented years ago to hide the eyes of the Yīnyǐng. But this modified, more rigid face mask featured a tall, metal protrusion on one side that was absolutely new: The antenna he’d mentioned.

“Won’t that impact maneuverability?” Dick asked. “And won’t people just grab it?”

“A lot of the people,” Bruce began to explain, (and this felt like one of those meandering, tangent-traveling explanations that tended to bore Dick to death) “developing their new, loose ‘science’ around his arrival are saying it’s the most significant event in recorded history. 

“For all of their blustering about tachyons and ’Hyperparticles’ and whatever other invented answers they’ve given for his being here, I agree with their statement of his significance. For all intents and purposes, this is likely to be what humanity refers to as the new Year Zero.”

“What are the implications of that?” Asked Alfred.

“And what in the world does that have to do with the metal handle that you just gave to anyone who wants to knee us in the face?”

“The implication is that it’s time to refresh our image,” Bruce went straight to the point. “The Yīnyǐng have served their purpose, and done it well. There are dozens of men and women working at Wayne Enterprises and The Pennyworth Foundation who would’ve been on the streets or locked up if we hadn’t intervened. We were the worst kept secret in the criminal underworld, but we were also clearly men, and Men are mortal. 

“We’re living in a world where at least one god lives among us. And, alien or not, there’s more and more evidence that he isn’t the only one of these metahumans,” Bruce let out a deep sigh. “We need to appear to be like these metahumans.”

“Metahumans aren’t automatons, No one will believe that this,” Dick gesticulated vigorously in the direction of the face mask, “radio operator is a god.”

“Maybe not,” Bruce inhaled dramatically, “but give the Devil his due.  Al, if you wouldn’t mind hitting the lights?”

Darkness, nearly complete silence, save the handful of bats remaining in the cave at this late hour.

Moments passed, Dick grew bored.

Light once again filled the abandoned mine, and Alfred raised a single eyebrow.

“I saw this coming and, admittedly, was preparing to laugh at this, but I have to say,” Alfred remarked, “it’s fearful.”

“Is he behind me?” Dick asked, turning around slowly. “Dammit, Bruce, you know I hate when you –– well, if you ain’t togged to the bricks! But what’s the story with the horns?”

“They’re ears,” Bruce explained, while separating the cape like a theater curtain, revealing the armor of the suit underneath. All of it a deep, dark grey, with a matte black silhouette of a bat dead center on the chest. “Cut the lights again, I want you to see what the cape does in the dark.”

Alfred and Dick looked at the billowing darkness that Bruce became with the lights off. Nearly total blackness in the center of the dark of night, and those glowing, animal-like eyes. The effect was impressive.

“I definitely think your Bat could pass for a meta human,” Alfred remarked as the lights came back on. “Folks might think it’s not human at all.”

Alfred and Dick exchanged a glance, sharing a thought that Bruce really understood how to use theatrics in completely novel ways.

The devil removed his mask and began to walk Dick and Alfred through the integrated technology in the suit: 

A layer of lead birdshot scattered in the base, with a very light coat of lead paint, followed by the fluid layer, designed to stop slugs without adding too much additional weight. The cowl, and how to plug the radio antenna in to the suit while putting the suit on. The buttons integrated into the gloves (with a failsafe under the big toe of the left boot) to send bursts of pressurized carbon dioxide into the veins of the cape and chest.

He demonstrated the grappling hook gun which required an entire canister of carbon dioxide for a single shot so you’d need to make it count, and the flash-and-fog bombs that you could use to obscure your escape (but don’t breathe the fog in).

Speaking of breathing, there was a collapsible rebreather, which also used the CO₂ canisters at the back of the belt in the largest satchel. You probably couldn’t breathe under water with it (at least not for long), but you could get a few extra breaths in a situation with toxic gases or smoke. All of the gaps between the pockets of the belt were filled in with these canisters, which Bruce insisted you would just toss after using, and that didn’t include the two pockets that were filled with the cartridges. Practically speaking, even a hundred of the aluminum canisters only weighed a couple pounds, so, aside from needing to pad the inside of the pockets to keep them from jangling around, they were a relatively lightweight fuel supply for all of Bruce’s tech.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

At the end of it all, Dick had donned the suit and experimented with some of the gizmos –– they all seemed very intuitive very quickly, and, having trained with weighted belts at Alfred’s request, the suit didn’t seem much more cumbersome, it would just take some time to “break it in,” they suspected.

“There’s something else,” Bruce sometimes added weight to his voice, and this was one of those times where he had the timbre of a tombstone. Dick and Alfred perked up. “So, there’s not a safe or sane way to test this, but I don’t think he actually has enhanced hearing.” Bruce let the words reverberate in the mine.

“I’ve read a bit in some of the papers you’ve gathered from the last month,” added Dick. “But even he says he can hear things across incredible distances, and the evidence seems to support that.” Alfred glanced at Dick. The boy was intelligent, to be sure, but unless his back was against the wall, he was comfortable not thinking outside of the boundaries of his established heuristics. 

Bruce, on the other hand… 

“So he says he patrols by flying up into the thermosphere, which he describes as being more than six hundred milesabove sea level; that’s not strictly wrong, but sound needs a medium in which to travel. Air, or water, whatever. It needs molecules to vibrate.”

“––And you’re saying that there’s not enough air for sound waves to travel through,” Alfred provided the translation by way of an interjection for Dick.

“Right. There’s air in the thermosphere, but very little. Sounds dissipate quickly over distances, but in the upper bounds of the thermosphere, they dissipate almost immediately.”

“So then how is he doing it? How does he know where to go?” Dick was incredulous.

“So some of it is visual acuity. Eagles and Owls can see much farther distances than humans, and his x-ray vision suggests that he sees parts of the spectrum that people can’t, probably with the the ability to quickly shift his focus or the spectrum that he’s visualizing on. From six hundred miles up, he could potentially see disasters by quickly shifting to finer or broader focus across  his wide range of vision. Like zooming in on a camera aperture.

“That’s already a significant sensory advantage over humans, but the hearing thing wasn’t making sense to me. So I started comparing notes from the stories and the consistent thing – at least among people interviewed – was that prior to his arrival there was a mortal panic.

“Subjects have repeatedly said that they thought they were going to die, and there are plenty of biological responses to that fear that we know about. But what about responses we don’t know about, or don’t have the tools to measure?” Bruce let the question hang in the damp cave air for a moment.

“Hear me out,” Bruce went on.

“Like we have a choice,” Dick scoffed sarcastically.

“So, the way he talks about hearing, what if he had an organ that let him hear psychic distress as something with such detailed fidelity that it felt like he was hearing an audible cry for help?”

“Does that explain why he tends not to stop domestic violence?” Dick asked, hoping for some more context.

“I believe it does…I mean, I hope it does,” Bruce said. “If not, he’s a much worse hero than we thought. It probably accounts for why he doesn’t stop burglaries, even when the house is occupied. If I’m in your house, snooping around and relieving you of your jewelry while you’re asleep you’re not going to panic if you don’t wake up to a gun waving in your face demanding your money, not to mention–”

“Alright, I need to ask,” Alfred interrupted, “aside from being able to plan without his intervention, what is the advantage this knowledge grants us?”

“Like you said, it’s a potential way to avoid his attention, which will be a big part of our ability to plan, and it’s something that our enemy might not know about himself,” Bruce opened his mouth to continue, and then stopped to think for just a moment. “These are the advantages – the only advantages we’ll have. We need to gather enough of them to achieve even a hope of overcoming his raw power.”

“It’s like you always say Bruce,” Dick added, “‘Be more paranoid than you think you need to be; Contingencies on contingencies: because no plan survives contact with the enemy.’”

“Hmm,” Alfred pondered aloud, “I just can’t help but wonder what kind of devil survives contact with a god.”

Chapter Text

♫ ♪ Twinkle, twinkle, little bat,
How I wonder what you're at.
Up above the world you fly,
Like a teatray in the sky ♪ ♫

– The Mad Hatter, Alice's Adventures In Wonderland

“Mr. Mayor, crime is way down, and I know some of our uhh…” Gotham Police Commissioner Peter Grogan struggled for the appropriate colloquialism “…mutual friends may be alarmed, but I assure you, we’ve got our best team on it.”

The Commissioner loosened his tie, and looked longingly at the meatloaf sandwich sitting, just unwrapped, in parchment paper on his desk.

He picked up a box of paperclips and hurled it at his office window while Mayor Karlo continued reading him the riot act over the phone. When Commissioner Grogan was on the phone, this was his tool to get the attention of any officer green enough to flinch.

Today, it was a young woman, fresh out of the academy – not that Grogan was in the habit of letting women walk a beat, “desk officers,” is what he called them, and they were relegated to filling out paperwork and doing administrative work and occasionally going to schools to talk with children about the Gotham Police Athletic League.

Commissioner Grogan covered the receiver, and began to bark orders; his phlegmy voice hurling flecks of spittle from the man’s mouth (some even clearing the desk).

“Kelly was it? Get me a glass of milk and Jim Gordon, in that order!”

“Yes sir,” the blonde officer replied, rolling her eyes as she turned to head for the kitchenette.

Grogan leered at the woman leaving the room and gave a low whistle after the door was closed.

“You trying to hail a cab, commissioner?” Came the shouting voice of Mayor Karlo on the phone. “Because you can be in the first yellow taxi outta Gotham City if you don’t fix this!”

“Mr. Mayor, I assure you, this isn’t going to be a problem,” the sandwich continued mocking him from the desk. “I’m even now about to have a discussion with my best guy.”

“Best guy?! You told me you had a best team on this! You’re supposed to be the best guy, Pete. I want a goddamn taskforce, do you understand me? If crime is down then this can be priority one.”

“Sorry sir, I meant the guy leading the team. He’s coming in here even as we speak to give me an update on this whole stinkin’ thing.”

“Taskforce, Peter. We’re going to need to address the press on this pretty soon, and I want you to have your terminology straight; if they ask, say it’s the same men who rid our streets of that gang of orientals! People remember them, it’ll build confidence.”

“Mr. Mayor we didn’t have a team for the Yīnyǐng ––“

“The what?!”

“The Chinamen, sir. That’s what their gang was called. They just kinda,” Grogan paused as he saw Kelly rounding the corner with a glass of milk in hand and Gordon behind her. “Stopped. They just stopped their operation.”

“The press doesn’t know that you crumb! When they ask, this is the same taskforce!”

“Yes sir. They’re here now, Mr. Mayor. I’ll prepare a report for you following the update,” Grogan heard the receiver slam down on the other end of the line and placed the handset back on its cradle as Gordon pushed the door open slowly without a knock.

“Jim, finally! Wait in the hall for a spell, I need to talk with Kelly about an assignment,” the commissioner barked.

“Yessir, Commissioner,” the lieutenant replied with a puzzled look on his face, but after a beat: “Kyle, though.”

“Kyle. Yes! Send her in.”

Officer Kyle entered the office, lightly closing the door behind her, hoping to keep it open just a crack so Gordon could hear the ensuing conversation; she’d been in situations like this before, and something about the commissioner’s eyes made her go all Halloween cat. She often thought that being a police officer made her feel safer, it conferred a certain level of respect and authority. Later she would reflect: who polices the police?

Kyle had arrived at Gotham City Police Department the same day that Lieutenant Gordon had, and, she didn’t really trust him per se, but she’d observed varying levels of corruption in the department, from root to tip, and Gordon was the only cop in the building who hadn’t been here long enough to be poisoned by it all.

“Sir, you wanted to see me?”

“Listen, Kyle, I’m thinking of putting that can of yours to work. Maybe in vice. We uh…we’re investigating a…um…a ring of underground brothels, and I think you might be the girl for the job, whaddaya say?”

“Woman,” she replied, hesitantly, “and would that mean I’m getting promoted to detective?”

“You’ve barely been here a month, Kyle. And we don’t really make girls –“

“Women,” she spoke more assertively, but still with deference.

“Pardon me, Kyle. We don’t really make women into detectives. But this would be a special assignment.”

“Sir, with respect, there are no other officers, man or woman, who are undercover at GCPD. According to your briefing to the academy, undercover work is reserved for detectives, and usually veteran detectives,” she was nervous, but she didn’t show it. Growing up in half-cocked foster homes taught her to mute her emotions and be willing to fight.

“Sure, doll,” the words oozed out of Grogan’s greasy mouth like Sunday gravy, “we can make you a dick. We can make a big deal out of it, too. ‘Gotham’s First Dame Detective!’ sounds like a helluva headline to me…but it won’t be official until after the case is beat. We don’t want the bad guys recognizing that million-dollar mug, now do we?” the commissioner smiled like a jackal, but nonetheless, Kyle’s eyes lit up.

“Absolutely sir,” she was measured and calm. “Thank you so much for this opportunity.”

“And Kyle,” the commissioner started scribbling something down on a piece of scrap paper, then stood up, somewhat laboriously (probably owing to a bum knee), extending the paper to the young officer. “Meet me here tonight at seven. Bring a couple dresses with you. We need to see what you’ll look like in this operation. Make sure it’s believable.”

She took the paper, gritting her teeth together in disgust. 

“Sir, I don’t have anything particularly presentable, I assumed the department would pay for–“

Commissioner Grogan pulled out a twenty dollar note, nodding at the rookie officer to take it.

“You should be able to get two or three nice dresses with this,” Grogan smiled hungrily. “Go ahead and get that taken care of. Seven o’clock, Kyle. I’ll be waiting. Go on.”

Officer Kyle took the money, trying her best not to glare, and made a show of “unlatching” the door when she pulled it open to leave.

-♞-

Jim Gordon barely made eye contact with Kyle, having heard most of the exchange and feeling a mix of irritation and embarrassment. She was young enough to be his daughter, after all, and it wasn’t difficult to find a woman who was willing to take a copper to bed, especially, Jim suspected, for a man who so many were sure would be the next mayor of Gotham.

Lieutenant James Gordon slinked into the office, closing and latching the door fully behind him.

“Sir–“

“Jim,” Grogan sounded agitated – without the attractive blonde in the room it was too easy to remember why he had asked for Gordon in the first place, “I’m sure you’ve heard about this bat that the hoods are talking about,”

“Yes, well…” Jim was rarely at a loss for words, and a gifted liar, but it took him longer to react to the question than even he expected, “…I’d sort of assumed it was a local legend. There were those Chinese a couple years back, and –“

“This isn’t like the Chinese, they were ghosts, never anything that anyone reliable had seen,” the commissioner snapped, “this is something new, and the mayor is breathing down my neck about fixing it, Jimbo.”

Jim Gordon hated being called “Jimbo,” but let it slide.

“I can start asking around, but where do you want me to start?” Gordon asked at a loss, “from the looks of it, violent crime is improving right on time for Karlo’s re-election campaign, why does he care about this Dracula fella?”

“Jimmy, here’s the thing,” Commissioner Grogan began, “a lot of the guys say you’re um…they say you’re a good cop. Flass said some of the boys at the docs took care of him for some overtime work and that you only took a third of what he offered you. I gotta say, as much as the devil has this department, I appreciate a man of…integrity.

“But, look, I don’t know what’s got the mayor’s bowtie in a twist, I just want him to leave us alone, and, honestly,” the commissioner smiled an uneasily broad grin, “I trust you, Jimbo. That’s why I want you to lead a taskforce to find this animal and bring him in. Just tell me who you want on your team and tell me your plan. Consider this the top of your list of things to do today.”

“Kyle,” Gordon replied almost too quickly. He couldn’t help but think of the moment they’d had in the hall just before he’d been given this cockamamy assignment; maybe he could relieve her of the dogshit straw she’d drawn with the commissioner. 

“Kyle’s greener than a mick’s wallet, and twice as stupid, you don’t want a broad on this. I really thought you’d take Thigpen or Flass.”

“We’ve been chatting, and she’s got a good head on her shoulders, and she takes direction well,” Jim retorted instantly. “Like you said, the corruption here is pretty prolific, and the other fellas aren’t trying to give a deskie a piece of their take. I can trust Selina in a way that I can’t trust Flass.”

Grogan’s face turned the color of the meatball sandwich on his desk. He was flush with agitation, but he couldn’t pretend at being above corruption if he insisted on needing a blonde rookie for some bullshit vice gig.

“Yeah, Jimmy, take her,” he sighed. “But it’s on your ass if she screws this up.” The Commissioner furrowed his brow and grasped his sandwich with his hands but waited before picking it up, instead raising his eyes to meet Gordon’s. “What are you still doing here? I need an outlook yesterday and a report of some kind first thing in the morning; plan on pulling an all-nighter, Jimbo.”

“Yes sir,” Jim shot back, and left the commissioner’s office, closing the door behind him.

-♞-

Selina looked up from her desk to see lieutenant Gordon, hovering (impatiently, if you asked Selina) while she put a few items into her handbag. He lightly touched her arm.

“Selina, let’s take a walk before you call it a day,” Jim muttered in a voice that was quiet but articulate enough for her to decipher. 

As they reached the front doors of the Central District Headquarters, Jim Gordon explained how he’d relieved Selina of her obligation to the commissioner, apologizing that she had to deal with men like him.

Selina eyed the older man. He was well-intentioned, sure, but she didn’t need another foster father – there was a certain way that men looked at her when they were being “helpful,” and she knew all too well the expectations of helpful older men – Gordon didn’t exactly do the creep-move of leaning in too close or affectionate accidental touching of some of the men she’d been abused by, but trusting people wasn’t how Selina Kyle survived the manifold trauma of growing up as a wayward girl in the slums of Gotham City.

“I didn’t ask for you to save me, lieutenant,” Selina’s words were baited with venom; almost begging her superior officer to challenge the point.

“Look, Kyle, Selina,” Gordon was adapting his conversational pattern to hers; he was good at deescalating, even if he was more of a natural talent at fighting. “I’m sure you’ve dealt with your fair share of slimy men, and I didn’t mean to imply that you can’t handle yourself – I’m sure you could’ve – but the commissioner is in bed with some of the worst people in this town, and he was being pretty blatant that he wanted to get into bed with you as well.”

“I know how to deal with a blowhard like him, and you thinking that I don’t have a plan to protect myself just tells me you don’t respect me anymore than the cops who have a bad habit of being really crummy at whispering.”

“Selina, I,“ Jim paused, looking for the right phrasing, “I could hear what he was saying in there, and I saw an opening to get you out of it. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help but think of my daughter. She’s about your age, and –“

“Thank you, lieutenant,” she interrupted, mentally noting that the bookworm she’d seen Gordon leave with the other day was his daughter, and not some trollop he was cavorting with. 

The pair stopped on a corner, and Selina noticed that they’d walked almost three blocks since leaving the station.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, sir…” Selina tried to choose words that showed some gratefulness without giving her lieutenant the wrong idea, “…and I’m thankful for the chance to work with you on this bat-thing, but I wanna stay on Grogan’s good side, so I’m gonna spend this money on a pair of dresses and I’m gonna meet him at the address he gave me tonight at seven.”

Jim’s face was screwed up in a look of utter confusion.

“And if you can get away from that desk of yours,” she tugged Gordon’s navy blue tie, pulling his head closer to hers, “you can meet me for a drink at The Canary Cage at eight o’clock, sharp.”

Detective (but, publicly, “officer”) Selina Kyle pecked Gordon on the cheek and skipped into traffic, carelessly dodging cars with all the luck and grace of an alleycat.

“See ya tonight, Jimmy!” She winked and smiled, waving dramatically while walking backwards to the adjacent corner, narrowly avoiding some people on a motorcycle with a sidecar. She disappeared into the rotating door of Fritz’s Department Store.

The confusion on Gordon’s face endured.

-♞-

Of course Selina Kyle had a plan. You don’t join a police force that is only known for bribery, corruption, and extortion planning to reform the department.

Selina knew what Grogan expected from her, and she was planning to use that expectation, and the twin facts that Grogan was married and in the book to wrap him around her finger.

She thought of herself as a good judge of character, but the truth was, Selina Kyle was mostly cynical.

If you assume people have the worst intentions, you don’t get disappointed was a North Star for how she interacted with people. Let them prove her wrong, and maybe she can see about some optimism further down the road.

With her first foster family, she learned to protect what was hers, and to always get her fair share. Because “what’s yours” and “what you’re given” are almost always two different inventories.

Her second foster home was, actually, not too bad. Which is to say, she liked it there. But almost a year after Selina’d arrived, her foster mother was told she was disqualified from the program. Something about the neighborhood, but it was the last time she really remembered having her heart broken.

Her third foster family was where she learned to fight. The parents weren’t interested in helping a street kid get on a better path, and instead tried to push her into…well, it didn’t matter anymore. She saw an opportunity to push her foster father into oncoming traffic, and she sneaked out with mother’s jewelry while the woman tended to her husband in the hospital.

She spent some years sleeping in questionable places – alleys, unlocked cars, she even managed to spend two whole months on a boat in the marina, she spent more than one night in an opium den – and she learned what pursuits people get to chase when they have enough money to bribe police officers. Lucky for her, slinking around that place taught her how to hide, how to pickpocket, and how to capitalize on opportunities (like well-to-do men passing out in the throes of poppy and keeping their billfolds in the same jacket pocket every time).

It was how she’d handled Flass – Selina thought it was incredibly stupid that so many of these so-called “detectives” allowed their home addresses to be listed in the Gotham White Pages; she figured it was more evidence that the cops had nothing to fear from the criminals (because they were one and the same).

The address that the commissioner had invited her to was a fancy apartment building not far from headquarters, in the up-and-coming Adams-West neighborhood, overlooking the sprawling Adams Park. Foolishly, the building was just a quick skip from the already upper-crust Adams-East-Parkside neighborhood, and the luxurious gothic row homes that signified the kind of wealth that let you show off while still staying in the city proper.

Just one block back from the park was where Mrs. Grogan lived in an expansive, mansion-brownstone with her husband and their housekeeping staff. 

Four people working for a Gotham power couple seemed excessive to Selina, but the Grogans didn’t seem like the kind of people who noticed their excess. 

For example: Mrs. Grogan typically had an excessive amount of wine before dinner on a Wednesday like today, and the housekeeping staff worked for a service, which meant it wasn’t atypical for someone new to be working on any given day.

All of these factors and Mrs. Grogan’s absolute rejection of any kind of inconvenience meant open doors and free access to Commissioner Grogan’s listed place of residence, if you could manage to look the part.

This made it all too easy for Selina to “model some fine jewelry” and surreptitiously leave a special package for Mrs. Grogan before she slipped out of the servant’s kitchen and into the shadows behind the giant row house.

-♞-

“It’s unlocked!” came the reply from beyond the door to the apartment, and Selina Kyle took a deep breath and put her hand on the doorknob, twisting it while reflecting on this apparently powerful man’s complete-but-consistent lack of operational security.

She pushed the door open to see Commissioner Grogan slithering out from behind the bar on the far side of the luxury flat. The great greasy man looked freshly showered; he wore a smoking jacket and held two glasses of brown liquid in his hands.

“Cuban rum,” Grogan shared, holding up one glass and motioning toward Selina. “The Bacardi Company, best in the world.”

Selina strode to the commissioner in a low-cut black cocktail dress with a high-cut slit, accepting the glass with a smile and a quiet “Thanks.”

“Cheers, then,” said Grogan, clinking his glass against Selina’s. She took a teensy taste, but Selina had been in enough of these situations to know a Mickey Finn by the pungent smell.  On her tongue, she immediately noticed a bitter taste which would’ve been more common two years ago, but never in the best rum in the world.

Unfortunately for Grogan, he’d already been in the bottle, likely working up the guts to make whatever plays he’d had planned out for Selina.

He’d probably never seen the utility in building up at least a mild tolerance to chloral hydrate.

“Well look at you,” Grogan smiled like a starving wolf, then turned his back to Selina, “You’re dressed to kill, ain’t ya?”

“Just to maim,” Selina played along. “This is a real nice place ya got here, commissioner.”

Selina craftily swapped the two rocks glasses with one another, handing hers to Grogan.

“Please,” Grogan’s eyes narrowed and his smile broadened practically to his ears, “we don’t need to be so formal here. You’re out of uniform, kitten.”

“What would you prefer I call you…sir?” A perfect facsimile of a come-hither smile played across her lips.

“You can call me ‘Daddy,’” said Grogan, taking a deep swig of his drink and only making the slightest reaction to the taste.

The rookie downed the contents of her swapped glass, causing Grogan’s eyes to widen in delighted anticipation. Selina figured that he’d done this before, no one was this sleazy their first time, so he had to know it would take twenty minutes to start working, even if he’d almost certainly put too much in her drink. Grogan finished his cup, and handed it to Selina. 

“Why don’t you go mix us up a couple more of these? I’d love to see how that dress looks from behind,” the man wasn’t smooth, but wealth and proximity to legitimate and illicit power provide the kind of confidence that Cuban spirits could only aspire to.

Grogan sat down in an industrial-styled armchair, all leather and heavy metal, it must’ve weighed a hundred pounds.

“Sure thing, daddy,” Selina was sick to her stomach, some of it a literal roil no doubt from the drugged sips she took, but mostly because of Grogan’s malignancy. He wasn’t an altogether bad-looking fellow, but the way his words and intentions oozed out of him made his skin glisten.

Selina pulled the bottle of rum from below the bar, and slid open the closed cabinet door, looking for more of the drug to spike it with. She found a tin labeled “snuff” and assumed it to be an incognito hiding spot for the offending substance. A lick of her fingertip and a pat into the tin proved her right, and while Grogan looked away for just a moment she pinched a bit between her thumb and forefinger and dashed it into his drink, stirring it in with her finger under the guise of playing at seduction. A splash or two of angostura, a sugar cube, and a squeeze of lime would do more to mask the sedative than Grogan’s idiotic hope-she’s-a-bimb strategy.

“I always wanted to be a bartender; I think you’ll like this,” she said as she sultrily slunk to deliver the drink (but she drifted just out of his reach after she handed him the glass).

He took a tentative sip, smiled, and gulped the rest down, beckoning Selina to sit on his lap.

“Seems like you’re multitalented, kitten,” Grogan patted his lap and lowered his eyes, to insist that she take the seat.

A gifted performer, Selina only recoiled on the inside, and took a gulp of her cocktail (which was mostly water).

She moved toward the man, tracing her finger around his shoulders, flirting believably while touching him as little as possible.

“You know, daddy,” she held his gaze like a stage mesmerist as she said the words which dripped like warm honey from her bright red lips, “it’s a real shame you’re married.” Her spiked heels hit the wood floor in a punctuating “click!“

Grogan adjusted himself in his seat, casting any pretenses of chivalry completely off. To a man like that, power meant “over everything that you outranked.”

It was an imbecilic philosophy for anyone who wasn’t at the top of the hierarchy.

“I wonder if I could make an honest man out of you.”

“I think you’ll find dishonesty to be quite a bit more fun, kitten,” Grogan oozed, reached out for Selina’s hand, which slipped, like water, out of his clammy grip.

He narrowed his eyes, then started smacking his lips together like his mouth was dry. Grogan sighed, and Selina was in front of him, smiling.

“Relax, sir,” she said, the sudden formality seemed to jar his thoughts into place for a moment as she took his hand, pulling it over the arm of the heavy chair.

Grogan’s eyes fluttered just a little, and he shook his head, as if trying to clear the cobwebs out, while Selina massaged his other palm with her soft, delicate thumb.

“Daddy,” he sputtered. “Call me daddy, pussycat.”

A click. Then a ratcheting sound.

“Ooh, yes. Let’s play a game, daddy,” her tone was sharp, her grin was cheshire. 

And her commissioner was just realizing his wrist was cuffed, under and through his seat, to his ankle.

“This is a little tight, isn’t it? I’ve got some scarves in the closet, if you’ll undo these, I’ll grab ‘em,” Grogan sounded calm. Selina could see on his face that he was fighting the alcohol and the sedative just to show the slightest hesitance.

“It seems you’re in a bit of a jam jar, dormouse,” Selina purred with menacing resolve, “and I’m late for another tea party, so here’s how it’s going to go –“ she produced a folding Ensign E20 pocket camera from inside her handbag.

“I paid a visit to your house, over Parkside, just before coming here. It looked like the help was preparing a beautiful meal for you and your the missus. I wanted to have a chat with her, ya know, girl-to-girl, but she didn’t seem to notice me when I crept upstairs to hide a little something,” Grogan was fighting to take this in; the rum no longer dulling him, but the chloral hydrate not being something he could resist.

“What are you talking about?” He managed to say, sounding to Selina like a root canal patient at a very generous dentist’s office.

“Well, Mr. Dormouse,” Selina snapped a picture, the bright flash marked with the sound of its high-pitched charge. “I left some playful things in a spot where your wife will absolutely look within the next month,” she paused and snapped another picture, “and I don’t think she wears as much red as I do.” 

She smirked and took another picture.

Snap! Whirrrrrrrr!

“You’re going to promote me to detective, immediately, and you’re going to partner me with Jim Gordon,” Selina’s smile faded from her face, replaced with a hard, flat line, and a grave tone which contrasted sharply with her bright red lipstick. She was feeling a bit of a buzz, though she couldn’t pin down whether the major contributors were the rum, the Mickey, or the adrenaline. “You’ll pay me an additional four bits an hour, which comes out to twenty bucks a week.”

“Twebby…a week?“ Grogan was beginning to slur his words, “the department can’t afford tha-thabt. For a desky?”

“The department is only giving me the raise that goes with the promotion,” the smile returned to Selina’s face as she brought her lips very close to the commissioner. “You will pay me the extra twenty…unless you think your wife would want to be paid a visit. With these pictures? And maybe I can tell her where to find the gift I left at your house?”

“You bi––“

“Ah-ah,” Selina corrected him before he could say the disgusting word. “Let’s not make this disrespectful. I wouldn’t want you to miss your dinner since you didn’t get your dessert, Peter.”

She dangled the key to the handcuffs from her index finger; of course any good cop or robber would have a handcuff key on their keyring, but the commissioner’s keys were, alas, on the bar with his wallet. Grogan began to turn red with anger and embarrassment, even as his eyes grew heavy, and Selina folded up the camera and excused herself into the washroom to touch up her makeup.

When she reemerged moments later, she opened the commissioner’s wallet, removing almost three hundred dollars in cash which she stuffed with the camera into her handbag.

“Let’s call that a start,” she remarked, twirling the handcuff key around her finger. She filled a glass pitcher with ice from the bucket and water from the bar, and made her way back to Grogan’s side, who was, at this point, too out of it to lunge at her for the key. “I’m going to leave this right here,” she made a show of crouching down to place the key on the floor, well out of reach of Grogan’s restrained hand and foot. He would have to drag the giant chair across the floor to get to it, and by then Selina would have disappeared into the night.

“Listen to me you hussy,” Grogan spat, as much a result of his intoxication as his anger, “this ain’t over! Do you have any idea who you just tried to extort? You’re in for a rude awakening tomorrow, kitten. You’re fucking dead!”

“I think you’ll reconsider,” Selina said flatly, lowering her eyes to be level with Grogan’s, “but why don’t we talk about it in your office tomorrow morning,” she flung the ice cold water into the commissioner’s face and dropped the pitcher onto the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. “After you’ve had a chance to cool off.”

“Watch your step, sir,” she opened the door to the apartment, flicking off the light switch and casting a burlesque silhouette against the lighted hallway. “Well, would you look at the time! It’s going to be a late night, so don’t wait up. Ta-ta!” 

The door slammed shut and she was gone. A drunk, drugged, dumbfounded commissioner screamed a curse word into the dark. 

Cuts to his hands and budget. 

Bruises to his knees and ego.

It would be an hour before he was free and dry enough to make the trip across the park.

It would be two before he realized she’d lifted his watch.

-♞-

Selina Kyle (who had the beginning of a run in the knee of her left stocking) hustled toward the Caged Canary. Her heart was beating in her throat, and she could taste the faint, metallic tinge of adrenaline that had carried her several blocks that she only barely remembered.

That was reckless, even for you, she thought, but still found her cheeks hurting from the smile that hadn’t left her face since she left Grogan’s apartment. Selina had some trouble with impulse control. It made her really good at facing danger head on and really bad at evaluating the potential consequences.

No plan is fool proof, Selina reflected. And he’s connected, Selina. What if he just has you killed?

The thought sent a momentary chill down her spine, but she couldn’t do anything about it now.

She waited in the dark cloakroom behind another patron, then found herself standing in front of a lost-in-thought host who wore a white frilled tuxedo shirt and black cummerbund.

-♞-

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, lieutenant,” Jim was sitting alone. He stared into a glass of dregs and the remnants of melted ice. 

When he looked up at her, he made a visible effort to not fall out of his seat and clumsily stood to pull out a stool.

“How was y-your,“ Jim had stammered as a school boy; these days it happened very rarely, but he found himself flustered in a way that was unbecoming of a qualified detective. He regained something like composure, “–You. Um, well goddamn, Selina, I didn’t know I’d be so underdressed. I haven’t been here too long. Wife is visiting family in Cleveland, so it was wait for you or start working on that report for tomorrow morning. Short meeting with Grogan, huh, I hope that means good news?”

“Lots of good news, partner,” Selina purred, “why don’t you let me buy you a drink, to celebrate?”

Jim Gordon wasn’t the kind of fellow who said no to a dame in a low-cut black cocktail dress with a high-cut slit.

Chapter Text

"Make sure nothing is wasted. Take notes. Remember it all, every insult, every tear. Tattoo it on the inside of your mind. In life, this knowledge is essential.

"I've told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to."

– Ingrid Magnussen, White Oleander

Selina Kyle had seen her fair share of dead bodies. She told herself that it didn’t bother her anymore, and she was probably right. Growing up as a ward of the state, between orphanages and the alleys of Gotham City’s less savory neighborhoods, she’d mostly stopped being traumatized by the idea of mortality quite some time ago.

So it wasn’t the kid’s body that bothered her. It wasn’t that he was a kid, or that he was a black kid, and it wasn’t that he was so goddamn young. It wasn’t the blood, or the smell of urine when they found him, and it wasn’t that his eyes were wide open and that she could tell they were bright in life, it wasn’t the grimace on the child’s face indicating that rigor mortis had set in.

It was the screaming.

Mr. Billy Overlea, the child’s father, was built like a statue. He looked like he could knock a man’s head off with a single, precise punch. And he wept into his hands, trying, in futility, to console his wife as he sobbed.

The child’s mother, Mrs. Etta Overlea was a small woman who wore a tattered robe that covered a soft, embroidered house dress. 

Mrs. Overlea did not wish to be held. She needed her full range of motion to scream, and she screamed with a hoarseness that sounded like her voice would never heal.

Etta had been screaming since before Selina and Jim arrived on the scene; the lights on their squad car didn’t seem to slow her down a bit. She screamed while Selina and Jim interviewed the people who stood in the foggy Gotham morning, and those people who Selina spoke with indicated she’d been screaming for almost an hour.

An hour since the neighbors had found the body and put in the call to the police. An hour since that same neighbor went into his building and found Etta and Billy and delivered the devastating news. An hour of tearing her vocal chords ragged with screams of mourning and anger and desolation. It had taken an hour for the Gotham Police to arrive on the scene.

Selina spent her time on the scene interviewing everyone who she could get to talk to her, taking what she believed were meticulous notes; Jim Gordon was, ostensibly, doing the same, but she seemed to be having more luck than he did. Very few of the people there seemed to trust them, and it didn’t help that Gordon had found and spent too much time speaking with the only white people there who weren’t with the police.

Not that you could miss them. Bruce Wayne, (a very conventionally handsome man in Selina’s estimation, aside from the glasses he wore) cut an imposing figure wherever he went, and Dick Grayson (who wasn’t really speaking with Gordon so much as waving him off) was looking particularly sympathetic as he spoke to a boy of maybe eleven years old on the stoop of the apartment building. 

It would’ve been the perfect publicity stunt for a political-boy-wonder running for mayor, but Selina noted with some surprise that there were no cameras to be found. She was doubly confused because, as she understood it, Wayne Enterprises ran most of the local newspapers and at least one of the radio stations.

When she was satisfied with her notes, she again prodded at the gathered people, offering the number to Gordon’s office, and scraping the barrel for any additional morsels of information. She certainly didn’t have what she needed, but she had places where she and Jim could start.

The boy’s name was Arnold.

He was ten years old.

His friends hadn’t seen him talking to anyone they didn’t recognize over the last few weeks.

He was a soloist in the youth choir.

His parents both worked for Wayne.

Selina learned all of this while Mrs. Overlea screamed for her baby. She also learned that Superman had come about fifteen minutes after the body was found. He spoke with Mr. Overlea for less than a minute, and flew off when Mrs. Overlea cursed him for not being there to save Derek from this awful fate.

And as she directed the coroner to the body, Mrs. Overlea’s painful screams grew more hoarse, more desperate, more hopeless. 

Selina was eventually able to wrangle the lieutenant, and as they got into their car, she couldn’t help but hear the continuing screams through the thick glass of the windows.

As Lieutenant Gordon and Detective Kyle drove away in silence – not out of any reverence or respect for the dead, but because there was nothing that needed to be said at the moment – the screaming stayed with Selina.

She thought over why the Mrs. Overlea’s cries had bothered her so much, but couldn’t bring herself to admit the real reason.

Somebody cared enough about that little boy to feel something when he was gone.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

“Those people just don’t trust cops,” said Jim Gordon, who was pacing back and forth behind his desk chair.

“I took a lot of notes,” Selina Kyle sighed with frustration, “but I can’t really argue with you on that. Maybe one in two gave me anything, and a few of the ones who did were shuffled off by the ones who didn’t.” She was writing bullet points on a larger piece of paper, sitting in the chair in front of Gordon’s desk.

“Where do we go from here?”

“I suppose we pray, detective.” came the reply from the Lieutenant.

“Pray, lieutenant?”

“Pray for answers, and pray that Grogan is out sick today and not just coming in late after ‘a meeting,’” Gordon tapped his chin, then gave the rookie an inquisitive look.

“I would hazard a guess that he’ll be out all day, but who knows?” She shrugged. “In any case, if we’re already praying, maybe we should head to the church where the kid was a singer.”

“Not a bad idea, did you get any other interesting information?”

“Superman showed up, but, y’know, not until after the kid was killed.”

“We don’t know that he was killed,” said Gordon, but he tapped at his chin with his index finger, mulling the information over in his head.

“We know he didn’t die where the body was found,” Kyle pointed out, adding “that’s a pretty big clue if I ever heard one.”

“I suppose it is,” Gordon smirked. “But, first day on the job, I don’t want you telling anyone you were better at pointing out what was and wasn’t a clue. Let’s head over to Gotham Baptist.”

Selina rose from her chair, leaving her scribblings at Jim’s desk and followed him out of his office. Jim muttered something to the reception desk as the pair hurried by.

“Hey,” Selina said, almost shouting. “How’d Bruce Wayne know about the kid?” 

Gordon groaned, looking back at the new detective just to roll his eyes.

“Apparently,” he grumbled, “Bruce Wayne was the first call. Before anyone shouted for Superman, before anyone called us, Bruce Wayne got a call.”

A beat.

“What’s that about?” Selina asked as they trotted down the steps toward the car. Jim walked at a brisk pace which suited her just fine.

Jim Gordon thought for a moment, stopping with his hand on the door handle.

“Beats the hell outta me, rookie, but everyone in that building works at Wayne.”

“Do we need to pay him a visit, too?”

“I really can’t see how we could avoid it.”

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Gotham City Morgue was as grim as the purpose it served. Located in the basement of the Gotham District Courthouse, it was quite literally bone chilling; the entire basement was already cool, but a series of refrigerated cabinets lining the walls of the place made certain that the coroner, Dr. Victor Fries, had to pack a winter coat even in the sweltering weeks of a Gotham midsummer.

Lieutenant Jim Gordon scanned his rookie partner and knew that her overcoat wouldn’t do, handing Selina his heavy wool coat, and offhandedly remarking that she should bring her winter coat to work and leave it in the car.

The older man casually swabbed large gobs of petroleum jelly onto his finger on the landing of the stairs in the courthouse, and Selina could feel a swath of humidity emanating from the stairwell; she looked at Jim with skepticism about the enormous coat she was holding as he dragged a gob of the jelly onto Selina’s forefinger.

“Put it in your nostril,” Gordon demonstrated, immediately stuffying his voice. “Id’ll make id so ya need to breathe through your mouth, but otherwise the smell’ll kill ya dead.”

“One of the other guys mentioned the menthol jelly, for the smell, but he said to put it under your nose,” Selina commented.

“Bullock is an asshole. He was probably messig with ya,” Gordon said. “That shit just opens the sinuses, makes the smell worse.” 

Selina pursed her lips and followed Jim’s lead, hating the feeling of the obstruction in her nostrils. She looked for a place to wipe the excess jelly, finding a handkerchief in her pocket, and donned the coat as they descended the stairs.

The coroner greeted the pair, inviting them into the “icebox” to view the body of Arnold Overlea, covered from the waist down in a white sheet, the boy’s dark skin struck a sharp contrast against the otherwise bright room.

“We’ve requested permission from the family to do a full autopsy,” Dr. Fries remarked. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lower lip. “But we’re still waiting to hear back from them,” Fries blinked twice, quickly in succession from behind his thick glasses.

“Anything we should know otherwise?” Selina asked, breaking an otherwise awkward silence.

“You mentioned some blood, but I wasn’t able to identify anything like a fresh wound, certainly nothing mortal, and there wasn’t sufficient blood in the nose or mouth to suggest that the blood left his body from there.”

Jim Gordon nodded along, then spoke: “It was more than some blood.”

“Hmm,” in unison from the three investigators.

“Please give my office a call when the family approves the autopsy. We’d like to have eyes on it as it happens.”

“Sure thing, Jim,” Fries shook hands with the Lieutenant, then his partner. “A pleasure, detective.”

“Likewise,” Selina replied.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

In the car, the newly minted partners dug petroleum jelly residue out of their nostrils as Jim started the ignition.

“First case is always the weirdest,” said Gordon, shifting the car into drive. “What’s that make you think, that Fries couldn’t find a wound?”

“I,” Kyle began, then hesitated, “do we know it was the kid’s blood?”

“You’re asking the right questions, Kyle. Unfortunately, we don’t really know,” Jim paused. “Goddamn animals.”

“Where would someone get animal blood,” Selina asked in earnest.

Jim Gordon started to speak, wanting to clarify his metaphor, but then stopped.

“Didn’t mean it like that, but that’s a helluva question.”

The pair headed across town to the East End to talk to someone at Gotham Baptist Church, and were struck with its emptiness.

“There’s no office or rectory?” Jim asked.

“Maybe, but, I don’t know,” Selina paused. “I’m not much of a church person.”

“I was raised Catholic,” Jim huffed. “Our priests live in housing usually attached to the church. This won’t do at– hoo, what’s that?”

Jim walked up the stoop to read a notice in the window of the church.

He read it aloud for Selina’s benefit, but she could make it out from her vantage point.

MEMORIAL SERVICES TO-NITE, 7

“That a funeral?” Selina asked.

“Beats me, but I guess it means we’re working late. There’s a deli in Little Italy with some great Italian sandwiches. Why don’t I buy you lunch and then we’ll head out to Silverwood Barrens?”

“Silverwood Barrens? Isn’t that out in the county?”

“Sure is,” Gordon affirmed. “And it’s where we need to go to visit Wayne Manor.”

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Something annoyed Selina Kyle, Gotham City’s first woman detective, about not being invited inside of the sprawling estate that was Wayne Manor.

Instead, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, and Alfred Pennyworth answered questions on the cobblestone walkway that led to their doorstep.

And Selina thought that Jim Gordon was playing softball with his line of questions.

She scribbled down notes, attributing answers to the men by initials, and using a scrawly, inscrutable shorthand to indicate the questions for her own reference.

“…purchased that housing cooperative eleven years ago, and it’s owned by the tenants, not by us,” Pennyworth was explaining the disposition of the apartment building where Arnold Overlea’s body was found. “I don’t think it warrants further explanation; if you ask twenty negro Gothamites where they work, seventeen of them will say Wayne Enterprises. It’s not a coincidence, it’s an enormous company which treats its workers as human beings.”

Pennyworth whispered something to Wayne, rolled his eyes and turned toward the house without another word to the detectives.

“I wasn’t finished asking you questions Mr. Pennyworth!” Jim called after him.

“I’m sorry detectives,” Pennyworth turned around, and took a deep breath. Selina thought he was doing a somewhat convincing job of hiding his annoyance. “You’ll have to find further answers with my sons. I’ll be leaving for Atlanta this evening after the memorial service and I’m afraid I need to finish preparing my staff. Good day.”

“You can’t leave the state!” Jim shouted, then turned red with agitation at Pennyworth’s flippancy.

Everyone looked at Gordon. Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, and Alfred Pennyworth all raised their right eyebrow and cocked their heads left in unison.

“Excuse me?” Wayne broke the silence. “Is my father a suspect in this case?”

Selina noted that Wayne, Grayson, and Pennyworth seemed to be playing up the father-and-sons relationship dynamic in a way that she didn’t think they usually did, but she didn’t know why.

Gordon remained flushed, and muttered to himself, then furrowed his brow, but eventually his face relaxed, though there was still a twitch of irritation in his upper lip.

“I may have more questions for you tonight, Mr. Pennyworth. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” said Pennyworth, turning to take his leave.

The remainder of the conversation was tense. Wayne and Grayson were defensive, and Selina started sketching a couple figures on her notepad, trying to scale the men in front of her for later reference.

Eventually Wayne and Grayson agreed to avail themselves to the detectives following the memorial, but they made it quite clear that the mourners – especially the family – were their first priority.

As they began the long drive back to the Central District, Selina played with a couple moments from the conversation in her head.

“How tall are you, Lieutenant?” She asked.

“About five foot eleven,” Jim screwed up his face at her, then looked back at the road. “Why?”

“Just thought that those were some pretty large sons that Mr. Pennyworth had us interviewing,” Selina’s voice was lilting with mild amusement. 

Gordon floored the pedal, seemingly unwilling to entertain Selina’s desire for banter.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

The memorial service for Arnold Overlea was not a funeral, but a sermon.

Detective Kyle and Lieutenant Gordon stood quietly in the back of the church for more than ninety minutes while the sermon continued, volleying between stories about Arnold’s involvement in the church choir, and the need to reserve vengeance for The Lord. The pastor spoke about the disease of racial hatred, and how Gotham and moreover all American Negroes needed to dig in firm, and not lose faith, even in these dark circumstances.

“This is not a call for forgiveness. God tells us to love our enemies, but assures us that Justice will be done, even if not in this world!”

Shouts of approval and the unmistakable sobs of weeping parishioners mingled in the pauses of the pastor’s sermon.

Following the service, the pastor was mobbed by a throng of neighbors and family members of the Overleas, and as they were able to make their way to the pastor after some time, Selina noticed Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, and Alfred Pennyworth all speaking with and offering condolences to people from the community.

Selina and Jim spent a short time with the pastor, who scheduled time for the two of them the following day to answer more questions and provide a more comprehensive list of people that they may be interested in speaking with.

But the three men who lived in the vast mansion in Silverwood Barrens had already disappeared into the Gotham night.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

“Out with it,” Gordon demanded.

“Okay, so stay with me here. Wayne is loaded. He doesn’t need to work. He’s a specimen of a man. Taller than you, built like a strongman…” Selina tried to stay measured and even, but she couldn’t help but be a little excited. “What does a wealthy playboy do with his free time?”

“Travel? I don’t know.”

“Well, yes – in a manner of speaking,” Selina continued. “Imagine you or me disappeared for twenty hours a day. Someone at work or at home would have something to say about it. But what if you were an orphan, being raised by your negro housekeeper?”

“That negro housekeeper is the third wealthiest man in the world.”

“Sure, but that’s not the point. Wayne’s parents were killed in a violent crime, right in front of him! If you had all those resources, and all that free time, and you watched your parents get murdered by a violent criminal, it might drive you to want to stop violent crime.”

“So why isn’t Wayne a copper?” Gordon asked sarcastically.

“Well, that’s the thing. What if he’s the ultimate copper?” Selina smiled and let the question hang in the air for a moment.

“What?”

“What if he used all his time and wealth to make himself the perfect human specimen? And what if, somewhere along the way, at one of their hundreds of companies, he discovered something previously unknown to mankind?”

Gordon’s eyes narrowed, he was listening attentively, but not quite following.

“Picture Bruce Wayne’s face in your mind’s eye. Picture how he’s built. Now take off his glasses.”

Gordon lightly nodded to indicate that he was imagining along with Selina’s instructions.

“Put a dab of Brylcreem in his hair. Put him in a unitard–“ 

“–and a cape,” Jim added, cupping his hand over his gaping mouth.

The older man pulled the police car to the side of the road, slowing to a stop. He opened the door and got out, bracing his hands on his knees, which were clearly wobbling. Selina followed him out of the car, sidling up next to him, but not touching him.

Gordon looked up at the rookie, and put his hand on her shoulder. Jim Gordon looked like he had seen a ghost. 

He took a deep breath, and his voice trembled with the gravity of the revelation:

“Bruce Wayne is,“ Jim Gordon breathed deeply, and his partner nodded in tense affirmation, lifting him to his feet. 

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Later

Entering the Gotham City District Courthouse, and subsequently, the morgue, wasn’t difficult for a shadow, though the Batman didn’t expect the coroner to be working this late.

It was more than fifteen minutes of waiting in a door well, the staticky noise of the police scanner playing in his ear. 

“WE HAVE A CHHHHH AT LAKESIDE AND CHHHHH. CAR 24, PLEASE RESPOND.”
“10-4 HEADED THERE NOW.”

It was unclear what had happened in Lakeside, but the Batman noted he would need to reinforce the ear containing the radio antenna with metal to better receive the signal.

He thought he would slip out and head to investigate – Arnold’s body wasn’t going anywhere – but as he moved to make his exit, Dr. Victor Fries loudly closed the folio on his desk, cutting the lights in his office and leaving for the night.

He’d allowed himself a lot of time for this, knowing that the discomfort of examining a child’s corpse, and darkness might make his amateur autopsy difficult. 

He held a small penlight in his mouth as he searched Fries’ desk for the appropriate file. The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and the Batman thought he could detect bourbon as well. 

He located and began reading the Overlea report, but the only thing that stood out to him was one vague line:

Of note, vibrant orange coloration on lips and fading orange coloration on tongue.

The Batman quickly memorized the corresponding cabinet number and folded up one of the many copies of the preliminary report to take with him, otherwise restoring the office to its previous state, and slinking into the refrigeration room.

A cursory investigation of the body failed to provide any information beyond what was listed in the report; the orange coloring on Arnold’s lips was very faint at this point, and his tongue was the pallid, patchy pink one would expect of a dead human child.

He leaned in to smell the child’s lips, first noticing that he’d been trying to hold his breath, the smell of decay was not well-prevented by even this level of refrigeration, but the Batman did detect a faint smell of both orange and cherry flavoring.

The Batman made a mental note, and put the boy’s body back in it’s cabinet, and ascended the steps to the courthouse, and further to the roof.

The sudden, de-staticked clarity of the police radio was almost jarring, he could see the Lakeside neighborhood from this vantage point, and there were three police cars’ lights polluting the relative darkness, reflecting their red, rotating lights off of Lake Henson.

“–SPATCH 10-52 FOR LAKESIDE AND BUSH. SUBJECT IS A WHITE, MALE CHILD, TEN YEARS OLD.”

“10-4.”

A 10-52 was a request for an ambulance.

“COME IN UNIT 11.”
“UNIT 11 HERE.”
“CORRECTION. THAT 10-52 IS A 10-55.”
“COPY.”

A 10-55 was a request for the coroner.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Later still

Selina Kyle was inside of an opulent, Elizabethan-style mansion, but she only barely remembered breaking in. 

She found and emptied a jewelry box filled with pearls, heirloom gemstones, and even the supposedly cursed Eye of Rhodesia, a giant, sixty-four carat emerald pendant bezeled with dozens of carats in immaculate white diamonds of exceptional clarity.

Her connections to the more bold men in Gotham’s organized crime operations wouldn’t make it safe to unload something this well-known. With a statement piece of this magnitude you needed to sit on it, often for decades, before you could really think about fencing it.

No matter, she had enough mundane gold and valuables in her bag that she could afford to be patient for what would surely be a retirement-level payday.

She sneaked through the empty house, slipping through the open door of the study through which she came.

Just as she was pushing open the window to  make her quiet escape, the owner of the sprawling manse stopped her.

“Detective Kyle, did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”

She turned around, and as her accuser stepped out of the shadows, she froze, momentarily paralyzed, then screamed in horror.

Selina Kyle woke up, sweating  in her small, third floor apartment in the Gotham Women’s Union tenement.

She wasn’t sure if her mortal fright woke her from the nightmare, or if she had actually screamed. In either case, she remembered the screams of Mrs. Overlea, and didn’t quite find her way back to sleep, even if she was relieved.

Wayne Manor was off limits. No amount of thrill or payoff was worth trying to rob Superman.

Chapter Text

Elias Clayton liked to be up before the sun to help prepare breakfast and coffee. He’d been working for Martha Kent for almost a full week and had always managed to be in the kitchen before she was up. He enjoyed the conversations with the older widow, and Martha seemed to enjoy them in kind (she would tell the women in her Bible study group that “Elias radiated warmth and had a very kind smile…for a colored boy.”). 

On this particular morning, when Elias came down the stairs from washing up, he was surprised to see a tall and broad-shouldered man at the stove, frying sausage and eggs in the cast iron skillet. He wore a loose-fitting tee shirt and a pair of grey jersey pants, and turned to meet Elias’s eyes with a warm grin.

“You must be Mister Clayton,” said the bespectacled man in quiet tones, “I’m Clark, Martha’s son,” he extended his right hand while moving the skillet somewhat clumsily with his left.

“The same, but you can call me Elias,” he said, shaking the young man’s hand. “Good grip you got there, Clark. Pleased to meet you. Missus Kent says such nice things about you. Strong family resemblance there,” Elias chuckled softly. “Why don’t I start some coffee, how do you take it?”

“A lotta cream and a lotta sugar, I’m afraid,” replied Clark, returning to his skillet. To a trained ear, Clark had the slightest hint of a Kansas accent. 

“I was young once too,” remarked Elias with another chuckle. He sneaked a glance into the living room and noticed a dress shirt and dark navy suit thoughtfully draped over an easy chair; there was a sheet and a crocheted afghan folded on one side of the couch.

“Elias this must be the earliest you’ve been– Clark!” came a shout from Martha, who practically skipped into the rapidly shrinking kitchen to wrap her arms around her hulking son. “Whenever did you arrive?”

“Late,” said Clark, plating the greasy and sausage-flecked eggs, and giving the sausage patties their final flip. “Perry has me researching a story in Kansas City so I wanted to stay here and get an early start.”

“Does that mean you won’t be staying tonight?” Martha asked, thanking Elias for her coffee (a little cream and that’ll do,) and sitting at the small breakfast table.

“Unfortunately, I’ll be leaving after breakfast, but depending on how things go, I may come back and stay tonight, and get on the road real early tomorrow morning to head back east.” Clark placed a plate of eggs in front of each setting at the table, and put the plate of sausages on a serving plate in the middle of it all, pushing the napkin holder to the side.

Clark held out his hand to his mother, and hesitantly to Elias. The trio bowed their heads and Clark spoke a soft blessing over the meal.

“Lord, we are thankful for our food, our farm, our family, and our health. Continue to bless us in all we do,” he concluded.

“Amen,” all three voices said.

Clark took a sip of his coffee, remarking that it was perfect to Elias, and the three started a conversation.

“Ma mentioned you’ve been really lightening the work load around here,” Clark said. “I know she can use the help.”

“Ever since the last boy–“ she began, only to be interrupted by a sharp Ma! from her son, “I’m sorry, there was a young man by the name of Virgil, Virgil Hawkins, but he got a letter from his father about his mother passing away so he had to head back to Dakota to help his daddy,” a sigh. “I told him I’d let him come back anytime, but that was seven months ago, almost to the day before you showed up. I’d just as soon let him come work for me again, but I’d be a little shocked if he returned.

“Well, you saw the state of things when you arrived Elias, the whole farm was a mess, but you’ve been absolutely indispensable so far and it’s such a blessing that you’ve been able to help out around here,” she concluded her praises with clasped hands and a sighing smile.

“It’s just nice to find work without having to go back east, I’d like to go to Hollywood,” Elias said wistfully. “…well, someday,” he added.

“Hollywood?” Clark asked, an eyebrow arched out above the rim of his glasses.

“Yessir,” Elias beamed. “I’ve always enjoyed playing a part, and I want to see if I can’t make it in tinseltown. For now, I’m saving my pennies, but with the way your mother is so…fair in compensating me, I figure I might be here a little longer than I expected.”

“Fascinating,” Clark seemed enrapt by the warmth in Elias’s voice. “Is there much work in Hollywood for, um…”

“For colored men?” Elias supplied with a smile (and Clark audibly sighed relief), “I think there might be. Always thought of Noble Johnson as a bit of a hero of mine – you ever see ‘The Realization Of A Negro’s Ambition,’ – well, I’m sure you haven’t, it only really played in colored cinemas, but it’s a heck of a story,” Elias’s eyes brightened, and it was evident he was talking about a truly foundational moving picture for him. “..heck of a story! Saw it in August of seventeen, right before I got shipped off to France. It kept me more than a little hopeful when things got bad over there that an all negro company was making films for negroes. Mmm.”

“Wow,” Clark glanced at his mother who was finishing off the last of a sausage patty, smiling and chewing while Elias described his dream, “I can’t say I knew much about that film or that motion picture company, but that’s alright to hear, Elias!” Clark was smiling now as well.

The three finished breakfast with a discussion of Clark’s career, his life in the big city, and some polite chat – Martha wouldn’t countenance any stories of particular violence – about Elias’s time in Europe. 

After washing up, Clark and Elias walked out onto the Kent farm, with Clark pointing out some things that he thought his mother hadn’t mentioned (she had mentioned every point, in almost the same order), and Elias showed Clark the new, almost-finished chicken coop that he planned to have finished up by that same afternoon.

Clark shook hands with Elias, the pair saying goodbye to one another, and the older man flexing his hand as he reached for his hammer to get back to work.

The pride of Smallville headed back toward the house with a cautious-but-genuine smile, and Elias, a man who never could pride himself on his propensity for minding his own business, saw through the window as the mother and son embraced in a deep hug.

As Clark Kent left his mother’s farm, Elias Clayton was already working up a sweat from hammering, enjoying the fair-paying labor, the genuine hospitality, and the sudden breeze. 

≡≡≡ 🦇 ≡≡≡

As lunchtime approached, with the sun high in the Kansas sky, Elias finished the chicken coop, as he’d predicted he would. He gave it a few tests for stability, and opened and closed the door several times to try the used hinges he’d found in the late Mr. Kent’s tool shed. 

It was when he was rehoming the chickens that Martha Kent appeared in the yard with a glass of lemonade and a critic’s eye on the new coop.

“This looks quite a bit better than the old one,” she said, handing Elias the drink and patting him on the shoulder. “What say we go into town for some things – I need to see the butcher and get some items from the market – and I’ll make us a nice supper when we get back?”

“That sounds nice, ma’am,” Elias replied, taking a deep swig of the lemonade (which was much too sweet for his taste).

Elias finished transferring the nesting from the old coop, and then jogged to catch up with his employer.

Elias dragged a soapy washcloth across the back of his neck and washed his face and hands thoroughly, and came down the stairs looking more like someone going to work than like someone who’d finished the laborious part of his workday already. 

Mrs. Kent turned around to see Elias at the base of the stairs and jumped (but only a little). 

The ride in the truck was rough, as usual, and Elias (once again) suggested that Martha replace the front passenger side tire; the spare had been on it since before Elias had arrived, and the patches and wear on the tread didn’t bode well for a trip downtown-and-back.

Somehow, they made it to Downtown Smallville, which was much more of a Main Street with shops and a single saloon than what someone from a proper city would call “downtown.”

Elias bought himself two peaches at the market, and pulled a flyer off the bulletin board. It concerned a missing cat that he was almost certain he’d seen near the farm. He bit into one of the peaches, the sweet juices almost running down his chin, and decided that would be his lunch, and the other would be nice to press into a peppery pit sauce that he’d overheard some folks in town discussing, and then, as was his fashion, asked them to describe so that he could recreate it at home.

“Elias I can’t help but notice how excitable you seem right now, what ever is the matter?” Martha asked as they walked the half-block to the butcher’s shop.

“I was thinking, if you’d be alright with it that is, that I could make us some beef ribs on the grill for supper. I think I’ve got a pretty nice recipe from some folks I met at the market, and it’s been such a long time since I’ve been able to really cook.”

“I was going to make a casserole – chicken divan used to be Johnathan’s favorite – but I suppose we can have that tomorrow instead. You’ll need to clean the grill though, that thing hasn’t been used in ages. And I do mean before and after you cook, Elias.”

Elias paid for the meat himself at the butcher’s, and Martha noted that the smile didn’t leave his face since she’d given him leave to use the grill.

The smile didn’t leave Elias’ face until the flat tire, and Elias was able to hide his irritation at Mrs. Kent for not heeding his warnings, even when she said exclaimed “Well how did that happen?” as the tire dragged on the rim.

“We’ll need to walk back to town,” Martha said, mostly to herself. “Lucky for us we’re only about a mile out.”

Elias offered to go alone, but Martha wouldn’t hear of it, so the two made the journey in relative quiet with Martha muttering her surprise at the situation and Elias alternating between carrying the tire and rolling it along the ground.

At the service station, the pair had the tire replaced (with a used tire, but one in much better shape than before) and put on the rim, and the technician, Albert Anderson, was even kind enough to offer Elias and Martha a ride back to the truck – though, because of space constraints (and refreshingly, not because of bigotry) – Elias had to ride in the bed with the tire, which he didn’t mind too much.

After thanking Mr. Anderson, Martha and Elias got to work putting the tire onto the truck, which took less time than either of them had expected; a pleasant surprise.

“Would you mind driving, Elias?” Martha asked. “When the sun starts to get lower on the horizon, I have quite a bit of trouble seeing the road.”

Elias enjoyed driving, and fulfilled Martha’s request with a smile, and the duo started on their way back to the farm. 

“Looks like we may be having that casserole tonight,” Elias noted; the sun was nearly below the horizon and knowing that grilling in the dark would be, by and large, nothing but a fast way to ruin some good meat.

“Oh, that’ll do just nicely I think,” Martha responded. “Maybe tomorrow instead, and then you’ll have more time to work on the meat.”

“Sounds good to me!” Elias said, licking his lips.

Not too far from home, but still far enough that they couldn’t see the farm yet, a sheriff’s car appeared in the sideview mirror, causing Elias to instinctively slow down just a bit.

“They’re not after you, Elias, keep going, Bill will just pass us if he’s in a hurry,” Martha said, glancing back at the car. He increased his pace, and sure enough, the sheriff sped past them on the left, eliciting a private sigh of relief from Elias.

The tension quickly returned as they caught up with the sheriff’s vehicle, which was in the middle of the road with the light on. Sheriff Bill Bunson stood outside with his hand extended in the universal sign for “stop.” 

And so Elias did.

Sherriff Bunson sauntered to the driver’s side of the truck, and Elias noted that his hand was hovering near his sidearm. Elias put both hands on the wheel and Martha fixed her face into quite an irritated look, crossing her arms in the process.

“What in the heck is the problem, Bill?” Martha spat.

“One moment, missus Kent,” the officer replied. “Could you step out of your vehicle, son?”

Elias was certain that he was older than this babyfaced sheriff, but he complied, speaking his movements out loud along the way.

“I’m taking my hands off the wheel to open the door, sir.”

“I’m opening the door now, and exiting the vehicle, sir.”

“Oh stop it,” Martha exited the truck as well. “Bill, what’s this all about?” Martha demanded.

“Coupla folks in town said they saw this man steal a pair of peaches from the market.”

“Steal? If you’ll excuse me, sheriff, I purchased those peaches…” Elias protested, irritated, but trying to contain it. “…sir.” he hastily added.

“Did missus Kent witness you purchase the peaches?” Bill retorted.

Elias glanced very briefly at Martha, wondering if it was her intention to lie for him. He had purchased the peaches, of course, but he was mostly sure that Martha hadn’t seen it.

“The check out girl was Annabelle!” Elias offered, and Martha shooed him with a hand.

“I saw him pay for those. He was in line just in front of me,” Martha made no effort to hide her annoyance at all of this. “Get back in the truck Elias.”

Elias kept eye contact with the sheriff, backing very slowly toward the door of the old pickup truck.

“Now dammit, don’t try to undermine me, Martha!” Bill shouted the command. “You’ll wait until I tell you you can get back in the car, son!” the sheriff said more firmly, turning a bit red in the face.

“I’m not trying to undermine ya Billy, I just want to get home!” Martha offered as a reply. “We just had to walk a mile and a half back downtown to get this tire. I mean – who was it even told you he stole peaches?”

“I had multiple witnesses.”

“Oh baloney! Get in the car, Elias.”

Elias’ heart was beating faster than usual, but he didn’t begin to panic until Bill Bunson drew his gun and pointed it directly at him.

Elias tried to remain calm, but he didn’t think that Martha was helping the situation, even if she wasn’t wrong.

“Sheriff Bunson, I have no inclination to disobey your orders. Can you please put the gun down?” Elias’ voice shook just a bit, and the boy was clearly nervous too, this may have been the first time he’d brandished his gun in a traffic stop.

Bill kept his weapon trained on Elias.

“Afraid we need to take you in. Please turn around and put your hands behind your back,” he commanded, holstering the weapon and approaching a compliant Elias. “Peaches in the truck, boy?”

“Brown paper bag,” Elias conceded as Bill cuffed him. “Only one of them in there. Ate the other.”

“Hmm,” grunted the officer.

“This is an outrage!” Martha yelled, but not in the direction of the two men. “Absolutely unconscionable how you’re treating my farmhand! Don’t you worry Elias, I’ll come down and sort this all out.”

Elias felt a sudden, unexpected breeze on an otherwise dry day, and heard the sudden, sharp gasp of the sheriff, accompanied by a noise like a sail in the wind.

Bunson didn’t finish handcuffing Elias.

“Su-Superman!?” The sherriff managed a panicked whisper, and Elias turned very slowly to see the Man of Steel floating above the ground, between the sheriff and Martha, arms crossed and looking down at Bill like a schoolteacher might look down at a troublesome student.

“What seems to be the problem here, officer?” he asked in a calm-but-authoritative baritone.

“THIS ONE WAS ACCUSED OF STEALING PEACHES FROM THE MARKET!” answered the sheriff in what must’ve been an unintentional shout.

“Witnesses?” came the voice of Superman.

“Just Sara Billups and Penny Paisley,” Bill said (at a much more reasonable volume).

“Mmhmm,” Superman nodded. If Elias didn’t know any better, he would’ve swore the flying man was smirking. “And how old are these witnesses?”

“School girls, Superman! Can’t be a day older than thirteen!” Martha shouted.

“Well it stands to reason,” Superman began, “that these two young ladies should probably be in school, and not bearing false witness against kindly widows or their farmhands. Aren’t sheriff’s and deputies also responsible for school truancy in Kansas, officer?” Superman’s toes very gently touched the ground, and he took a step toward Bill, who trembled.

“Yes sir,” Bill gulped. “I suppose I could check Mr. Clayton’s story with the check counter girl.”

“I suppose you could,” Superman agreed.

Superman reached out to Elias, taking him gently by the wrist and flicking the hinge of the locked steel bracelet, breaking the handcuff with absolutely no effort.

The giant, dark-haired man in the cape tossed the broken handcuffs at the sheriff. 

“You’ll need to get a new pair of these, I think,” he quipped.

Bill Bunson bent down and retrieved the broken cuffs, shaking his head, and muttering whispers of disbelief to himself.

“Just gonna go follow up with those truants,” he said, getting back into the police car and driving back towards downtown without even an apology.

“Please try to be careful, folks,” Superman said. “You’ll want to back up, and maybe close your ears.”

Elias and Martha both did just that, and Superman flew off without another word; faster than any airplane Elias had ever seen.

Elias couldn’t help but notice that Martha Kent didn’t seem at all annoyed any longer. She smiled with the satisfaction of accomplishment, as though she had dispatched the sheriff herself.

≡≡≡ 🦇 ≡≡≡

When they arrived back at the farm, the sun was practically gone from the sky, but it cast the horizon into a kaleidoscope of oranges, pinks, and violets.

Elias pulled the truck onto the empty gravel drive, still a bit shook up from the evening’s events. He took a bag of groceries from Martha, who insisted on at least carrying one, and turned to the house, only to find Clark Kent standing on the front porch, in his loose-fitting tee shirt and grey jersey pants, and with an apron to boot. He trotted down the steps and kissed his mother on the head, relieving her of the bag.

“Started making some supper. Hope casserole is alright with you two!” He said with an excited smile.

≡≡≡ 🦇 ≡≡≡

“Whaddaya know?” Elias finished swallowing his last bite of the chicken divan. “This young man can cook!”

“Thank you,” Clark said with a sincere smile. “Ma is an excellent teacher – have seconds if you want them!”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Elias remarked, reaching for the serving spoon. “It’s a real shame you have to leave so early tomorrow. I’ll be grilling some beef ribs out back for supper. I got a recipe for a special pit sauce that I’m itching to try.”

Clark continued to smile.

“If you could see your way to making them for lunch, I could leave a little later,” Clark said. “I’d just have to go into town for a couple hours to check into some things at the library, and call the press desk at the paper,” the boy looked genuinely hopeful.

“No trouble at all,” Elias smiled back. He thought for a moment. Elias hadn’t seen another car in the drive. “If you’re taking the truck when you head downtown tomorrow, could you get a new spare tire?”

Clark and Martha exchanged glances.

“Um, no problem,” he replied. “Trouble with the truck?”

Martha, seeming to have been snapped back from a daydream, shook her head and began telling Clark the story about “Billy-Bunson-who-your-daddy-used-to-coach-in-little-league,” and the trouble he’d given Elias earlier, and the three of them chatted about the story until it was time to clean up for the evening. 

≡≡≡ 🦇 ≡≡≡

“Elias, lunch was really something else. I’ve never seen Ma eat like that,” Clark chuckled. “Why don’t we take a quick walk so I can have a look at that new chicken coop?”

Elias thought he knew what was coming next. A walk like this would begin quite cordially, but would end with Clark telling Elias that he was being let go for one reason or another, offering only a week’s severance and a hastily written letter of recommendation.

The two walked down toward the poultry pen, and Elias told Clark about his impressions of Kansas, and Smallville, and Mrs. Kent. He tried to be honest, but not to give any inclination that he felt unwelcome. And Clark told Elias about his work as a journalist, and how it’d always been a dream of his to write for The Daily Planet.

“Elias, I’m glad I had the pleasure of meeting you,” Clark interrupted his own story of working for the Smallville Ledger (first as a paperboy, but eventually as a reporter) with a non sequitur. “Ma is someone I care about very deeply, she’s really all I have left, and, well,” Clark sighed heavily, and Elias removed his hat to acknowledge the gravity of the moment. “People in Smallville talk. And, how do I put this, you being the um, second colored farmhand in a row, I just wouldn’t want to find out anything untoward had happened to substantiate the less savory rumors. Do you understand?”

Elias blushed a bit at the tension and awkwardness of the conversation, but then smiled, and calmly replied:

“You got nothin’ to worry about young man,” he pulled a small, silver wedding band from a chain around his neck, showing Clark the ring. “Lost my wife just about a year ago, and I reckon the thing motivating me to get out west is that we always talked about going out there together,” Elias’s eyes began to glisten. “She was such a fine damn woman, if you’ll excuse my cursing, and she would’ve changed the way America thought about colored women.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Elias,” Clark said, wiping his own eyes. “I appreciate you being so candid with me,” he extended a hand for a handshake.

“Y’all hug in Kansas?” Elias smiled, opening his arms.

Superman and Alfred Pennyworth shared a heartfelt and emotional embrace before the former took his leave.

Chapter Text

"The power which has always started the greatest religious and political avalanches in history rolling has from time immemorial been the magic power of the spoken word, and that alone. The broad masses of the people can be moved only by the power of speech."

– William L. Shirer

The Devil himself wore all black, stood seven feet tall, and looked every bit the menacing ruler of hell portrayed in William Blake’s The Number of The Beast is 666 (currently on display at the Gotham Fine Art Museum).  The Beast’s coming was foretold by the sudden power outage, and it stood, in front of the elite of Gotham with its wings spread behind, lit only by starlight.

It beat its leathery wings, and with glowing eyes, it cast judgment upon the assembled through a sudden hole in the side of the home of the luxurious Silverwood Barrens estate of Carmine Falcone, also known as The Roman, and Gotham’s untouchable criminal kingpin. 

His guests tonight had come together to pledge money to Mayor Basil Karlo’s re-election campaign. 

This didn’t feel to anyone like an auspicious omen, but then, neither did having Bruce Wayne, the adoptive older brother of Mayor Karlo’s presumed opponent, as a guest. Bruce had never donated to Karlo’s campaign, but Falcone insisted there were “certain courtesies that must be observed.”

Speaking in a somehow thunderous whisper; its voice only clear above the ringing in the ears of the assembled guests because of the shocked silence of the party.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you have eaten well, and drank deeply,” The Devil whispered. “You have eaten Gotham’s spirit, its resources, and its people.”

One of the dinner guests, Gianna D’Ellaroso, felt faint, and slipped, barely being caught by Bruce Wayne, and set gently into her chair in the darkness.

The butler eventually felt his way to the silent alarm, pressing it three times in rapid succession. This sequence would tell the house staff to lockdown Carmine Falcone’s study, and send a message to the Shamrock Home Electro-Lock security offices, who would in turn send armed security guards and alert the Gotham City Police. Their closest outpost was almost ten minutes away.

The Devil continued to judge the assembly.

“Your feast is nearly over,” it whispered. “From now on, none of you are safe.”

The Devil spread its leathery wings, and flew into the night.

Two blasts of gunfire illuminated the dark dining room in flashes, one discharged by Gotham Police Commissioner Peter Grogan, and the other by his body man, Detective Arnold Flass. Both ran after the demon, looking around and even up, but saw nothing but the blinding brilliance of Gotham moonlight overhead.

Carmine Falcone shook his head, hitting himself with the butt of his palm in the temple to attempt to relieve the tinnitis from the blast to his wall, and stared a hole in Mayor Karlo, who shot a look at Grogan and Flass.

The Roman collected the mayor, the commissioner, and the detective, and, with an emphatic apology, dismissed his dinner guests.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Homes in Silverwood Barrens were far enough away from one another that a small enough explosion was unlikely to alarm the neighbors, but this didn’t keep The Bat’s evening rendezvous with Gotham’s wealthy elite from the headlines.

WINGED FREAK TERRORIZES GOTHAM GUESTS

The Gotham Globe was a legitimate newspaper, and even Skip Freeley made a discussion out of it in his Gotham Gossip column, positing that this “Batman” was Gotham’s sinister reflection of its sister city’s Superman.

 Bruce Wayne set down the newspaper, looking up at his adoptive younger brother, Dick Grayson, and taking a sip of his coffee.

“What are we, English? Who keeps serving beans and mushrooms with breakfast? When is Al coming back anyway?” Dick complained, rubbing his right deltoid with his left hand.

“Soon enough, but you don’t love his cooking either,” Bruce remarked.

“Anything beats this,” Dick said, allowing a stream of baked beans to drip off of his fork.

“When is Barbara getting here?” Bruce asked, chewing a mouthful of mushrooms.

“Any minute now,” Dick replied. “I have half a mind to cancel though. I thought I wasn’t gonna need to work nights anymore?”

“I needed to be able to accept that invitation to put us above suspicion. Anybody in Gotham who can read will know that I was at Falcone’s last night,” Bruce held up the paper, pointing to it with his free hand. “That invitation was sent before you announced, and I’m pretty certain I won’t be invited to the next one.”

Dick rolled his eyes, and continued massaging his shoulder.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Lieutenant James Gordon was standing in front of the police officers in the operations room of Gotham Police Central District.

“Commissioner Grogan is on administrative leave, so in the interim, while Mayor Karlo tries to get approval for a new commissioner, I’ll be the acting top cop,” Jim explained, privately annoyed that Grogan would be getting paid for getting canned, which probably meant he wasn’t long for the world, or that he had too much dirt on Karlo and Falcone.

“Where’s Flass?” Asked a thirtysomething detective, one who Gordon was pretty sure he’d seen take protection money from a shop owner in Gallery West.

“He’s on leave too, but I’d guess he’ll be back sooner tha-–” 

“He’ll be back,” interrupted a heavyset older officer lurking in the back of the room, with thinning dark hair. Bullock, Gordon identified the voice. “Talked to Flass this morning. He’s just taking a few days to figure some things out. Rumor has it he’s being interviewed to be the next commish,” Bullock supplied with a shit-eating grin.

Jim couldn’t think of anyone worse for the job than Flass. He was hotheaded, violent, and certainly in too deep in the various rackets that plagued the police department. Gordon himself was certainly the favorite of the papers, and the one most likely to be confirmed by the city council, but he didn’t think he stood too much of a chance if Mayor Karlo was doing the appointing.

Acting Commissioner Jim Gordon gave out assignments, and headed to his office. One way or another, he was expecting a call from the mayor.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

In 1920, Yiannis “Johnny” Gelio, age seventeen, was collecting his younger sister, Althea, age six. She was playing with her friends in the alley below to their walkup tenement.

Johnny’s well-worn boots needed new soles, but he hadn’t had time to get to the cobbler, so he could feel every creaky wooden step beneath his feet as he descended.

Johnny’s older sister, Cassandra, had died in the Ace Shirtwaist Factory Fire in 1911 when Johnny was only eight years old. Althea was born three years later in 1914. 

Johnny could hear his parents fighting in their native Greek over the mistake that they surely wouldn’t be able to afford. But when Althea was born, Johnny’s papa smiled the biggest smile he’d ever seen through tearful eyes.

Johnny’s mama told him and a three year old Althea that papa had been called off to France in 1918, and handed each child a gift from their father, wrapped in a plain paper package with a bit of twine.

For Althea, a porcelain Kewpie, with a simple note “Be careful you don’t break her.”

For Yiannis, a book called A Bunch of Yarns by F.J. Cahill – a collection of funny stories from the stars of vaudeville.

Johnny didn’t get a note, and he was more than a little suspicious that the note accompanying his sister’s gift seemed to be written in his mama’s hand, but his mother insisted through streaming tears that their father was off to fight for freedom in Europe.

Johnny had done his best to keep Althea and her Kewpie doll safe, and, much to his surprise, his little sister managed not to break her favorite toy in the intervening years.

When he appeared at the top of the alley, (they lived in subsidized tenements near the arts district just outside of Gotham’s Coastal Park neighborhood, in what would, in just a few weeks, come to be known as Crime Alley), Johnny saw his sister and her friends digging through soot and muck beside a dumpster, and jogged over to them to investigate.

“Kewpie! She fell!!” The girl screamed in a panic at her brother. Johnny shooed the younger children, who all marveled at their dirty hands, and scanned the area near the dumpster, hoping to see a glint of bisque to avoid digging through the disgusting runoff.

A tiny, smiling face appeared just behind the waste bin, and Johnny slid into the space between the wall and the dumpster to retrieve the doll.

He was unexpectedly sad when he noticed that it was cracked – the toes on the left foot had broken off – he spit on his hanky, wiping the doll more or less clean, and emerged, trying to put on a smile to avoid alarming his kid sister.

“Almost as good as new,” he handed the doll to Althea who smiled brightly and squealed at her older brother, the hero. She kissed the doll, and Johnny took her sticky, disgusting hand, and walked out of the alley with the kids, sending his sister’s friends to the neighboring tenement building while he and Althea climbed the stairs in theirs.

On the last step before their floor, Johnny stepped on a protruding carpet tack which punctured the sole of his shoe, pricking his big toe, and causing him to curse in pain.

“Wash your hands Althea. And wash Kewpie, too,” Johnny commanded. He was annoyed and frustrated and dirty, and he trudged down the hallway to the common bathroom to scrub himself clean, trusting Althea to get washed up for dinner by herself.

Weeks later, Althea was diagnosed with the poliovirus that would eventually take her life. That day at the doctor, Johnny’s back spasmed for the first time.

Althea’s death took a toll on mama’s sanity. She would mutter to herself about her sweet angelos, and Johnny, just before turning nineteen, took the money he’d been hoarding in his top drawer and ran away from home, determined that he could build a better life for himself without mama’s inconsolable breakdowns.

And he succeeded. 

Starting out as a night security guard at a museum in Trenton, he was eventually promoted to manager, and from there he was recommended into the police academy, working his way up the professional ladder from patrolman, to detective, to sergeant, to lieutenant, of the Trenton Police Department.

On a dark, stormy night in 1932, Lieutenant Yiannis Gelio, age 29, kicked the door of an illegal bootlegging operation off of its hinges.

None of the bootleggers were armed, though there were submachine guns on the wall behind them. The tip had been good; Johnny’s men caught the bootleggers completely unawares, playing poker around a card table.

“There was one guy in the back, he’s mumbling something in some language I dunno, sir,” said an officer, dragging an older, olive complected man out of his hiding hole.

There was an optimistic familiarity in the man’s eyes as he looked at Johnny, breaking free of the younger officer’s grip and charging at the lieutenant. 

“Γιάννης? Γιάννης! Αγόρι μου! Παρακαλώ, πρέπει να καταλάβετε, αυτοί οι άνδρες εδώ, απήγαγαν–“

A gunshot, and the man collapsed on the floor, coughing blood out of his mouth.

“I am not your υιός,” Johnny spat. “Bob, get him in a bag.”

Johnny had long ago moved past any notion of feeling guilty about dispensing criminals.

Officer Bob Barber didn’t breathe for a full ten seconds, then surreptitiously inhaled a sharp, single breath.

“Yessir!”

“You all saw it. He was charging me. I had to defend myself. Get all of this cleaned up and lets get these scumbags downtown.”

The next day, Johnny was promoted to captain.

And just over a year later, he got a collect call from a friend of his a couple towns over, a cop. Arnold Flass.

“Your mother’s not doing too well, Johnny. Might be time for you to make your peace.”

Johnny liked Flass because he got results, but he didn’t quite respect the guy’s mind. On the take? Sure. But who wasn’t on the take in Gotham. Flass didn’t pull punches, and he knew how to get his men to look the other way. Loyalty was something Johnny valued, but he knew that Flass’s methods were anything but clever. He was a beat cop in every sense of the phrase, and he really should never have been allowed to investigate anything.

“By the way, Johnny, I think I might’ve spoke too soon about that commissioner gig,” Johnny searched his memory, then remembered. Flass as commissioner would be a disaster. It would mean Gotham was a lost cause. And anyway,  you don’t get promoted to commissioner from detective, not even in Gotham.

“They’re looking for an outside hire,” Flass continued. “But the smart money’s on Gordon.”

“Gordon’s a good cop,” Johnny said, inwardly chuckling at the irony of such a Boy Scout being Gotham’s top cop. “Or at least, that’s what the papers say.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Flass said. “But if you’re coming home, I got someone I’d like you to meet.”

The arrangements were made, and, for the first time in more than a decade, Johnny Gelio returned to Gotham City to, with any luck, become the new commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department. 

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

“Already?” Dick was flabbergasted at the news from Barbara, but she did have a bit of an inside source.

“Nobody’s more surprised than me. I kinda assumed my father was just being pessimistic, but he wasn’t even interviewed,” Barbara explained.

“Yeah, but this guy came outta nowhere, right?”

“Well, yes, but he grew up in Gotham. And he turned Trenton completely around. Dad says he’s reserving judgment, but only because he knows Flass – he’s one of the detectives that my father insists is corrupt,” Bruce had walked into the small banquet room where Barbara and Dick were working on his schedule for the day.

“Here’s a pair of co-conspirators if I ever there was,” Bruce glanced over at the pair who were sitting inconveniently close to one another at such a large table.

Both of them briefly looked up at Bruce and rolled their eyes.

“Look, I know you don’t want to do the publicity stunt thing,” Barbara began, loud enough that Bruce could hear, “but I think it’s time we thought about saying something on the topic of these dead children.”

Arnold Overlea had been the first in what would become a series of unsettling deaths. Three bodies in three consecutive days.

“GPD and the mayor are doing a presser tomorrow morning,” Bruce interjected. “If the campaign releases a statement today, it’ll run in the stories covering the press conference.”

“Do we know what they’re going to be talking about?” Dick asked. “What if it’s not these killings?” 

Bruce and Dick both looked at Barbara, hoping she could fill in some blanks.

“Dad didn’t tell me what it’s about, honest. I –“ Barbara paused, then, “I don’t think they’ve even told him.”

“Hmm,” Bruce pondered aloud. “We can probably narrow it down though.”

“Right,” Dick added. “There are only really two things they could be discussing: the killings or the new commissioner.”

“It’s probably both, right?” Barbara suggested. “‘We brought in this hometown kid to fix things!’ seems like a good story for the papers and a good way to get the mayor a publicity bump.”

“‘Both’ sounds correct,” Dick said. “That’s what the statement should reflect.”

“Okay, but how do we turn the murders of a bunch of children into a good thing?” Barbara asked, vexed.

The trio searched their thoughts in silence for a time, each scribbling down notes.

“I think I’ve got something,” Barbara finally broke the quiet with excitement. “We don’t want to give the mayor a win –“

“– Or the police,” Bruce added.

Barbara rolled her eyes.

“So, what if the campaign paid for funeral expenses for the murdered children? A lot of these kids don’t come from wealthy families, and a funeral can be expensive, and create a lot of additional stress at the grimmest time in these people’s lives,” Barbara explained the developing idea. “It doesn’t incentivize more killings, and since we don’t know the killer’s motives, there’s even a small chance it prevents further deaths.”

Bruce thought it over, while Dick started writing.

“And the police?” Bruce asked.

“What if we just say that we hope the new commissioner is more competent than the mayor’s last appointee?”

“That’s really good!” Barbara said.

“Let me read it before you send it out,” I’ve got to get to the hospital.

Bruce left the hall, fastening a deep blue tie around his collar.

“Hospital?” Barbara asked, confused.

“The Foundation has been funding the remodeling efforts of the sanitarium down on Arkham Island,” Dick explained. “Bruce believes he would’ve benefited from a mental health intervention after his parents were…anyway, he thinks counseling and social work is a good way to keep crime down.”

“What do you fellas have against cops, anyway?”

Dick sighed.

“It’s kind of complex, but a lot of it has to do with seeing how Alfred has been treated by police. The guy’s one of the three richest men on Earth, and he’s been pulled over and beaten up for the crime of ‘driving a nice car,’” Dick searched for a pithy conclusion. “You’ve read about the Gotham Renaissance? Well, when that started, it was called the Gotham Black Riots, if you can believe it. 

“The police were brought in, not to protect the black families buying houses and moving into The East End, but to scare them off. They protected business owners who refused to serve colored folks, and when they found out that Wayne Enterprises was providing them good union jobs with worker protections, they started union busting at other companies that weren’t so worker-friendly.

“Police don’t really stop crimes, either,” Dick continued.

“Are we just pretending that detectives don’t exist?” Barbara asked defensively.

“Detective work is important,” Dick retorted, “but the only crimes those potentially stop are future crimes. A crime has to have occurred in the first place for a detective to solve it, which is to say nothing of all the times they get it wrong. How many people are in the Jersey Penitentiary who didn’t do anything except ‘fit a description?’”

“So you want to get rid of jails, too?”

“There’s a humane way to separate people from the rest of society,” Dick reflected after a moment. “But the way jails are now, ain’t it.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, Dick, I just want to know what I should do if I get mugged or worse? And I have read about the Gotham Renaissance, what about the drugs that flooded into The East End?”

“Cannabis? Oh come on, Barbara. Are you telling me you think cannabis is dangerous? It wasn’t the cannabis, that was just a convenient excuse to raid The Silk Room. If dope was so dangerous, why isn’t every college campus in America getting raided every day?”

“But violence, who would stop violence? You still haven’t answered the question of who stops me from getting mugged?”

“The police have a monopoly on violence, Barbara. Are you getting mugged in a world where people are getting paid fairly, have a roof over their heads, and a hot meal to eat? Where they have a professional to talk to if they’re feeling the weight of the world on their shoulders? Where they have a community that supports them? Where they have schools that teach them more than just how to be a slave to wealthy people?”

“Big talk from a ruling class guy who never wanted for anything,” Barbara chuckled.

“That’s my point, Barb,” Dick laughed in reply. “You don’t see me, or Bruce or Al committing mugging anyone, do you?”

Barbara sighed in annoyed defeat. He did have a point, but still.

“Let’s get to work on this statement, huh?” Barbara picked up her pen; Dick smirked and followed suit.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

Mayor Basil Karlo was flanked by his interim police commissioner, Lieutenant James Gordon, Jim's partner, Detective Selina Kyle, and the mayor's new appointee, Commissioner Johnny Gelio. Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne stood among the crowd of onlookers and press; Barbara Gordon was there, too, but stood on the other side of the assembled. 

Also in attendance were the parents of the three murdered boys: Billy and Etta Overlea, Joe and Trina Todd, and Gus and Maria Harper, though, Bruce noted, none of them were standing in places that indicated any kind of esteem or reverence from the police.

“…I want to thank interim commissioner lieutenant James Gordon for his continued, unparalleled service to the people of Gotham. He has been invaluable in our mission to make Gotham a safer, healthier, and wealthier city. And now, it is my pleasure to introduce Commissioner Johnny Gelio!”

Bruce also noted that the mayor’s tone was uncomfortably pleasant, given the circumstances; Bruce also thought it significant that the guest of honor was much more severe from the moment he approached the lectern. The dark haired man with the neatly pressed dress uniform had a number of muscular tics: his eyes, mouth, and shoulders occasionally twitched; it was unsettling to witness, but Commissioner Gelio ignored it. Tetanus, Bruce filed it away as a likely cause in his memory.

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor. People of Gotham, terror has ravaged our once rising city!” the new commissioner began. “The sons of Gotham lie dead in our streets, and a police department made impotent by manifold efforts to undermine our work have been left in need of resources to bring the criminal responsible for this – this madness to justice.

“I feel the pain of the parents of Gotham who have experienced these grievous losses. I know that feeling of hopelessness all too well, because I have comforted mothers and fathers, including my own dear mother, when her soul was crushed with the burden of burying two daughters.

“The mothers of Gotham shudder, fearfully in their homes, begging with trembling hands to our smoky skies, asking ‘who will save us?’ and the so-called leadership has washed their hands of the matter entirely, paving the way for The Devil to answer their prayers.”

Gelio’s eye twitched as he held up a newspaper from earlier in the week. The Gotham Globe. Mayor Karlo’s face had hardened into a grimace. He nodded along with Gelio’s speech, even if, at points, it seemed as much a criticism of him as anyone else.

“Metropolis has their own vigilante. An alien in a red cape and blue tights. And yet, even now, bombings have crippled our sister city, and the so-called Superman has been powerless to prevent death, grievous injury, or the destruction of businesses.

“We must not confuse terrorism with heroism. The real heroes of this city are the citizens who risk it all to serve and protect you every day, and I am proud to serve as their new commander.

“I introduce to you our new campaign against a common enemy. The mayor has assembled a task force, the same crackerjack team that investigated and brought to justice the oriental menace has been working silently and tirelessly to answer the question of ‘who is killing our sons?’ and ‘who is assaulting and threatening Gotham’s job creators?’”

Throughout the audience, there were scatted claps, cheers, and cries of “hear, hear!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am joining and will be leading this task force, and I am committing to you, today, that we will expand that operation tenfold until our common enemy has been defeated and brought to justice. 

“I have given a name to this city’s pain,” Gelio took a deep breath, pausing dramatically for a beat. “And it’s ‘Batman.’ This criminal superhuman is a grave foreshadowing of what even Superman could become! We must prevent this at any cost! The Man of Steel didn’t prevent the death of Arnold Overlea, and didn’t provide comfort to the boy’s grieving mother when he arrived and quickly vanished, leaving a heartbroken family feeling more hopeless than before!”

The scattered cheers once more resounded, with a few more voices this time.

“We cannot allow super powered crooks to dictate the lives of law-abiding people of Gotham. We’ve heard he’s bulletproof. We’ve heard he can fly. And we’ve heard he can be in multiple places at once. The mayor and city council have ensured me that I will have the full support and resources needed to bring dawn upon this dark night of terror. Humanity itself may depend on our ability to demonstrate how to fight back against these caped horrors.

"'The dawn is all-powerful. You cannot prevail over it. It is coming. No! It is come. Within it is the day-spring of Gotham's irresistible light.'"

"Hugo," Bruce muttered to Dick.

"Victor Hugo?" Dick asked.

"It seems our new commissioner is an avid reader."

“The Batman is, from this moment, the most wanted criminal in Gotham City. He is our primary suspect in the murders of Arnold Overlea, Jason Todd, and Gus Harper, Junior. He has twenty-four hours to turn himself in, before facing the full force of this Gotham City Police Department.”

Once more, a chorus of cheers filled the air at the proclamation.

Gelio again held up The Globe, pointing, as punctuation, at the headline of the newspaper, reading it aloud to the growing crowd. 

“Winged. Freak. Terrorizes,” boos and hisses filled the air, even from members of the press corps, who were quickly being won to Gelio’s cause (whether for ideological reasons or because of the sensational headlines, Bruce was unsure). “Wait ’til he gets a load of me.”

Raucous, angry cheers sounded at the abrupt close of the speech, and Commissioner Johnny Gelio shook the mayor’s hand, gathering Lieutenant James Gordon and Detective Selina Kyle and vanishing into a police squad car.

Chapter Text

His father was a drinker
And his mother cried in bed
Folding John Wayne's t-shirts
When the swingset hit his head
The neighbors they adored him
For his humor and his conversation
Look underneath the house there
Find the few living things, rotting fast, in their sleep
Oh, the dead
Twenty-seven people
Even more, they were boys
With their cars, summer jobs
Oh my God

Are you one of them?

- Sufjan Stevens, "John Wayne Gacy, Jr."

---

Bruce Wayne wasn’t used to being blindsided by a possibility that he hadn’t even considered, but Commissioner Johnny Gelio, in naming the Batman as the primary suspect in the murders of three Gotham boys had struck him dumb.

 Dick Grayson, witnessing this, was concerned. He’d seen Bruce get something wrong before, but usually there was, at least, some level of preparation for it. Proportionate preparation, was what Alfred had called it.

The commissioner hadn’t just zigged when they expected a zag, he had oranged when they expected a triangle.

Following the presser, Dick sent his campaign manager, Barbara Gordon, to get more information from her father, Lieutenant Jim Gordon, about this new commissioner. Dick was more than a little relieved when Barbara expressed some similar concerns over Commissioner Gelio’s conclusions:

“I suppose that there’s nothing to suggest that it’s not the Batman who killed those kids,” Barbara had said, mostly thinking out loud. “But, it seems like they’re really biasing the public and any ongoing investigation against him.” She used the pronoun almost as a question. Many people had assumed the Batman was male, but, publicly, it was inconclusive; many doubted the Bat was even human.

“Privileging the hypothesis,” Bruce remarked, off-handedly.

“Huh?” Barbara and Dick said in unison.

“There are about three million people in Gotham. Let’s count the Batman as one of them,” Bruce explained. “To even consider a specific suspect without say, finding a clump of bat fur on the body of one or more of the victims, is giving undue weight to that suspect. If Gelio doesn’t have something other than a gut feeling, then he’s violating the Batman’s civil rights–“

“– Assuming he’s human,” Dick added.

“Well, no,” Barbara cut in. “Even if he’s not explicitly human, if he lives among us and has the ability to reason, then he should be treated as though he’s a human. If a dog started speaking English, and demonstrated that it could read, write, and survive on its own, we’d have to respect its agency.”

“I agree with you,” Bruce confirmed, “but for the purposes of this, let’s assume he does have to be human – It just leaves less to consider.

“So the point is, detective’s intuition isn’t enough to even suggest a suspect. It’s reckless, because people – in the absence of a competing, already-held belief – are much better at confirming ideas that have been presented to them than they are at refuting those same ideas. By calling the Batman Gotham’s most wanted criminal, detectives are much more likely to tie evidence to the Batman than they otherwise would’ve been.”

“Gee,” Barbara pondered, “this has some grim implications. I wonder how many people have been sent upstate because of detective’s intution.”

Bruce nodded, and Barbara, looking somewhat distressed, excused herself to track down her father, adding that it wasn’t likely he’d tell her everything, but she thought her father had also looked bowled over by the announcement.

“Let’s get back to the house and talk,” Dick suggested, and he needed to physically pull his adoptive older brother and mentor along to shake him out of his distracted state.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

The Wayne Manor library was often better suited to discussions – even discussions of a clandestine nature – than the abandoned mine (or “the Bat Cave,” as Dick had started calling it). 

The room smelled like leather and the light, vanilla-like notes of the lignin from aging pages; the faintest traces of pipe tobacco lingered in the air.

Superman could conceivably see into the room, but with the methodical, erratic campaign of bombings going on in Metropolis, Bruce weighed the conspicuousness of his and Dick’s being available to receive Barbara (or a call from Barbara)  as a valuable component of his cover – only Alfred had the radio channel that would connect the house with the Bat Cave, and both Bruce and Dick were prone to bouts of intense hyperfocus in a space so well-suited to creative thought.

“So now what?” Bruce asked, surprising Dick.

“Are you asking me because you don’t have a plan, or because you want my input?” Dick asked back.

Bruce said sternly, “I’ve got ideas, but I want to hear yours without my influence first.”

“Well the Batman isn’t turning himself in,” Dick remarked. “So the questions we need to answer are ‘how well-resourced is the mayor making GPD?’ and ‘what happens when nobody comes forward?’ – unless you’ve got something else?”

“I’d considered both of those questions. Let me add a point, and see what conclusion you reach. The new commissioner and the mayor want to be seen as strongmen when it comes to crime. This was a public relations event, not a public policy event.” Bruce looked at his watch.

Dick knew the exercise. Consider the problem or problems for five minutes, without proposing anything. He stood up and started pacing around the room. 

Bruce stood, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. He wouldn’t describe it as meditation, exactly, but it provided him a bit of internal calm, even in situations of high pressure. While Dick conceived of answers to the new information Bruce had introduced, the elder brother thought through myriad scenarios, each less likely than the last, but exponentially greater in consequence.

By the time that five minutes had passed, Dick had been writing his fleeting thoughts (regardless of how absurd they seemed), for nearly three.

“Bruce,” Dick broke the hush of the library, handing Bruce his notes. “Here’s what I got.”

Bruce scanned the notes, laughing to himself that the quality of Dick’s penmanship was so inconsistent.

“This is interesting, can you explain more?” Bruce pointed to a bullet point where “What if he isn’t after the Batman?” was scribbled. 

“I haven’t fleshed it all the way out, but I found myself asking ‘is there anything Gelio or the mayor have done so far that wouldn’t be true if they were after something other than The Batman?’”

“And?”

“The Batman just feels like a vehicle for something else. I just haven’t figured out what it’s a vehicle for yet,” Dick answered. “What about you?”

“I was trying to figure out something along those lines,” Bruce said, then added, “but I think someone will turn themselves in–”

“Wait, but not the Batman?” Dick interrupted.

“Not the real one,” Bruce explained, “but that won’t stop them from saying it’s the genuine article.”

“Hmm, what would they get out of that? It would be so easy to prove it false.”

“Well if they weren’t proven false, then their premise gets reinforced. Violent crime in Gotham has been down, but you wouldn’t know it if you don’t read our papers.”

“The cops report those statistics anyway. They’d have a lot to gain by suggesting otherwise,” Dick noted.

“Correct,” Bruce affirmed, “but if it turns out to that whoever ‘turns himself in’ is a sham, it could be used to justify sinking additional resources into ‘fighting crime.’”

Dick let the information sink in.

“They could use that to justify anything,” he finally said.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

“Well what does ‘anything’ even mean here?” Barbara demanded.

“Barbara,” Bruce gently intoned, not wanting to bring additional tension to an argument in progress between candidate and campaign manager, “I understand why you have an affinity for police officers. We don’t need or expect you to believe what we believe. I think what Dick wants, is to know that you will acknowledge potential abuses of power if we correctly predict them.

“We need to be better prepared for the commissioner’s next move than we were for today’s. Neither I – or Dick – will ask you to do or say anything that puts your father in danger.”

Bruce could feel that Barbara’s second guessing was reactionary – it was a belief that she’d held tightly, but that Bruce and Dick had challenged – so, because she was so bright, it created a mental confrontation for her. But he also knew that helping her to come to that belief on her own was going to be more effective than shouting at her, regardless of how correct the shouts happened to be.

“I’m sorry,” Dick lowered his eyes, “I overreacted.”

“Well, apology accepted.” Barbara spat, not seeming ready to really accept the apology…yet. “Anyway, my father told me what he could, but he was just as caught off guard as we were,” a deep breath, “he doesn’t know whether the Batman is a killer, but he doesn’t think he’s The Peter Pan killer, either.”

Bruce hm’ed.

“Peter Pan because the victims were so young?”

“Yeah,” Barbara rubbed her neck, “something like that.”

“Well what does he think?” Dick asked.

“He said that Gelio took over his task force, and he’s being much more hands on than Grogan ever was,” Barbara explained. “Dad said that he and his partner are supposed to brief the commissioner every morning, but that they’re to operate as usual otherwise. Detective Kyle – that’s dad’s partner – said that she isn’t holding her breath about anyone turning himself in.”

Bruce looked at his watch; moments later, one of the staff knocked on the door to the library.

“The evening editions, mister Wayne.” the woman said with a warm smile.

“Thank you,” Bruce smiled back. “If you’re not leaving for the day just yet, could I trouble you for a pot of coffee?”

The worker smiled, said of course, and departed. Bruce tossed a newspaper each to Barbara and Dick.

“Well ain’t that a kick in the trousers!” Barbara said, reading the headline:

NEW COMMISH BATTLES BAT

“Look at this,” Bruce pointed out a line in the front page interview he was reading in Gotham Financial the headline – “Exclusive Interview: Top Cop’s Big Plan for Big Businesses” – was less combative, but no less ominous to Bruce:

GELIO: The mayor’s got a plan to keep people, especially the job creators who operate our essential businesses here, in Gotham. My people love it. It starts with more foot patrols, more quality of life interventions – stopping people from littering, arresting people for misdemeanors to get them to roll on the higher ups in their organization, and starting immediately, neighborhood check-ins. Gothamites will get to know the officers in our communities as we periodically knock on doors, chat with residents, and become a part of it all. Feel free to invite us in, I’m partial to lemonade myself.

The staffer returned with a French press, a coffee service, and three small mugs; Dick started pouring.

“That doesn’t seem so bad, does it?” Barbara asked, and Bruce cast a look in Dick’s direction to indicate that he would take this one.

“Not on the surface – if the police got to know the communities they worked in, there’s good reason to believe that would help with empathizing with those communities,” Bruce answered. “But this approach, here,” (he read aloud) “‘…quality of life interventions,’ it’s correlative, but not causative. It’s meant to make it look like and feel like something is happening, but they’re just going to churn through these low level arrests; anyone with an organization will have competent lawyers, which means these arrests won’t roll on anyone, and they’ll be back on the streets the same day.”

“That doesn’t sound useful though. If the same guy ends up back on the streets tonight, the residents in the neighborhood will see the police are being ineffective. That sounds like a bad plan, frankly,” Dick protested.

“Well, it’s like we were discussing earlier: violent crime is already pretty low in Gotham,” Bruce went on, “so the police can start reporting the effect – lower crime rates – and then post hoc they can position themselves or the mayor’s ‘plan’ as the cause.”

“And if crime goes up,” Barbara worked it out out loud, “they can show how well it worked in the mayor’s plan, and that we need to invest more into that plan, either by spending more money on the police, or expanding their powers.” She looked up at Dick, and she looked nervous.

“Or both,” Bruce added.

“Bruce thinks they’re going to announce that the Batman turned himself in, or that they’ve made an arrest later tonight,” Dick said. “But he doesn’t think it’ll be the genuine article.”

“No,” Barbara replied softly, “no, that doesn’t sound right. Dad would have to be in on that, and he would’ve told me, even if he didn’t tell me directly, he’s got a pitiful pokerface.”

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

It had been almost twenty-four hours since the last time Commissioner Gelio had stood on the marble steps of City Hall and delivered a rousing message to the people of Gotham. 

The Batman had not been arrested, or turned himself in, and so a press conference was set to start in just minutes to discuss “what happens next.”

The chime of the clock in city hall indicated the hour, and Commissioner Gelio stepped forward.

“The Batman remains at large,” he said, and he let it hang in the air, not saying another word for almost thirty seconds, while the drama of the simple phrase persisted in the silence. “When I first spoke to you, I told you we would increase the size of our Superhuman Task Force tenfold, and I have requested the funding for this requisition from Mayor Karlo and the city council. I expect to hear back from the mayor before the end of the day today. In the interim, city council has authorized an emergency curfew between seven o’clock p.m and five a.m, starting this Friday. 

“Lest anyone be concerned about an impingement on their freedom to work, or visit family, this curfew will need to be reauthorized by the council every thirty days, and they are able to cancel it at will.”

“Commissioner!” A voice from the press, a woman. “Lois Lane, with The Daily Planet. What will the consequences be for breaking this curfew? What about dockworkers or graveyard shift at Gotham General?”

“Miss Lane,” the commissioner smiled, “This is a temporary measure. Individuals found out past curfew just need a note from their employer, or doctor. If you’re not a person of interest, we will escort you home on your first offense.”

“Commissioner!” It was Lane, again. “One more question. Do you think the bombing at the estate of Carmine Falcone, a notorious crime boss, is in any way connected to the bombings in Metropolis?”

Murmurs of “Falcone?” passed through the press corps. It was no secret that “The Roman” was the executive of a once-thriving criminal enterprise, but reporters working in Gotham never plainly stated that fact. Partially because of fear, and partially because no one who would ever substantiate Falcone’s more nefarious dealings was willing to go on record.

“We know the bombing in Silverwood Barrens was executed by the super-powered individual calling himself the Batman. We have not ruled anything out, yet, and have been exchanging information with investigators in Metropolis,” Gelio answered. “Thank you, we’ll keep you updated.” And the commissioner left the lectern.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, commissioner, but I’m afraid I don’t usually take unscheduled meetings with your people,” came the smokey Italian-Jersey accent of Carmine Falcone, “But why don’t we schedule an appointment for the very near future?”

“Carmine,” Flass said, conversationally placing himself between the two men, “I’ve known Johnny since I was a kid. We watched after his ma when his dad left out. I trust him with my life.”

Falcone looked through suspicious eyes at Flass, not appreciating the informality of the detective using his given name, nor that he was being insubordinate. Flass had been on Falcone's payroll for almost as long as he'd been a cop, but this level of "comfortable" was inappropriate.

Gelio ran through the interplay in his mind. Flass was effective, not competent. Falcone was both, but with the weak spot of having a lot of incentive to look like he was doing the right thing – especially when having a discussion with a police officer who was, to Falcone, an unknown quantity.

Johnny found himself understanding why the mayor told him to pay an impromptu visit to The Roman, and why he was told to bring Flass: as a pipefitting; joining the commissioner and the crime boss together.

“Let’s hear what you have to say, Mr. Commissioner,” Falcone resigned, sitting back down at the table. He waved off the pair of armed guards who were stationed by the hole in the wall. Cinderblock was beginning to be mortared into place, but a drop cloth flapped occasionally, always followed by a warm breeze.

“The mayor has run into an impasse with the councilman from your district, and two of the other councilmen,” Johnny explained. “They have enough votes to vote down the funding for our rapid Superhuman Task Force expansion.”

“Regardless of what you may have heard, commissioner, I’m not in the business of shaking people down.”

Gelio’s left eye and the right corner of his mouth twitched, looking for all the world like he had just snickered at a killer’s explicit denial.

“Something funny, Mr. Commissioner?”

“No, I’m sorry Mr. Falcone. Tetanus. From the tenements in Crime Alley where I grew up.

“The Arts District?” Falcone asked, surprised. “You a paisano?”

“Close. Greek.”

“I see. My apologies about your, uh…condition. I got cousins who grew up over there. I know how rough it could be.”

“Not at all, Mr. Falcone. I didn’t mean to give the impression that we were here to contract a shakedown of Councilman Jackson,” Johnny maneuvered deftly in the conversation, offering contrition and charm in just the right measures. “What I need are men, or, rather, funding for men.”

“If I’m being honest, I’m one of GPD’s biggest boosters already. Which is to say, what will I get for my increased investment?”

“Your candidate wins re-election, and your public perception shifts further away from your past and more towards your position as a community leader and respected philanthropist. On top of that, you get to say you’re the guy who brought down the Batman.”

The Roman blinked twice, then smiled and reached into his jacket pocket, producing a checkbook.

“And to whom shall I make the check payable?”

Commissioner Johnny Gelio’s neck spasmed, and his mouth twitched. This time, though, he smiled in earnest.

≡≡≡🦇≡≡≡

It was an hour past curfew, and rain came down in sheets over Gotham City.

On Nanticoke Island, Dr. Victor Fries entered his home, calling out for his wife.

“Nora! I’m home, sweetheart!”

No reply.

“Nora! Nora? Alan?”

Neither wife nor son answered the coroner. In better weather, or outside of the impositions of a curfew, he would be unlikely to give it a second thought, but this was cause for concern.

He checked the garden, but there was nothing there but flooded flower boxes and his wife’s tomato plant.

Victor donned his soaking overcoat, and placed a hand on the doorknob, when it turned from the outside. He pulled the door open.

“Victor, thank God!” Nora stood before him in a raincoat. She was dripping, and dropped a rain-gorged newspaper on the porch as she crossed the threshold.

It wouldn’t be obvious to a casual observer, but Mrs. Nora Fries was crying. 

She ran into Victor’s arms, her sobs intensifying.

“It’s Alan, Victor.” She cried between great, stuttering breaths. “He hasn’t come home, and I told him to be here by five thirty – because of the curfew.”

This wasn’t like Alan, Victor thought. Alan was a punctual, obedient boy.

“Where did he say he was going?” Victor asked inexpressively.

“He went to the boardwalk at Nanticoke Beach with Billy,” Nora answered. “What if it’s that thing? What if the Batman has him?”

“Call the police. Jim should still be there, and tell him I’m driving over to the boardwalk in case I get stopped. Don’t worry, Nora, I’m sure he’s okay.”

Dr. Victor Fries, Gotham City’s coroner,  kissed his wife, and walked out into the storm.

Chapter Text

"To die will be an awfully big adventure."

– J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

“Peter Pan.”

It was a terrifying whisper among the waifs in Gotham City.

Many of the homeless youth had started corralling together, even if it meant they needed to split the scraps and pocket change they made off of their manifold hustles.

The orphan Pockets didn’t know his real name. He was smaller, more nimble than the boys from the park, but his harelip never healed properly, meaning that it was easy for people to ignore him.

So Pockets became invisible.

Give the boy twenty minutes in midtown at lunchtime and he’d emerge with a wool hat, a watch, a wallet, a wedding ring, two bits, and a sausage sandwich. He had a rare talent for relieving people of their extraneous property, and he absolutely needed it more than they did.

Today, was Saturday, and Pockets was hungry. No real lunchtime crowd to speak of, and the bakery where he was sometimes able to get day-old bread for a penny a loaf was run by two middle aged Jewish brothers, so it was closed in observance of their sabbath.

Out-of-towners and suckers were much less common too, thanks to Peter Pan. There were a lot of mixed up ideas about the guy – but Joey, one of the newsboys who Pockets would sometimes camp with at night, said that the coppers thought Peter Pan was a dracula – and Joey super swore it was true, which was an unbreakable oath among the youth of Gotham’s streets.

That meant that Pockets would have to head down to Adams Park. It was a hike from where he was, but it was the only place he might be able to find a scrap, or to link up with some of Joey’s friends to split something to eat. 

There was a slavic man in the park with a sausage cart. Kids could get franks two-for-a-nickel, and he’d load them up with onion sauce and sauerkraut if you wanted. Pockets didn’t like all of the toppings, but they definitely kept you fuller than the frank by itself.

And if the kids couldn’t scrounge together a nickel between them, the man was a sure bet to fall for the old heymister hustle: It was a classic, but you needed three kids to pull it off. The biggest kid would order two sweet sausages, and when the guy sets them down to take payment, the kid would dig in his pockets, fishing out a penny or two and feigning like he knew he had more, but had to check his other pocket.

While this is going on, the other two kids would sneak around the other side of the cart, stealing the sausages, and bolting. The older kid then puts his money away, explaining he must not have had as much money as he thought.

Pockets had pulled this con more than a dozen times with the slavic man, and was beginning to suspect that he was letting the kids get away with it, not that it mattered if it meant a hot meal.

The boy wasn’t fast so much as quick, and his little legs, quick as they might carry him in a tight crowd, took almost an hour to move him to Adams Park.

Upon arrival at the northeast corner of the park, Pockets noticed a huddle of kids stirring about something. 

“Pockets!” hollered a boy, one of Joey’s friends who they called Extra. He was older, and sold newspapers instead of hustling, he was good, too, making enough to put himself up in a boarding house most nights. Though people didn’t buy papers from kids on Saturdays, so Extra was scraping for food with the other kids. “How much money you got, little man?”

Pockets dug into his trousers, eventually producing a penny, holding it up and handing it over with a shrug.

“Good man,” Extra praised with a salesman’s smile. “So check this out. Stan isn’t pushing his cart today, but the Rose’s guy is here.

Rose’s was another cart, but this one was every kids’ favorite. Hard candy, ice pops, and caramels. They had a couple carts that moved around the city at the various parks, but the Rose’s guy was particularly good to Gotham’s orphan boys. 

He was a middle aged man with thinning blonde hair that was mostly just on the side of his head at this point, and he wore a patchy porkpie hat which very poorly concealed that he was losing his hair. A short fellow, with giant eyes and a too-big smile, and tiny little spectacles that kinda just rested on the end of his bulbous red nose. He almost looked like a character from one of Fleischer’s Film Funnies, but he loved the urchins, always giving you an extra scoop of hard candies or caramels in your bag, and gave out the pops for half price, too (they were usually a penny for six, with ice pops for a penny a piece).

The hard candies always tasted like flowers, which was the point, and Pockets and the other boys didn’t much like them, but they had the benefit of not melting like the caramels, so you could squirrel a few away for a lean day. The popsicles had that same vaguely botanical flavor, owing to the rosewater that they used to thin out the juice flavors. But on a warm day like this, boys who would otherwise be starving could eat their fill of penny candies and ice pops, and it became easy to forget that you might be sleeping in an alley tonight.

“Alright boys, alright,” spoke the man with the giant eyes. “How many children are you watching over today, noble king Extra?” The man removed his hat with a flourish, bowing low and showing play-reverence for Extra.

“Eight of us, my good man,” said Extra, putting on his best regal affectation.

“I’m not a boy,” shouted Natalie, who, to Pockets, sure looked like a boy.

“Begging your pardon princess Natalie!” the man bowed low again, tossing her a caramel which she caught, unwrapped, and gobbled down in a single, swift motion. An annoyed smile crept at the side of her mouth; Natalie didn’t like the playacting, but could put up with it because it meant cheap food.

“Children! I will fill King Extra’s bag full to the brim with sweets and treats, but please, form an orderly line for your ice pops. Youngest first and so on, and et cetera!” Pockets was the smallest, but he wasn’t sure if he was the youngest. The line formed, and his attempts to cut in somewhere vaguely near to the front were made impossible by the combined efforts of children who didn’t want to lose their spot and his own anxieties about sticking up for himself.

He ended up at the back of the line, only in front of one bigger boy, Ralph, who was the largest of the kids by far, not that Pockets really minded, too much. Extra wasn’t the type of kid who wouldn’t give out the candies, which was certainly a part of why he was given the bags.

When he approached the cart, after a bit of a shoving match that the vendor only admonished smilingly, the man looked down at the slight boy with his cleft lip and smiled a genuine smile.

“Cherry, please,” Pockets said, looking up, but not really making eye contact.

“Oh, poor prince Pockets, I’m afraid I’ve just run out! Forgive me, and please consider taking the sweet and citrusy orange in its stead. It’s got lots of vital flavors, and I’m sure you’ll love it,” the man held out a glistening orange pop, like a storybook princess might present it: held between thumb and forefinger, with his pinky in the air.

“Sure,” Pockets conceded, but smiled after a lick. “Thanks, mister!”

“Next time, cherry is on the house my pretty prince,” and the man bowed low, removing his hat.

≡≡≡ 🦇 ≡≡≡

Lex Luthor sat at his desk waiting for Mercy to knock on the door and let him know his appointment had arrived.

His appointment, Liam Warner, was not a punctual man; Lex had low expectations of people, but punctuality was certainly not something he took lightly. The value of a quarter of an hour of the world’s wealthiest man was more than $120,000; time was very literally money.

It was this inability of people to be counted on that led Lex to purchase companies that were successful or poised for success whole cloth, and to generally avoid interference in the operations of those outfits. No one could work hard enough to earn being a billionaire, but you could certainly work hard enough to get your money to work for you.

Lex almost caught himself drumming his fingers on his desk, an old, idle tic that he’d long abandoned in the interest of optimizing his productivity down to the minute; instead, he picked up his notebook and started jotting down notes about various topics: threads of ideas to follow, businesses to seek out or start, and areas where he could invest in real estate with high upside. 

It was thirty minutes past their scheduled appointment time, and Lex’s patience had long since worn out, when Mercy’s knock rapped at the door to his office. He took a deep breath and held it, closing his eyes for just a moment and putting on his personalities in layers like a suit. Each level of his public persona coupled truth with deception, the former outgrowing the latter only at the deepest substrate.

Lex opened his eyes.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Mr. Warner is here,” Mercy said through the opened door.

If Lex were the type of man to spend emotional energy on pettiness, he would have sent the man away. The sheer audacity of thinking Lex Luthor could wait thirty minutes for a lout of an Irishman to have what should be a fifteen minute meet and greet was just…he made a mental note to dispose Mr. Warner of his position before the fool was able to negatively impact the business.

Lex exhaled, awash in calm, applying the last layer of his persona before replying: “Send him in, Ms. Graves.”

Liam Warner had a kind of nervous energy that reminded Lex of a stray dog that had been shown some small measure of kindness; there was a light in his eyes and a spring in his step. There was a goofy, open-mouthed smile that Lex’s social heuristics read as drunk, or imbecile. Lex Luthor wasn’t a man who let himself be trapped by the inferential shortcut of stereotypes, but he did find himself considering the possibility that Warner was both.

Warner walked like a vaudeville character, his bushy beard drawing his burly, muscular build into sharper contrast – this was a man who’d been in fights – and, if his research was any indication, had seen action in the trenches in Europe.

Lex stood, extending a hand to the eccentric who had just staggered into his office. Liam tossed his suitcase to his left hand, thrusting his right into Luthor’s.

“Top o’ the mornin’, Lex,” the informal words spilled out in Warner’s rural brogue, accompanied by an unexpectedly sharp smile and firm, confident handshake.

Lex grinned slightly, his outermost mask finding the man infectiously charismatic, even if his deeper layers were annoyed (at best).

“Mr. Warner, I’m glad you were able to find my offices,” Lex said, inviting his guest to be seated.

“Thank you kindly for the hospitality,” Liam replied. “The room was quite comfortable, and I’m afraid I slept a bit later than I expected. A thousand pardons. I uh, met a lass at the pub last night, and, well, push always comes to shove, isn’t that right?” A pause. “Not to mention the walk here from your hotel was a little longer than I thought it would be.”

“That’s why I sent a car, Mr. Warner.” Lex said, needing to consciously avoid clenching his teeth. Chaos was a useful tool when you were the one at the center of it, but it could be absolutely maddening when you were only a witness.

“Oh well, glad that we made it. It’s quite a delight to finally press the flesh with such a well known fella such as yourself, Lex. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I’ve been a longtime admirer o’ your work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Warner. Your accent, are you from Kinsale?”

“Me pa, rest his soul, was from Kinsale, actually, but no, I grew up other side o’ the country, in Dingle. We have a farm right there on the northwest corner o’ the peninsula. You’ve been to Ireland?”

“A number of times,” replied Lex, ready to move on to matters of business, he transitioned without warning. “I spoke a while back to one of our workers, Mr. Vladkov, about a project you were working on involving rijke tubes. I was hoping you could tell me more about this.”

“I can do you one better, I can,” the Irishman said excitedly, standing to open his briefcase. “Are you familiar with the concept?”

Warner unwrapped a metal cylinder which held what must have been two dozen tiny, glass, chambered tubes on small, tight-fitting holders. The device had a long, protruding cord terminating in an AC plug. 

“More or less,” Lex answered, “I don’t need an explanation of the general idea, but feel free to present,” Lex flourished his hand at the array of glass and metal that was now set upon his desk, “whatever this is as though I were layman.”

Liam plugged the device in and set it down, returning to the desk to explain.

“So we don’t know a lot about how the big guy’s hearing works, even if we’ve partially worked out his vision. So when the g-men came to me and mentioned a concern about what our big blue friend could hear, I started to develop this, based on a variation on the rijke tube. You’ll notice the tops o’ these tubes are closed, that was to save money, because it allowed me to prototype this with test tubes – like they use in a laboratory – instead o’ needing to fabricate something that wasn’t already mass-produced. Technically, that makes these Sondhauss tubes, but, I suspect with the patents that are sure to follow, these specifically will come to be called Luthor tubes.

“Because o’ the way that sound travels and dissipates, I hypothesized that Mr. S’ hearing could be disrupted, at least partially, by a self-amplifying standing wave. The theory is that he hears words like help or his name, but those are just the specific sounds that draw his attention. Observing his patterns we notice that he never responds to a plot or conspiracy, so normal conversation probably isn’t something he responds to at all.

“Installing these devices on outward facing walls or within them creates a kind o’ sound field. Because the resonance o’ the tubes gets louder as time passes, my theory was anything within that field would be scrambled or deadened or muted entirely from the big fella’s range o’ hearing.

“We’ve run more than sixty field tests, all sponsored by the Division of Investigation using agents with scripts that were planned and practiced in silence, and the findings were inconclusive, but worth following up on: In the unshielded control groups – that is, the groups with no lead and no Luthor tubes – the man upstairs responded to sixteen out of twenty threat scenarios resulting in sixteen confirmed arrests. In the groups with only lead shielding, he responded to ten out of twenty threats, and seven of those ten to which he didn’t respond were acted out in nearly total silence.” Warner paused, looked Lex directly in the eye, and smiled, proudly.

Lex didn’t like the small sample size, but was, nonetheless, impressed at the man’s competence in setting up the experiment.

“Finally, in systems with lead shielding and Luthor tube fields, he only responded to one out of twenty threats.” Liam walked back to the device, and turned the toggle to the “on” position.

“You’re going to notice a hum, like a microphone held too close to an amplifier, and then, a rapid increase in the volume of that sound.” A tiny filament of what looked like steel wool fiber glowed inside of each tube, followed by the notes described by Warner.

The Irishman lifted the device into the air as the sound became loud enough that it couldn’t be ignored, and then tilted it to point away from the pair. The volume decreased significantly.

“If you don’t mind, Lex, why don’t ya go ahead and stand on the other side of the device,” Warner instructed, and Lex followed suit.

“The volume is significantly louder on this side,” Lex yelled, and the door opened behind him.

“IS EVERYTHING OKAY, SIR?” Mercy shouted from the threshold.

“JUST SO, MS. GRAVES,” Lex shouted back.

Liam turned the device off, but the sound persisted for long moments after, hanging in the air even when Lex returned to his seat.

“It’s not perfect,” Liam explained, “but the feds ordered two hundred thousand pieces. You have to get used to the hum, but it doesn’t take too long for it to start to blend into the background. Of course, private use is probably subject to special permits, especially in densely populated areas.”

Damn, Lex thought. He knew he’d be able to secure the permits, but was more concerned that a lack of wide, private use of these devices would have the opposite effect, attracting Superman’s attention instead of creating an effective blindspot. 

“I’m afraid I may have misjudged you, Mr. Warner,” Lex said, rising again. “In fact, I took you for a bit of a layabout,” Lex let the words settle in the now-quiet office, Liam stroked his bushy beard. “But I see you’re more of an eccentric – and please understand I mean that in the kindest way – you’re more artist than business man. More auteur than executive.”

Liam smiled. “High praise coming from a man as successful as yourself, I’m sure.” 

“Unfortunately, I do have additional appointments today, but let’s schedule a standing meeting for each time you’re in the states. I’d like to get development updates on any cutting edge technologies you’re developing or even just considering. No idea too small or ridiculous. I could even arrange for a fixed apartment in one of my residential buildings.” Lex paused, and smiled. “Perhaps one that’s a bit less of a walk from here,” he held out his hand to his guest, and Liam took it and shook it with a chuckle.

“One last question, Lex,” Warner began, having packed and fastened his suitcase.

“Of course, Mr. Warner,” Lex responded.

“Are you and Ms. Graves attached, romantically?” Liam lifted an eyebrow.

“We are attached professionally, which, I’m afraid is every measure the full-time position,” Lex replied with a toothy smile. “Ms. Graves will see you out.”

Warner winked at Lex, who remained standing until the former had left his office.

It was five full minutes before Mercy Graves opened his office door.

“Mercy, I need you to reserve an apartment in Helena Tower for Mr. Warner,” he directed.

“Yes sir,” Mercy replied. Lex couldn’t be sure, but he was nearly certain that Mercy’s cheeks were a bit more blush than was typical. 

“Is everything alright, Mercy?” Lex asked.

“Mr. Warner just has a very…intense way about him, sir.”

“I see. Thank you, Merc–“

“– HeaskedmeoutfordinnerbutIsaidno.” Mercy rushed the words out in a well-enunciated stream of thought.

Lex Luthor furrowed his brow, and noted an a twinge that was, since the alien’s arrival in Metropolis, becoming increasingly and frustratingly more common: he was confused.

“Thank you Ms. Graves.”

≡≡≡ 🦇 ≡≡≡

Early Sunday morning, in the lightning and thunder in Adams Park, the body of one of Gotham City’s homeless youth was found by a slavic man leaving church.

It was a boy he knew, one who he’d regularly let “steal” sausages from the cart he operated in the park during the week.

“I don’t know his name,” he explained to the policeman with the strange facial tic, “but the children called him Extra.”

Another son of Gotham City who would never grow up.

Chapter Text

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"

He chortled in his joy.

– LEWIS CARROLL, "Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There"

“You’ll receive a severance,” Lucius Fox said from across the conference room table. “We value our workers, even those who are leaving us, and we think it’s very generous.

"One month at one-hundred-and-twenty percent salary for each year of service, Jeremy. I am, however, afraid that this specific circumstance isn’t subject to appeal.”

Jeremy thought that the man had a way of delivering devastating news like a loving – but disappointed – father (or at least how he imagined a loving father ought to act). The disappointment stung emotionally, but not in the very painful and physical way that Jeremy’s grandfather used to show it.

“I understand, Mr. Fox,” Jeremy’s usually vibrant eyes looked down at his lap and the patchy porkpie hat that sat there. “Do you think I could trouble you for a letter of recommendation?”

Lucius Fox exhaled, almost sympathetically: “I’m afraid, given the circumstances, that that doesn’t seem appropriate.”

Jeremy looked up,  standing from his seat and putting on a faux smile showing off his buck teeth, and his glistening, overlarge eyes. He extended a hand to the operations director, who shook it gently, and only once, and then placed his patchy hat on his thinning, flaxen hair.

He turned to leave the conference room at Wayne Enterprises, and found the evening guard, Hank, waiting there to escort him out.

-♞-

Jeremy was embarrassed. He’d tried to turn over a new leaf in Gotham, he’d made every effort to focus, keep his head down, and keep things on the up and up. He arrived just over two years ago with a reference letter and fifteen dollars. 

The job at Wayne Enterprises had been a real blessing – they had been one of the only places hiring during The Depression, and their willingness to hire even convicts and pay fair wages seemed the augur of a new life.

(And at a worker cooperative, there was the added benefit that people rarely got fired).

The problem, according to Mr. Fox, was that he didn’t disclose his past.  

Thus, Jeremy was given the choice: a vote consisting of all of his departmental coworkers to determine whether he should be terminated, where they would learn of and gossip about all of the rumors. Alternately, he could choose to resign in silence, with only his immediate supervisor and Baxter knowing that he was asked to leave.

Good heavens, man! Jeremy thought. Three of your line-mates are reformed cons, but you're being asked to resign or stand before a tribunal because you, in one of your attempts at making polite conversation caused Baxter's daughter to say you were "disquieting."

Mr. Fox had been kind, fair, at least.

But, by all accounts, it didn’t matter what city he settled in, or what lengths he’d gone to to prevent it, his life had been this same, anxious roil: brief stints of hope and optimism followed by protracted periods of immeasurable misery.

This, Jeremy thought, is the wage of friendship when you are a misfit.

Jeremy left Wayne Enterprises for a final time without looking over his shoulder. It hadn’t been raining when he’d walked out of his apartment that morning without his rubbers, go figure. 

Well this won’t do. Jeremy thought, when it rains it pours.

He ventured out into the gloom and rain of Gotham City, and sloshed to the tiny roach motel he called “home.” Tomorrow was Friday, and maybe he could convince Ms. Rose to give him some additional shifts on the sweets cart.

-♞-

Jim Gordon was alone on the roof.

Gelio needed an arrest – or at least a lead – and so Lieutenant Jim Gordon had buried himself in his work.

It was eleven o’clock at night, and Jim had ascended the stairs of the Gotham Police Department to clear his mind with a cigarette.

He exhaled a deep breath in the uncommonly cool night air, pulling a smoke and a strike anywhere match out of the metal case in his jacket pocket. 

Thunder rolled gently in the distance, and Jim felt a small splash hit his forehead.

“Mm,” he took a deep drag of the cigarette, feeling his stress briefly melt into clarity as more drops of rain hit him.

“The commissioner has it wrong,” a whisper, spoken almost directly behind him.

Jim spun on his heel, muscle memory reaching for his piece, which, of course he’d left on his desk.

The Batman was out past curfew.

“You! Y-you’re under arrest!” Gordon was startled, scared even, but his instincts quickly shifted to authoritative and aggressive. He could taste the adrenaline, he could hear his heart beating in his ears. The Batman’s eyes reflected the moonlight like an animal's. The cigarette that had been clinging to Gordon’s lower lip fell to the gravel at his feet.

In a city made almost completely dark by storm clouds and Gelio’s curfew, Batman was darker.

Jim looked at Batman and knew he was an elemental force. Far larger than any man, and such a profound, preternatural nothingness that he looked like a hole in reality.

“You know he’s wrong,” it breathed.

Jim Gordon didn’t think, he just stepped forward, then lowered his shoulder and threw a prizefighter’s uppercut.

His fist only hit empty air, and then his butt hit the gravel, and the great giant Nothing was upon him.

“Stop this,” it ordered.

But Jim was the one giving the orders. He scrabbled back, gathering a handful of gravel as he went, then got to his feet,  tiny stones shifting below his shoes before he secured his footing.

“I said ‘you’re under arrest!’”

“How long has it been since you’ve thrown a punch, lieutenant?”

“Less than a minute, and that was the first time I’ve missed in years; COME ON!” The lieutenant raised his dukes into a pugilist's stance.

Batman tilted his head slightly.

No more haymakers, he knows how to fight.

“Lieutenant.”

“Hands behind your back, bozo!”

“Lieutenant.”

Batman didn’t even move when the hail of a dozen bits of gravel flew toward him, but Gordon closed the distance, while the rain fogged and dotted his glasses.

A body shot to the ribs. A punch directly in the gut. Jim could feel his knuckles bruising; he didn’t even hear Batman exhale.

Three quick jabs in succession, but only one made contact, and then, without warning, all of the light left the world.

“Be reasonable, lieutenant,” the voice was a rustle in the blackness. Jim swung his arms wildly, trying to orient himself. The thick fabric of the cape enveloping him like a net.

Then he was being rained on again, and the moonlight was back. Batman was several feet away. How was he moving so fast?

“Missing something?” the Bat held Jim’s glasses in his hand; Jim hadn’t even felt them leave his face.

“They’re readers,” the lieutenant answered, in heaving breaths. He touched his nose with each fist in succession, a reminder to protect his head.

“Hm.”

Did he just laugh? Gordon thought for a brief flash, then lowered his shoulder, charging toward the Nothing in front of him.

Batman slid to the side, and Jim almost tripped, his vision blurred and foggy.

His readers were back on his face.

“Christ!” Jim spat.

“Batman,” Batman whispered. “Now let’s talk.”

Lightning struck somewhere over the harbor, and the sound of thunder punctuated the shadow’s demand.

Gordon huffed, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically. Batman was still, silhouetted by the downpour.

He could’ve killed me a dozen different times, Gordon thought.

“Inside,” Jim said.

“Like hell.”

Gordon conceded the point, and resigned to standing in the storm.

“I know you and your partner aren’t taking Gelio’s assertions seriously.”

“Serious?” Jim chuckled. “The guy’s a damn stoic, a bluenose, through and through. He’s serious as a heart attack, but…he knows his onions. Gets things done.”

“So you believe him? You don’t have any other leads in the Peter Pan killings?”

Jim couldn’t recall ever hearing someone whisper with such enunciation. It was like the whisper was just Batman’s voice. It felt like it had tone, and emphasis, and emotion. Jim pulled another cigarette out of his case, moving to the awning above the roof door to light it.

“I believe,” he began, taking a long drag, “that you’re a vigilante. You’re guilty of trying to do our jobs. But you’re no cop.”

“…”

“If you turned yourself in, we could clear your name.”

“No,” Batman whispered, and paused. “You couldn’t.” Gordon’s face screwed into a silent question.

“The mayor and the commissioner both need an arrest. They both want it to be me. Until Peter Pan, crime was down, which means Falcone has either gone really straight, really quickly, or that he’s hemorrhaging money. I'm betting on the latter.”

“You think Falcone is Peter Pan?” Jim was incredulous, and Batman shook his head.

“No, but if this curfew continues, people will start losing their jobs, and Falcone’s organization will suddenly be able to fill some of their 'vacancies.'”

It was a hell of a theory, Jim thought, but it couldn’t be accomplished in the short term. Gelio was tough, but he wasn’t friends with the mayor, certainly not with Falcone. Gelio was a good cop.

...Wasn’t he?

The realization hit Gordon like a pistol whip to the back of the head: Flass.

“Look,” Gordon exhaled a cloud of smoke, “what do I call you anyway. What’s your name?”

The Darkness made a sharp, quick exhale, indicating laughter for a second time, “Nice try.”

“Well, I’m not ready to believe that this is some kind of long-term conspiracy, but you have my attention. Anyhow, this curfew isn’t good for any of us.”

“Then convince him to end it,” soughed Batman. 

“Got any friends on the council?” Gordon quipped. “Jackson’s beef is only with funding the task force. He voted emphatically for the curfew, and he’s told people that he believes that the Superhuman Task Force should exist, even expand, he just doesn’t want to raise taxes in an election year.”

Batman stood, motionless in the storm.

“The best way to get Jo –“ Gordon cut himself off. He was more confident that Batman wasn’t going to kill him. He didn’t even think that the Bat was a killer (certainly not Peter Pan) but that didn’t mean they were friends, and it didn’t mean he should get comfortable with him. For all Jim knew, Batman was a spaceman, just like Superman. “– to get the commissioner to end the curfew is to get the mayor to want it to end. But between his dealings with Falcone, and people being afraid of you, and these bombings in Metropolis, I don’t know how anyone’s gonna convince him to want that.”

“Find the real killer,” Batman snapped back. “There’s been two more killings since the curfew started – “

“One. The newsboy in the park,” Jim interrupted.

“Two. One of them was the coroner’s boy – and your people aren’t any closer than you were before the curfew.”

Gordon had been under the awning, pacing near the door, but Batman had snared his attention with a fact that only a handful of people had known.

“Now wait just a minute!” Jim pushed back, “How the hell did you know about that?”

“X-ray vision.”

“Victor Fries is a good man. Better than most,” Gordon took a profound draw of the cigarette, and flicked it away. “We’re trying to keep that out of the papers. As a favor to him and Nora." 

The Batman was silent, and the rain was beginning to thin out. 

“Do you have any leads?” Jim asked, after a moment.

“The victims are all boys, all prepubescent, all found in puddles of blood some distance from an unknown crime scene. Until the newsboy, they all had discoloration on and inside the mouth, and all had two living parents, working in Gotham City.”

“Most of them work for Wayne,” Gordon said, “but the discoloration, you think there’s something there?”

“I did until the newsboy.”

“‘Extra,’ his uh, his pals all called him ‘Extra.’ In any event, he had the smell too – no discoloration, but, he was cherry. It might not have been in the initial report.” The lieutenant looked at his watch. “Damn. I need to get home and some sleep.”

“You won’t.”

More thunder. Jim reached for another cigarette, moving back to the awning to light the match.

“I – probably not,” Gordon admitted, glancing down at the match, and pulling a few quick puffs. “Hey, how do I get ahold of you if I want to compare notes?”

He looked toward where the Batman had been standing, and saw nothing instead of Nothing. And then the Gotham skies were pouring rain again.

Jim Gordon was alone on the roof.

-♞-

It had been raining, almost nonstop for five full days.

His shift canceled for inclement weather, Jeremy went to Ms. Rose, hat literally in hand, and asked her if she’d had any additional work for him.

Luckily for him, Ms. Rose understood his situation, and she told him that she valued his enthusiasm for his work. She could afford to hire him for a day each week to work in her greenhouse. This was a boon, and he was grateful to her for it.

Jeremy could start on Monday.

When he arrived at the plot of land, he noticed that the other workers in the greenhouse were all college-aged women. They paid Jeremy very little mind, only bidding him “good morning” absent of any enthusiasm or even as much as an introduction.

Ms. Rose spent the first twenty minutes showing Jeremy around the facility.

“…in fact mostly, Jeremy,” Ms. Rose continued, looking down her nose at the shorter, older man, “you’ll be helping Harriet with moving heavy things. In time, I’m sure she’ll have you helping her with making the attars, but we'll see.”

“And those are for the sweets?” Jeremy asked, finding himself (very curiously) quite a bit mixed up about what all of these nonce words were useful for.

“Rose attar is for perfumery,” Ms. Rose corrected. “It’s an oil. We use rose water and other botanical distillates for sweets. Ah, here’s Harriet. Harriet, this is Jeremy. He’ll be with us on Mondays to help you with things. Treat him as you would an assistant.”

Harriet was quite petite. She looked like she belonged in junior high school. She wore a white smock, more like an apron than a lab coat, and thin, bifocal glasses with  tortoise-shell frames. She had the severe tone of a librarian, but the round, oversized facial features of a youth (except for a tiny button of a nose). Her golden blonde hair was banded by a jet black satin ribbon which kept it tied in a tight bun.

“Thank you, Ms. Rose,” Harriet, an Englishwoman from the sound of it, only made brief eye contact with Jeremy, granting him a curt nod and a short instruction. “There is a crate outside that needs to come inside. There should be a hand truck in the shed if you need it, which is also where you’ll find the crowbar.” 

Jeremy smiled like a fool, tipping his patchy porkpie hat to the pair, and shuffling off, looking down at his feet as he went.

If he was the oldest person working for Ms. Rose, Jeremy thought Harriet must be the youngest.

He attempted to lift the crate, but it proved too cumbersome, and possibly too heavy for him to heft, so Jeremy wandered to the shed, where all manner of tools and botanical – Ms. Rose had corrected him when he’d said “gardening” – equipment was stored. He procured the hand truck and the pry bar, and hoisted the wooden crate, stamped in some sweeping, foreign tongue with absolutely unrecognizable glyphs, into the enormous greenhouse.

The “mud room” of the greenhouse seemed as good a place as any to open the crate, which Jeremy unloaded and then set to opening with the crowbar.

“This won’t do, Jeremy,” came the accented voice of Harriet. 

“Begging your pardon, miss–”

“– Just Harriet is fine, no ‘ms.’ required,” she pursed her lips. “Now if this package was too heavy to lift into the distillery, why would we want to unpack it somewhere else. Let’s not be thick.”

“I’m sorry P– Harriet, let me just put this back on the…” he grunted, shoving the crate back on to the dolly. “There we go!”

Harriet looked so much like a child that Jeremy found himself having to make extra effort to stifle the fanciful candy vendor that he became in the park. It felt so much like who he truly was, but it had no place in a professional setting. He followed Harriet into the distillery, and once again began prying open the crate.

Harriet’s bright blue eyes lit up as she folded her hands together (with, what seemed to Jeremy, like constrained exuberance). 

“This equipement had to be custom-made-to-order in Persia,” she explained, moving some of the packing material situated around whatever this was inside. To Jeremy, it looked so much like the other distillation equipment, but he found it endearing to see more quirks of Harriet’s personality; Harriet had the enthusiasm for botanical work that he had for making children happy. The trait which Ms. Rose indicated was so important to the “culture” of her operation.

“This is for neroli.”

Jeremy didn’t know what neroli was, but didn’t want to ask and be thought dull.

“And the symbols on the crate are the Persian language?”

“Yes. In farsi. I studied botanical chemistry in Persia for a year!”

“How fascinating,” Jeremy commented, carefully stacking components on the metal workbench.

Stop by the library and learn what you can about Persia, Jeremy thought. If you're going to keep a job, you'll need to have conversational minutiae that allows you to relate to your coworkers.

“Jeremy!” called the voice of Ms. Rose, and so he smiled and bowed slightly to Harriet (who only returned a darting glance), and tottered off to see what was the matter.

“Would you have use for a shift on the cart at lunchtime?” Ms. Rose asked, in the not-unkind-but-also-not-nice timbre that was so typical for her. “There’s a school excursion to the park, and I’m afraid I don’t have anyone else on such short notice.” 

Jeremy’s smile broadened

“Yes, of course Ms. Rose. Will everything be okay here?”

An observant passerby would’ve seen Ms. Rose taking great lengths to politely stifle a laugh.

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” she replied. “Do you drive?”

“I am licensed, but I’m afraid I don’t have a car of my own.”

“Not a problem, Jeremy.” She handed him a pair of keys: one for the small work truck out front, the other to open the warehouse where the sweet carts were stored. Then, she instructed him on how to transport the popsicles (the other sweets were stored with the carts) to the warehouse where he would carefully unload the dry ice from the cooler-box of the truck and place it into the cooler-box of the cart. 

“And then bring it all back here after?” Jeremy asked.

“You can leave the truck at the warehouse after lunchtime, or take it home and bring it here tomorrow morning. Hold on to the keys, as you may need them for odd jobs in the future.”

“Surely the children’s trip will be completed before the end of the workday?”

“Jeremy, I promised you a full day’s pay, and you’ll have it, no need to worry. After the children have gone, just return the cart to the warehouse, deposit the money in the safe there, and take the rest of the shift off.”

Jeremy blinked twice, smiled, and then got into the truck, and headed off to serve the children in Gotham.

-♞-

What an unexpectedly wonderful day, Jeremy thought, pushing the cart toward the outskirts of Adams Park. 

He was joined by a companion, the orphan Pockets, who walked alongside him and enjoyed the promised complimentary cherry popsicle and a small sack of hard candies as well.

Keep it light, keep it light, Jeremy thought. He thought of Extra, and the terrible fear that the waifs must be experiencing under the mayor’s curfew.

“My dear Prince Pockets, it’s been an absolute pleasure to serve you today,” Jeremy removed his hat and bowed low with a flourish. 

Pockets looked directly into Jeremy’s eyes, and Jeremy smiled back, thinking it terribly sad that the child’s facial scar prevented so many others from noticing the boy.

“Um, Mr. Jeremy,” Pockets began, nervously, but without stammering. “Some of the street boys said that Peter Pan is a Dracula,” here, the boy’s breath stuttered as if he’d been crying. “Is it true?”

“Oh my pretty prince,” Jeremy fell completely into his True self, “I cannot say for sure whether the culprit is a Dracula, or a Bandersnatch, or a Toffish Blump, or the fearsome Jabberwock!” Jeremy was being theatrical, and animated, and the little urchin Pockets giggled in delight at the whimsical words he’d obviously never heard before.

“Jabberwock!” Pockets asked, shrieking with laughter.

“We mustn’t mock the Jabberwock,” the rhyme was playful and deliberate. “My sweet Prince: the Jabberwock is a ferocitous, burbling man-eater that stalks the inside of your mirror, and which can only be slaid with a vorpal blade.” 

“Is the Jabberwock real?” Pockets still giggled, but sounded like he was trying to put on a more serious air.

“Real? I swear, ’tis real as your reflection.” 

Pockets’ eyes grew wider, and he no longer giggled. 

“I don’t have a mirror,” Pockets said with a sigh.

“Tut-tut, you still have a reflection, your most regal highness. As sure as you see me in front of you now, the Jabberwock can see you from your reflection in a puddle, or in a pair of spectacles! Such is the danger of Looking Glass Land.”

“How will I know if I see a Jabberwock? What if the Jabberwock gets me?”

“I’m afraid there’s no way to truly know when you’ve seen a Jabberwock, your refusious grace. Most have only seen its jaws which bite and its claws that catch! But you can be certain my glisserable prince, that the Jabberwock has! Seen! YOU!”

The boy’s eyes glistened, and he projected worry into the space around him.

Oh no, Jeremy. Too far! You’ve scared the child!

“We mustn’t be upset Prince Pockets, we mustn’t be upset. I’m sorry my boy. It was just a game of words. Not meant to stir a fright!”

Pockets wiped his eyes, and looked up at Jeremy, who was pressing his hat tightly and hopefully to his chest.

“I wasn’t scared," Pockets sniffled. "I only get scared at night, when I’m alone.”

Jeremy knew the pain of having to live among such a busy place as Gotham having no one with whom to share. No family to speak of! Cast out by those who couldn’t accept you for who you really were.

“Pockets, I have to return my sweets cart, but then I’ll be going to the library. Why don’t you join me, and I’ll buy you supper afterwards, and see if I can sponsor a bed for you tonight at a boy’s home. Would you like that?”

Pockets nodded, and the two began the walk toward the warehouse.

-♞-

Pockets can help, he’s only frightened, but not of you. All the children in Gotham are frightened, but poor Pockets is too small to defend himself and too ghastly to be allowed to join a gang, Jeremy thought. He observed Pockets from his stack of books on topics about Persian Oriental culture.

The boy with the scarred lip was scanning a collection of picture books., and Jeremy's face went blank as he daydreamed of adventures with the orphan.

In fact, he'll be your squire! The thought brought a smile to the man’s face.

 Jeremy closed the encyclopedia he’d been reading, pushing the references to the side, and preparing to check out the other guides to this mysterious land in the Middle East when something on an open page caught his eye.

“Really?” He muttered aloud. “How delightfully barbarious!” He grinned.

Jeremy continued to absorb the information on the page, finishing the section.

But this was barely five years ago, he thought. I do wonder how long ago Harriet was there.

Jeremy wielded the perfect trifle with which to impress his supervisor, and he was sure it would delight her: Human slavery had only been abolished in Persia in 1929.

He slammed the book shut, and collected Pockets with a toothsome smile.

Chapter Text

Dentist : Shall I use gas?

Patient: [nervously] Well, gas or electric light. I’d feel nervous to have you fool around me in the dark.

THE DENTIST (1932 FILM)

---

“You better be careful out here, it’s getting late, Dick,” the woman warned with a gentle smile.

“Mrs. Givens,” Dick returned the smile, “You’re the last young woman I have the pleasure to visit today, and, well, when I saw your name on my list, I didn’t want to miss a chance to say ‘hello.’” (Barbara tried not to visibly roll her eyes or audibly groan when he called the sexagenarian a “young woman.”) “Please give Henry my best, and tell him that me, Bruce, and Alfred all wish him a speedy recovery, and we’ll be by for a proper visit just as soon as Al returns from Atlanta.”

The older woman’s eyes moistened, and her smile broadened. She wrapped her arms around Dick Grayson’s neck, swaddling him in a grateful embrace. Dick’s eyes shot to Barbara’s, he seemed to be assessing whether she understood that this could take a while, and that it was okay; of course she did.

As Barbara and Dick had spent more time working together, they developed a familiarity with one another. It was obviously not the seemingly-telepathic connection that Dick shared with Bruce and Alfred, but Barbara was able to observe and respond to Dick’s idiosyncrasies in a way that made her deeply talented at managing 

“Oh, Dick, I can’t believe they did that to Henry! He looks something awful, and he had those papers, and, he had everything he was supposed to, and…” Paula Givens drifted off into sniffling sobs, burying her face in Dick’s shoulder.

Following the institution of Gelio’s Curfew, Wayne Enterprises had almost immediately instated a sweeping, universal curfew-documentation policy: any worker who worked shifts past the curfew was issued papers on company letterhead indicating as much, and were, furthermore, given the option to change to an earlier shift or take temporary leave until the curfew had concluded. The documents included the shift, the nature of the work, and contact information for multiple team members (including Lucius Fox’s home phone number) in case Gotham Police needed to verify that this person was reporting for or returning from a shift. There were all hands trainings for workers about their rights and expectations in the event they were detained by officers, and those trainings included significant funds being redirected to purchase additional retainer from counsel, in order to represent workers who were potentially falsely arrested or detained without charge.

The reasoning was at the very ethos of Wayne Enterprises: Use your resources and the privilege of positive public recognition to set such an overwhelmingly thorough example that a potential abuser will have to think twice.

And none of it seemed to matter to the goon who had beaten Henry Givens to the point that he needed to be hospitalized.

Henry Givens worked as a part-time floor inspector on the evening shifts from 3:00p.m. to 8:00 p.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. He’d worked at Wayne Enterprises for twenty years, starting fully a year before the company became a cooperative. He’d been hired personally by Thomas Wayne, and was eager to show that a man who’d made mistakes as a kid was worth a second chance. And he’d been worth so much more than that, spending his days off volunteering in his neighborhood, caring for his grandchildren, and reading to old-timers at the library.

After lengthy moments, Paula Givens apologized for keeping Dick and Barbara out so close to curfew, and Dick and Barbara both assured her that she had nothing to apologize for. When they’d left, and walked maybe a half block in the direction of the car, Barbara marked the Given’s support on her clipboard, and she felt a pang of guilt about it.

At the car, Dick and Barbara exchanged a meaningful look, and Dick took a deep breath.

“–You don’t need…I mean…I already know what you’re gonna say,” Barbara said before Dick had even decided how to say anything. “I…well, I mean, are you…all things considered…are you okay?”

Dick looked angry, but a different kind of angry from the smoldering clarity that he usually had when something upset him. It looked like he was thinking before responding.  

He explained that he knew the Givens family fairly well, and he had been upset when he learned what happened to Mr. Henry, but seeing a woman who had worked at the foundation – a woman he’d known for most of his life – seeing her break down like that hurt him.

“This just makes it feel so real, ya know? Gotham hasn’t been in great shape, but it felt like the company was helping people, protecting them from this kinda…” Dick trailed off.

“The company is helping people, Dick,” Barbara’s response hadn’t come quickly, but Dick didn’t notice. “Would you mind dropping me off at the station? I’m staying at dad’s tonight, and…”

“Sure,” Dick responded.

-♞-

Gotham City proper tended to be bathed in fog at dusk, dawn, and twilight. The hazy, washed out look persisted inside of the Gotham City Police Department’s Central District Headquarters; the new lighting being installed cast everything in a sickly yellow, to which Barbara’s eyes never quite adjusted. In the light of these harsh new mercury lamps, she couldn’t imagine how anyone would look attractive – she could see wrinkles and liver spots on her father’s face that she’d never noticed before. The silver flecks which dotted his burnt orange hair added a flattering distinction in his apartment. Here, they looked like wisps of smoke in the embers of a dying fire.

“Ew.”

“What now?” Barbara’s father looked up from his desk. “Pumpkin,” he smiled.

Barbara’s own smile broke through while she wrinkled her face in disapproval. She sat down in the chair opposite the lieutenant. His desk was cluttered with paperwork and stationery. A mug filled maybe a third of the way with cold coffee, a light iridescent film refracting the harsh like a prism. He chewed on a piece of burnt toast, and set it down on his inbox.

“The new lighting is just so unflattering,” Barbara explained.

“Mm. You ever think that maybe your old man is just getting old?”

Barbara rolled her eyes.

“Look, Barb,” she hated when people called her Barb, and her father only did it if he was about to disappoint her. She braced herself. “I’ve got a lot more to do tonight,” he lowered his voice into a more conspiratorial tone, and she looked over her shoulder to confirm that the door to his office was closed. “I can walk you to my apartment, and I think I can have dinner with you, but I’ll need to come right back afterward.”

All in all, this wasn’t the worst that he could’ve said.

“I’ve got all of these new–” he looked around anxiously “–task force guys who I’m supposed to train, but they don’t work for me, not exactly. They work for the task force. I don’t know where he found these guys but they’re brutes, sweetie. Absolute animals.”

Barbara thought back to Paula Givens weeping on her front stoop, and her hospitalized husband.

“Rookies? From the academy?” 

“They’re not really police. They’re from a private security outfit. Called Henshaw Allied.”

“Well that’s vague,” Barbara quipped. “Why are they here? Why are you training them if they’re from a private service?”

Her father scanned the room again, like he was paranoid that someone was watching.

“The mayor wants us hunting supermen. The commissioner says we need more people on it. The council says we can’t afford it. So then, whaddaya know – some wealthy patron says if we’ve got the ability to train these clowns, that they’ll recruit and finance all of them.

“But that’s the rub,” her father’s eyes shift rapidly again. “These guys know how to fight. They’re all scrappers; hell, even Bullock’s convinced he’s locked one or two of these guys up before and he  hasn’t made an arrest in three, maybe four years. There’s absolutely no chance these guys would’ve been allowed to come through the academy.”

Someone rapped door to her father’s office, which lazily swung open a heartbeat later.

“Lieutenant,” it was Selina Kyle, the partner, or protégé, or…Barbara had trouble recalling the details, but she felt some kind of pride that her father was training the first woman detective. Her father brushed some errant crumbs out of his mustache and off of his tie, and half covering the mostly eaten toast  with a handkerchief. “Oh, I’m sorry, you must be Barbara, Ji– er…Lieutenant Gordon’s daughter?”

“Ah, well, Detective Selina Kyle, this is Barbara Gordon, first woman campaign manager in Gotham’s race for mayor. Barbara, this is Detective Selina Kyle, first woman detective in Gotham.”

The women shook hands.

“I don’t know whether that’s true,” Barbara said, “about being the first woman campaign manager, that is.”

The detective smiled at her, then seemed to remember why she’d interrupted them in the first place.

“What can I help you with, detective?”

“It’s him, lieutenant.” Detective Kyle pushed her fingers into her cheeks and pulled them up into a rictus grin. “Commissioner Serious is planning a press conference about the investigation, and needs you to pick out five of the Henshaw people to showcase.”

“Should I step out?” Barbara offered, feeling like there was something urgent happening between the lines.

“Give us two minutes, sweetheart,” her father said with his mouth set in a straight line, and Barbara excused herself to the hall outside of her father’s office, jotting down quick notes to bring up with Dick later.

 -♞-

 Pockets was woken up by a nun, and without remembering that he’d slept in a bed.

His eyes tried to focus, and he tried to wave the woman off, not wanting to continue to sleep, but to remain in the bed of this home which was the most comfortable bed he’d ever slept in.

The woman in the habit was old, and she impatiently shook Pockets for a second time.

“Child, we have hot cereal for you before you leave. God blEH! God bless.”

Pockets was familiar with this kind of reaction. Someone sees a precocious child who has been ignored by the world, and then they see why he has been discarded.

It still hurt when people recoiled at seeing his scar.

Pockets got out of bed, pulled on his shoes, and headed into the line for the kitchen.

The oatmeal was lukewarm and thin, but it would do. Times had been leaner in Gotham than usual because of the curfew. Pickpocketing might earn you barely enough for a meal, and none of the free children’s shelters had available beds.

Maybe I could find Mr. Jeremy again, he thought.

Pockets was very clever, and he used his cleverness to work out that Mr. Jeremy must be very rich, because he had money to take Pockets to a restaurant, and to the library, and he worked for the candy company, and peddling sweets to children must be terribly lucrative.

Mr. Jeremy wants to help. And he never looks away from you.

Pockets finished his porridge and gulped down his glass of milk, and hit the streets of Gotham City.

-♞-

“You think she’s pretty, don’t you?” Barbara asked, and her father snapped out of the paperwork trance (the effects of the trance: he kept saying “just one more minute, pumpkin,” and then finding something new that needed to be reviewed).

“I suppose I do,” he admitted.

“Why don’t you invite her over for dinner?”

“Well first of all,” he said curtly, “because we work together. But also, because I’ve only got the two steaks.”

A beat.

“And, because I’ve already asked her to dinner,” he confessed, blushing.

“Dad! Ohmigod, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that, well don’t worry about it, there are plenty of fish –“

“– Pumpkin,” he interrupted, “I mean that she and I have had dinner before. She’s been to my apartment.”

Now Barbara was blushing. She mostly meant it to tease him, but she didn’t know that he’d started dating again.

“I hope you made her more than just toast.”

“It’s nothing too serious, but we have a drink or a meal together once in a while,” he sighed. “Mostly it’s just nice to have company.”

Barbara wanted to know more, but she didn’t want to set up a situation where they were interrupted by the woman again, right in the middle of talking about her, so she searched for a change in topic.

“What are you two working on anyway?” Barbara asked, even knowing that it was the Peter Pan case. Her father put an index finger to either temple so they protruded above his head like rabbit ears: Batman.

“The case…” he lurched forward with faux ferocity, “…of THE EASTER BUNNY!”

Father and daughter both burst into fits of laughter.

A spindly shadow appeared behind the frosted glass of the office door, turning the knob. Her father straightened his face and stood. Barbara just turned in her chair, still smiling.

“Commissioner Gelio,” the man was taller in person than Barbara had expected. Rangy, almost, but strong, with sharp angles and perfectly coiffed dark hair. He was handsome, in a forbidden way, but he cast an air of intimidation into the room. Barbara almost felt compelled to stand, just to decrease the distance between her head and his piercing, dark eyes, but she felt something almost concerning. “This is my daughter, Barbara. Barbara, this is the commissioner, Commissioner Gelio.”

His hand slithered through the air like a snake, not with the speed of a strike, but the rhythmic, primal movement that was itself a warning. Barbara finally managed to stand, and offered her hand back.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” spoke the man attached to the serpent; his overly sweet tone dripped like poison honey. The commissioner offered a mild, strained grin which, just briefly, seemed to smile itself, elongating in a way that looked painful and spasmic. “Lieutenant, if this work is important to you, then you must pace yourself. I need you fresh for our new recruits for this evening’s patrol. Why don’t you and your daughter go and have dinner? I know that you’re more capable than most, but I don’t want these tradesmen to think it’s alright to show up at less than one hundred percent – I know you’re good, but I need you to be a good example, too.”

Barbara’s assessment of the commissioner shifted. He was stern, but this was an argument that would get her father to actually listen. And maybe she was judging him too harshly because of Dick and Bruce. He did have a kind of charisma, even if she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

“Ms. Gordon,” he said, focusing again on Barbara, “please, take your father home. Just for a few hours. A man cannot live on bread alone. And dinner with family is long overdue, don’t you agree?”

Barbara offered a tender smile, looking at the man’s forehead instead of directly into his eyes. He was right, and she was getting hungry.

“Dad, let’s go. It sounds like an order anyway.”

Gelio winked, mouthing the words “thank you” as she and her father walked out of the office.

When they reached the street, Barbara finally felt ready to speak freely, but her father spoke first:

“He’s not happy.”

“Really? He seemed a little creepy, but I might not think that if you hadn’t told me about him first…and if it wasn’t for that twitch thing.”

“I mean he wanted me out of there. He thinks I’m holding out on him with the Easter Bunny,” he looked at his daughter with a defeated smile. 

“Dad, level with me – is The Batman even real? What does Selina think? This feels like the typical chippy one-upmanship that we’re always trying to do with Metropo–“

Her father’s smile quickly faded.

“– He’s real alright. And it’s tetanus, by the way, the twitch. It’s unnerving.”

The look in his eyes told Barbara that this was something he knew. Something he’d experienced, or something that someone he trusted experienced.

“Who?” She leaned in, whispering.

More shifting eyes, more looking around, more huddling, and whispers:

“I tried to arrest him on the roof. I hit him, my best stuff. He didn’t even flinch. He literally never blinked. His eyes were like a wolf’s they reflected the light. And he’s so dark, and he may be able to turn himself invisible or teleport through doors or something.” He took an anxious breath, it seemed like he was reliving the experience in the moment. “The only times I hit him were when he let me. He didn’t even move. My best stuff.”

“Oh my god, daddy, when did this happen? Have you told anyone else? Did he hurt you? Are you alright?”

“It was the other night. And I’m fine. Just a little shaken up; I busted my own ass, he just used my momentum against me. But he was lightning fast. He could’ve killed me. He didn’t want to.”

“So Peter Pan is a superman?”

“No, or, I don’t think so, I mean, I don’t think he’s Peter Pan. He seems to want to help, and –”

“– Dad, did you talk to him?”

“Yeah. We had a chat over a cigarette after I finished beating myself up. Look, I know this is exciting, but, hm,” he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, put his hands on his hips, and drew himself up into the very picture of an authoritative father. “Pumpkin, you can’t talk about this at work. You really shouldn’t talk about it at all,” then he muttered, “hell, I shouldn’t be talking about it. But I needed to tell someone.”

“Of course not, dad.” Barbara looked up at her father, and hugged his arm tightly. “So how did he help?”

The pair started walking again, daughter clutching affectionately, but also, protectively to her father.

“Help?”

“You said he –The Batman – wanted to help.”

He sighed, almost laughing at the thought. 

“He told me to find the real killer, and get some sleep.”

-♞-

The commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department was confident.  He was good with talking to people, but it had been a process; Johnny struggled while he learned how to account for the lockjaw when engaging with other people. He spent the first year wearing a goldenrod scarf his mother made for him to try and hide his absurd contortions. He stared, hating himself, in the mirror, waiting for the twitches, the sudden, involuntary, distressing smiles. He learned what to expect, the warning signs of a tic, and the indicators of its severity – when to fight against it and when to look away – he practiced, and practiced, and practiced until he learned how to harden his face and counteract against the vast majority of his facial spasms.

“Γιατί τόσο σοβαρός?” His mother had once asked him, perhaps sad that her last living child wasn’t the happy, optimistic cherub she’d raised, mostly on her own.

“Κανένα θέμα γέλιου!” he spat back, wrapping his scarf around his face and slamming the door in his mother’s.

These days, Johnny only smiled when he was angry, or when he could let his guard down. The latter was almost never.

Commissioner Johnny Gelio was in his office, considering his remarks for the task force patrol that was merely an hour from now.

It was the formal commencement of a manhunt for a dangerous criminal, and, thanks to the generous contributions of one of Gotham’s foremost businessmen, Johnny Gelio had the manpower he needed, with new recruits whenever he asked. All it took was a phone call.

Falcone was on a leash (for now, at least), and it grew shorter each time they interacted, and Johnny was converting that control into trust: trust from the mayor, trust from the recruits, and trust from The Roman himself.

Shuffling footsteps outside his office door, followed by a lazy rap on the glass.

“Hey boss, Gordon’s back,” Detective Harvey Bullock was not part of the Superhuman Task Force. He lacked the locomotive skills required to keep pace with supermen. But he was doing a serviceable job of demonstrating his loyalty, and Gelio had kneecapped his more obvious extortions by keeping the man by his side, busy with menial reports like this one: status updates on lieutenant Gordon and his feminine Friday.

“Thank you, detective,” the commissioner didn’t even make eye contact with the man.

“And the henchmen are here, too,” Bullock chuckled.

“Henchmen?” Gelio questioned, annoyed at Bullock’s smug amendment.

“Henshaw. Henchmen,” Bullock explained the quip, and smiled again, a toothpick hanging stupidly from his mouth. He was so self-satisfied. “Just a little joke around the bullpen. It’s the same sound. Get it?”

Johnny felt the infinitesimal precursor to a twitch, and forced his face into a Shakespearian frown to avoid any misconception about whether he thought his subordinate’s wordplay was humorous.

“I know what they call me, detective,” Johnny turned his back on Bullock, stroking his chin. 

“Wha–“

“You know what I’m talking about, Harvey. The nickname. It’s alright. I’m not mad.”

“Sir?”

“I have a sense of humor, detective,” Gelio turned around. “You ever see ‘The Dentist,’ Harv?” 

Bullock covered his mouth momentarily then shrugged.

“Dentist, sir?”

“Hysterical picture. W.C. Fields plays a dentist who cheats at golf and abuses his patients. He drills without any painkillers. It’s a riot, Harvey. You really should see it if you need a good laugh.”

“I-I’m missing something, chief,” Harvey was measurably older than Johnny, and had never made it past detective. In the commissioner’s estimation, he frequently missed things. 

“I’m able to laugh at myself. I love a good laugh. Ha! HA! See?”

Bullock unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. He laughed, nervously.

“What’s the uhh, point, sir?”

“There are two, detective.” Johnny crossed the room so that he was within arm’s reach of the incompetent detective. He placed his hand on Bullock’s shoulder. “The first is this: I enjoy humor, and I can laugh at myself. So if I don’t laugh at work, you need better jokes. Wouldn’t you say?” The commissioner started cackling again in a mockery of natural laughter, forced, and obviously so.

“Secondly,” Gelio removed his hand from Bullock’s shoulder, and leaned in close, whispering directly into the man’s ear, “you’re really abusing my patience.”

Harvey puzzled over it for a moment, then took a step backwards, feeling for the doorknob behind him.

“I’m sorry boss. I’ll uhh, I’ll tell the guys. Better gags.” His sweaty hand finally found purchase on the door, pulling it open and leaving without another word.

The Joker rolled his eyes and returned to his seat.

Chapter Text

Whoever fraudulently alters, defaces, mutilates, impairs, diminishes, falsifies, scales, or lightens any of the coins coined at the mints of the United States, or any foreign coins which are by law made current or are in actual use or circulation as money within the United States; or

Whoever fraudulently possesses, passes, utters, publishes, or sells, or attempts to pass, utter, publish, or sell, or brings into the United States, any such coin, knowing the same to be altered, defaced, mutilated, impaired, diminished, falsified, scaled, or lightened—

Shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than five years, or both.

18 U.S. CODE § 331 – MUTILATION, DIMINUTION, AND FALSIFICATION OF COINS

 

The commissioner strode through the halls of Gotham Police Department like a Metropolis crime boss from a pulp magazine. No hair or man out of place, he was neatly flanked on all sides by a constituency of goons: thugs-for-hire at the dialing of an operator at what Gordon believed to be a shell corporation.

Lieutenant Jim Gordon walked behind the ocean of “trainees,” with his partner, Detective Selina Kyle walking in stride. Jim had misgivings about tonight, and the dubiousness of The Batman as a suspect was among the lowest among his concerns.

“Tonight, starting now,” Jim muttered to his partner “I want you to stick to me like a wet dress. If I bolt, you bolt. If I stand my ground, you stand yours. I have a bad feeling about how this is gonna go. Stand next to me when I address them, I want them to see you as an authority figure.”

Detective Kyle made an almost imperceptible nod, and Jim’s eyes quickly snapped between her and the double doors to the briefing room, from where the first patrol of the Superhuman Task Force would be dispatched. They swung as the flood of humanity broke through.

Out of the crowd, Gelio emerged. Jim hadn’t noticed the mayor in the mass of mercenaries, but he  stood at the head of the room, next to the commissioner. Behind them, a blackboard. And the last to file into the room, photographers and reporters.

“Did they forget to bring the babies to kiss?” Selina’s sarcasm was not subtle, even in her surreptitious whisper. 

“People are hurting,” began the mayor. “In Gotham, people are in pain. They’ve lost their sons, their brothers, their grandsons. There is a wound in this city, and if we let it, it will bleed us dry.

“It is why we need resolute, dedicated men, like all of you. Like my friend Lieutenant Gordon, who started this task force to beat back the violent street gangs who wanted to flood our streets with opium tinctures and powders. He is capable and courageous, and I am glad he is training you.”

Gordon gave a brief smile and wave to the assembled, and as the mayor continued, rolled his eyes at the puffery.

“I’m also thrilled that Commissioner Johnny Gelio has been willing to lead our police force. You know they say ‘it’s easy to conquer the world from the back of a horse, but dismounting and governing is hard.’ Let me tell you, governing is hard–” Mayor Karlo paused for laughter, or applause, any kind of reaction, but none came. He cleared his throat.

“– but I don’t envy you, our the men who will conquer this new enemy for the people of Gotham. Supermen have made fighting crime and governing much more sticky, but I’m confident in you all, and I am doubly confident in my friend the commissioner, who is going to tell you more about bringing these murderers to justice.” The mayor swept his hands rightward to present the commissioner, who shook his hand and stepped forward.

His face was stoic and severe, with not a single evident spasm or tic.

“Mayor Karlo said that there is a wound in our city,” he started without warning, even Jim had been jarred out of the daze of Karlo’s inane campaign rhetoric. “But we have staunch men,” a pause, then a glance at Selina, “and women who will stop the bleeding. 

“Every one of you has heard a story about one of these caped cowards, and I say ‘coward’ instead of ‘superhuman’ because each of you is a superhuman. What bravery does it take to face down a dozen bank robbers with Thompsons when you know that bullets bounce off of you harmlessly? What kind of mettle is needed to face down knife-wielding hooligans in a dark alley when the blade will bend before you even bleed.

“I ask you all, who is brave: the man who wakes up in the morning and kisses his wife and kid, knowing that he might meet his creator while stopping a purse snatcher, or the one who descends from the skies to choose who is worthy of his protection?” People in the room began to stir, nodding to each other in approval.

“These stories are everywhere, and they’re driving the country insane. Insane with hope, with expectations, and with the minor celebrity that comes with spotting one of these cowards. It’s turning the press insane, as they speculate on these foreign invaders in lieu of having any real understanding of who they are and what they want.

“But we know better. We know it isn’t worth a damn to be part of the majority if it means you have to have a screw loose. So tonight, we’re gonna flush out any bats in the belfry. And we’re gonna let them know that we’re not afraid of them, or any other freak in tights. 

“Tonight, we take our city back!” Gelio didn’t even finish the words before the task force cheered, Jim clapped to keep up appearances, but was less certain that they’d have their pound of flesh by the end of the patrol. “To help us better understand our enemy, Lieutenant Jim Gordon.”

Jim didn’t move, instead willing the people all around him to create a circular space. Even if these weren’t men he fully trusted, he found that being among his subordinates more effectively led to their trust in him, he hoped that was true of these sellswords.

“My partner, Detective Kyle,” a low catcall sounded from more than one of the circling men, Selina stepped away, disappearing gracefully among the crowd. The sound of a quick scuffle was followed by the sharp exhalation of a punch to the gut, and the detective stands next to Gordon again.

“Ahem. Detective Kyle and I have interviewed more than a hundred witnesses from all over Gotham, each of them claimed to have seen The Batman, many of them before he interrupted the mayor’s fundraiser.” This was a lie; there hadn’t been a hundred witnesses, there were barely a dozen, but Jim didn’t want to let on how he’d arrived at his next conclusion. “Here’s what we know: The Batman unlike Superman in Metropolis, only works at night, or at the very least, in the darkness. This has led to rumors that he’s a vampire, like Dracula, and those rumors are fueled further by the excesses of blood found accompanying the victims.” Gordon was careful not to say his victims. He hadn’t written Batman off as a suspect entirely, but he was lower on his personal list of potential Peter Pans, to be sure.

“We don’t want to spur on further rumors. It doesn’t do anyone any good for people to be scared, because scared people don’t talk to police. So we’ve compiled this list of the Batman’s likely potential powers set based on consistency from eye witness accounts. That doesn’t mean that Batman doesn’t have other powers, and that we shouldn’t be prepared for some of the more outrageous claims, this is just what we have cause to be confident in.

“So, again, he is only active at night. We don’t know if this indicates an aversion to sunlight, in fact, we don’t know what this means, but it means that our resources will be focused on searching after sundown. He moves silently, like a shadow, and he may be able to turn invisible, or translucent, or to teleport into or out of locked rooms; to answer the question you haven’t asked yet, we don’t know how we’ll keep him incarcerated, and we don’t have any ideas.”

A reporter noticed this last line and his pencil sprang to life, and Jim pinched the bridge of his nose, not realizing that this needed to be press-ready.

“He is incredibly fast, we don’t know if he’s Superman-fast, but he’s probably faster than any of us, and he’s bulletproof, just like Superman. Ricochets are plenty dangerous, but, just as important, a box of ammo is almost a week’s pay, so let’s keep our slugs in our sidearms, people. It’s estimated he could dispatch a handful of us all at once, so we’re going to be operating in two squads, and we won’t break down further. If someone has eyes on him, everyone keeps eyes on him. The idea is to contain him, and learn more than we know.”

It wasn’t inspirational, but Gordon didn’t exactly feel inspired.

“Stay together, stay focused, and listen to me and the commissioner, and, if we’re lucky, we’ll bring him in.”

Gelio cleared his throat, and the assembled filled in the hole around and in front of Jim, turning toward the commissioner.

“Thank you, lieutenant, Mr. Mayor. Though I share Lieutenant Gordon’s sentiment that an ideal outcome would be to capture and question the bat, I would add that we should be ready to spend the money if that doesn’t work out. 

“Guns ready, boys: tonight, we face down the dueling insanities which are plaguing Gotham. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, the insanity ends.”

-♞-

Clear skies tonight. Full moon. High visibility, thought Batman. 

Looking down from atop a commercial building several blocks from the Gotham Police Department Central District Headquarters, he observed a caravan vehicles leaving the garage. A pair of police motorcycles, followed by two Holland Coachcraft Streamlines, followed by a hardtop Ford V8 Phaeton, and finally, a third Streamline with its own pair of motorcycles bringing up the rear. 

That must be the only new Ford in Gotham. He tried to make out the markings. “Gotham Police” in gold lettering; there was something else underneath, but he couldn’t discern it from this distance.

I need better binoculars, Batman frowned at the matte-black painted Pocoscope opera glasses. They  didn’t have the sharp fidelity he wanted for details at a distance, putting their usefulness somewhere in the realm of “getting a headcount.”

He watched as the convoy headed north west toward West Side, and shook his head. The radio reports had suggested that this was a manhunt for him. Why he would be in what could be accurately described as “The Abandoned Spooky Warehouse District” was inscrutable to him, other than reasons of “atmosphere.”

There was an impulse to follow them, to figure out why they were there, and try to overhear something about their thought process, but Batman would be successful because of his ability to remain out of sight, to eventually ambush his antagonist. You could hardly ambush twenty men with guns who were looking for you, specifically. Not to mention warehouses were low ground and offered a lot of vantage points from which to fall prey to an ambush.

“Theatricality and deception are powerful agents for the uninitiated,” Alfred once remarked years ago while they developed strategies and costumes for the Yīnyǐng. “But this isn’t the opera. A talented enemy will learn to expect it. They’ll become initiated, at least to the degree that our tricks won’t make us invincible. The best way to avoid getting arrested is to stay away from the police unless we witness them doing something crooked. We’ll be far more useful as a rumor than we will as felons.”

Batman felt the sensation of being watched, and turned fully around, methodically scanning the rooftop and the surrounding structures. 

Then he looked to the sky, surveying the night itself. 

Perfect beats good every single time, he thought. But as far as he could see, he was alone.

The police are sloppy, and maybe Gordon is coming around, Batman reflected. Investigate it later, you’re not going to catch two dozen men unawares.

He tuned his scanner to the police channel, but none of the chatter had anything to do with the manhunt. The irony of the precipitous drop in violent crime in the presence of a serial murderer was not lost on him.

Peter Pan was still at large, and the surface level clues that Batman thought might be useful to build a profile of the victims were becoming fewer and further between.

It’s time to stop being a rumor. It’s time to get answers.

The Batman stepped to the edge of the roof, and took his own precipitous drop.

-♞-

“What are we looking for, exactly, Lieutenant?” Selina leaned in to keep her volume low, Jim only shrugged in answer.

“We believe that the criminal calling himself Batman has a hideout,” announced Gelio in a controlled voice that carried to his squads. “Whether he needs moonlight or darkness to fuel his powers, or whether he simply has an aversion to daylight, we do not know, but we believe that a condemned warehouse, especially one with boarded or frosted windows, would be an ideal place to stage his nightly haunts.”

“We believe what?” Selina was incredulous in her question to Jim who furrowed a brow and looked ready to protest. Being, until very recently, one half of the Super Human Task Force, Selina was privy to most (if not all) of the information involving the case involving Peter Pan and The Batman.  This wasn’t a theory Jim had told her about, and he seemed similarly astounded by the claim.

“Tonight,” the commissioner continued, “we are searching for evidence of a bat infestation. Anything that suggests that someone seeking shelter from the daylight would make an encampment. We don’t believe he is here at the moment, but be prepared for anything and question everyone. We don’t know if the suspect is eight feet tall or a red-headed slavic hobo in the throes of insanity. Anyone you find here is a potential suspect, and should be questioned, identified, and, if we need to be absolutely sure, brought in.

“Squad A will go with Lieutenant Gordon, you will investigate the structures on the east side of this yard. Squad B will come with me, and we will explore the warehouses to the west.”

A contingent of men fell in around Selina and the lieutenant. Among them was one of the Henshaw goons she’d punched in the stomach; his face was set in an unflinching line, but he refused to make eye contact with her. 

Good, Selina thought. You bruised more than his gut.

“Okay listen up,” Jim started from the center of the group, just as he had at headquarters. “It’ll take longer, but we’re going to stick together and enter and leave every single one of these buildings as a unit. Find the person closest to you, and partner up. You stay within an inch of your partner at all times.”

The cat-caller sidled in close to Selina. 

“I think we got off on the wrong foot, dollface,” the words oozed from the mans rigid mouth. “Whaddaya say we partner up, and I’ll show you a good time?”

Selina smiled.

“What you get off on is your business, Noonan, but unless you want to see stars, I’d recommend you back off.”

“Oh, come on blondie, you think a–“ a blurry fist crashed into Noonan’s temple, knocking him out and one of his teeth loose. He hit the ground with a thud, and Jim Gordon only rubbed his knuckles for show.

“Two things, fellas,” Jim started again. “First thing: Detective Kyle here could’ve done that herself, but I wanted it to be absolutely clear that if you disrespect her, you disrespect me, and you disrespect my department. If she tells you that you smell funny, then that’s as good as an order from me to take a bath in the harbor. Kyle is my partner, so there’ll be no need for one of you to try to buddy up with her. Which brings me to my second thing: there are now nine of you, so one of you is gonna need to be a group of three, any questions?” Gordon spat on the ground to punctuate the statement, and Noonan just laid, face down on the lot, rubbing his head.

Squad A headed toward the furthest warehouse, somehow more on edge than before.

-♞-

The Gotham City District Courthouse always had the faint bouquet of death and ammonia drifting up from the morgue below; the polished marble floors made avoiding detection more of a conscious effort than was ideal – not difficult for a shadow – but it required deliberate thought instead of rote action.

Dr. Victor Fries, Gotham City’s coroner, had a tendency to work late; since Alan had been killed, he had a tendency to work into the next morning, and the detective needed to get answers.

Batman didn’t know, and couldn’t figure out how to quantify the level of panic and actual danger that were needed to trigger a Superman response, but that was a confrontation he could only try to avoid, and be as prepared as possible for when it inevitably happened.

It was a very delicate needle to thread: stealth, fear, and surprise were his greatest assets, and any could cause the alien to descend upon him.

A hypothetical positive here, or maybe it was a rationalization, was that cooler temperatures kept the heart rate high for longer periods, meaning the difference between panic and calm to a casual observer would be less disparate than it might otherwise be.

Perhaps, he thought.

The note was simple, typed in the Bat Cave, and placed into Fries’ typewriter when he left his desk to relieve himself: 

Meet me in the cooler.
We need to talk.

So Batman waited alone in the cold, noxious air, in the dark, among the dead. 

Dr. Victor Fries, Gotham City’s coroner slid open the door of the cooler, the red lenses of his glasses eerily reflecting the ambient light from the hallway. He didn’t turn on the light.

“Has Death himself finally come to claim the father?” Fries spoke like the title character in a Shakespearian tragedy. “To what do I owe this horror, Batman?”

“Alan,” the whisper left his lips like a breeze on an autumn night. “I need to know what was different about Alan. Why hasn’t his murder been made public?”

Fries took a step back. Batman couldn’t fully read his face, but “inquisitive” seemed the closest word he had.

“Everything was different about Alan! I’m sorry. My son was a good boy. He was obedient, he honored his mother and me at a time when so many children are truants and delinquents. He was a good child.”

“Then why keep his killing under wraps?”

“As a fa-a service, to Nora, my wife. I wanted to allow her to grieve privately. The detectives working on the Peter Pan case, on your case know the relevant details. They are friends of my family. Why come to me?”

Silence. 

“There’s more to learn from the other victims’ families,” Fries actually jumped when Batman’s wuthering voice was suddenly upon him. “But you represent a meeting of both victim and expert.

“Doctor, are there people who wish to hurt you?”

“This is Gotham,” the coroner removed his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt. “If no one wishes to hurt you, then you’re already dead. Which is to say, having spoken with the families of the victims, there was no apparent connection between us.”

“Do you have any theories?” Fries asked the darkness.

“Still in development, nothing solid. Not yet.”

“Lieutenant Gordon doesn’t think it’s you, still wants to bring you in though.”

Surprising that Gordon told him. You need to let Fries know you’re an ally.

“And you?”

“I report facts, Batman. But in my medical opinion, you belong in Arkham.”

“Was Alan your only child, doctor?”

A beat. Fries took a deep breath.

“Nora is pregnant.”

Silence. Fries stepped forward, then back, and flicked on the light. 

The room was empty. He was alone in the cold, noxious air, among the dead.

-♞-

“Hey,” the agent from Henshaw Allied was ascending the spartan, creaking stairs toward Johnny, holding something shiny. “So, what, you’re the main policeman, or is Gordon your boss?”

Johnny Gelio didn’t love the word “policeman,” because it sounded phonetically and rhythmically like the Greek phrase “που είσαι” which translated, informally, into “what are you up to?”

The word roused suspicion in him, on some kind of nurtured level.

“Gordon is the lead on this investigation, but he ultimately reports to me.”

The man’s badge said “A. Rossi.”

“Found something, somebody anyway. You wanna talk to him?”

Johnny’s eyes betrayed the smallest widening excitement, and just as quickly, he’d forgotten himself, and a spasmic smile tore across his face. 

Μαλάκα, he cursed inwardly at the foolish vulnerability, and followed down the perilous stairs, crossing the room to where nine men crowded a metal structural support beam.

“Move, please,” he instructed, using his hand to break through the men to an invalid, leaned precariously against the beam, wearing a ragged wool coat that appeared to be two long forgotten coats stitched together haphazardly. The man leaned forward, then opened his mouth as if to speak, but produced only a low grumble and some drool.

“Sir,” Johnny could feel his irritation rising. He did not suffer incompetence well, and this was clearly just a hobo in the throes of a heroin high. “Are you alright?”

“…Stole our nickel. Valuable. Owes us.”

“He’s lookin’ for this,” Rossi produced the shiny object. “He was trying to hock it when we found him. Asked for two bits. For a nickel.”

Johnny snatched the coin from Rossi to inspect it. A 1913 buffalo nickel, or, it was at least. This one had been carved on both sides. The heads-side had sculpted the Indian into a skull. It was a common practice on these nickels, and the face was filthy with the caked detritus of living in this…filth, it was scraped and scratched with deep gashes looking not unlike scars on the skeletal head. But on the tails-side, the coin looked like it was uncirculated – polished to nearly a mirror finish – and featuring a bat, flying in front of a silver crescent moon.

The commissioner’s eyes narrowed. This isn’t him.

“Have you seen any bats lately, sir?”

“Just the one, flapping round…Crime Alley when we was tryna score. Told us we needa getta job, He could help us score. Looked like a dracula enna devil had a baby.” The man smacked his tongue around his teeth. His mouth was dry. 

Talks like he’s lying. 

“How about three hot meals, and a place to sleep it off with a proper roof over your head?” Gelio leaned in close to the man and held up the nickel. “Got any more of these?”

“That’s our last one. Lucky, but we could let it go if you, uhh…” the man’s head dipped deeply, like it was unsupported by his neck. 

“Bring him in,” Gelio spat, placing the coin in the pocket of his shirt. “He can sleep this off in the drunk tank and we can ask him more about what he saw in the morning.”

Two of the men hoisted the bum onto their shoulders, and he unceremoniously vomited between them.

“What are we arresting him for?” Asked one of the men.

“We’re not, but if we need to charge him, ‘Mutilation of Minted U.S. Coinage.’”

“That’s a law?”

“Get him in the van, and meet me on the lot. Rossi, take someone with you and get Gordon’s squad back to the lot.”

So the Batman is selling heroin, Johnny worked the idea over in his head. Another visit to Mr. Falcone is very much in order.

-♞-

 In Gotham Harbor, the heir to the city’s most powerful crime family floats, face down.

Chapter Text

"When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept"

 

– Marc Antony, "Julius Caesar"

 

 

THE DEVIL'S GREATEST TRICK

“Am I in trouble, Ms. Rose?” Jeremy asked. “Which is to say, have I…done something wrong?”

Jeremy pulled his hat down low on his head.

“Jeremy,” Ms. Rose was firm, assertive. She shook her head and smiled. Jeremy didn’t return the expression, just looked down instead. “No, you’re not in any trouble. Once every other week, the girls and I have something like a tea party. We choose a topic we’re enthusiastic about, specifically economics, or poetry, or literature, or current events, and every time we have our tea, two of us share those topics, like a discussion prompt.”

Jeremy’s brain supplied an embarrassing amount of excitement. 

Keep your eyes down you nitwit, Ms. Rose isn’t a woman who takes well to wonderment.

 Jeremy didn’t know what his face was doing, and if squintily looking at Ms. Rose was any indication (he was trying not to let her see how wide his eyes wished to be), neither did she.

“This is on a trial basis, mind you. I have a number of men who work for me, but none of them have ever been allowed to join our early tea. This is an extension of trust, Jeremy, so do be mindful. The women here won’t abide foolishness. Before working for me, men told them that their place was in the home, raising a family. They were shooed out of classrooms and workplaces. So always remember: you aren’t required to speak, however you may if you feel as though you have something of great value to add to the discourse.”

Jeremy nodded, looking down at his shoes, and briefly looking into Ms. Rose’s deep green eyes. He wouldn’t disappoint her.

“These women are like my garden, Jeremy, I’ve tended to them, nurtured their growth, and seen them through to being brilliant creatures who will share their radiance with the world. I’ve asked you to join us today, because Harriet and I will be presenting, on some topics that I think might be helpful for you.”

“And,” Jeremy cleared his throat. “Excuse me, and, I’m so sorry if it’s a silly question, but, will this be a proper tea party? With sweets to sample, and, well, tea?”

“Well it wouldn’t be very civil of me to offer an invitation if it weren’t,” Ms. Rose inclined her head just slightly.

Now there’s a woman who know’s her books, old boy! Finally, we’ve spotted a reference, haven’t we?

Jeremy smiled broadly and he allowed the excitement to show in his eyes.

“My hair will want cutting then.”

“Not at all, Jeremy, come as you are.”

Jeremy smiled, or did something like it, and followed Ms. Rose into the main greenhouse. He was led through a  labyrinth of plants arranged in rows and pots like chessmen. Out the side door, to a grassy courtyard with seats arranged in a semicircle on overgrown paving stones. Small end tables were nuzzled between each chair, and one of the metal workbenches had been covered in a white sheet to accommodate the tea service. There were suckers and metal spoons covered in a rich glaze of amber that looked almost like honey. Jeremy watched a botanist with jet black hair and glasses serving herself a cup of tea. She squeezed a slice of lemon into the cup, then put the spoon in and stirred.

If he were alone, he would’ve darted forward to ask her about it, but it looked miraculous. Instead, he kept pace with Ms. Rose, determined not to supply the foolishness that might result in the revocation of this honorable invitation.

Jeremy pondered an opportunity for an additional odd job as the dewdrops started to dampen his thick pant leg turn-ups. Maybe she doesn’t have a boy to tend the lawn?

Even outdoors, on the clear, brisk morning, this felt formal, and Jeremy removed his overworked hat, and resolved to only speak if the topic was within his area of expertise.

“That is neroli honey, from our hives, Jeremy. We have a process which maintains the clarity and color of the honey while allowing it to crystallize; we use it instead of sugar,” Ms. Rose went on, “I do hope you aren’t allergic.”

Jeremy shook his head silently at the strange fairytale set in front of him.

“Help yourself, and find a seat,” she instructed, and he complied, mirroring the botanist with the jet black hair, squeezing a lemon into his hot tea, and stirring it with the crystallized honey spoon. His eyes widened in wonder as the honey liquefied almost immediately, streaking the tea with a luminous whirlwind of gossamer before dissolving.

On his plate, he stacked what looked like a roasted apple sandwich served on brown bread toast points and orange slices, and three wrapped sweets, which he would take to Pockets (if he could find the rascal).

He found a seat next to the black haired botanist, and put his plate and saucer down next to hers, spreading a cloth napkin across his lap. 

“Jeremy, Jeremy Tetch,” he introduced himself, smiling at her perhaps too widely for just an instant.

The botanist half-returned the smile, nodding slightly.

“Dahlia,” she said softly.

“Ladies, and Jeremy,” came the accented voice of Harriet standing near the center of the semicircle. “Today, our discourse will be on the topic of the working poor. Wayne Enterprises has made great strides in providing financial security to their workers in Gotham, but too many Gothamites have fallen through the cracks, and not every organization in the city is a cooperative, is it?” 

Jeremy looked up from a nibble of his sandwich at the mention of the company where he used to work, and a topic he used to research, in a past life.

“Today, Harriet and I will offer a challenge, for the consideration of the group,” Ms. Rose looked around at her congregation and continued, “how do we solve the problem of poverty for the people of Gotham who, if they lost their jobs today, would find themselves with nothing to fall back on?”

“These are the people of Gotham who are the most threatened by the precariousness of our current economy,” Harriet picked up from Ms. Rose’s cue. “Think of what it means to live from paycheck to paycheck, I know some of us have lived through it, personally.” 

She looked directly into Jeremy’s eyes for a sympathetic beat.

This is where you are now, Jez, he reflected on his work for the state senator from what seemed like forever ago. Beautiful young botanists presenting you with the decades-old concepts you used to launch a man’s career.

“Today, our errand will be to conceive of ways to provide a backstop for people,” Ms. Rose continued. “The women, and I suppose the men as well, who, if the bus was late to take them to work tomorrow, might never, ever recover. They are asset-limited, because all they have is money to pay for the barest essentials. They don’t have investments or real estate. They can’t afford risks, because they are constrained by their low income, making just enough money to survive. And because they are employed at a time that so many are not, they cannot afford to lose their jobs; they feel restricted to take what is given to them by their employers.”

“These people, the asset-limited, income-constrained, and employed people of Gotham are the people who we will seek to help with our new, ongoing initiative,” Ms. Rose scanned the audience. Twenty and thirty something professional women, in lab coats, and Jeremy, who felt as out of place as anyone could.

“Project ALICE!” Harriet added.

Jeremy nearly dropped his tea.

This couldn’t be a coincidence. Ms. Rose knew who he was.

-♞-

Falcone’s fist slammed onto the hardwood conference table, rattling the ice in the mayor’s Metropolitan (similar, as Johnny understood it, to a Manhattan, but with brandy instead of rye)

The commissioner thought that having a cocktail to unwind from a stressful day was fine if your constitution was delicate enough that you needed to take the edge off. Having one during an important meeting with a critical donor was reckless and weak. Johnny saw it for the vice it could become, especially in people who were short on wit but long on character, like the mayor.

The heir to The Roman’s Empire had drowned, and the monarchhimself cried.

Havoc! thought the mayor’s dog-of-war.

“Basil, you sonovabitch I have given this goddamn city so much. SO MUCH! Listen to me, both of you,” he wiped the mucous from his nose. The man was a mess.

Compose yourself, then confront us. Johnny tented his fingers, and set his mouth into a hard line. This is not the show of strength you believe it to be.

“This freak threatened me directly. He threatened us at your event, ‘Face!” The Roman sniveled, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiping his whole face with it. “All the money in Gotham at my dinner table, and some asshole  in a halloween costume blows a hole in my wall? Grogan didn’t do shit to stop him. And what do we have so far with you Johnny? Squat!”

“Mr. Falcone,” the commissioner sighed gravely, “since day one, the Batman has been my primary focus. Your assistance in this matter has been…invaluable,” Johnny felt a spasm coming on in his left cheek, and looked slightly down at Falcone’s chin. “However, as you know, there are…political obstacles that prevent us from moving at peak efficiency.”

“What are you saying you need, John?” Mayor Karlo interrupted the drama of silence that Johnny had spent so much time crafting, and inside, he raged at the man’s weakness, the way he refused to let discomfort linger, even if it served a greater purpose.

Gotham deserves so much better than you, Basil.

The commissioner straightened the cuffs of his shirt, almost disdainful at the fabric for being out of place – it was performative, yes, but ever since Johnny had been a young greek tragedy, performance had come naturally to him.

Yiannis “Johnny” Gelio, commissioner of the Gotham Police, stood and folded both of his hands across his abdomen. He faced Carmine “The Roman” Falcone, the reformed don of the Falcone Crime Family, at eye level.

“Mr. Mayor, I’m quite sure Mr. Falcone can read between the lines.”

Falcone and Karlo both cocked their heads in puzzlement.

“I’m a catholic,” Falcone put on a faux convivial affect. “Did you know that, commissioner? The mayor has been to mass with me, haven’t ya, ‘Face? I’m a catholic, but I like to say, I’m not a very good one. I like to think of myself as a man of the old gods.

“You greeks, you’re not far off from us, you know what I mean, Yiannis, it’s like, Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic. Zeus, Jupiter. Same pantheon, different dickheads. But we’re cut from the same cloth, commissioner. Same traditions. Same ancient saltwater in our veins. You and me, we’re men of action. Killer Karlo here is a man of reaction – useful, don’t get me wrong, smart – but politicians, you follow me?”

Falcone was pacing now. And Johnny was staring, unblinking, as the man meandered.

“Thing that always bothered me about the Good Book though, and I swear on my mother’s grave, I told her this when I was seven years old, in Soriano Nel Cimino, I says ‘what’s the difference between prophecy and destiny?’ and she says to me, ‘Non lo so, bambino,’ that’s ‘I don’t know, child.’

“I’ve never, for the life of me, been able to find an answer. I’ve talked to priests and nuns, I talked to my cousin – he’s learning theology back home – and I talked to prelates and bishops. Not one of ‘em could ever help me understand the difference. 

“So, way I see it, they’re the same, see? It was Jesus’ destiny to die, you see, because it was prophesied that the eventual Messiah would. And that’s the part that bothered me, commissioner. This guy, walks around performing miracles, being the life of the party, and then, the Son of God goes to the desert, and stops eating.

“The Devil comes to him, and the Devil – Satan – he decides to pull a trick on Jesus, to get Him to test God. First, he shows Jesus how to make bread from rocks, but Jesus refuses him. Then he shows Jesus how to be rescued from the desert, by angels, no less – he quotes Psalms, the whole thing. Jesus doesn’t want to be saved like that. Finally, Satan offers Jesus the whole world. All Jesus has to do is bow to the Devil, and He can rule over all of it. Jesus refuses the Devil once again.

“The part they never point out during the sermons though, is that the Devil keeps asking Jesus questions in a very specific way, like ‘If you’re the Son of God, why don’t you prove it?’”

Johnny waited, appreciating the poetry of the way that Falcone told his story. It was sloppy, and it took the most indirect route from point to point, but the art of it was like an unhoned blade made of very fine quality steel. A couple minutes with a whetstone, and the knife would cut clean and deep.

“Now Jesus is, first and foremost, a teacher. In the Bible, they call Him rabbi, which means ‘teacher.’ And He’s no slouch, neither. He studies the Old Testament for His whole life. So Jesus knows everything there is to know about the prophecies that need to be fulfilled for His destiny as the Messiah.

“Which brings us back to the Devil. See, Matthew, Mark, and Luke, they tell us – the readers – that Satan’s trying to tempt Christ with defying God. But Jesus knew that He’d have to refute the devil three times. And the Devil knows it too. But remember, Satan is the Prince of Lies. The truth is, the real truth, is that he’s trying to tempt Jesus into fully becoming the Christ.” 

“There’s an old brain teaser that kids do in grade schools back home, I guess they have it here, it goes: If God is all powerful, can God make a stone that God can’t break? It’s an impossible question, it creates like, one of those snakes that swallows its own tail.

“That’s what Satan did to Jesus. He didn’t want Jesus to take him up on the offer. He wanted Jesus to remember the prophecies, and to make a concession to destiny. That’s why Satan is called The Adversary, because he’s a perfect enemy who creates inescapable outcomes.”

“Now Carmine, I’m afraid that the commissioner has –“

Johnny held up a hand, and the mayor furrowed his brow.

“Mr. Commissioner, I don’t believe in prophecy, I believe in profits.” The Roman’s raconteur tone started to fade to something more grim. “I believe that a man, given the choice between the world and his soul, will ‘profit the world’ each and every time. I know this, because I have offered much less than the world to good men, and the most righteous among them barely even negotiates.

The room itself seemed to get cooler.

“We call them supermen, and some people describe them as gods, and I think they might be right. The big blue one in Metropolis? He’s like Hercules, ain’t he? He intervenes here and there, but he doesn’t protect everyone. Not really. How many people does he let die every day? How many orphans we got in Gotham City – you know the number, ‘Face? It’s a lot. A lot.” Falcone shook his head. “But I think this Batman is the Devil, right outta the Bible. Lucifer made flesh. And he’s mad, because he can’t tempt us with nothing, because the people in power in Gotham aren’t beggars in the desert two thousand years ago. We refuse to fall victim to something as mercurial as destiny, and the Devil is heated because without temptation, he doesn’t have any power.

“It takes three days for a telegram to get to Soriano Nel Cimino, commissioner. The people who I’ll ask for, they’re not good men. Can’t be a good Italian and come to America anymore. Not since twenty-four. It’ll take another two days for them to get their affairs in order, get the checks deposited. Another day to kiss their wives, their sons.

“Then it’ll be two days to the freight ports in Civitavecchia, and about three weeks to the Port of Gotham on cargo ships. The way I figure it, you’ve got, let’s call it a month.”

Carmine took a deep breath, and stepped closer to Johnny, turning their seats to face each other, and inviting him to sit back down.

“Everything,” Carmine forced the words from his mouth in a huff, putting his hand on Johnny’s knee. “I said that I gave this city ‘so much,’ but I will give it everything I have regardless of whether you give me the justice I am looking for, commissioner. Starting now, if you need something, you tell me directly. Anything. You need more men? You need a woman? Walkin’-around-money? A private car? I don’t give a fuck if you want a new wool suit, Johnny. Anything. And if you bring me the Bat, then you continue to get anything you want, whenever you want it.

“But in a month, these streets live up to their reputation, Johnny. Because I will cover this city in a plague of lead and blood. There will be jackals, and they will tear Gotham apart from the barrens to the boroughs until they find the Bat. And no superman, Bat or Blue is gonna stop them from finding their quarry. I won’t be held responsible for what happens. Once the order’s been given…”

“Then don’t give the order! Carmine, the first debate is in a month. Just wait to send the telegram!” Karlo begged.

Weakness.

“I sent the telegram this morning, ‘Face.”

“We’ll find him, Mr. Falcone,” Johnny stood, extending a hand, and Falcone did the same.

“Gotham City is on notice!” Falcone shouted at the mayor as he left the room, and slammed the door behind him, rattling the ice in the mayor’s Metropolitan.

-♞-

“In three weeks’ time, your men, or the Henshaw men, or, I don’t care who, you personally if that’s what it takes. You are working the port, and you are inspecting any cargo from Italy or anywhere in the general Mediterranean area. Any passengers without visas get held,” Karlo was reactive, Falcone had been absolutely on the spot about that.

“Of course, Mr. Mayor. We can invoke the Johnson Act,” Johnny said matter-of-factly. 

“Until that debate is over, I don’t care if Mussolini himself calls me, we have a very strict detain-suspicious-Italians policy, got it – something funny John?”

Johnny flexed his face into a scowl.

“Sorry, I forget about your, uhh…the lockjaw. Anyway, we’re under a lot of pressure commissioner.” Karlo took a nervous gulp of his cocktail, and produced a flask from his jacket pocket to top the glass off. “Don’t want to waste good ice, heh.”

“Mr. Mayor, I’m going to bring you the Bat. Dead, or alive,” Johnny spoke in a measured, even tone, only inflecting enough to keep from sounding monotonous. But you’ll need to start throwing some of your political weight around, and I–”

“–That I can do. Handshaking is a speciality of mine, after all.  What do you need, Johnny?”

“I’d like the Gotham Police department to have a seat on the Board of Estimates.”

“I don’t…I don’t think that’s something that could be done within the time we have, and I don’t really see what it would help.”

“The budget, Mr. Mayor. And I’ve read over the charter. You can add up to two ex officio seats to the Board of Estimates by mayoral fiat, once per term. I want us to be able to whip the votes to get the budget asks we need for equipment and emergency response, even if that means we have to sidestep the council. As you know, good, solid policy work, gets things done. But maybe just as importantly, solid police work to enforce policy is what is going to get this done, not reliance on a superman or a blank check from an anonymous benefactor.”

“Gee, Johnny, giving the brand new commissioner a vote on the Board of Estimates might seem like a strange power grab in an election year.”

“Mr. Mayor, it’s time to get serious. We need to have a public discussion around crime in Gotham. The department has been underfunded for years. I’ve got no money for overtime or hazard pay, and recruits? Forget it. Nobody wants to put their life on the line to protect ungrateful street rats for this level of pay. Why do you think so many of our guys were on the take? 

“It’s Gotham City, commissioner. Everyone is on the take. But alright, let me ask my people how to get this done. We’ll get the police their chair on the Board of Estimates. Just get me the goddamnedBatman before he kills another kid.”

Chapter Text

I've seen your face before, my friend,
But I don't know if you know who I am.
Well, I was there and I saw what you did,
I saw it with my own two eyes!
So you can wipe off that grin,
I know where you've been –
It's all been a pack of lies!

– PHIL COLLINS, "IN THE AIR TONIGHT"

There had been a plan, but it’s critical to remember that planning isn’t a match for preparation.

On the Kent farm, days stretched into weeks, and weeks stretched into months. Alfred Pennyworth absolutely lost himself in his assumed identity. He was a masterful actor, never overselling or under performing the role of Elias Clayton, and the performance had earned him the trust of many of Smallville’s current and former residents, including Martha Kent and her son, Clark.

Correspondence with home had been sparse – Bruce trusted Alfred, and Alfred trusted Bruce so after confirming their suspicions about the identity of Superman’s alter ego, Alfred would be the judge of how to best proceed. Safety, operational security, and whether and when to act were left entirely up to Alfred’s discretion.

Alfred – Elias, actually – had finished painting the toolshed that he’d built for Martha earlier in the day so he let Martha know that it was time to move the tools.

At one point or another, there was a full barn on the property, but a twister had taken it, along with the last of their horses, when Clark was young. In its place was something more like a large garage which housed the chicken feed, a 1920 Hispano-Suiza H6 (which appeared not to have been driven in six or more years), some spare parts for the truck, and a tractor which, as far as Elias could tell, was older than Clark, but was in perfect working condition. It was certainly not required for such a small property. 

“Nice car in there, does it run?” Elias asked.

“Not very good, I’m afraid,” Martha answered wistfully, “it belonged to a neighbor – Greg Hummel – who stored it on our property. They lived three properties over, and couldn’t really store it for some reason, but he and Johnathan worked out some kind of an arrangement, and they’d been working on it for about a year when Jonathan passed, and then Greg passed in the same month that year, and I don’t know all the details, but Greg’s wife and son moved off somewhere and I don’t know how to get in touch with them. But I also don’t really know how to get it up and running again. Maybe if Greg’s son wants to come for it some day, he could have it. I don’t have any use for anything so fancy.”

Tools had been kept in the garage as well, but it was so far from the part of the backyard where most of the work was done that when Elias suggested putting up a closer outbuilding, Martha jumped at the idea, proclaiming (a little too excitedly) that a small garden shed would be very convenient when Elias eventually left her. 

Now, Elias found himself loading tools from the garage into the bed of the pickup, to drive across the property to their new home.

“Be careful with that,” said Martha, referring to the oxygen and acetylene tanks that he was lifting onto the truck. “They’re for the torch.”

“You got it, Martha.”

Elias never asked about the storm cellar, and if Martha were more paranoid, the absence of questions would’ve made her nervous. The doors were welded shut. And there was a padlock too (which looked brand new). No one in all of Tornado Alley would be okay with their storm cellar being welded shut. No one, except Martha Kent.

Martha Kent was not a woman who worried about trivialities like tornadoes or bandits. She could grant trust to almost anyone, and never suffer any consequences for it. Being the mother of a god had its perks.

Tonight, thought Elias, and he turned the key in the truck’s ignition.

-♞-

Is this some kind of a ploy, Bruce?” It was five o’clock, still two hours before the curfew, and Lily Rose was startled when Bruce opened the door to receive her.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Lilian,” Bruce replied, smiling.

“Inviting a woman on a date in your home, just before curfew?” She returned the smile, stepping into the great room, and handing Bruce her coat. “I’ve heard the rumors Bruce, but I have no intention of getting stuck here, I have a note.”

“I was under the impression that this was a business dinner, Ms. Rose,” Bruce chuckled and led Lily on an abbreviated tour of the manor, through the gallery, the dining hall slash campaign office, the library, and ending in the kitchen, where they stepped out onto the backyard terrace to a circular table with a gingham runner and a bottle of wine in a bucket of ice.

“No candlelight?” Lily teased.

“You’re a difficult woman to impress.”

“You have no idea, Bruce.”

“Well, I do love a challenge.”

The pair discussed an investment in a job creation program that Lily had been working on with one of her team. 

“Paying women to learn agricultural skills, urban farming, chemistry, and doing it in conjunction with Gotham Harbor College. What’s not to love?”

“Well, you might balk when you hear who came up with it,” Lily noted with playful hesitation. “He’s an attorney and he comes from a wealthy family, comrade.”

Bruce’s expression became a mockery of discomfort.

“Lily, someone as well-read as you certainly knows that Engels was quite wealthy. Which is to say nothing of my family’s considerable means. So who was it?”

“The President, part of a labor initiative from back when he was in Albany.”

“Hm.”

“In a series of pretty remarkable coincidences,” Lily continued, “the policy director who inspired Roosevelt works for me selling ice pops and doing kind of general labor.”

“You have a Democratic policy director selling popsicles?”

“He used to work for you, Bruce.”

Bruce tilted his head to one side. He was certain she knew he didn’t own Wayne Enterprises, but it made for a more interesting conversation. Lily provided an explanation, and the man who called himself Jeremy (originally Jervis) Tetch’s story came into clearer focus.

Jervis Tetch was a Wobbly with an enthusiastic commitment to ending poverty. He worked for Roosevelt as state senator, and later as an aide when he moved to the Executive Mansion in Albany. His antipoverty advocacy became the framework for the governor’s labor and agricultural welfare programs, but Jervis didn’t think those went far enough. When Roosevelt closed three orphanages upstate, Jervis began inconspicuously taking children in to live with him on his family’s property. When someone reported seeing him take a child by the hand, the police were called. Jervis was charged with multiple counts of kidnapping, and with resisting arrest, though he was never convicted; those children who testified on his behalf in court indicated that no impropriety had occurred.

“Doesn’t it seem a bit antithetical to your policy of second chances to have fired him, Bruce?”

“Lucius Fox is the closest thing to ‘in charge’ at the company. I trust his judgment, but he’s not infallible. Though I would maybe question hiring someone with Tetch’s past given the current state of things.”

“It’s quite sad. And I’m sure the curfew has made being the most eligible bachelor in Gotham less of a perk,” Lily winked, and Bruce offered a subtle laugh. “You heard about Falcone’s son?”

“He and my father were pretty close for a time. He still sends me a Christmas card every year, but yes, I heard.”

“Do you ever regret not having children, Bruce?”

“Dick is basically a child.”

Lily laughed, almost spitting out her drink at the remark.

“In seriousness, I don’t mind children, but I struggle to imagine how I could be as good a parent to them as my parents have been to me.”

“As if all the money in the world wasn’t enough of an advantage, you’ve had three wonderful parents.”

Bruce’s face fell, just for a brief moment, then rose into a melancholy smile.

“All things considered, I’ve been quite fortunate.”

“Which is exactly why you’re in a unique position to help disadvantaged women in Gotham to achieve financial independence,” Lily rebutted with vigor and a satisfied grin.

“Lily, I insist you learn to take ‘yes’ for an answer. Some things will need to be finalized with the foundation, but I’ll personally commit to matching funds for the pilot program, and, in all likelihood, we’ll fund the whole project.”

Lily’s eyes went wide and her grin broke into a grateful smile.

Bruce offered a toast, and their meal was served and finished with the setting sun. As the light faded from the sky, Lily finished the last of the wine, and stole a glance at Bruce, which he pretended not to notice.

“This was nice, Lily” Bruce stood, offering his hand to Lily, who took it and stood as well. “But it’s getting to be late, and I wouldn’t want you to take any chances with the curfew. If it’s not too forward, I’d enjoy seeing you again – but I want to be absolutely clear that this funding isn’t contingent on you saying ‘yes.’”

“Is it contingent on me being sober? Because my heart is beating like a marching band, and I don’t know if I can trust my judgment at the moment.”

“A racing heart feeds a keen mind,” Bruce quoted. 

“Is that Wordsworth?” 

“Close. Pennyworth.”

Lily laughed.

“We’re going to change the world, Bruce, and we’re gonna start right here in Gotham.”

“And Lily, if I can’t make your heart race when you’re sober, I really don’t deserve a proper date.”

“Well you’re free to keep asking until I say ‘no.’”

“Wonderful!” Bruce escorted Lily through the house and to the driveway finally shaking her hand with faux formality. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Oh, don’t be an ass, Bruce,” Lily scoffed a laugh and opened her arms, hugging him around the neck, and pecking him on the cheek.“

-♞-

Opening a cellar door that had been welded shut was really a two-person job to do it properly. Otherwise it could be loud, it could damage the door in a way that couldn’t be repaired with discretion, and it could lead to burns from the gobs of molten slag it was likely to produce. 

Alfred Pennyworth had set his mind to a goal, and he had laid out preparations to achieve it, but the lightning on the horizon meant it wouldn’t be tonight. 

For now, he would write a simple letter home. Two words, unsigned:

THIS WEEK.

-♞-

There was an open question: In a place where it wasn’t unheard of for two twisters to touch down in the span of a week, or even in a single evening, what would the excuse be for Superman showing up to a specific farm twice within such a short span?

And it was a question that Bruce had been asking himself since he’d received the correspondence almost two months ago.

What was his plan? Did you even need a plan when the very rules of physical science bent to your whims?

Bruce looked down at a pad on his desk, opened to a list of bullet points from a lifetime ago:

1. He should be a great fighter.

2. He gets answers.

3. He is meticulous, thorough, and observant.

4. He doesn’t zero in on one case, because the seemingly unrelated may be connected.

5. He can be inconspicuous when he needs to be…

The list was always there, in his original folio. It was how Bruce, on occasion, would ground himself, recenter. It was the first thing resembling real writing that he’d really ever done. Alfred had made Bruce into someone who assessed and re-assessed. He kept a memo pad and a sharp pencil with him most of the time.

Alfred taught him to write down notes about experiences and encounters as they happened, and then compare the notes to his memory.

“Not at the expense of the experience,” Alfred had explained. “Just if you’re bored, or distracted, take out your notebook and scribble down some details that seem otherwise mundane.”

“Why?” Bruce wasn’t exactly defiant with Alfred, but he did challenge things that sounded like they would make boredom more boring. 

“Because our memories are alarmingly unreliable. Writing down mundane details helps your remember mundane details more accurately, and allows you to test your memories from time to time.”

Alfred also taught Bruce to write down his expectations before observing them.

“But that’s just a guess.”

“No,” Alfred corrected the boy. “That’s a hypothesis. Or a forecast.”

Bruce just stared at his adoptive father.

“Practically developing your accuracy in predictions will do many things, but two that I think are germane, Mister Bruce. First, it will align your predictions better with reality, allowing you to better prepare yourself for the short-and-long-term future. Secondly, it will allow you to better strategize in the moment. The problems with lesser thinkers’ proposed solutions will open up in front of you in ways you can’t truly understand until it becomes rote.”

“Alright,” Bruce understood the application; at the most base level, it was why Alfred was nearly untouchable in their sparring – Bruce was, for all his training, someone who Alfred could successfully forecast.

Bruce closed the folio, and opened his eyes. He took a deep breath.

-♞-

“Yes, Mr. Falcone, I’m taking your offer very seriously,” Johnny listened to the man on the other end of the line. “I need funding for fifty more men….”

Say nothing. Wait. It was a salesman’s trick; you make the ask, and then you let the other person break the silence. Never compromise. Never offer a discount, at least not in the space of the silence.

Johnny took to business-oriented self help information like a fish to water, even going so far as to take a weekend course offered in Trenton by a supposed graduate of the Carnegie Business Education and Public Speaking Program prior to taking his first job as an officer so many years ago. A lot of the information was drivel, but the tactics around “effective negotiation,” and “using your words to make an impact” resonated with him. 

The certificate from the course hung framed on a wall behind him, and he held it in the same esteem as he would a diploma from a prestigious university.

“Yes, Mr. Falcone. And how do I spell that? P-I-C-C-I-O-N-E. Yes, I’ve got it. Pitch-ee-oh-knee. And he’ll have been briefed?”

Falcone spoke through the receiver.

“I’ll ring him right within the hour. Yes sir. Thank you again. Let’s bring him down.”

Carmine Falcone had used the words “carte blanche.” Men who were more polite than Johnny might have heard “within reason” as an implied appendix to such an offer, but Commissioner Johnny Gelio was not a man who was afraid of imposing.

Johnny would have his army, and humanity would be safer for it.

-♞-

“Well, commissioner, the arrangements have been made, but fulfillment –“ Wilfredo Piccione was told not to ask questions when it came to requisitions from the Gotham Police Department. 

Piccione was a professional, and he was certainly not about to second guess a direct request from Mr. Falcone.

“– yes sir, commissioner. One hundred recruits first thing Monday morning. Mhm. I’ll personally see to it that you have another hundred by the end of next week. It was a pleasure helping you today, Commissioner Gelio. All right then. Please let me know if I can be of additional service.”

-♞-

It was a clear night at the Kent Farm in Smallville, Kansas. Creeping stealthily through the house, Alfred Pennyworth, under the guise of an aspiring actor named Elias Clayton made his way to the tool shed he’d stocked just a day before.

He held a rope, bowlined to the outer door handle, and over the galvanized steel t-post of the clothesline, which he would pull as he cut with the torch. From a distance in the dark, looking down upon the property, he suspected that from above it would look like he was drawing a straight fiery line into the black earth.

Alfred held no concrete expectations of what he would see in the cellar. A laboratory, or an empty cellar, or a tunnel leading to some secret base of operations were all possible, although he reckoned that the laboratory, or evidence of a former laboratory, was the most likely possibility in his estimation.

His breathing was calm, regular, and measured. His mind was clear, and focused strictly on the task at hand.

Cut quickly as soon as it begins to glow, Alfred reminded himself. Slow leaves slag. That’s how he was taught.

He kept the rope taut, pulling just a bit too much to ensure that the pressure would keep the seal from melting back into place.

For a hack job, the line was reasonably straight, only making a soft creak when he finally heaved the still-glowing door open.

Alfred Pennyworth descended the wooden steps into the storm cellar.

-♞-

Only two newspapers in Gotham covered the expansion of the Board of Estimates, and only Bruce Wayne’s had insinuated, in any way, that this was a ploy for power. Mayor Basil “Clayface” Karlo kept public sentiment on the matter mostly neutral, holding impromptu town halls on manufacturing floors, and holding press availabilities and exclusive interviews with the more well-read papers.

It was a bit morbid, but it didn’t hurt that the distributions of Wayne’s rag fell off a cliff when Peter Pan killed Extra, and none of the members of the city council wanted to be seen as against a public safety initiative that, on the surface at least, cost the taxpayers nothing.

Following the executive authorization that added Commissioner of Gotham Police Dept. or his Designee as a voting member to the Board of Estimates, ‘Face was more confident than ever that Gelio was the right man for the job.

The Mayor had the votes for his budget now, and his charismatic, straight-shooting commissioner had his line items. The good fortune was heralded by a bombshell that Gelio had shared with him: Even considering Peter Pan’s killing spree, violent crime had come to a virtual halt in Gotham City.

-♞-

North American Racers are not uncommon in Kansas, and, while mostly harmless, could eat a young chicken or one of its eggs if it got into the coop.

Alfred had found an adult racer in the corner of the old chicken coop, just a few days before he’d met Clark, which looked like it had just consumed what looked like an egg. Snakes have a tendency to be more vulnerable, and therefore, more defensive, after a meal, and so Alfred had carefully placed a large burlap sack over the serpent – bites weren’t dangerous, but that didn’t make them hurt any less.

Even as a boy, Alfred had an affinity for snakes, and he remembered reporting to Martha that he’d taken this particular constrictor to the far edge of the property to release it. She wrinkled her face into a scowl, and, at first, he thought she was upset that he’d let it live.

“That rascal! You should’ve put him back under the porch. Now we’ll need to get a cat to deal with the mice. For future reference, I’ll gladly trade a couple eggs a month for a mouse catcher.” The scowl faded into a smile, which broke into a hearty laugh.

Alfred thought of that snake with the egg bulging out of it when he pulled the toggle on the overhead light and saw what was in the storm cellar, half-covered by a large piece of canvas. He slid the cloth off of…whatever this was…and noted stubby, forward-swept blades on either side. 

Wings? He wondered silently. This didn’t look anything like the rockets that were, if reports were to be believed, being tested in Germany. Almost looks like a bullet, and he recalled the film “Le Voyage dans la Lune” where men were shot from a cannon into space.

There was no sound and no warmth coming from the thing, not that Alfred could deduce anyway. He thought that it was emitting a very faint glow, but he couldn’t be sure if that was just the reflection of the metal in the low light.

Minutes stretched on into more than an hour, as the former soldier and undercover operative took detailed notes, and sketched, to the best of his ability, the ovoid in front of him.

He curled himself into a ball, lying on the floor next to it – if this was a transport, it was much too small for a grown man. Having hesitated for long enough, he decided to touch it, to try to detect anything like a seam or an opening.

The cool metal warmed immediately when he placed his palm upon it, and a soft-but-evident glow emitted in a hexagonal pattern which he hadn’t previously seen during his non-tactile observation. 

He placed a blank page from his notebook across the narrower side of the object, scribbling his pencil rapidly to create something like a stone rubbing of the pattern.

When he removed his hand, the glow and warmth both persisted, and part of him worried that it was sending out a signal to Superman. Or possibly to Martha? Alfred had the sudden and unnerving realization that he wasn’t certain that Mrs. Kent wasn’t also a superhuman. Certainly she never displayed any abilities that he’d detected, but neither had Clark in his human persona.

I need more time, but I need to get back for now. He tried to restore the canvas covering to the egg in a way that at least resembled the way he found it and he pulled the toggle, casting the room into a darkness that was broken by the thing under the canvas, and the rectangular hole at the top of the stairs.

As he approached the wooden steps, Alfred Pennyworth heard the unmistakable sound of a waving flag.

Chapter Text

Stay out of the light,
Or the photograph that I gave you,
You can say a prayer if you need to,
Or just get in line and I'll grieve you,
Can I meet you,
Alone?
Another night and I'll see you,
Another night and I'll be you,
Some other way to continue,
To hide my face

– My Chemical Romance, "I Never Told You What I Do For A Living"

GOOD KID, MAD CITY

The Man of Steel floated above the yard, arms crossed in front of him. He looked down at Alfred like he’d looked down at Bill Bunson those many weeks ago – as if he were an annoyance, or a minor mischief to which he had to attend.

“Mr. Clayton,” spoke the god, and Alfred-as-Elias feigned the surprise of someone feeling a mix of shock and honor of Superman remembering his name. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Alfred took the last step out of the storm cellar, and the darkness of the very early morning cast something like a desaturating effect on Superman as his feet touched the ground, soundlessly. Superman made no move to step toward him, he uncrossed his arms and sighed.

Alfred didn’t try to say anything. He wasn’t afraid, not exactly. His prepared story for this eventuality was…well, it was some version of the truth. As far as anyone could tell, Superman generally followed the law of the land, regardless of how abhorrent those laws might be. De-arresting Elias Clayton would’ve been a major headline if it had happened in a major city, but in Smallville, where Superman was, at least anecdotally, more common, it was brushed off as a “teachable moment,” that didn’t require further investigation.

Alfred had considered the rock-paper-scissors effect of Superman’s de-arresting of Elias with the sheriff – Martha’s overconfidence that Superman would intervene led to her escalating the situation, which in turn led to the sheriff’s reactionary escalation, which itself led to Superman’s necessary intervention, which, while probably saving Elias’s life, would further fuel Martha’s overconfidence.

“Please step out of the way of the cellar door, Mr. Clayton,” Superman instructed. “I’ll be right back. Don’t leave. I can find you.” Alfred did as instructed, and in a blur of dull red and blue, Superman headed into the storm cellar. Alfred couldn’t hear much, and a brief peek into the darkness didn’t provide any additional information. Superman reappeared, floating out of the open door with a thin strip of grey metal. He snapped the rope holding the door open, and closed it gently, then pressed the metal to the cut Alfred had made. 

“Stand back just a little more, Mr. Clayton,” and he did. Two soft red dots appeared on the metal, which maintained its dull grey color, but softened and melted, steam pouring off of the substance. That it didn’t glow suggested to Alfred that it was lead. That Superman was heating metal to its melting point just by looking at it was not a power of his that had been previously reported.

“Heat vision?” Alfred muttered the question, mostly to himself.

Then the alien took a shallow breath, and exhaled onto the soft metal seam, covering the whole door in a layer of frost which sparkled like tiny gemstones in the dark. The hulking Kryptonian turned and faced Alfred.

“That’s a good name for it. Easy to remember,” said Superman, who closed the gap between himself and Elias. “There are clearly some things you haven’t told me, Elias.”

Alfred put one finger in the air, as though he was about to explain a complex theory to a classroom. He opened his mouth, but Superman interrupted before he could speak.

“I’m very good at determining lies, you know. I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying to me.”

The assertion was so matter-of-fact that Alfred thought it must be an attempt to determine the level he was playing at.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, and I’d just like you to answer them honestly, alright?”

Alfred nodded.

“Would you be more comfortable if we sat down?” Superman added.

“Would you?” Alfred replied.

“Sure. Let’s have a seat at the table.”

The two men sat directly across from one another at the picnic table.

“There are obviously some things that you know that you’re not supposed to know. Things that I’ve gone to great lengths to protect. Tell me what those are.”

“Superman, I don’t want to challenge you, but that’s very vague, as questions go.”

Superman just looked at him.

“I know that you’re Clark Kent. I know that you’ve been here, on Earth, for quite a while longer than you’ve told anyone,” Alfred turned his head left, breaking eye contact with Clark for just a moment. “Either that, or…well, it’s terrible to think about, but either that, or the real Clark Kent died, and you assumed his identity, holding his mother hostage to your secret. But…but I don’t think that’s the case. Although tonight, it occurred to me that there’s a possibility that Martha is also an alien, but if that’s true, she’s done a far better job than you of keeping her secret, and a much worse job of helping people.”

“Go on,” said Superman.

“I’m sorry Clark, but I’m going to need more than that. In my opening move, I’ve just told you quite a lot. I need you to at least be more specific.”

“How long have you known?”

“That’s not really an important question. I could’ve known long before I came here, or I could’ve learned it when you arrived in this rather conspicuous fashion tonight. I will say that you need better security on your identity. A sealed storm cellar, in Kansas? I’m not the first farmhand that your mother has allowed to stay in the house. Anyone with half a bit of sense would know y’all were hiding something in there, and I suppose that any man my age would look for work on another farm unless they knew who you were.”

“I keep planning to move it, but then things come up and…I suppose you’re right.”

“Take it with you tonight.”

“The closer I am to it, the more bright it gets. I can’t afford to attract that much attention to the farm, not on a clear night like this.”

“So it didn’t warm up when I touched it as a signal to you?”

“No. It signaled my arrival.”

“Hmm.”

“How were you planning to reseal the cellar if you hadn’t been caught?”

Alfred cocked his head. Was Superman this…stupid? Or was he just simple in the way an immortal god could afford to be?

“I have some dark epoxy that more or less looks like the door. I could use that as a temporary seal, and had planned to leave before anyone was all the wiser.”

“My mother really liked you, you know. She trusted you. I trusted you, too.”

“I don’t know that it makes any difference at all, but, as stubborn as she can be, Martha’s a good woman. And I don’t know if I think you’re doing everything you could be doing, but…I more warmed up to the idea that you were trying after our lunch.”

Superman half-heartedly smiled.

“Your heart is beating faster, Elias. I can hear it, but I can see it too. You’re lying to me, or you’re afraid.”

“You said ‘liked,’ and ’trusted.’” Alfred sighed. “Until that, I didn’t think you were going to…”

The god had a confused look on his face. “I–no. No. I don’t know what we’re going to do, but I’m not planning on hurting you. Not unless I have to.”

Alfred looked back at Clark. The younger man must’ve seen the moisture in his eyes.

“Who are you? Why did you come here? Who are you working for?”

“Not working for anyone. And I’ll admit I’m a bit offended that you don’t know who I am.”

Alfred pulled the pen from his pocket, holding it on his upper lip like a mustache. Clark tilted his head like a puppy watching a magic trick. Then, realization spread across his face.

“Alan Pennyworth!”

“Alfred,” he corrected.

Superman chuckled. 

“Alfred. Without the mustache, I – I couldn’t even tell.”

“You wear glasses to hide your identity. I was relying a little bit on the inability of…certain people to distinguish black men from one another.”

“So, Bruce Wayne knows about this?”

“Clark, we live in a city with a superhuman, too. And before that, there were vigilantes. For the most part, they never arrest people, they just stop crimes in progress, and help people understand that there is a better way. 

“Gotham has a reputation as one of the most dangerous cities, but the truth is that we are on the verge of being the greatest turnaround story in American history, because when people are at their absolute worst moments, our supermen have acted with compassion. It’s how Lucius Fox came to run the largest worker cooperative in America. Prison doesn’t give people a second chance. It doesn’t heal what’s wrong with people.”

“But the Batman is a terrorist. And he’s wanted for murder. Multiple murders. Of children.”

“This is an election year, and our tough-on-crime mayor is funded by a criminal kingpin,” Alfred spat. “They’re trying to manufacture a scapegoat.”

“Then he should go to court. The evidence would exculpate him.”

Alfred laughed, a little too loudly for the hour.

“Bruce was at the mayor’s fundraiser when the Batman blew up Falcone’s house, wasn’t he? You’re telling me he’s okay with that?”

“I don’t know everything about the Bat. I don’t know what he can and can’t do. But I think that if he displayed the raw power that you’ve displayed, that Bruce and I might be more compelled to feel threatened by him, too.”

“I would never hurt anyone. I’m not human in the way that you, or Bruce, or my mother is, but I was raised to know that there is value in human life. I haven’t ever been hurt physically, but I know what pain is. Why are you afraid of me if you’re not a criminal?”

“I have hurt people, Clark. I’ve killed people because I was told by the government that those people represented a threat to all of Europe – all of the world. And none of those people ever called me a nigger, Clark. I’m not saying colored folks got it much better in Europe, but I killed because a government that doesn’t give two licks about me told me I had to. I’m afraid of you because I don’t know who gives you your orders. I don’t understand how you make your decisions. If a bus full of children was gonna crash into an old lady’s car, I don’t know who you’d save if you could only save one. And I don’t know whether there’s a series of decisions you could make that would turn you into an autocrat, or if there’s a way to manipulate you into making those decisions while thinking that you’re actually doing something good.

“I’m afraid of you for the same reason you hide your identity, Clark.”

“But that’s to protect others. To protect my mother, and people here in Smallville. People in Metropolis. L–logically, bad guys would be more inclined to go after those people if they found out who I am.”

“Exactly. A series of choices in my life led to people being killed, Clark. I made a crystal clear decision to complete the mission, just to get home. But it almost broke me, Clark. And if you’re half as human as I think you might be, it’ll eventually break you, too.”

“Mr. Clayto–Alfred, I don’t hurt people. I won’t break.”

“How many people have died since you came here and started talking to me, Clark?”

“I–“

“That’s not a judgment. You can’t be everywhere at once,” Alfred tried to comfort him, even if only a little. “I don’t know what brought you home tonight, but I know there’s people suffering that you aren’t tending to. What if one day you decided that the best way to prevent death was to lock every man woman and child in their homes and just make food drops every few days? 

“People are being riskier because you’re around, I reckon. That would minimize those risks and probably save you a load of time and effort, too.”

“That’s not fair,” Superman protested. “I’ve never done anything that suggests that I would make people into prisoners like that, or at all. And you haven’t answered my question: Why did you come here?”

“I needed to know for certain that you were who I thought you were. And then I needed to know who you really were. Are you just a Farm Boy from Kansas, or an Alien Dictator? Are you Good, or are you just doing what you think Good would do?”

The span of several heartbeats passed, and the Man of Steel blinked. He looked like he hadn’t considered any of this. Like he hadn’t read any of the editorials or academic papers. Like he didn’t understand the difference between doing Good and being a do-gooder.

“I wanted to know if this place held an answer to, what I estimate, is the most important question ever since you made yourself known.”

“And what is that question?”

“If you go rogue, or decide to be the supreme potentate of this world, or if some government figures out how to turn you into a weapon to be used against The People, how do we stop you?”

“You came here to find a way to kill me?”

Alfred nodded gravely, and neither man said anything for long moments. Owls, crickets, and katydids sang in the silence.

“Would you kill me if you could?”

“I’ve never taken any pleasure in killing, Clark. I’d kill you if I had to, but it’s a moot point, isn’t it?”

“Would you regret it?”

“There’s a difference between feeling regret and feeling sorrow, Clark. You can’t do something you regret a second time. But sorrow doesn’t stop you from making the same choice again and again until it breaks you.”

“So, ‘no.’”

“No.”

“I’ve been trying to decide what to do from here, Mr. Pennyworth. Alfred?”

“Just Alfred is fine, Clark.”

“My mother is a trusting woman, and I don’t think you’d hurt her, but – you’ve betrayed my trust and I don’t think I’m comfortable with you remaining in Smallville for much longer.”

“But you don’t want your mother to be alone, either. You don’t want her to feel like she can’t trust people.”

Clark nodded agreement. “And now, I’m left in the precarious position of having to trust a man who, at least was looking for ways to kill me with my most important secrets.”

“It’s quite a pickle, isn’t it.”

“What was your exit plan?”

Owls, crickets, and katydids continued their songs.

“Clark, you’ve known my exit plan since the day we met.”

-♞-

Carmine “The Roman” Falcone had asked the commissioner to station armed men at the coroner’s office. 

The commissioner didn’t explain to Dr. Victor Fries why he needed two distinct shifts of armed gunmen, comically wearing heavy expedition parkas with fur-lined hoods over their uniforms. 

The men didn’t talk to Victor, or each other. They just stood watch.

“If you’re going to darken my doorway, could one of you get me the journal from my desk and a pen?”

The men looked at each other, and Fries sighed, his frustration visible in the chilling air of the morgue.

“I’m having another look at little Mario, and I need my journal.”

The men fell over one another to get the journal for the coroner.

“Thank you,” he said. The guard-cum-messenger didn’t even acknowledge Dr. Fries, he just fell back into his position at the door.

Fries tore out a page in the notebook, and began to scribble.

He looked over his shoulder at the foolishly-garbed men. They watched the door, not the doctor. 

Victor folded the note, and hastily monogrammed the outside of it with a scrawled bat. He tucked it into the armpit of Mario Falcone’s corpse.

-♞-

It was night in Gotham City, and Batman was gifted with clear skies and a gentle, but persistent breeze.

Sufficient paranoia meant living in constant acknowledgement that an alien-masquerading-as-a-newspaper-reporter might be watching you. At every thrust of night air, Batman looked to the skies.

Batman’s theory on the actual way that Superman’s so-called “super hearing” worked made adrenaline a risky proposition. That wasn’t a problem for Batman – who went to great lengths to train himself for calmness in high pressure situations, but it put a clock on his interactions with civilians.

Ever since the body of Mario Falcone had been recovered from Gotham Harbor, armed men (possibly police officers) had been conspicuously placed just inside the entrance to Gotham City Morgue. A near-miss when Fries was working late one night was the exact kind of mistake that might cause his whole investigation to go sideways. 

Gordon had virtually disappeared from the rooftop at Gotham Police Department, which Batman calculated to mean that he wasn’t a great liar. Fries had left the coroner’s office hours ago.

Two overworked cops with guns was a simple enough puzzle to solve, but if they worked directly or indirectly for Falcone – well, they might be stupid, but they would not be asleep on the job.

I need to take a look at the body, he thought, and loaded fresh cartridges into their receivers. Moments later, a shadow leapt from an inhuman height, landing with a roll onto a lower rooftop.

He descended the fire escape to ground level, remaining veiled in shadows as he moved closer to the courthouse. The shadow peered into a caged window, where harsh lighting revealed his good fortune; the night that Mario’s body was recovered, the guardsmen must’ve got cold, and that led to them wearing thick parkas that looked more suited to arctic exploration than “standing in a cold room.”

Batman entered the courthouse through his favorite ingress, an unlocked window on the second floor. Judge Drake Maillard’s office, and made his way in silence to the stairway which led to the morgue.

The first tinkling of breaking glass wasn’t enough to draw out the men, but the sudden darkness followed by a bright flash and billowing smoke was.

“He’s here,” one whispered to the other.

“You’re just paranoid,” said the other.

“What was that then?” Asked the first, putting his hand on his sidearm.

“Shh! Cover your mouth. Don’t breathe that gas in, could be dangerous!”

Both men covered their mouths with their coats, trying not to breathe deeply as the grey smoke filled the entryway to the coroner’s offices.

Each took the first step up on the hard marble staircase, one hand shielding their face, and the other wildly pointing his firearm in no particular direction other than “in front of them.”

A thud.

“You okay, Roger?”

“Yeah, just tripped. Where the hell is the breaker?”

“Hell if I know, Rodge, let’s just get the front door open and I can radio from the car and grab the flashlights.”

“Good idea.”

A thump.

Batman dragged the bodies of the two men to the first landing in the stairwell, with little regard for the harm he might be inflicting by being more efficient.

He handcuffed the men to the bannister,  disassembled their 1911s and pressing his rebreather to his face in a single motion. And like a ghost, he slipped into the chilly air of the morgue and Fries’ office.

Scanning the coroner’s desk, he found the file he needed, taking the extraneous copies of the report without reading it, and folding the paper and a few photographs into a pouch on his belt. To the icebox he crept, and slid open the cabinet where Mario Falcone’s corpse was kept. 

You have a minute, tops until they start to come to and scream or start panicking. 

The body was barely recognizable, and he’d need to look at the report to get a feel for the state of decomposition when it was removed from the harbor.

He surveyed the corpse, noticing serious bruising on the knuckles of one hand, and a nasty cut on the knuckles of the other.

The sound of crinkling paper drew his attention as he lifted the arm to inspect the bruises further, and he retrieved a folded page from within the boy’s armpit. His concentration was broken by the sound of coughing from the stairs. He shoved the note into another pocket of his belt.

Time to go.

Up the stairs in great bounds, Batman passed the two stirring officers, one of whom screamed “It’s him!” followed by great, heaving coughs as he passed.

The front door of the courthouse opened with a bang and closed with a slam as the two officers finally managed to crack the wood of the bannister. They gave pursuit, tethered to one another at the wrists, and kicked open the door with a war cry.

There was no one on the street in either direction.

Batman slipped through the window in Judge Maillard’s office.

-♞-

The apartment building where Arnold Overlea once lived with his family was owned by the people who lived there and their families: workers of the cooperative of Wayne Enterprises. This wasn’t a company town, though – if you left the co-op, or moved, any equity built in the time spent as a resident was split with the cooperative. The model was, more or less, a community land trust – housing within the building is priced significantly below the “market” value, and in exchange for more affordable housing, residents agreed to split the equity with the Trust, and give the Trust the right of first refusal to purchase the unit back at a model-moderated price.

The solution allowed people to build up equity for a down payment into a bigger home, and to remain in a comfortable, well-maintained home that wouldn’t destroy their ability to save money while they did it.

If we left Gotham, thought Billy Overlea, looking at the most recent unit note, we’d barely have anything to show for it. Work ain’t good for black folks anywhere else. Billy shook his head. He and Etta both felt trapped, and their marriage was being tested. Etta rarely left the house most days, and Billy found himself called by the vices he’d spent so much time beating: gambling and women.

You just need it for a little while he said, staring at the business card. See if they have something to help you cool off and keep busy, just until Etta starts being herself again.

He cut the sandwich in half, and put the plate on the breakfast table, where maybe Etta would find it, if she decided to eat today. He approached Arnold’s room, it was closed, of course, and knocked on the door.

“Etta, baby,” he paused, and waited for an answer that didn’t come, then, “I left a sandwich on the table in case you get hungry. I’m going up on the roof to think for a spell.”

Billy wasn’t much of a drinker before Arnold was killed, and he wasn’t much of a drinker now. But he woke up with a lot more hangovers this year than any year he could remember. 

On clear nights like tonight, he tucked the bottle of Amaro into his back pocket, climbed out to the fire escape, and up to the roof. Bily pulled himself to the catwalk of the last story, and hopped down onto the roof, making his way to the jury-rigged seat where he liked to “think:” a wooden crate marked “Borden’s evaporated milk, 48 tall cans” that he’d leaned against a chimney.

The crate was surrounded by an audience of empty and broken bottles and scattered litter.

One day you’ll have to clean these up, he acknowledged the mess even while he pulled cap off of the fresh bottle and took a deep swig.

It wasn’t his favorite brand – a little higher proof and more syrupy than Billy liked, but it scratched the itch for the bitter digestifs that were his preference.

It was a cool, clear night in Gotham City, and Billy Overlea, a man who was built like a granite statue, was at home among the gargoyles. He sat down, took another pull of the bottle, and dug into his pocket for the business card.

“It’s an invitation, Bill. You need one to get in,” Fred had explained. “Only a member can give you an invite.”

“And they let you join?”

“There’s plenty of coloreds in the club, Billy. Our money spends just as good as theirs. And it’s nice. The guy who runs it knows a thing or two about luxury.”

Gotham was never a formally segregated city, but private clubs usually only allowed patronages of one race or another.

“We’ll see Fred. You know I don’t really play the ponies these days. And how good could it be on the West Side?”

“They got more than ponies, Bill. Anyway I’m not pushing, I just thought you could use a distraction. And the guy who runs it, I don’t know maybe he’s taking a loss, but it’s a classy joint. If you come by, maybe throw on a jacket.”

The Iceberg Lounge. 

Billy turned the card over in his hand, and took another drink. 

You’re stronger than that, Billy, he thought, and he dropped the card, letting it flutter to his feet. Billy closed his eyes, and tears rolled down his face. Maybe you ain’t so strong.

He opened his eyes and leaned down to retrieve the card, when his eye was caught by something he hadn’t noticed before: a white envelope, adorned only with a black bat.

Billy scooped the envelope up and stood from the milk crate, looking around the roof. 

How long was this here? He turned it over, the envelope wasn’t sealed, and without the trepidation of sobriety, opened it, finding a typed note.

Here?

Billy looked around the roof again. The access door, a vent, the storage closet, behind another chimney. If the note was really from The Batman, he could be anywhere.

There were the rumors, of course – That the Batman was Peter Pan, or he was a vampire, or a superman. That he was a demon, or that he was The Devil. 

A shadow. A ghost. A living nightmare.

Billy wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of men in costumes, at least. And one demon couldn’t be worse than the demons he was wrestling with. He reviewed the note again. In a past life, Billy had been called Billy Brickhouse, and he worked security for some bootleggers. That was before the ghosts got to him, and he turned his life around.

I’d like to answer your questions. Nothing happened.

“I’d like to talk,” he spoke to the night air.

“Have a seat Mr. Overlea,” the night air whispered back.

Billy dropped his jaw in shock, as the shadow emerged from beside a gargoyle not six feet away from him.

“How long you been hiding there?” Billy became angry at himself for finishing so much of the bottle. He could feel his thoughts come into contrast and then get muddled again. He slapped his own face, hard, trying to coax the alcohol away.

“You’ve been here a lot this week,” answered the wind. “I saw you climb the fire escape, and –“

“I’m getting sloppy,” he said, standing up and rolling his head on his shoulders. “I used to be careful about setting into patterns.”

“Hm,” Batman acknowledged the remark. “I don’t know what you and Mrs. Overlea believe, but I’m trying to find whoever killed your son and these other boys.”

“Etta’s lost right now. Completely lost. Me, I don’t know what to believe, but…no, I just don’t know what’s up and down anymore. It’s like an occupation down there, though. Guns everywhere, curfew.”

“How well do you know Arnold’s friends?”

“A few of them live in the building, but I don’t know all of ‘em. Might know ‘em if they were in front of me though.”

“What were his favorite things to do?”

“He spent a lot of time in the park. He and his little gang would chase the ducks sometimes. Just kid stuff, you understand.”

“Mm. Did he say anything strange in the days leading up to…”

Billy took a look at the bottle, but thought better of it. “Not that I recall, well…no, he did start saying he was going to see the newsboys when he went to the park, but I think that’s just what he called the uh…well the orphans who I guess they would quarrel with.”

“Quarrel? Anything serious?”

“No, no, no. Nothing like that. Just the nature of young boys. ‘Frogs and snails,’ y’know?”

“Have there been any adults that he sees regularly? Or older boys?”

Billy stopped pacing and thought for a moment.

“No, only Pastor Perry, but he wouldn’t know anything that we don’t.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I sang in the choir, too. I was always with Arnold for rehearsal and services.”

The Batman nodded.

“Do you have anything? What do I call you? ‘Batman?’ ‘The Batman?’”

“‘Detective’ is fine,” he answered. “I wish I could say I did, Mr. Overlea. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Well, detective, it feels like the cops ask us questions every other day,” Billy said after a moment of quiet. “They ask if we’ve ever seen you. Reporters come around, too…sometimes. What do you want me to tell them if they ask again?”

The lights of Gotham City’s skyline reflected off of Batman’s eyes like a wild animal’s.

“If you want to speak with them, I won’t ask you not to.”

“What if one of his little friends come around, or I figure something out?”

“Leave a note under the box. I’ll check it on occasion. One more thing, Mr. Overl–”

“Billy,” he said. “Name’s Billy.”

“Billy,” The detective repeated. “Was Arnold a good kid?”

A good kid?

“He was ten! Of course he was.”

“I didn’t mean to offend, Billy.”

“Well you did – no, no, I’m just feeling a lot of different ways about all of this.” Billy could feel his body temperature rising. Of course Arnold was good. As good as you could be in Gotham, anyway. Billy tried to calm down, and turned away from the detective. “He didn’t get into any trouble at school, but some of those kids he ran with were troublemakers.”

Billy turned to look back at Batman, who moved his head in a way that Billy thought was a nod. He looked back down at his feet.

“Find the asshole who did this,” a plea from a man on the verge of breaking.

“It doesn’t get any less painful, but it does get easier,” said the night wind. “You’ve done a lot to make a better life for yourself, Brickhouse. Hang in there.”

Billy snapped to attention. “Wai–“

Billy Overlea was alone on the roof.

Chapter Text

Labor Day (September 5), 1927

“Louisa, give me a name or I can’t help you!” 

Occasionally, Mario Falcone heard his father and mother argue, but what made this scary, was how rare it was to hear his father – who people called “Little Caesar” – raise his voice.

“What would you have me do? Be excommunicated for murder?” Mario didn’t know what “excommunicated” meant, but his mother’s tone and his father’s shouting indicated that whatever it was was not good.

His grandfather’s shadow looked like a headstone when it darkened the doorway of the room where nonno had made up a bed for him. 

Nonno stepped forward through the threshold, opening a pastry box and smiling at Mario, who returned the expression.

“Nipote,” his nonno said in a heavily-accented voice that Mario always thought sounded like the man had recently eaten something with lots of cheese or milk in it.  Nonno thrust the box into Mario’s face, revealing an assortment of pastries that looked like clamshells made from flakey bread. “Have a sfogliatella, sweetheart.”

Mario took a clamshell, and took a bite.

“Why don’t I tell you a story, bambino? A fairy tale?”

Mario shook his head enthusiastically.

“Lay down, nipote. Let’s see now. Once there was a very poor man. A widower.”

“A widower?”

“A man who his wife has died.”

“Oh.”

“The man was a carpenter. Like Gesù Cristo. But he and his wife never had a son, and he wanted one very badly, but as an older man, it didn’t seem very likely. One day, he was given a very special block of wood, and he thought he would make una marionetta for himself. Instead of a son of flesh and blood, he would have a boy made of pine. But just like a true son, Pinocchio was made with his father’s love…”

When Mario began to yawn, his nonno, Vincent “The Roman” Falcone kissed him on the forehead, and tucked him into bed. He stirred as the old man bundled the sheets around him and fluffed the pillow under his head.

“What happens to Pinocchio, nonno?”

“I’ll tell you another night. Buon compleanno, cara.”

Mario smacked his lips together, and fell asleep with echoes of the taste of sweet cream and flaky pastry. 

Later that night, Mario’s nonno was gone, and his room was dark. He needed to use the restroom, so he slid out of his bed, and felt his way to the door, which was cracked a tiny bit, framing it in dim blue light.

The boy crept through the hallway, trying to avoid the creaking floorboard outside of his parents’ room. When he reached the bathroom door, dull yellow light shone out from underneath, and he would swear he could hear sniveling. He turned the handle to find his mother weeping into her hands, sitting on the floor. She looked up, and made a half-hearted attempt to dry her eyes with the palm of her hand.

“Why are you crying, mama?”

“It’s your nonno, sweetie. Papa, he works so hard, but,” a pause, “your nonno, he creates problems for papa.”

Mario didn’t understand, but he didn’t like seeing his mother cry.

“Mama, I need to use the toilet.”

“Of course, Mario,” his mother stood. She wiped her mouth with a hand towel, and kissed Mario as she slunk out of the bathroom.

Mario lifted the toilet seat, and the bowl was filled with a cloud of vomit. He relieved himself, flushed the toilet, and tiptoed off to bed without washing his hands.

-♞-

Memorial Day (May 30), 1928

“Where’s mama?” Mario looked up at his father. His mother had been gone for three days. Little Caesar hugged his son, squeezing him close and tight.

“I don’t know, passerotto. But we’ll find her. Okay? We’ll bring her home. Soon.”

Mario missed his mother, and he started to cry.

“There, there amore. There, there.”

-♞-

Summer Solstice (June 21), 1928

In his father’s study, Mario could hear his nonno speaking very calmly to his father and his uncle Silvio.

Then there was yelling. Something crashed into something else. A chair, maybe? Finally, stomping toward the door. Mario darted away from the door, sweeping into his bedroom, and peeking out the crack in his doorway.

The door to the study was a heavy, crimson wood. It flew open, and uncle Silvio tromped out of the room, and slammed the door behind him, shaking the whole house.

Uncle Silvio’s fine shoes collided with the floor in great, thundering “thuds”and Mario heard him muttering Italian swearwords as he angrily made a path to the front door of the house. Another jarring slam! reverberated through the house as his uncle made his dramatic exit.

Long, quiet moments later, papa and nonno emerged from the study. Nonno made eye contact with him through the crack in the door when he walked past, and smiled and winked at Mario, who, having been made, ran to the bed to hide under the covers.

-♞-

Independence Day (July 4), 1928

“Where are we going, mama?” Mario loved going for rides in the car, but his mother had made him collect himself so quickly that morning, without saying a word other than “Hurry up, cucciolo, we have to leave.”

His mother said nothing, driving with inscrutable purpose to an unknowable destination.

“Mama?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry piccolo.We’re going to stay with your uncle for a few days while your papa is…away on business.” 

“Why aren’t we staying with nonno?”

“H-he’ll be going with your father. But don’t worry, they won’t be gone long.”

Mario and mama drove in near silence, on unfamiliar roads, for what seemed to Mario like a very long time. This was not the way they usually took to get to uncle Silvio’s house.

Uncle Silvio’s house was much smaller than Mario’s, but it was still a very nice house.

Mario pulled his knapsack from the back seat of the car and followed his mama, who carried her slim, green suitcase with a dip in her right shoulder that suggested it was very heavy.

Uncle Silvio answered the door, his face as severe as ever, and instructed one of the workers inside to take their bags.

The unmistakable sound of a baby rang through the hallway, and Uncle Silvio rolled his eyes and took a sharp breath in, making almost no effort to disguise his irritation.

“Mario, do you remember Ms. Giorgia? She had a little baby. Why don’t you go say ‘hello?’”

Mama shot Silvio an intense look, then looked down at Mario, smiling and nodding permission, patting him on his back as he followed the Ms. Giorgia, one of his uncle’s housekeepers, to the source of the crying.

Not even a minute later, Mario was sprinting back to his mama, who was in the middle of a very gesticulatory discussion with his uncle. He clung to her leg, squeezing his eyes tight.

“Mario, what’s wrong?”

“Ms. Giorgia’s baby he’s too small! He has something wrong with his nose!”

“Shh,” mama said, tussling his hair, and petting him comfortingly. “You don’t want his mama to hear you say cruel things, do you?”

Uncle Silvio walked into the room where the baby was being fed, and mama directed Mario to the room where he would be sleeping.

-♞-

Feast of the Assumption (August 15), 1928

Mario Falcone’s birthday was fast approaching, and he was somewhat more settled in to his uncle’s house. At his own house, he would’ve sat down with his mother and made a list of the toys he wanted for his birthday, but he didn’t see his mama as much. She always had to go “visit papa and nonno,” but he was never allowed to go with her.

He couldn’t play with his uncle, because his mother explicitly told him not to be a pest to his uncle as he ran the family businesses (even though Mario suspected that his uncle, Silvio, was playing plenty with the workers in the house; he’d seen them playing tag in the kitchen and once heard them jumping on the bed in his uncle’s bedroom).

“Different rules, and I can’t explain them to you, nipote. Go look after the baby for a little while, I need to talk to Ms. Ethel,” his uncle didn’t abide backtalk, but never checked to see whether Mario had actually checked on the baby.

Luigi, the fiend. Mario couldn’t even stand to look at the child. His nose was too flat, his eyes were too big. He was too young to play with, too young to talk or even babble. He would occasionally smile his disgusting, toothless smile at Mario, but mostly he just blew raspberries and smelled like he needed his diaper changed.

“I hate you,” he whispered to the awful child. And he blew raspberries and spittle back at the horrid baby.

-♞-

Labor Day (September 3), 1928

Mario Falcone’s papa and nonno came home from their “business” almost two months after he and mama had moved in with his uncle. They were just in time for his fifth birthday.

From his father, he received a tearful embrace, a spin, and the promise of a wonderful gift waiting for him when they returned to their home.

From his nonno, a handshake, and (as if produced by magic), a white pastry box with an open lid and five sfogliatelle covered in confectioner’s sugar.

“I ate one on the ride out here, nipote. Forgive me?”

Mario nodded enthusiastically as he tore an enormous bite out of the pastry.

“Pack your things, passerotto, we’re going home tonight,” his father was brighter and more jovial than typical. Little Caesar’s smile sparkled like a freshly painted picket fence, and Mario was so entranced by the presence of his two favorite men that papa had to tap him on the head to get him to go and fill his knapsack. 

When he came back to the entryway, his mother was in the makeshift nursery, cooing at Luigi, delaying the time it would take to get home and see his surprise.

“Louisa!” his father called out. “Let’s get on the road before it gets too dark!”

Mama emerged from Luigi’s room, followed by Ms. Giorgia, and her eyes sparkled like starlight in the dark house.

-♞-

All Saints’ Day (November 1), 1928

For two whole days, mama had been crying.

It started with her shouting at someone on the telephone, and then she wept, and wept. 

The only thought she could manage to clearly communicate became her mantra:

“You had no right! No right!”

“You had no right! No right!”

“You had no right! No right!”

Most of the time, Mario was sent outside to play with his toys. His favorite was the Ferrari Giordani pedal car that he’d received from his father for his fifth birthday.

It was red like a fire truck, and it was the fastest car in all of Italy, or so his father had said.

“An Italian boy should have an Italian car, whaddaya say?”

His mother was crying, this time in a heap on the floor in the foyer. Mario stopped to try to comfort her, but he was so prepared for mama’s dismissal that he already had his racing goggles and red scarf in his hand.He kissed his mother on the back of her head, and went out into the brisk autumn air to speed across their property. 

His pockets were full of taffy and licorice he’d received yesterday for Halloween. 

-♞-

Día de los Muertos (November 2), 1928

The first Mario Falcone saw of his parents that day was Papa leaving the house like a lightning bolt from Jupiter himself, with fire in his eyes and a scowl on his face.

Louisa Falcone was dressed in all black, like she would be attending a funeral. But she had stopped crying.

Her face was set into an emotionless mask, her beautiful high cheek bones and delicate jaw much more pronounced and sharp following two days without eating, but hidden behind the latticework of a fine dark veil.

“Where is papa going?” Mario asked, confused by the severity of the silence.

Mama put her hand on Mario’s shoulder and gazed down at him for an unhappy instant. Then, without saying a word, she walked into the bathroom.

Mario went into the kitchen to find something to eat, but the housekeepers and servants who were usually crowding the room were nowhere to be found. So Mario decided to go outside, and play in his Ferrari. He rode across the driveway and the grass and through the rough pedaling backyard, and around to the fountain in the drive and in and out of the garage for what felt like an hour (but was actually only about fifteen minutes).

On one of his breakneck laps around the fountain, the large front door of his house opened, and his mother emerged, dressed for mourning. Mario backpedaled to brake the zipping red bolt, and hopped out of his cockpit, hopeful for the loving engagement of his mother.

“Mama?” 

His mother smiled at him, and even through the veil he could see tears welling in her eyes.

“I love you piccolo,” she stroked his head, pulling his racing cap off. “Take care of the family. Nonno, and papa. And Silvio. Pray for Silvio.”

“I will Mama,” Mario squeezed his mother’s leg, deeply inhaling her perfume, which was musky and floral, with hints of citrus. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Mario,” his mother slumped into a crouch, kissing him on his forehead. “Pray for baby Luigi. Remember him.”

“I don’t want to pray for Luigi, mama.”

“You mustn’t say that, cucciolo,” Mama sniffled, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Though she still smiled. “He’s gone now. Gone forever.”

Mama began to cry fully, but she stood up, kissed Mario again on his head, and walked back through the open door. Mario stood, watching her in astonishing confusion as she ascended the stairs, and walked into the bathroom. He scratched his head, and refitted his driving cap and goggles, and got into his Ferrari.

Carlo, the son of one of the Sicilian servants appeared on the side of the house, and sidled up to the car, which Mario pedaled to a spinning stop.

“Can I try?” The olive-complected boy asked with a hope that looked inspired by Divinity itself.

“Sure!” Mario beamed, for he was a benevolent god.

The pair chased each other around the property until the sun had sunk just below the pine trees on the horizon, conveniently timed with his father pulling into the driveway.

Papa didn’t look angry anymore, but he was breathing in great heaving huffs, beads of sweat collected on his brow.

“Mario! Come on inside,” he commanded, and Mario waved to Carlo, letting him know he could continue to play with the car as long as he didn’t scratch the paint.

He ran past the fountain and joined his papa at the door, which opened to reveal a brand new water feature, a waterfall pouring from the second floor and down through the balusters of the upstairs hallway.

“Where is mama?” Papa demanded, shaking Mario by the shoulders. Before he could answer, his father was bounding across the foyer and up the staircase, sending a storm of water splashing into the air with every step.

-♞-

Black Friday (November 23), 1928

Uncle Silvio had been missing for almost three weeks.

Two weeks ago, they buried mama.

Today, Little Caesar would bury and become The Roman.

Mario knew he had failed his mama; he hadn’t taken care of his family.

“Tragedy always happens in threes, passerotto.”

Mama, Nonno, and – did this mean uncle Silvio was dead? No service for his uncle. No tears for his uncle. But that must’ve been who he meant.

Papa was squatting in front of him, tying his shiny black shoes onto his feet, and making sure his tiny black tie was straight.

He helped with his cufflinks, and put him into his black suit coat.

“Shoot the cuffs, passerotto, like this.” His father jabbed both arms forward in the air, and the white sleeves of his shirt appeared in a brilliant instant from the dark blackness of his coat sleeves. 

Mario followed suit.

At the church service, many people had many things to say about nonno. There were jokes that Mario didn’t understand, a handful of people who spoke only Italian, and a pair of old ladies who both claimed they’d loved him since even before his nonna had died, and then both shouted at each other when they realized the ramifications of it all.

“I doubt he even knew them,” papa whispered to Mario with a chuckle through a cupped hand. “Pa only had one close friend after ma.”

Mario was just happy to be sharing in a conspiracy with papa, even if he didn’t quite understand.

“And there he is.”

A man wearing a black, window pane suit, who looked even older than nonno, took to the stage.

“My name is Antonio, and I loved Vincenzo,” the man’s eyes immediately moistened, and he smiled. “He was my best friend and a fine card player. You get to be a certain age and you…you don’t talk about things like death. But you watch your friends leave, one by one, or sometimes, in little pieces. And that’s harder. I’m relieved that he left with his mind in tact, because it hurts when they go in fragments, don’t it?”

People in the packed church nodded assent.

“Like phases of the moon, huh?” Antonio muttered, then perked up again: “Well he owed me a box of smokes, but I owed him my life, so how about we call it even, Vinny!”

There was somber laughter, like everyone was afraid they’d be the last to break the silence, and then papa took Mario’s hand, and walked to the pulpit to speak, warmly embracing Antonio as they passed in the aisle.

Papa spoke of his loss, of his papa and the way they came over from the Old Country, and of learning how to be a better father by watching nonno with Mario.

Mario wouldn’t remember most of the day, but he remembered the sfogliatelle at the reception weren’t as sweet as they should’ve been.

-♞-

Labor Day (September 3), 1934

Mario would be eleven in two days. He and Carlo stalked around Adams Park, looking for something to boost, but people were staying home, on account of the curfew.

Even the kids from the weekend, the crew that called themselves the Newsboy Legion had become scarce.

“Where do you figure they got off to?” Carlo wondered aloud.

“Orphanage?” Mario answered with a question of his own.

“Nah, too old, except the little ones.”

“I don’t know. Maybe they,” Mario kicked a rock, and it ricocheted off a park bench. “I don’t know.”

The two boys walked quietly along a footpath. Even the vendors were few and far between.

“You want a sausage?” Carlo didn’t seem like he was actually hungry, but they wanted the fix of stealing something.

“No, that polish stuff ain’t worth the boost.”

“Too damn right,” Carlo agreed.

They strolled toward the slavic man’s cart anyway, not really having a plan, but neither of them particularly wanting to go home before curfew.

“This cagare is going to ruin my birthday,” Mario kicked at the pavement, letting out a dramatic sigh.

Thook!

“Move it!”

Something had run through the gap between Carlo and Mario, and misjudged the distance.

It was a tiny kid in an oversized wool hat. He stumbled for a few steps, then regained his footing, darting down the path and further into the park with a sausage wrapped in newspaper. The slavic man was shouting something in a language that Mario couldn’t quite put his finger on and waving his grill fork in the air.

“Augh! Sauerkraut on my good slacks. Mama is gonna have my ass!” Carlo fumed.

“After him!” Mario and Carlo took off, almost a furlong behind the tiny kid. “We’re coming for you, puttana!”

The tiny kid in the oversized wool hat high tailed it into the thicket that grew alongside the boat lake, darting in and out from behind trees, when finally, they lost him.

“Come on out, chickenshit. We’re not gonna hurt you,” Carlo was almost singing the words, a sure sign that he did intend to hurt the offender.

Mario and Carlo spent another five minutes trying to goad the boy out of hiding.

“You know who my father is?” Mario called out to the woods. “I’m the next Roman! Read a paper, newsboy!”

A squirrel shot out from behind a tree, and across the boys’ field of view. Spooking Carlo, and drawing teasing japes from Mario.

“Cmon, let’s get to the car before it gets too dark,” Carlo suggested, giving up on their quarry.

“We’re gonna find you, newsboy. And when we do, you’re dead!” Mario shouted at the breeze.

-♞-

Rosh Hashanah (September 10), 1934

“But you, I swore you were dead! I know you’re dead,” Little Caesar said to the spirit that stood aghast before him, lit from behind by the sun dipping low over Gotham Harbor.

Mario Falcone threw a jab and felt the flesh on his knuckles split open on the brick wall.

He tried to anticipate the ghost’s next move, and ducked down for a hook to the body. 

His father had taught him how to hit, and he knew that one had to hurt. Probably cracked a rib.

And then, Mario saw stars and heard church bells as sharp, burning pain shot through his jaw, the headbutt smashing his teeth together. He swayed, and  all of the air rushed out of him as a flying kick landed in his solar plexus. Mario spun in place on the seawall, and the world went black as he fell. Murky, muddy water rushing into his lungs as his body instinctively tried to breathe.

-♞-

 In Gotham Harbor, the heir to the city’s most powerful crime family floats, face down.

Chapter Text

"I intend to leave after my death a large fund for the promotion of the peace idea.

"But I am skeptical as to its results."

– Alfred Nobel

Out Of The Frying Pan

A simple note, written in haste:

Thursday, 10:00 at Welsh Cannery – Fries

Bruce had spent a day trying to work out what Dr. Fries, Gotham’s Coroner, could want to tell Batman. He pondered why it needed to be in person, and he considered whether it was a trap.

Thoroughly convinced that the note was an invitation to a trap, Bruce wanted to run it by his closest confidant, for a second opinion. However, with Alfred still being away with family, he would have to settle for Dick.

There was always the possibility that the younger, more brash man would see it from another angle (because, admittedly, Bruce thought everything was a trap).

He found Dick in the smaller garage that had been converted into a gym. Dick had been working out, if the disarray of the weight bench or the jumprope on the floor was any indication. And now, he was hitting the heavy bag, flinging beads of sweat through the air at impressive velocity.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Bruce critiqued Dick’s form, though truth be told, his adopted brother was an impressive fighter, and took his physical training and rehabilitation very seriously. He was faster than Bruce, and certainly more agile (even if that wasn’t noticeable to any but the most talented opponents), but his hits didn’t land with the force of Bruce’s. And talent is rarely a match for experience.

Dick relaxed, and clumsily toweled his face with a sweat rag, tossing it onto the floor – probably just to annoy Bruce. He approached his older brother with a roguish grin and a flurry of pantomimed punches (and he exhaled for each of them).

“What’s up old man,” Dick held his mitted hands out for Bruce to pull the boxing gloves off. Bruce rolled his eyes, and yanked at the gloves, then handed them back to Dick with a look that should’ve translated into “put them where they belong,” but that was ignored with the sound of them hitting the hard floor.

“The coroner wants to meet at the old Welsh Cannery tomorrow night,” Bruce stopped abruptly.

“And?”

“He doesn’t want to meet me,” Bruce made a hand gesture to indicate Batman.

“Oh. Tell me more.”

Bruce showed Dick the note, explaining how he came to be in possession of it. He gave Dick a summary of his observations of Fries, trying to be as objective as possible. He didn’t ask any questions, but when Bruce had finished his rundown, Dick looked up at the clock on the wall, and started running laps around the garage. After ten orbits, he came back, barely even breathing heavy.

“So this is a trap, right? My gut is saying it’s a trap.”

“My gut is saying the same.”

“But he has to go, right?”

“No, he doesn’t. A good detective doesn’t tread lightly into obvious traps. If Fries thinks he’ll show, and is using that to arrange an ambush with GPD, he might actually be trapped, regardless of how well-prepared he thinks he is.”

“And what if it’s not a trap?” Dick retorted. “You said it yourself, Gelio has guys on the coroner’s office at all hours. What if this is the only place that’s enough out of the way of those goons where he felt safe meeting?”

“He can get past the goons.”

“No. He did get past the goons.”

Bruce grunted disapproval at the implication, and tore the note into pieces, eating them one-by-one.

Dick retched disapproval at the bizarre choice.

“There’s a wood stove that is always burning in the kitchen, man.”

“I was looking for an outside view on whether it was a trap. The decision tree was always ‘if trap, don’t go,’ and I hadn’t and won’t consider ‘if trap should he go?’ and frankly, that seems pretty asinine.”

“The coroner is a victim. Gordon apparently trusts him, they might even be social. Fries needs to know that he has allies. You told me that.” 

“I cannot conceive of an argument that would change my mind on this,” Bruce was obstinate in his tone and his decision. “Gordon is still a cop. And he still wants to bring him in.”

Dick began to say something, then closed his mouth.

“I’m going to need a hand with something this evening. Late.”

A pause.

“You can ride a motorcycle, right?”

“Sure,” Dick answered, and he picked up the jump rope and resumed his workout.

-♞-

“This chair is much nicer than we get at the police precinct,” Commissioner Gelio tented his fingers, and scowled, shifting in his seat and truly feeling the quality of the leather. “It’s quite amusing that the most at-risk city employees should suffer in discomfort, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Fuckin’ laugh riot,” answered Councilman Bob Barnaby. “There’s a lot less council members than cops, though, commissioner. It’s like I said on the phone, I’m votin’ against renewin’ the curfew.”

Fewer, Johnny didn’t say it. The councilman wouldn’t keep a clear head if he was being needled to death. 

Barnaby snorted like he was clearing a stuffy nose, and took a draw of his cigarette. 

“The council thinks you’ve worn out your welcome. The mayor might like you, but he don’t look too long for this world, does he? And the boy wonder ain’t really a fan of police. Way I see it, your curfew ain’t workin’. There’s talk about not renewin’.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Johnny felt the beginnings of a spasm, but he leaned in instead of trying to will it away. His face became a masque of a smiling menace. “You see, I’ve recently whoever the next mayor is won’t be able to replace me as quickly as you think.

“So I’m making it known – in certain circles – that if the curfew fails, we’ll have to reassign some officers. And whichever party has the most votes in favor of renewal, well let’s just say that the Gothamites in those districts will find their calls to the police answered much more reliably.”

“Bullshit. You serve the people of Gotham. You can’t show favoritism to entire districts.”

“You voted to cut the education budget three times. You voted to cut funding to Gotham Fire. Twice. Your opponent hasn’t mentioned that yet, and I understand it’s a tight race.”

Barnaby steamed in his seat.

“Get out of my office.”

“Of course, councilman. I hope that I can count on your vote.”

The commissioner stood up and took his leave, still smiling.

-♞-

After a long day of knocking doors in Crime Alley and Ashburton, Barbara Gordon was running late for her Tuesday evening debrief with Dick. 

Dick was often late (which didn’t make any sense, because they always met at his home), but that didn’t mean that Barbara was alright with the behavior for herself.

She had a key to the house now, and Bruce and the conspicuously absent Alfred had both made great efforts to make her feel at home. Dick, for his part, was the one who suggested giving her a key, and always made a point to have an extra plate for her when their meetings coincided with mealtime.

When she reached the dining room that they used as a campaign office, Dick was already there, wearing a tank top undershirt, and with a towel around his neck. His hair was sopping wet.

“You’re late,” he remarked, with a tone that Barbara took to mean he was only half serious.

“Sorry, had a long conversation with a big group of people in one of the crime alley tenements. It was like a town hall in miniature.”

Dick nodded, and pulled out his folio, as well as the clipboard where he kept records of who he’d spoken with during his own canvass that morning.

The pair compared notes, noting changing sentiments around Dick as a candidate (for the better, in most neighborhoods) and around Karlo (for the worse).

“People are asking about the police, especially in Crime Alley,” Barbara noted. “The feeling in the tenements is they hate the curfew – almost everyone has seen abuses of power – but they still don’t believe that they’ll be as safe with you as mayor, because they think you’re going to fire the whole department.”

“Did they say anything about Gelio?”

Barbara looked away. People told her that they believed in the commissioner’s ability to make Gotham a better city, even if they don’t totally trust the department as a whole.

“They like him. They trust him. They told me that the commissioner is the strongest mark for Karlo,” she finally answered.

Dick let out a concerned sigh, running his fingers through his hair and scratching his head vigorously, sending a tiny mist in every direction.

“Towel,” Barbara commanded, holding out her hand for the towel around Dick’s neck. He put it in her hand and chuckled as she dried her face with it.

“People have been saying the same thing to me,” Dick said. “I’ve had more than one person ask me to commit to keeping him around if I win.”

“Oh. They’ve said that to me, too.”

“I think that’s something we’ll need an answer for at the debate. Any chance your father would give us something on him?”

“Dad doesn’t want the police being politicized. Says life is bad enough for a cop in Gotham without the politicians getting into it,” Barbara halfheartedly smiled. “He’s not much of a voter.”

“Now that I understand. The electoral process is rigged against the little guy.”

“I’ll try again though. He sometimes lets things slip. One time he ranted about these ‘henchmen’ that they hired. Said they were like ‘gangsters in blue.’ Much more brutal and abusive than even the worst guys he’s worked with.”

“Henchmen, though?”

“It’s a play on words. The company that they’re contracted through is called Henshaw Allied.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for digging. Where are we headed tomorrow?”

“We’re in Harborview and Midtown, if we can get into the apartment buildings.”

“Okay. I’ll make a call to a couple people in the neighborhood that I know, maybe they’ll introduce us to some of their neighbors.”

“That reminds me!” Barbara said suddenly. “There were a couple women in Crime Alley who asked if we would pay their teenagers to knock on doors, part time. I got their information.”

“It’s not too long until the election, and maybe they can work in my office after we win. Or at the company. If I’m talking about giving people more fair-paying jobs, I think this is a good chance to practice what we preach. Speaking of fair, are we paying you enough?”

Barbara was struck silent. This job paid her nearly fifty percent more than her job at Wayne Enterprises, which was already a very good job.

“Yes. Um. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I know you love your bicycle, but I’m thinking we could give you a car – at least through the election – just to make it easier to get back and forth, and make you less reliant on the bus?”

Barbara thought for the space between breaths. 

It is getting darker earlier. And the ride from the bus stop to the house is another fifteen minutes.

“It would be nice, but it’s not absolutely necessary,” she said. “But it would be nice.”

“It’s necessary,” came the unexpected, authoritative voice of Bruce from the doorway. 

I hate it when he does that.

“If you’d prefer, we can hire a driver for you.”

“No, no. That would surely be too much,” Barbara insisted.

“Then let’s get you squared away.” Bruce held out his hand and motioned for Dick and Barbara to join him, and they walked briskly toward the garage.

The big garage.

Bruce and Dick called it the hangar, and while it didn’t have any planes, it could certainly accommodate a small air force. Rows and rows of glistening cars of different makes and models created monochromatic aisles in the enormous outbuilding. 

“Gee, do you have anything in black?” Barbara puzzled at the singular color on every vehicle, which all looked like they were recently polished to a glossy shine.

Dick and Bruce both chuckled.

“Any one you like,” Bruce motioned magnanimously to the cars; an invitation for Barbara to tour the hangar.

She walked down the first aisle, side-by-side with Dick, who told her what each of the cars was, what made it great (or, rarely, bad). Bruce strode behind them, looming like a shadow. 

Barbara felt a pang of spontaneous guilt.

“This doesn’t seem right,” she was indignant. “We’re talking about rearranging the social order to help the most people, and you have so many cars you can give me one?”

“Barba–“ Dick tried to interject, but she pushed through.

“I mean, just look at this place! How many people could live in this building alone? And you’re using it to store cars? For what? How many Gothamites, who are much worse off than I am, thank you, could benefit from having a free car? You could give a hundred people a car, and build fifty units of housing right here in this hangar,” she was breathing heavily now. “And I like taking the bus! It’s pretty reliable, it’s cheap, it can fit my bike. Why are you laughing, Dick? Oh gosh, I’m sorry.”

Dick just broke down in hysterical laughter, while Bruce just smiled with a warmth Barbara hadn’t truly seen before.

“I had my doubts about you, Barb,” Dick managed to say between fits, “but look what we’ve done to your sense of Justice. You’re well on your way to becoming a socialist.”

Barbara could feel her face start to flush red.

You didn’t do this, Dick. She thought. People deserve a reliable, publicly-funded way to get to their jobs in the morning and home at night.

“Barbara,” Bruce grabbed Dick by the shoulder and squeezed it just a little too hard, and the laughs faded fast. “You don’t have to feel sorry. You’re absolutely right that this space could be better utilized. Most of these vehicles belong to The Pennyworth Foundation, and there’s only a handful that aren’t driven every week. Al lets his employees take them home if they need a car for an upcoming trip, and the social workers he employs use them to make home visits without racking up miles on their personal cars. Many of them ride the bus to get here, too.

“Even considering all of that, you’re correct that Dick and I don’t ride the bus nearly enough, for supposed ‘men of the people,’” Bruce stopped, and put his hand on his chin to think. “Let’s change that. Starting tomorrow, we’re giving up our cars. At least through the debate.”

“What?!” Barbara shouted. “What?!” Dick shouted at the same time.

“This will be a great way for Dick to talk to more people, and learn about how people with less privilege live their lives.”

Dick made a motion to protest, but Bruce cut him off.

“It’s less than a month,” he emphasized.

“Fine,” Dick rolled his eyes.

“And another thing,” Barbara added. “We need a concrete plan to increase investment in transportation. You know a woman named Martha Kane started to build a subway here back in 1919? There are tunnels, but no tracks. It was just an abandoned project, and no one talks about it! You could bring that back! Think about how many jobs that would create.”

The temperature in the hangar seemed to fall by five degrees all at once, and the smile on Bruce’s face became far less warm.

“That’s an excellent idea, Barbara,” said Bruce. “Dick is going to finish with you out here, I have some things to do.”

Barbara knew that she’d said something wrong, but she continued walking in awkward silence in the opposite direction from Bruce, who had crossed the floor to the exit in the blink of an eye.

“The subway is a really good idea, Barbara,” Dick said after more uncomfortable quiet. “It’s just, Martha Kane was Bruce’s mother. The city forgot about the project when she and Thomas were…” he trailed off.

“Oh my god, Dick, I didn’t know that was Bruce’s mom. I can’t believe I said that. I-I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright, he’ll be fine. And it is an excellent idea to revive the subway. He meant that. He just likes to brood sometimes.” Dick had the slightest hint of a laugh in his voice.

“Sometimes,” Barbara laughed more obviously, and Dick did the same.

“What about this one?” He asked, running his hands over the sleek curves of a sportier car than most of them. “Daimler Double Six. Fast as hell, too. I think you’d look really good in this,” he added, a little too flirtatiously for Barbara’s liking. It’s not that Dick wasn’t handsome. He was, objectively so. She just wasn’t configured in a way that made her want him. She preferred a partner with more intellectual firepower. And, while Dick was probably smarter than anyone she’d ever dated, she rarely saw him outside of the context of Bruce or Alfred, both of whom seemed to run circles around the youngest member of their little fraternity.

“How do you even see out of that tiny windshield?” Barbara asked. “Doesn’t seem practical. Wait.” Barbara darted to the next aisle, stopping at a 1930 Chevrolet pickup truck, complete with a raw picket stake body on the bed.

“A truck?”

“Yeah. It’ll be good for the campaign. Volunteers can ride in the bed, and we can give people rides to the polls on Election Day, and– it looks really great, too.”

“I guess,” he shrugged, and opened the passenger side door to retrieve the key. “Why don’t you drive us back to the house?” Dick suggested, tossing the key in her direction. 

Barbara snatched it confidently and smiled.

-♞-

“The stake body?” Bruce muttered under his breath as the bus bounced him up and down in his seat.

“I thought you said we were giving up cars tomorrow,” Dick was annoyed. The black sweater was itchy and he still didn’t understand what they were doing.”

“That was before you gave Barbara the stake body.”

“We have five of them!”

“And the other four were being taken home. Didn’t you look at the schedule?”

Dick rolled his eyes, and Bruce pulled on the bell to indicate that they were the next stop.

“What is it we’re doing?”

“Hoping there’s a box truck at Shamrock,” Bruce said when they were a distance from the bus. They walked under an underpass down a mildly sloping street which was less and less well lit with every block. “Was thinking about escape routes, and right now, the plan is just ‘run and hide.’”

“Escape routes?”

“How long did you have to wait on Falcone’s roof before you were clear to leave?”

“Gee,” Dick thought about it. “Like two hours. It was so boring.”

“Blow a hole in a guy’s house, and I guarantee everything’s going to be boring for the rest of the night.”

Dick said nothing.

“At first I thought we needed a car, and, part of me still thinks that we do.”

“Wait, are you just walking around in costume through the streets when you patrol?”

Bruce shot a concerned look at Dick, but Dick pushed his head forward to indicate the question was a completely reasonable one. Bruce looked up, scanning the sky.

“I don’t walk on the streets,” Bruce answered. “I move through the shadows.”

“Jesus, Bruce,” Dick’s tone was sardonic. “Maybe you are a dracula.”

The duo arrived at the Shamrock Electro-Lock, Ltd. lot.  To Dick’s great relief, (though he still didn’t know why) there were multiple box trucks.

“I take a car to a point, and then I park it,” Bruce explained completely out of nowhere. “I ditch my clothes in an alley, and usually get back to the car late enough that no one notices a giant bat getting into it. But that’s the problem with an automobile.”

“Security?”

“Exactly. If the cops or Falcone made the car, they could move it, or steal it, or booby trap it. Or they could just wait, and follow it. But a motorcycle is easier to hide, it’s easier to get rid of, and it’s faster than almost any car.”

“You have the same problems with a motorcycle, Bruce, except they’re more dangerous, especially in the rain. And it rains all the time! Even if a motorcycle can’t be driven off somewhere, you need two guys to pick one up and throw it in the harbor, and then you’re back on the streets,” Dick wiggled his fingers like a movie monster, and put on a Transylvanian affect. “Sorry, I mean the shaaAAaaAadows.”

“We would have the same problem with a motorcycle,” Bruce stepped up into the cab of the box truck. “Open the gate.”

“So what’s your plan?” Dick asked after jogging back to the truck. “You’re going to have a network of motorcycles on every city block? And won’t Shamrock know they’re missing?”

“Put this on,” Bruce said, handing Dick a pair of thick glasses and a scraggly wool newsboy’s cap. “At the docks, you’re going to say your name is Liam Warner.”

-♞-

On Thursday, September 20^th, 1934, the sun had set over New Jersey at 6:58pm. And at 8 o’clock, the Batman moved through the shadows.

No police cars. Barely any cars to speak of, really. West Side was only about 20% occupied. There was a rusty truck parked on four flat tires further down the street. It may have been green or black, but it was impossible to tell in the limited light. Just beyond that, a motorcycle. Matte black. He knew the color with the certainty of ownership.

The Welsh Cannery was formerly the crown jewel of West Side, Gotham City’s manufacturing district.

Now it sat, shuttered and boarded up. A capsized cruise liner in an derelict harbor.

The ghost town of it all did a lot to create tension, but it was a good sign. A trap would require setup – the cops had sent a platoon the last time – and the police scanner was quiet about West Side, as was the norm for a neighborhood mostly made up of vacant buildings and empty homes.

Batman crept to the rear of the building and shot the batrope to the fire escape, with the signature hiss of a CO₂ cartridge propelling the hook upwards. The grapple anchored, and he climbed the rope in the span of a few seconds, with the ease and grace of an acrobat.

From the fire escape, the shadow made his way to the roof, executed a sufficiently paranoid survey, and then walked to the edge. 

The closest adjacent rooftop was, fortunately, lower. Unfortunately, it was much lower, and here it would be stupid at best and deadly at worst to assume the roof would support the weight of an adult man wearing several pounds of armor.

Looks like you’ll need to check it out, he thought. And that’s why you arrive early. To learn everything you can about your surroundings.

He loaded another cartridge, discarding the spent cylinder in the gun, and shot the batrope at the other rooftop. It flew downward, anchoring onto a brick chimney vent, and Batman gave it a pull to test the hold. He took a deep breath, coiling the remaining cord around his wrist, leaving a foot or so of slack, and walked backward until the cord was taut again. One, two, three steps, then a leap.

And he was falling. Falling. Falling toward the other rooftop, the sound of the police scanner in one ear and his cape rushing behind him in the other. The brisk night air made him feel like he was flying again, his hand holding the rope behind his head as he hurtled like a missile toward the side of the building.

He was going to miss the roof, but that was his intention. Now, he just needed to miss the wall. The wall. The WALL! Batman flew toward the wall at an angle, a meteor in a cape, when he felt the tightening of the rope wrapped around his forearm, he pulled his hands together to hold the rope like Tarzan holding a vine. Just as he did, the cable caught on the corner of the building, redirecting him to the front of the structure and upward.

He unwound the rope and spun in a reverse somersault in the air, and, his cape completely unfurled, hissed carbon dioxide into the veins of the cloth just before landing on the ground soundlessly. 

The clinking of two spent cartridges on the ground, and the scurrying of a rat broke the quiet, and Batman exhaled, walking back toward the building, a former rowhouse speakeasy with an apartment on each of the two floors above .

Breaking into the bar was easier, if more conspicuous, and only required removing two boards that barricaded the front door. He looked up before walking in, scanning the sky for anything unusual; the bottom of his rope swayed easily twelve feet above his head, and snickered inwardly at the distance he must’ve fallen from the swing. He stepped inside the dark bar, and pulled the small metal flashlight from his belt, clicking it on.

The place was in better shape than he expected. There was dust everywhere, but the bar was stocked. Prohibition had ended less than a year ago, but this place looked (from the outside at least) like it hadn’t been visited in years.

“Temperance for Metropolis. Tipplers for Gomorrah,” was the old slogan in the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union. The snobs in Metropolis used to call Gotham Gomorrah. And it probably would’ve stuck if people didn’t love to drink. Not that there weren’t twice as many hooch houses in Metropolis, anyway.

The Bat made his way across the creaky floors, testing the wood for give, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. In another city, he’d expect to see drug use, or at least a drifter shacked up in the apartment, which was equally dusty but none the worse for wear. It was a huge studio with a private shower, which suggested to him that the previous occupant was the owner. 

No good for hiding, though. Just the one window.

Batman ascended the stairs to the third floor. The apartment here was in much worse shape. The floor had serious water damage and in places looked spongy. There were stained linens bunched in a corner, and there was evidence of mold and moisture all over. This room was used much more recently, if still several months ago.

This doesn’t promote confidence in the integrity of the roof.

Accessing the roof was already suboptimal. He had to enter the musty closet and pull down an access ladder to an attic, which smelled like death warmed over. If there were enough light, he knew he would see a battalion of rats, he certainly heard them scurrying across the baseboards.

From the attic, he needed to lift himself through a vent – a simple enough jump and pull-up – and after popping off the grate, he emerged, lightly touching down onto the rooftop to test its strength.

It was in surprisingly good shape considering the room below, and he jumped in different places to  confirm the consistency. He moved to the brick chimney, and retrieved the batrope, coiling it back into the launcher.

He turned his arm over, and rolled up a sleeve to reveal a watch with the face on the underside of his wrist.

9:37, you spent too long casing. Got lost in thought. Go get into position.

He aimed the batrope at the cannery and fired upward. The hiss of the cartridge, followed by the rope falling toward the streets below. He grabbed the cord to stop its descent, and reeled the cord in.

Firing up twenty feet was a lot more ambitious for the little burst of CO₂.

The Batman climbed back through the vent, and descended the stairs to the streets below.

-♞-

Batman heard Dr. Victor Fries, Gotham City’s coroner, before he saw him.

“Hello?” A voice called out to an empty first floor, his voice reverberating like the inside of a chapel.

The voice’s footsteps fell heavy. He was wearing boots, and obviously untrained in the arts of stealth.

Fries could have Gordon hiding out somewhere, waiting outside. Ambush is unlikely, but don’t get cocksure.

“Batman?” 

The light-haired crown of the coroner’s head appeared at the threshold of the second floor landing. The man wore a trenchcoat, and looked more like a gumshoe than a doctor. 

“Batman?” He scanned the room with a glinting chrome flashlight, and stepped forward, cautiously. “It’s Victor Fries, the coroner.”

Something’s off.

A whispered word from behind him carried across the abandoned cannery floor:

“Talk.”

The man turned on his heel, not displaying any sign of shock or surprise, and holding a

He was holding a revolver in his hand, very close to his body, pointing it in The Bat’s direction.

Batman grinned.

“Tell the devil Falcone sends his regards,” 

BAM! Tss!

A blur of cape and darkness juked to the side, grazed by the gun blast on his rib, and tearing a hole in his cape. He tossed the spent cylinder of CO₂ at the thug’s face. It ricocheted harmlessly off the man’s malar bone, was caught by Batman and immediately jammed back into the bridge of the  goon’s nose with enough force to break it.

The man was clumsy, but he was built like a bear, and, as talented a fighter as Batman was, engaging with him only ran out the time between now and whenever the goon’s reinforcements arrived. And there would be reinforcements – Batman recognized the man’s face as one of the police on protective duty at Falcone’s home.

The officer’s nose bled profusely, dark bruises appeared below his eyelids, and tears welled in his eyes. He spat blood onto the ground in a great black gob, and leveled the gun at the living shadow again, firing off three shots in succession, but hitting only crumbling brick.

Batman scanned the room for the closest window, behind burlap grain bags, stacked like bricks. He dove for the stacks, and the goon fired his gun.

In 1867, chemist Alfred Nobel discovered that combining nitroglycerin with an absorbent material, like clay, made it more stable and safer to use for industrial applications. The invention led to great wealth for the man. 

Anecdotally, Nobel was wracked with guilt for the destructive forces he’d unleashed upon the world while nearing the end of his life, which led to him bequeathing the majority of his fortune to a prize to promote Peace.

When improperly stored, dynamite “sweats” or “weeps” it’s nitroglycerin which forms crystals of pure nitroglycerin, destabilizing the material, and making it exceedingly dangerous to handle. In as little as a few weeks in a high humidity, high heat storage, this nitroglycerin leak can occur.

The Caped Crusader was through the window in a mess of glass and pain when it occurred to him that the gunman with the broken nose wasn’t aiming for him, he was aiming for the burlap bags.

KA-THOOM!

Chapter Text

"It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another."

– Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley • Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

And Into The Storm

A hail of brick and mortar pieces hit Batman in the back as he fell.

The only things he could hear was the tinnitus-muted murmuring of the gunman, his heart beating in his ears, and the low-volume static of a police scanner that had definitely had a wire knocked loose.

He’d plotted for a run from the rooftop, but he was falling toward the third floor of the speakeasy.

Too much momentum. Too high up. Moving too fast, can’t get to the batrope.

He put his forearms in front of his face to blunt the crash and make some attempt to protect himself from the glass.

Keep your eyes open. They’re covered, and you’ll need to be able to see.

The window frame splintered, the glass pane shattered into hundreds of violent shards, and the Batman tucked his chin down positioning himself to roll when he hit the floor. The maneuver was executed with perfect precision, certainly saving some number of broken bones, but as he should have stopped moving, he was falling straight down.

THUD!

The static stopped altogether. The tinnitus did not.

There’s the fracture you were trying to avoid shot through his mind with a pain he was certain was a broken shoulder.

Gotham’s guardian did a kip-up and was on his feet. He could still flex his arm, still move his fingers, but each action sent excruciating pain shooting through his arm. 

A scapula fracture?

He scrutinized the room, which was cloaked in shades of darkness. The apartment itself was gray and desaturated, the doorway led to blackness. He moved to the doorway, and made for the stairs. 

It was less dark on the streets, and with any luck, he would reach them before the would-be assassin. 

Through the door, and onto the street, the Bat sprinted to the right, up the block toward the flat-tire truck. His footfalls were quiet on the uneven pavement, but they weren’t silent.

Knee might be busted.

“BATMAN!” A shout from behind him

BAM! BAM! Two shots from behind him.

The slugs whizzed by. Too close. A glance over his shoulder and he could see people alongside the gunner. The police commissioner. And a bald man in a double-breasted white lab coat with red-tinted eyeglasses.

The real Dr. Victor Fries and the commissioner leveled guns and fired shots at him, but these didn’t miss. Neither did he hear them pass by his ear or ricochet off of something distant.

He didn’t look back, instead, he leap-frogged onto the motorcycle, stamped down on the kick start lever, and took off.

In fact, the only thing that Batman could hear was his cape billowing behind him.

-♞-

The Batman whizzed by on a motorcycle as blacker than the night Behind him, his cape trailed in violent snaps like the cloak of death itself. Johnny Gelio, Gotham City’s police commissioner wheeled around, his outrageous scowl made completely incongruous by his manic, exaggerated smile.

“How dare you?!”  Johnny was insolent, furious, blasphemous. 

His mind was aware that he had just shot a god in the chest. He knew what Superman was supposedly capable of, and he’d seen the bent barrels of enough tommy guns to believe it. But the Man of Steel made no move to disarm him, and Johnny did nothing to suggest he wanted to de-escalate.

“You’ve just interfered with an apprehension in an active investigation!” Johnny expectorated the words like a curse on the alien, who floated downward, his feet silently touching the ground.

Even standing on the sidewalk, Superman was enormous. Describing him as “towering” over Flass wouldn’t be incorrect. And Johnny stood his ground.

“Forgive me, commissioner, but there was an explosion,” Superman started. “I’ll assume you know what recently happened in Metropolis; you can understand my concern.”

“Which part of ‘active investigation’ are you failing to comprehend you giant louse! Your intervention here has cost us the apprehension of a child-killing serial murderer.”

“Would you like me to apprehend him?” Superman furrowed his brow, and Johnny was certain he was bluffing.

“Get. Out. Of Gotham.”

“Commissioner, I came because there was a cry for help, and an explosion. And just as I arrived, I heard your officer say ‘Tell the devil Falcone sends his regards,’” Superman paused, and the accusation was clear.

“I can’t and won’t speak to what my detective may or may not have said in the course of apprehending a killer, following hundreds of man-hours of work to lure him into our clutches,” Johnny answered, still pointing the gun at the brute. “Mr. Falcone is not involved in this investigation, except that his family was victimized by this freak. Sling your baseless, anti-Italian conjecture in Metropolis.”

Johnny shut up, and Superman recoiled just a fraction. 

He’s offended. Good.

“Not to mention, Falco–” Flass was speaking, and Johnny would’ve broken his jaw if they’d been alone. Instead, his free hand sprang into a wave, and Flass, mediocre detective that he was, managed to take the hint.

“Again, Superman, I’ll ask you again to get out of my city.”

Superman squinted at the trio, and then burst like a missile into the night, and Johnny lowered his gun (but he didn’t click the safety on). Scattered patches of fallen leaves rustled to life in the wake of the takeoff, and Johnny caught one delicately by the stem, almost mesmerized by the way it waltzed in the air.

“Idiot,” Fries said in his signature monotone. He removed his glasses and breaking the silence. The man’s eyes were moist, though it was difficult to truly see in the darkness. “Goddamn idiot.”

“Yeah,” Flass added. “We almost had hi–“

“Not him. You,” Fries interrupted. “Your commanding officer is fixing your mistake, and you were about to contradict him in front of Superman?”

“Hey mack, I dunno who the hell you think you’re talking to, but I’m more than willing to sock a man in glasses.”

BLAM! BLAM!

The shots rang out of Johnny’s sidearm and into the skies above.

“Both of you, can it! Flass, the coroner is correct. I don’t know what you said about Falcone, but you’re lucky I was able to cover for you. Fries, if you insulting the most reliable of my men was helpful, I wouldn’t care, but let’s leave the riot act to the guy who wrote Newark’s Riot Act.

“Tonight wasn’t our night to bring in the Bat, but Superman’s intercession may be a blessing in disguise.”

Neither Flass nor Fries laughed.

They didn’t get the joke.

Johnny twirled the brittle brown leaf in his hand, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger like a dancer in a music box. He cast it aside.

“Let us take our leave.”

Neither Flass nor Fries laughed.

Idiots.

-♞-

Tall pine trees stood as sentinels on either side of him, whizzing by at eighty miles per hour. It was a brisk night, and even with the additional insulation of the armor, it was too cold to be riding a motorcycle.

He hadn’t thought about whether he was supposed to ditch the bike, or take it back to the cave, but unless they were on bicycles, no one had followed him on the long ride from West Side, up through Little Italy, and across the Ramapough Bridge. 

Too dark, what gives?

The Batman clicked on the headlamp on the bike, having rode with it off for the additional “stealth.” The curfew provided additional cover, even with the light pollution, but some kind of muffler would certainly have helped even more.

He slowed down, his cape rippling more loudly at the slower speed, and pulled slightly off the leaf-strewn street. Batman turned the bike off, but kept the light on. Dismounting to assess the damage, he walked gingerly to account for his knee to the front of the lamp, feeling at his ribs. The gash in his side was deep, and his gloved hand came back slick with blood. 

That’s more than a graze. You’ll need treatment, probably stitches. 

The cacophony of the forest sang in the night around him almost disorienting.

Shards of glass pocked his arms, but there wasn’t enough light to safely remove them without risking something breaking in the wound.

Tomorrow is going to be hell.

The wind picked up for a fleeting moment, rustling dry pine needles and leaves alike into a tornado in miniature, and the realization that he hadn’t looked up in quite some time unforgivingly dawned on Batman.

The smell of ozone joined the petrichor of the barrens, and an otherworldly god drifted toward the quiet road, his boots touching the rugged pavement with a quiet tap.

Like a scene from an old western showdown, the man in all black stared warily at his counterpart.

Superman raised a hand to gesture calm, and took a step toward the shadow.

A flash of color played across the alien’s eyes in the darkness, and he cocked his head in a perfect forgery of curiosity.

“What are you?”

Batman already had two flash cartridges in hand by the time Superman had landed, but he made a move that should’ve been almost imperceptible, the first twitch of muscle as he reached for his shuriken.

“Don’t. I, don’t want to–” The Man of Steel drifted off. “You’re hurt.”

The Bat exhaled, and the air in front of turned to fog.

“You need help. You’ve got a serious cut there, and,” Superman’s eyes twitched. “You’ve got a badly torn ligament in your left knee.”

The Kryptonian took another step forward, very slowly, still holding his hands in front of him.

Two paper-thin glass capsules flew toward Superman at impressive speed. He blew at one, and it broke with a flash and an outpouring of white smoke against the trunk of a loblolly pine. The other he caught out of the air, but not delicately enough, and it too broke with a flash causing great clouds of the white smoke to envelope his face. He rubbed his hands together, and glass particles and sawdust blew away with a breeze.

Before Batman could even take a step toward the bike, Superman was within arm’s reach.

“The explosion,” Superman said, laying a hand on Batman’s shoulder. He didn’t grip, but the weight of his hand was very evident. “What happened back there?”

The two men were at eye level, and Batman was sure that Superman could see through the reflective lenses on his mask. He thought for a second, then ducked and jumped backward into a handspring, twisting gracefully in the air and landing in a fighting stance.

Immeasurable pain shot through his knee, but he only grimaced. And then, he blinked, and Superman was once again close enough to touch him.

“I won’t hurt you, but I need you to talk to me,” Superman’s voice was more paternal and authoritative now. Almost condescending.

“Didn’t cause the explosion,” the whispered words of a ghost. “It was a set up.”

Superman inclined his head, putting his hand on his chin.

“Hmm.”

Batman said nothing.

“Even if what you said about the explosion is true, you’re wanted for multiple murders. Murders of children. I need to take you to the police.”

A beat, then:

“The police will kill me in custody.”

“I have ways to make sure they don’t. And if you’re innocent, you don’t have anything to hide.”

How is this guy so damn naive? 

“Maybe that’s a strange thing to say to a guy in a bat costume.”

“It’s a strange thing to hear from a guy in a leotard,” Batman hissed.

“The difference is I’m not wearing a mask.”

Beneath his own mask, the Batman furrowed his brow.

So this is how it ends?

Superman put a finger to his ear.

You need to talk him out of taking you in.

“You can’t protect me.”

“I can. I can hear thi-things over incredible distances–“

“And even worse, how many people are in grave peril right now so that you can have this dramatic confrontation?”

“I can let a fire burn in a cornfield in Oklahoma i-if it means handing an accused child murderer over to the proper authorities,” Superman offered a rehearsed-sounding counter. 

He’s had an argument about this before. He doesn’t even believe what he’s saying, that’s why he’s stammering.

“Those children aren’t coming back,” Batman snapped. “But you’re killing that farmer in Idaho. They’re not going to recover financially.”

“There’s not actually a –“ Superman sighed, then twisted his face into a look of anxiety.

“I haven’t killed anyone. And whether you believe me or not, you know it’s a possibility,” Batman remonstrated. “You kill people by inaction, and they die suffering. Do you know what’s happening in the Great Plains right now? You could irrigate the entire region, and instead, families are losing the farms every week from soil erosion.

“If you want to take me in, do it. But I’m trying to find the person who’s doing this. Why do you think the coroner was there? His son was killed, and he said he had new information.”

Superman narrowed his eyes.

“Then take your mask off.”

“No.”

Superman looked in either direction, and huffed. 

He could tear this off right now, but he wants me to do it. And he’s getting antsy.

“You’re not leaving me much choice here. One more chance,” Superman said 

The Bat was confounded, but he just shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” Superman apologized, and his hands were on Batman’s shoulders, and his eyes were glowing red.

The feeling was unpleasant, and it was over in less than two seconds. Then Superman launched into the air with a crack, knocking Batman backwards and re-aggravating the ringing in his ears.

Pine needles and leaves swirled in the scent of ozone and petrichor, and he frantically patted a smoldering hole in the pectoral of his costume.

He was two miles from the Bat Cave, just over two miles from Wayne Manor. Batman looked around, and looked up, then he hobbled back to the motorcycle.

-♞-

It was Thursday, September 20^th, 1934, and it was 10:33 p.m in Gotham.

It was also Friday, September 21^st, 1934, and it was 12:33 p.m. in Japan.

For more than an hour, the Muroto Typhoon was wreaking unimaginable havoc across the archipelago.

Superman’s hesitation led to the loss of almost three thousand lives, and left another two hundred thousand people homeless.

It would be eleven years before Japan would experience such immeasurable devastation again. 

-♞-

Approximately a quarter mile away from the cave, the headlamp of a racing motorcycle shined on Batman, who had removed his cowl, and was cutting the cape free from it with an extraordinarily sharp-and-also-bat-shaped shuriken.

Once the task was complete, he put the rear wheel of the bike onto a patch of dirt, and engaged the throttle, kicking dirt and pine needles into the air. After a time, there was something of a pit. Not too deep, but it would work for his purposes.He tore a strip off of the severed cape, and dipped it into the fuel tank of the motorcycle.

He laid the tatters in the makeshift pit. Then he placed the gas-soaked strip across it, took three big steps backward, and tossed a flurry of flash capsules toward the pit. The rag caught first, then the rest of the cape burned alongside it.

The flames lasted less time that he expected – maybe five or six minutes – and as it became just a charred pile of indistinguishable fabric, he stamped painfully on the embers, and piled dirt atop the smoking remains.

Batman made the limping, wincing trek to his base of operations on foot, then hobbled deep into the mine to change out of his clothing, and dress his wounds.

As he rounded the corner to the command center two men stood, arms crossed, with similarly glowering expressions.

“You didn’t listen,” said Bruce Wayne.

“He never does,” said Alfred Pennyworth.

Chapter Text

"We’re just going around all day like unconscious machines, and meanwhile there’s all this rage and worry and uneasiness just building up and building up inside us”

– Wally • My Dinner With Andre

My Dinner With Demigod

Dick Grayson winced as the alcohol touched the tattered flesh of his ribs, he held a cold compress against the burn on his chest.

“It was stupid,” Bruce chided. “We lost a suit, and very possibly a bike, and all for what?”

Dick didn’t respond.

“You knew it was a trap! We discussed how it was a trap! You risked so much!”

Bruce paced anxiously – he wasn’t anxious, but the way he stalked back and forth in the mine fomented anxiety in Dick.

“And that wasn’t a rhetorical question!”

“What wasn’t?” Dick asked, confused.

“What did you get from Fries?”

Dick glanced down and to the side.

“All stitched up, Mister Richard,” Alfred straightened out, and set the suture kit back with the rest of the first aid materials.

Dick sighed, then:

“The guy who showed up was a cop,” Dick was apologetic, and he only wanted to look Alfred in the eye. “It was the big guy from Falcone’s place. Took me too long to recognize him, and I got cocky. If it hadn’t been for the explosives though–“

“Explosives,” Bruce shook his head, “how do you miss explosives? After people, it’s the first thing we sweep for. You’re lucky he didn’t show up.”

Bruce was talking about Superman, as evinced by his upward glance.

“About that,” Dick rubbed the back of his head with his free hand, “you want the good news first?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. Alfred wiped the blood off of his hands with a rag, then put a calming hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“So,” Dick began, “it turns out that the big guy can’t see through the costume.”

Al removed his hand from Bruce’s shoulder, and both he and Bruce crossed their arms in consternation.

“The explosion attracted him, I guess. I don’t know how long he followed me, but he accosted me in the woods. He didn’t know whether I was a metahuman, and he couldn’t identify me through the mask. Either that or he’s an excellent actor.”

“He is an excellent actor,” Bruce answered. “He pretends to be a human a third of the time.”

“It’s not an act, Mister Bruce,” Alfred interjected. “He was raised to believe he’s human. But ‘Clark’ isn’t a deception. Not truly.”

“I’m just saying that he seemed confused, and he did this,” Dick pulled the cold compress from his chest, revealing a pentagonal diamond shaped burn.

“He branded you?” Alfred was aghast. “I have to say that’s much more brutal than I had expected.”

“It’s smart,” Bruce was even-toned. “Utilitarian even. Aside from Al, and now your confirmation, this isn’t a power that’s ever been reported. He can clearly control the intensity, because after burning through your armor, he’s only burned you enough to leave a scar, and Alfred said that he was able to weld with it. This is precise, too, and now, if he happens to be in a room with you, he’ll know you’re Batman. Now he’s able to keep an eye on someone he believes is a reasonable suspect in multiple child homicides.”

“We could burn over it with scalding water,” Dick said timidly. “A scald would obfuscate the design of it, and this is too much of a liability for us,” he hung his head, feeling apologetic for the first time since the adrenaline started flooding his system.

“No. There’s no safe way to scald you. And for all we know he could see the distinct layers of scar tissue.”

“He wouldn’t take my mask off, but he asked me to do it several times. When I refused, that’s when he did it.”

“Maybe that’s some kind of,” Alfred shook his head, “respect for your privacy?”

Bruce and Alfred exchanged looks; concern commingled with knowing.

“You’re going to have to be elsewhere when we have coffee,” Bruce said finally.

“You’re having coffee with him? How did this happen?”

Alfred cleared his throat.

“So, about Kansas…” 

-♞-

In 480 B.C. King Amphictyon awaited an oncoming storm.

A military force, greater than the world had ever seen, was approaching in an earth-shaking mass of humanity toward his city-state. 

Θερμοπυλῶν, where, according to the religion of the Greeks in the region, was the location of the worldly entrance to ᾍδης.

Thermopylae literally means “The Hot Gates,” and it is where all little Greek boys learn of the heroic King of Sparta, Leonidas, with a detachment of 300 personal guard, were able to fend off an onslaught of over one million invading Persians.

Persians led by a God-King.

The lesson that the story was meant to teach was one of strategy over raw power, and the tremendous advantages of defending familiar terrain, even against inconceivable odds.

Yiannis “Johnny” Gelio, commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department, took it as something prideful. Being Greek meant being able to outhink anyone, even a god.

A “mysterious” benefactor had, through Henshaw Allied, furnished a grand total of 300 men to work as independent contractors in service of the commissioner of Gotham City’s Police Department.

Johnny thought the number was fitting.

Symbols are important, Johnny reflected. Alone, we are just men, but together, we are capable of withstanding an army.

He’d been tasked with nothing less than the defeat of the gods who now walk among us in a twisted parody of humanity. 

The emergence of these two supermen, specifically, was symbolic to Johnny in its own way: Apollo and Erebus. Light and Darkness.

He was told by this same patron to pull out all the stops in his efforts to solve the mystery of the Peter Pan murders, and he took that at face value, pushing the limits of what this new, modern company could provide in terms of on-demand manpower.

They would defend Gotham from the dangerous proliferation of the caped menace.

Johnny would stand at the front of his irregulars, and protect his homeland.

He was Leonidas. He had his Thermopylae, and he had his personal attaché. All that was left was to prepare them for war.

-♞-

Dick had been careless.

Bruce was only comfortable with this because Alfred assured him of the man’s kindness.

No, that’s not right; Bruce was not comfortable with this. But a refusal would’ve revealed too much. 

If Superman believes I’m a security risk, that means he has reasons other than “his mother” to be concerned for his security, Bruce thought. A vulnerability?

His mother is already a vulnerability, Bruce corrected his thought process, but struggled to formulate, on a purely practical level, what Superman had to lose by his identity becoming public.

Superman could, of course, ask Batman the same question. 

And following Dick’s line of thought, Superman doesn’t know the Bat is mortal.

Bruce had only slept for an hour, and he did so in the musty, dank air of the Bat Cave.

When Dick revealed his burn Bruce had briefly considered cutting it out and stitching it together, with a painstakingly-sharpened obsidian knife, and letting Alfred stitch him up. Ultimately he’d dismissed the idea because it was too dangerous, and though it might reduce the scarring, it was unlikely to remove the faint traces of the diamond shape, which meant it might be for naught.

But while people had spent immense quantities of cash to try to harm Superman by going bigger almost no research that Bruce had seen mentioned going smaller.

So Bruce spent hours fabricating and sharpening a tool of lead and volcanic glass. A tiny, simple knife which he could store in a lead case on his non-dominant hip. 

It was unlikely to do anything, but Superman was still made of cells, and sharp obsidian could cut many different varieties of cells in half.

Stupid, and detectable, but novel.

Bruce arrived at Greathorn Diner, just as the lights were being switched on by a waitress in a slim, mustard yellow uniform.

“You can sit at the counter if you’d like,” she seemed to eye Bruce like she was piecing together the price of his outfit. Or trying to imagine what he would look like out of it. “First cup of coffee should be ready in two.”

“I’m expecting company,” Bruce smiled, removing his hat. “Do you have today’s Planet?”

“It’s three cents, and I’ll bring it right over, sit wherever you like.” she returned the smile, and shuffled off to collect the paper.

Bruce was early. He was often early, but in this case, he arrived a half hour before the scheduled meeting time. He assumed that Clark would arrive early or on-time; the ability to travel at the speeds he was capable of meant that no one at his office was even likely to notice he was missing. 

Hell, he’d probably get to the office before 9:00.

But thirty minutes would be too much. For all of the problems that Bruce had with Superman’s priorities, there had to be lives he could save in proximity that would allow for him to be prompt to their meeting without letting people die for a half hour. The meeting would be bad enough.

The waitress arrived with a steaming cup of black coffee and the morning edition of The Daily Planet. Bruce thanked her and put on a pair of glasses he claimed to need for reading. In fact, they were from the pharmacy, meant to have proper lenses added by an optometrist, but he thought it further cemented him as an unlikely candidate for being Batman, and he liked the way he looked  in them, too.

At 6:30, Bruce set the paper down, and looked to the waitress to indicate want of another coffee. When he looked back at the entrance, Clark Kent had his hand on the door.

Clark scanned the place with almost paranoid glances, and Bruce stood and extended his hand.

“Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce, please.”

Bruce didn’t know how long the formalities would need to remain in place, but at least until they’d ordered.

“Have you eaten yet, Clark?” Bruce meant the question more to probe for whether Superman ate. There were stories that said he did, but no one had ever seen him eat, at least not as Superman.

Clark unbuttoned his jacket, removed his hat, and sat down.

“What is that? A gun?” Clark presented the question with no context or warning. 

Bruce said nothing, instead, he opened the paper to a story about Willie Calhoun, on which Clark had a byline.

“This is good reporting,” Bruce smiled as he pointed to a line on the page, reading it as he underlined with his finger. “’”He’s burning through money,” said a former employee of Calhoun’s who spoke with this reporter on the condition of anonymity, “rate he’s going, he’ll be in debtor’s prison before any of the feds charges stick.”’ That’s an incredible insight,” Bruce noted, making eye contact with Clark, and lowering his glasses down to the tip of his nose. “How did this end up so far off of the ‘Metropolis’ section?”

Clark flexed his jaw. If he’d been preparing to say something, the waitress interrupted him.

“I’ll have the steak and eggs, medium, please,” Bruce ordered as though he’d been here before.

“Happy waitress with a side of scrambled eggs, please,” Clark said.

“Comin’ right up,” and she took their menus and headed toward the counter.

Clark opened his mouth to speak again.

“What’s on your hip? That’s the world’s smallest derringer if it’s a gun,” Clark spoke in accusatory tones. “You read the stories. A gun–“

“I’m happy to show you,” Bruce cut in, and he pulled the lead case from his belt, whip-fast, opening it and letting case and tin splash the table with a clang. Bruce flourished the small knife, showing off the impressive balance (considering he’d made it in the course of a sleepless night).

After a bit of additional drama, Bruce set the knife on the table, and pointed the handle in Clark’s direction.

“What is this, glass?” Clark picked it up, and turned it over in his hand. It looked like a pen knife in his grip. “Obsidian?” 

Clark dragged the blade across the pad of his thumb, then looked up at Bruce with concern.

“WERE YOU GOING TO ST–“ he was speaking much more loudly than was needed, not just for discretion’s sake, but they were the only people in the diner. “Were you going to stab me?!”

“I was curious whether it would even work,” Bruce answered candidly. “I’m guessing not, but I doubted you’d tried it, and Obsidian is extraordinarily sharp. I’ve read the stories, Clark. And guns aren’t a pleasant experience for me.”

Bruce nodded in affirmation, and Clark lowered his hands beneath the table. Bruce leaned over, and Clark looked down at his hand, pulling the blade in a slice across his palm.

Nothing. Good to know.

“Well, it was worth testing.” 

“Are you like this with everyone?” Clark had a perplexed look on his face as he absent-mindedly reassembled the box and returned it to its owner.

“I’ve been told I’m rather dashing.”

Clark rolled his eyes, and sighed.

Does Superman need to breathe? Is that all just for effect?

The waitress returned with the open faced grilled cheese and the overcooked steak, was thanked, and glided back to the lunch counter.

Clark leaned in collusively.

“Alfred asked me a question, and more and more people are asking it. Or maybe it’s just because I’m stopping to listen, I don’t know. But it has me thinking. A lot…” Clark trailed off.

“‘How many people have died while we’ve been eating breakfast?’ Was that the question?”

Clark Kent sat straighter in his seat than before. He looked Bruce directly in the eye and nodded.

“There was something else too. He told me this might break me, and, well, that’s something I hadn’t really thought was possible until recently.”

“Are you telling me you think you might break?” Bruce asked, suddenly very somber.

“I’m telling you that I’m less sure than I was before,” Clark heaved a melancholy breath, and then gulped the entire mug of coffee, uncouthly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m telling you that maybe, I…what if humanity needs a contingency plan?”

Chapter Text

“In these days of difficulty, we Americans everywhere must and shall choose the path of social justice…, the path of faith, the path of hope, and the path of love toward our fellow man.”

Franklin D. Roosevelt

Half The Sky

“I am pleased to announce that, this afternoon, with generous donations from The Pennyworth Foundation and Wayne Enterprises, the Project ALICE initiative has the funding it needs to operate for the next three years. In that time, it is our great hope that we will either have proven our program’s worth sufficiently to Gotham that our esteemed councilmembers will consider subsidizing a portion of our operating costs, or more optimistically, that we will, by that time, have ended poverty in Gotham altogether.”

Harriet has such a natural talent for public speaking. Jeremy had, thus far, avoided any catastrophic interactions with Harriet. There were, of course, moments of awkwardness, but he could typically rely on “better to say nothing,” to keep him out of anything too sticky.

“In order to lead this effort effectively, Rose Botanichemical has assembled a small but focused team of advisors, chief among them, Mr. Jeremy Tetch, the architect of many of the plans that made President Roosevelt such a rousing success as state senator, and subsequently, governor of New York.”

Jeremy stepped forward from the line of board members and advisors, and nodded. Then he gave a smile that he desperately hoped was not too much of a caricature, and stepped back.

Shoulder to shoulder with some of the most important people in Gotham. 

He glanced to his right: Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Lilian Rose, Lucius Fox, Oswald Cobblepot; a who’s who of regional movers and shakers. Each was introduced in succession, followed by Harriet (optimistically) pausing for applause that didn’t come (public council hearings were not well-attended, this one was no exception).

“I’d now like to offer opportunity for questions from members of the council,” Harriet motioned to the semicircular dais. Thirteen seats, one for each council member, seated in district order, except for the center seat, which was reserved for the body’s internally elected council speaker. An unlucky number, to be sure, but one that ensured that, barring abstentions, there would never be a tie on the council. The council persons from Districts 1, 3, and 11 were conspicuously absent. 

Councilman Barnaby was the first to speak.

“Councilman Bob Barnaby, District 2, Public Safety Committee Chair. Miss Ainsley, the council has, in the past, tried raisin’ taxes in order to fund these ’crime prevention initiatives.’ Would you mind tellin’ the council why we should consider funding your program, when the people of Gotham have so many more opportunities than in most of our neighboring cities? The fact of the matter is, in a city as prosperous as Gotham, crime is a choice.”

Harriet squared the notes she had laid on the table in front of her, and cleared her throat.

“Isley,” she corrected the councilman. “It’s Harriet Isley. I’ll acknowledge that there are elements in our city which choose to engage in illegitimate, illegal, or extortive practices. But I would not accept the premise that, for the majority of people apprehended, that crime is a choice. In fact, just recently there were reports of a man, Harvey Dent who was clearly in the throes of a morphine fit, and the police arrested him and put him in jail. It was only the advocacy of a church kitchen which feeds and shelters the homeless that he was released to Arkham. This man is a veteran who fought in France, for whom our safety net did not work as intended. Were it left to the city, he would be dying in a cell. We want to prevent scenarios like this from occurring in the first place. Of course, some cases may be out of our depth, but there will be a dearth of people entering the natural and physical sciences over the next decade, and that is a need our program will help to fill.

“To speak to your second first question – we are asking the council to observe our progress, which we will report to you periodically, and then only provide funding if the project proves it’s value to Gotham. To wit: The difference is that we are telling you what we are doing, not asking you for permission.”

Jeremy looked down at his hands trying to hide his expression, which was somewhere between a smile and a wince.

Tally ho, Harriet! Give him the what for!

Councilman Barnaby audibly grumbled, scratching down some notes on a pad. “Thank you Ms. Isley,” and the councilwoman from District 8 raised her hand.

“Councilwoman Passage, District 7. Ms. Isley, first I’d like to thank you, and the members of your board for your time today. We on the council do love to see Gothamites taking initiative to improve their communities. Secondly, while I perhaps disagree on some things with Councilman Barnaby, I cannot help but wonder why people like my husband and I, who run a hardware store in my district, should take a chance on, for example, a negro with a criminal past? Subsidizing their wages is one thing, but tools are easy to fence, and many of the exact people you described before – addicts prone to abuse heroin and morphine – would rather make seven dollars today than fifteen dollars on payday.”

Jeremy shuddered, and leaned just backward enough to spy what Pennyworth and Fox were doing; the former giving kind of an incredulous chuckle and the latter straightening his tie.

“Gotham City has a vibrant population,” Harriet started, more enunciation in her words than before, “in no small part because of the opportunities that partners like Mr. Fox, Mr. Pennyworth, and Mr. Wayne’s parents provided for exactly the kind of person who so many refused to take a chance upon –“

“– Yes,” the councilwoman cut in, “but Wayne Enterprises isn’t manufacturing easily concealed, easily pawned items. And not only would hardware stores be at risk, but grocers, corner stores, any place with a small enough employee pool that these people would need to be cashiers could take advantage an–“

“–If I may finish, councilwoman. This is exactly why we’re providing job readiness training in fields where people won’t be primarily entrusted with handling easily-fungible goods. Manufacturing, science, engineering, municipal, these are places that have nothing to lose by giving somebody a chance. And mind you,” Harriet added, “these somebodies have been will have been trained to a minimum level of competence by some of the best and brightest in their fields.

“As for your business specifically, Councilwoman Passage, it is not our intention to put Project ALICE participants into jobs. We want to help them to find careers, and we will fill in the gaps in support for them along the way.”

“Councilman Burnett, District 8, Labor and Education Committee Chair. Ms. Isley, I want to thank you for the initiative of leading this program. Rose Botanichemical is probably not the first business that would come to mind to spearhead a program like this. Can you tell us more about why you’re taking on this work, and why Rose Botanichemical is the outfit to do it?”

“While studying abroad in the Middle East, there were many things I saw that were abhorrent…” Jeremy had heard the story many times, but he would listen to it for as long as Harriet kept the passion and vigor with which she told it: A recounting of her time in Egypt and Persia, and how, even when the laws were oppressive, they took care of the poor, homeless, and vulnerable, serving meals and providing (meager) housing.

The councilman smiled, enraptured by the telling of the tale, which concluded with a followup question from the same:

“Thank you, Ms. Isley. Truly. How many people do you expect to reasonably serve in your first, second, and third years?” Harriet returned the smile to the councilman, then looked over her shoulder at Jeremy, nodding subtly.

We’ve gone over this question exactly. Wondrous!

“Well, Councilman Burnett, in New York, Mr. Tetch was able to serve a slightly more diverse population. With support from the state senate and some federal dollars, they were able to train, counsel, and place one hundred residents over the course of the first eighteen months. Subsequently, they averaged another five to six hundred persons per year. We expect our outcomes to be more modest, owing to both a need for private funding and that Gotham is significantly smaller than President Roosevelt’s senate district. All of that said, we would like to serve six hundred people during this pilot period – one hundred in the first year, two hundred in the second, and three hundred in the third.”

Well done!

The Project ALICE portion of the hearing lasted an additional thirty or so minutes, and Jeremy did his best to avoid fidgeting while he stood alongside Gotham’s elite. When it finally concluded, Harriet took Jeremy to meet the council member for the 8^th district.

Jeremy spoke about his work with Roosevelt, nervously about some of the details, but with enthusiasm about the victories. 

“And why didn’t you go on to work in his administration in Washington?” Burnett asked, and Jeremy, without warning, made a bizarre face, and reached for a hat that was not on his balding head.

“– Mr. Tetch should really be going,” Harriet had given him an egress, which he gladly took, bowing slightly as he pattered toward the door to the council chambers. “But I’d rather enjoy finding ways for us to plug your district in to this project…”

Jeremy almost collided with Bruce Wayne and Lucius Fox when he pushed through the great wooden double doors.

“Jeremy,” Mr. Wayne’s voice boomed. It even sounded rich – not unlike a decadent dessert, “Lucius and I would like a word, if you have a minute or two.”

Jeremy pulled his patchy porkpie hat off of the hat rack and followed cautiously behind Mr. Wayne and Mr. Fox. Scenarios whipped through his brain, each more horrible than the last.

You’re being released, now that they’ve had your input and your assistance setting up the programs, illustrating the benchmarks, they don’t need you anymore. Or have they found Pockets sleeping in the warehouse, or worse, my apartment.

“Mr. Tetch,” Mr. Fox’s voice was calming, not decadent. Like a supportive, loving father, encouraging his son’s new venture. “I wanted to say that I may have misjudged your character.”

Mr. Fox looked down, then back at Jeremy, who struggled to make eye contact, even though Mr. Fox’s gaze had a peculiar way of following his. 

“As someone with a past that I’m not altogether proud of, someone who has been unfairly judged more than my fair share, I thought it was important to express my apologies,” Fox continued, “Not only do you deserve the second chance you’ve been given, but you have demonstrated the values that Thomas and Martha instilled in Wayne Enterprises all those years ago. You are an exemplar of our mission, and I am embarrassed to have so utterly mishandled your past. I hope that you can forgive me.”

Jeremy was at a loss for words, but before he could even think of what to say, his right hand left the brim of his fraying old hat, and shook Mr. Fox’s.

Thank him you git.

“Thank you, Mr. Fox. I suppose it all worked out in the end just the same.”

“I suppose it did, Jeremy. I suppose it did,” Fox smiled, and walked away, leaving Jeremy alone with Bruce, who put an uninvited and gigantic arm around his shoulder.

“Jeremy,” Mr. Wayne’s velvety baritone spilled forth like melted chocolate, “Could I take you for lunch? My treat.”

Jeremy (hoping it was done politely) shrugged Mr. Wayne’s arm from his shoulders, opening his mouth to answer, but instead, his stomach growled.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Mr. Wayne smiled. “I have some questions for you.”

-♞-

Chapter Text

“Anyone who believes what a cat tells him deserves all he gets.”

NEIL GAIMAN • STARDUST

Nine Lives

“Superman follows the law,” Mayor Basil Karlo explained. “Maybe they have some kind of code?”

“He’s a vigilante,” Councilman Jonah Jackson rebutted. “He breaks the law every day. What’s the use of this? People feel safer with Superman around.”

A beat.

“Do you honestly think that the Bat will just hang up his cape because we make a law against it? Murder is illegal, but he does that, too.”

The mayor nervously scratched behind his ear, raising his finger to make a point, and then withdrawing with a melancholy huff.

“Things are going to get much worse very soon. We need cover, or Gotham will get sued into insolvency. And we won’t recover a second time. Even Alfred Pennyworth isn’t solvent enough to handle another Depression.”

-♞-

-♞-

Selina Kyle exhaled, seeing her breath condense into a cloud in front of her. The sky was cloudy and starless, with only the light pollution of Gotham’s municipal district to make her partner, Lieutenant Jim Gordon, visible.

Jim took a drag of his cigarette, flicking it away, the red hot cherry streaking across the darkness like a firefly.

He was running himself ragged, and it showed on his face, and in the ever-larger splashes of gray in his auburn hair. Selina and Jim sometimes escaped to the roof to discuss their progress on the Superhuman Task Force. Or just to talk, or to hold each other, which was such an infrequent blessing as of late.

No one else in the department knew they’d been seeing each other, it was usually such a clandestine affair, and no one else in the department ever came up here, even though it was the perfect place to think. The roof boasted the best views of the imposing, Art Deco megaliths of the Gotham City Skyline. Front and center in a garden of giants.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he said, billowing forth a fountain of smoke after an overlong, breathless silence. “But something’s wrong, and you’re keeping it from me.”

Selina had to acknowledge that the man had good instincts as a detective.

“I had planned on saying the same thing, Jim. You’re…” she paused, searching for a way to describe his disposition, “you’re far away lately.”

“Mm,” Jim grunted, failing to elucidate. He pulled the cigarette case out of his coat pocket, and was visibly disappointed to find it empty. “It’s late, it’s cold, and I’m out of cigarettes. Let’s go downstairs.” He pulled open the door to the staircase, the light under the awning flickered. “You coming, Kyle?”

“Not unless you’re ready to call it a night,” she replied. “I need some time to think.”

“Suit yourself,” and the door swung shut behind her partner.

Selina began to pace back and forth. She was cold, but warm enough to stay, if only to avoid having to sit in awkward silence with the lieutenant, especially in the harsh, fluorescent light that gave the department the tone of pulp paper.

She’d been to Jim’s apartment three times in the last week, and he was only home once. She had a key, and even if she hadn’t, she knew how to jimmy a doorknob or charm a doorman; having a badge made scratching her “particular compulsions” much, much easier. Around here, the only kind of people who ever asked for a warrant were criminals and lawyers.

Her boots fell quietly on the gravel as she paced closer to the edge of the building and leaned over the ledge. The fire escape reminded her of running from cops, perverts, killers, and custodians. A decade of leaping off buildings and hoping they were up to fire code made the physical portion of the police exam a joke.

Selina stood up straight, and took a step backward from the ledge. Someone was on the roof with her, and they hadn’t come through the door. A deep breath, and she surreptitiously clicked the thumb safety on her 1911. The hidden Baby Browning she kept tucked in a specially-designed holster she cut out behind her belt (ever since September’s warehouse “raid,” anyway) almost never had the safety on.

The detective turned around, calmly, not wanting to give more away than needed.

Nothing.

Am I losing a step?

The office lighting, the insomnia, the endless overtime, and insurmountable paperwork. Reading and re-reading, interviewing and re-interviewing. Maybe it was getting to her. But then, she’d  never had a bad sense about this kind of thing. She was well-tuned to the feeling of being watched, because if she wasn’t, she’d be dead by now. 

When a guy stared at a woman like Selina, she always knew. But when he was analyzing her body behind her back, it set off a shivering, ready-to-strike feeling across her body, like an alleycat with its hackles up. 

And she could still feel the gaze. Alert and confused, she took a step toward the door, and stopped short.

“You’re–“

Time felt like it was slowing down. The airy voice was drowned out by the sound of the blood in her veins. She could hear the distant alarm bell blaring as someone broke the glass in a jewelry store. She ducked low and spun, pulling her Colt Government from its holster and squeezing off a shot at the source of the whisper. The whisper that she was certain was only inches from her neck.

The explosion from the barrel of her sidearm lit up the desaturated blue night into a fiery spectrum of reds, oranges, and yellows, and she beheld the object of her paranoia: a giant, black, demon-shaped tear that made the rest of the night look vibrant by comparison. It thrust forward, gliding silently over the gravel of the rooftop: Batman.

The bullet went right through it. No blood. No grunt of pain. I need backup and I hope that was loud enough for somebody downstairs to hear.

The spent shell made a muted clang when it hit the rooftop, and she was bracing her arm for a steadier second shot, pulling the hammer back manually on the semiautomatic weapon, and all in the frightening space of a single heartbeat, the Bat’s hand stretched out, reengaging the thumb safety on the gun. In lieu of an explosion, pulling the trigger resulted in the immutable rigidity of American steel, and a nearly-full magazine hitting the ground in front of her.

She turned the pistol over in her hand in a single motion, planting her foot and throwing all of her strength and weight into a swing of the gun’s handle like a club, aimed at the Batman’s head, and hitting only air when the Bat rolled its head forward and closer to her. The force of her attempted gun-butting almost spinning her around and exposing her back to the villain.

But Selina had always been impressively agile, especially when her life depended on it. She released the gun with her left hand, catching it in her right and pushing off of her planted foot. Her right hand balled into a fist and hammer punched her opponent in the temple. And the second attempt at hitting him with the gun was successful. Batman’s head jarred sideways, but he didn’t blink, regaining his balance before perceptibly losing it. 

And for the first time, the woman noticed his eyes: they were all black, and reflected the limited light like a lion in the darkness.

She lunged forward, positioning herself to spear him around the midsection, but fell short as he moved backward without any visible twitch of muscle. She wouldn’t believe he was tangible if the butt of her hand didn’t still feel the sting.

“Gord–“ the Bat began to speak again, but she twirled, and her hand was swinging out from behind her back whipping the Browning into position, the next graceful step in a fatal dance.

The pocket pistol in her hand was less powerful, but less familiar to Americans. She’d boosted the piece two years ago when some goon was getting too “hands-on” with a girl who didn’t look a day over nineteen. Selina, soft spot that she had for vulnerable girls in dangerous alleys, took the fella down with a knee to the midsection. 

The woman shouted “leave me alone” in a bizarre accent that Selina couldn’t forget or identify, and leveled the tiny gun at her. All it took to relieve the woman of her gun and her purse was a smile, a step forward, and some dangerously impulsive confidence. She knew that tonight wouldn’t be so simple, and hoped that Batman was an American.

Batman’s head was beside the gun when the shot was fired, and by the time the gun hit the ground, his face was barely an inch from her own. She could see his breath.

No human is this fast.

His grip on her wrist felt unbreakable, and she felt jealous of the beat cops who carried billy clubs, the strap would at least keep her from being as vulnerable to disarming. But Selina Kyle wasn’t the type of woman who allowed herself to feel vulnerable. She’d fought men before. Men bigger than her. Older and stronger than her. Men who insisted that she was a part of the family. Men who insisted their presence in her personal space was “fatherly,” and men who were “conceding to their animal instincts.” She’d fought cops before. For Selina Kyle, it felt like she’d been in a fight, on average, every single day of her life.

She wasn’t afraid to die, because she wasn’t going to die.

If he’s got balls, he’s wearing a cup. Go for the soft, sensitive, high-nerve-density inner thigh. It’s famously difficult to defend. Difficult to see, too, but here goes nothing.

Selina cocked back her neck like she was bracing to headbutt him, and then shot her knee up into the vague, billowing shadow where she thought his thigh should be. She hit something,  and snapped her wrist free, pulling his arm across his body and leaving his face defenseless. She punched at the only part of him that wasn’t just writhing darkness – his jaw. He stepped back, and so did she, holding her breath to avoid showing anything but relentless willpower.

“Detective Ky–“

She inclined her head less than an inch to the left. 

How does he know my name?

And then the doorknob clattered and shook.

Backup.

But the door wasn’t opening.

“Detective, listen,” Batman’s words sounded to Selina like the wind rustling a dying tree. She glanced backward to the door and saw the impediment. A jagged, black shard of something wedged in the gap between the hinges. “Lieutenant –“

“WATCH THE DOOR KYLE!” A muffled voice from the other side of the roof access.

Four gunshots rang out, blasting through the door from the inside, and as the door swung open, a slender leg in pinstriped, police blue, tailored Italian suit pants slid back into place beneath its body.

With a smoking pistol in his hand, Yiannis “Johnny” Gelio, commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department, was smiling. Fearlessly striding into the night air on the roof.

-♞-

“You!” Johnny shouted as he stepped out onto the roof. A sea of Henshaw Allied partisans washed out onto the roof at his side.

“Surround him! Like you practiced!” Johnny’s face spasmed into an unnerving grimace as he barked the orders, and he found himself pushing into the expression, reveling in the glee of having thirty-five of his men by his side instead of a paltry two. The militarized contract-police force who moved with precision and brutality forming an incomplete circle around their quarry.

I am Leonidas, king of Sparta. Tremble before the might of my awesome phalanx!

“I am Commissioner Johnny Gelio,” Johnny spat, “Batman, you are under arrest for the first degree murders of six children, and for violation of the CAPE Act.” Nobody needs to get hurt tonight, but we are prepared to use all the force necessary to bring you in.”

Batman was silent, surrounded on all sides by his cloak, and not even that swayed in the eerie stillness. A scar in the middle of the roof said to have reflective, animalic, unblinking eyes. Johnny took a step forward, breaking the circle, and eliciting a susurration among his men. The commissioner was cautious; a misstep on the gravel could leave him vulnerable, its kinetic messiness made it difficult to square up for a fight. 

He’d heard the rumors and read the reports: Batman is able to become insubstantial, like a shadow, or disappear in one place and reappear in another, he can fly, he can see through solid objects, and he’s tough, maybe even bulletproof.

But Johnny had seen him limp. And Johnny had stared down Superman, and the alien blinked, so he took another step forward.

Clink.

The commissioner moved his head in the direction of the sound, but his men maintained line of sight with the abomination. All were armed and positioned in accordance with the drilling that Gordon had designed and Johnny had improved. Each man pointing either a gun or holding a baton at the ready. Flass held an arcing cattle prod which Johnny thought looked quite dramatic, but that no doubt would run through its battery if the brute didn’t stop showing off.

Clink. Clinkclink clink.

“Put your hands up,” Commissioner Gelio spat the order at a noncompliant shade, stepping forward and pulling out his pistol lining up the shot with Batman’s…

Where are those glowing eyes of his?

Johnny was facing the Batman’s back.

“HANDS! NOW!” The commissioner shouted, and Batman’s shoulders moved, lifting the cape just slightly. 

Clink clink clink clink clinkclinkclinkclink clink clink clink clink clinkclink clink…

Batman lifted both of his hands, then thrust them downward, and leapt forward crunching glass and gravel beneath his feet in an assault of bright, blinding flashes and sudden, dense fog spilling out from beneath his cape.

“KEEP YOUR EYES ON HIM! DON’T LET HIM GET AW– hack – WAY! AND COVER YOUR MOUTHS, THIS IS A GAS ATTACK!”

The commissioner scrambled along the gravel, struggling to see anything more than a nondescript shadows, breaking formation and searching for open air. A cacophony of coughing and the muffled shouts of squad leaders trying to give orders from behind a shirt or handkerchief.

BLAM!

A gunshot. Ringing out in the pandemonium with the unmistakable timbre that could be nothing else.

BLAM! BLAM BLAM!

These idiots are firing blind!

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

Johnny felt the gentle whoosh of moving air. He could hear the grunt of exerted effort, and he intercepted the punch, delivering a flurry of multiple jabs to the body. He couldn’t see, but he was fighting on instinct. Years of perfecting his body to overcome his disability, training for speed, instinct, and anticipation. This could be the Bat. His shoulder shot upward into the most vulnerable part of the arm, breaking it with a violent crack (heard even through the padding) at the elbow, and his gargantuan assailant slumped to the ground. The convergence of preparation and opportunity? A decidedly not intimidating voice, high in pitch, wailed in agony, and Johnny cursed inwardly.

He walked past agent Corelli’s oafish body, and the fog began to dissipate, helped along by a group of men flapping their jackets like blankets at a smoke signal.

I lost him.

“You lost him?” Johnny asked angrily, impulsively.

The agent he loomed over – Fiorello – just turned twenty this week. His face was cherubic, but disrupted by scars across his eyebrow and forehead. The kid was round and stocky, and Johnny had personally seen him enforce the curfew a time or two, and he was a scrapper. And he was cowering under the gaze of the commissioner.

“I– there were gunshots,” Fiorrello said, shrinking away. 

Johnny leaned over the edge of the roof, and saw a motorcycle driving northeast.

“Inside, now, we need to discuss where we fell short.”

His men coughed and hacked, but when they met Johnny’s eyes, everyone but Flass froze.

“Everything okay, boss?”

The commissioner traced the wrinkles on his face with his fingers, and with a strain, flexed his jaw. He didn’t look confident or prepared. He looked like a clown. 

“Inside.”

He stalked back toward the door, jerking it open.

“Selina – I’m sorry – Detective Kyle,”, Johnny set his face into concern, and extended his arm to the detective. “You alright?”

Selina batted away the offered hand, flexing her fingers, and walked through the door.

-♞-

“I thought you said no guns,” Dick cried, flapping his arms like a fledgling robin. “I know you said no guns, because you always say no guns.”

Bruce groaned. He sat at his workstation, stripped down to his underclothes and toweling his face with a damp hand towel. His eyes were bloodshot from the nitrogen smoke, and his head was pounding from breathing CO₂  (and no small amount of the smoke…and getting hammer-punched in the temple, probably). Alfred brought another bowl and a glass of water.

“Grappling hook wasn’t great unless you were shooting down,” Bruce said after some controlled, deep breaths. “I started tinkering with the original design, and at some point, I asked why not use gunpowder? It’s a much more reliable propellant, and doesn’t require the hook to be corked into the,” he paused to think. “I guess it’s a gun.”

“Are you telling me I could’ve had a piece this whole time?”

Alfred chuckled.

“Does this look like a piece to you?”

“Piece-a-garbage,” Dick mumbled, examining the small, crude thing. 

Alfred chuckled again.

“It does look very –,” Alfred started.

“– Improvised,” said Bruce. “It’s going to be further developed, but it hel–.”

“– I was going to say ‘stupid,’” Alfred completed his thought.

Bruce let out a deep breath, and went back to tending to himself.

Gunfire was unpleasant. It rattled Bruce, not just physically, but mentally. Almost spiritually, if you could call it that. Alfred had described it as shellshock, a term people started using after the War. But in the costumed detective-cum-outlaw world, you have to truly adopt a different persona when you put on the mask. To Bruce, this meant delaying the shudders, the nightmares, the fear.

Moreover, this was a gun as a tool for something other than killing. From a utilitarian standpoint, it made more sense to have more options that ensured he didn’t die, and taking one off the table because it gave him the willies would be irrational, even if the fear itself was not.

This isn’t a compromise, it’s an upgrade, he thought. If you’re better equipped, fewer people, yourself included, will die.

-♞-

Water was running in the sink where Selina Kyle stood in the women’s washroom, staring at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her wrist was just a tiny bit sore, but she, for the most part, was none the worse for wear. She splashed more cold water on her face; having mostly avoided the miasma, she was breathing easy. Aside from the metallic, bitter taste of adrenaline, she felt normal. A little on edge, but normal. She rolled her shoulders, and moved her neck in a circle to limber herself and shake off the anxiety.

You took on the Bat one on one to a stalemate. He didn’t even get a hit in. 

She put both of her hands on the sink and leaned over. In her mind’s eye, she saw the fight happen again, her throwing punches, shooting at him, and – he must’ve hit her at some point, right?

Again and again, the fight replayed in her memory, and, aside from grabbing her wrist, she couldn’t recall him even touching her. Pain check: throbbing in the heel of her hand, bruise on her knuckles, sore knee, sore wrist.

He deliberately didn’t even get a hit in.

What had previously felt like a boast in the immediate aftermath of the chaos, now felt like a revelation. He was jackrabbit fast, demonstrably strong, and hardier than anyone she’d ever scrapped with. And he hadn’t even hit her. It became more and more clear to her that he was capable of completely incapacitating her, but he just hadn’t. In fact, Batman put himself in a much more difficult situation by not taking her out.

Selina Kyle stepped back from the sink.

Crunch

There was something foreign in her front pocket that she hadn’t noticed before. She reached down and retrieved a folded piece of paper with “Gordon” typewritten on the outside.

She hesitantly opened the note, and read nonsense and scattered letters.

Ciphers were certainly not her thing. Assuming that’s what she was seeing, her internal conflict suddenly flared.

Jim, or Johnny?

The impulsive choice was Johnny. She didn’t like him, but he had power. Not that he was unpleasant to look at, but he had an aura of narcissism that gave her pause. It was easy to see a scenario where he would discard her. And, importantly, she didn’t like him. But Jim – where had he been when Selina needed saving? At least, when she thought she needed saving. They were supposed to be partners, and he shouldn’t have left. He felt distant. And Johnny had made the initial gambit:

“Detective, may I see you in my office?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Have a seat,” the commissioner indicated the leather chairs – new, luxurious leather chairs – directly in front of his desk. Selina sat down. But instead of sitting across the desk, he sat in the chair directly next to hers. It was a surprising tactic, and she was sure it was meant to engender trust and get her to let her guard down. Knowing about the maneuver didn’t, unfortunately, mean it wouldn’t work, and Selina thought she’d need to keep her guard up.

“I want to talk about the work of the task force.

“It’s becoming increasingly clear that Lieutenant Gordon is pushing himself too hard. Men have told me he’s slept at the office on multiple nights, and his engagement in the trainings he leads, while competent, is disconnected from our team. He enters the room late, debriefs everyone without answering questions, and leaves, locking himself in his office until interviews. You’ve seen it: he doesn’t eat, he isn’t sleeping well, and it’s a chore for anyone but you to get more than a grunt from him. Trust is a two way street, detective, and if the other officers – whether they’re union or Henshaw – stop trusting him, someone is going to get killed.”

“I understand, sir,” Selina was sitting straight in the chair, but the commissioner was leaning toward her, increasing the sense of intimacy and amplifying the implied urgency. “What can I do?”

“You have the lieutenant’s ear. He trusts you, and the two of you work well together. I want you to deliver reports to me if anything seems off. Changes in routine, unwarranted complaints about other officers. I won’t even need specifics,” Commissioner Gelio paused, and raised an eyebrow. Selina didn’t know whether he was expecting an answer or if the gesture was one of his spasms.

She couldn’t deny that this felt less like snitching and more like looking out for Jim.

“Can I count on you to help me with this?”

The conversation from mid-September was as clear as if she’d just had it. It didn’t feel like it was helping, but it certainly wasn’t making things worse. 

This was the first true test, though. 

She had spent years without feeling guilt. The world had done so much to her that no amount of retribution against it could balance the scales. Burglary, heartbreak, or murder could all be justified. It’s America, after all. Ambition has more value than loyalty, and a commissioner, strictly speaking, is a more valuable ally than a lieutenant.

Why not both?

She had a typewriter at her desk. Why couldn’t she replicate this, and hand off a copy to both of them? Who would know other than her?

Selina folded the note and put it back into her pocket, turned off the sink, and marched back toward her desk with the confidence of someone who wasn’t going to die.

-♞-

Chapter Text

November 29, 1917 

__

Bruce Wayne folded the letter. There was nothing to be thankful for today, but he headed downstairs to help in the kitchen. Maybe that would take his mind off of the unending war that took away his best friend and mentor and older brother. He enjoyed shelling peas alongside Miss Margaret. She rarely spoke except to instruct kitchen staff, but she could be counted on to offer a kind smile, a loving hug, or a glass of lemonade. Smelling of figs and sandalwood didn’t hurt either.

With a third colander of fresh peas in hand, Bruce was intercepted by James, one of the groundskeepers, a man who had served thirty years in prison for the revenge killing of a man who’d taken his daughter’s life. James was an enormity of a man with hands the size of Bruce’s head. But he was gentle and soft-spoken, with grey-lavender eyes like Bruce had never seen before.

“Missus Martha wants to see you Mister Bruce,” said James. “She’ll be in the dining room.” 

A child zoomed by them, and Bruce was reminded of the staff who brought their families with them for Thanksgiving, to dine alongside their employers. It was one of his favorite days, but without Alfred, it was gloomier.

“Thank you Mr. James,” Bruce said with a smile, and trotted down the hall.

“Bruce, dear,” his mother was wearing an apron, not altogether rare for her, but uncommon, to be sure. “Please set an extra place at the table. We’re welcoming a special gues – one moment Rita!” Bruce’s mother smiled and hurried from the room. 

Nineteen place settings.

Bruce’s heart started to pound. Was it even possible that Alfred could be coming to dinner? He shook his head, took a deep breath, and dismissed the hope. Unless the letter had been part of some elaborate ruse, he’d know if Alfred was coming.

Three dragging hours later, Bruce was dressed for Thanksgiving Dinner, and, descending the stairs, heard his father speaking on the other side of the front door to someone with the timbre and vibrato of a revivalist.

Bruce rushed to the door, opening it to greet his father and their special guest.

“Ahh, Bruce, my boy,” his father’s eyes twinkled and he beamed, indicating his scion with pride. “Eugene, I want you to meet Bruce, my son. And Bruce, this is Mr. Eugene Debs. He’s the man who unionized Wayne Enterprises.”

The bald, wrinkled man had large ears and liver spots on his face. He was thin, ghastly thin, and seemed to have a short, straight lain for a mouth. He bent low, and the line curved just slightly, and extended his hand to Bruce, who took it in bewilderment. 

“Quite charming to meet you, Bruce. Thomas has so much to say about you as an emerging intellectual.”

“Thank you, Mr. Debs. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Dinner should be coming right along, Eugene,” said Thomas. “Would you join me for an aperitif?”

-♞-

November 28, 1918

It was 5:00 in the morning, and the War to End All Wars had itself ended.

Bruce Wayne had only had three hours of sleep, which suited him just fine. The Scion of the Wayne family was in the kitchen staring into the chest cavity of a damp turkey, only recently removed from its brine bath.

“Now,” began Miss Margaret, “hold your hand up to mine.” Bruce did, and the woman, who was not notably tall or large, had a hand that was only slightly bigger than Bruce’s. “See, smaller hands can do the delicate work of rubbing the spices into the turkey. That bowl has the spices. Take a small handful in each hand.”

Bruce followed Miss Margaret’s instructions, ready to cover the bird in the damp mash of oils and herbs. Miss Margaret stopped him at the stool.

“The secret to a good, moist turkey are in the brine and the baste. But the secret to a flavorful turkey, is in the rub.” She lifted the turkey’s skin on either side of the chest. “Push your hands under the skin, and massage the flesh with the spice rub with vigor. You’ll feel it pull away from the fatty skin – that’s alright, that’s how we get the flavor inside the meat.”

The rub was already cold and clammy, but the underside of the skin was unpleasantly cold, and, well, fleshy. Bruce massaged with all the vigor he could muster, and there was something hypnotic about the task.

“Now let’s wash up, and get this bird to roasting.”

Bruce scrubbed his hands under the rush of hot water, then wiped them dry on his nightshirt, then sniffed them, frowned, and went back to scrubbing. Miss Margaret handed him a steel ladle.

“If you rub this on your hands while you wash, it’ll remove the onion and garlic smell, but you’ll need the brush to get under your…” Miss Margaret looked at the boy’s nails, bitten almost to the quick. “Oh no, just the ladle should do.”

“This has to be perfect for Alfred,” Bruce said, not with hope or excitement, but with nervous tension and concern. “What else do you need help with?”

“Go back to bed Bruce,” Miss Margaret stroked his hair, and it had a pacifying rhythm. “No other work can be done until 7:00.”

The kitchen was decidedly not bustling with workers, and it would’ve been if more work needed to be done. Bruce sniffed his hands again, noting that they didn’t smell of onions and garlic, and gave Miss Margaret a long, teary hug.

“I’ll be back at 7:00 sharp, I need to stay busy.”

“We all miss him, Bruce.”

After an hour and a half of rolling over in his bed, Bruce brushed his teeth for a second time. He made his bed and straightened his night stand. He returned Hound of the Baskervilles to his bookshelf, and put on his house shoes, once again descending the steps, and journeying into the kitchen.

A stepstool was set beside Miss Margaret, with a giant pot of unshelled peas. Without a word, Bruce started to crack them into the colander.

None of the work took long enough. Bruce would complete one task, and move on to another. He would try to help with things he’d never done before. 

“Would you like me to mow the lawn?” He asked James, hopefully.

James just returned a puzzled look.

“Grass ain’t growin’ Mister Bruce. It’s nearly December.”

The boy was all nerves and impatience and obsession and details and details and DETAILS.

“Bruce, do you want to go to the garage?” It was one of the children, Isaac, who Bruce normally enjoyed playing with very much.

“I can’t right now,” he answered in tones like one of their parents. “There’s much work to be done.”

“Bruce,” a sharp shout from his mother, that immediately turned gentle, “take Isaac and Jill to the garage. Climbing on the cars and trucks will help you to pass the time.”

Bruce sighed, conceded a “come on,” and led his friends to the manor grounds.

It did seem to help passing the time, but it didn’t relieve him in the way that chores had. Nevertheless, the call of his mother’s voice carried across the yard, and Bruce bolted back toward the grand estate of his family.

“Please set the table,” she instructed, and Bruce knew it meant that neither dinner nor Alfred were far away.

Staffers and his mother began placing dishes at the table, which became a village of cloches of varying sizes. The largest, of course cloaking the turkeys, which were brought to the table last.

After doing everything that he could, Bruce toiled in great room by the doors, alternately sitting on the stairs, opening the door, or pacing around the perimeter. He saw his father’s blurred form, but his father was distinctly alone.

Bruce couldn’t hold the tears back, and he didn’t want to. His father hugged him tightly.

“He must’ve been on the second ship,” said his father. “He’ll arrive later this evening, and we can eat with him again, if you’d like. I’m sorry Bruce. But you can come with me to pick him up this time.”

Bruce nodded and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“Go wash your face, and let’s have some dinner.”

Bruce dragged himself upstairs to change into his dinner clothes, washing his face, and coming back down to the dining hall.

There were three open seats at the adults’ table – Alfred’s, Miss Margaret’s, and his own. He sat down in his seat, next to his father and directly across from Alfred’s empty place setting.

“Bruce, would you like to lead us with what you’re thankful for?” his mother called from the other end of the giant dining table.

But Bruce didn’t feel thankful. He felt disappointed. And he worried that Al’s ship wouldn’t come in. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, and stood.

“This year, I’m thankful that the war is over. I’m thankful that so many of you are healthy, and that for the most part, we’ve avoided the ravages of this pandemic. I’m thankful that Miss Jennifer and Mrs. Hazel, and Mr. Owings seems to be recovering well, and that they are receiving the care that they need. And mostly, I’m thankful for all of you. For keeping this household together and being a part of this large and often unwieldy family. Your grace through the fires of war and illness and the absence of Alfred has been commendable. Thank you all.”

Bruce sat down, and raised the glass flute of white grape juice along with the others at the table en salud, took a drink, and then left his plate unfilled.

“May I be excused?” the boy asked his father quietly with tears in his eyes.

“Of course, Bruce,” his father answered, understanding. Bruce walked slowly from the dining room, and ran toward the kitchen to cry.

Bruce was blind with tears, almost knocking over Miss Margaret who was on her way to join the rest of the family at the table. He embraced her tightly.

“It’s okay, Bruce,” she said, soothing him with rhythmic strokes of his hair. “It won’t be long now.”

Miss Margaret held him for another ten minutes before he finally let go. 

“I’m sorry for making you late for dinner,” he said through softening sobs.

“It’s alright,” she smiled at him, and her eyes were moist, too. “Do you want to come to dinner now?”

Bruce shook his head.

“If you’d like, I’ll sit with you in the kitchen, or on the back terrace.”

“No thank you. I’ll *sniff* manage.”

The two hugged again, and Bruce walked to the kitchen, his shoulders raising and lowering in great heaving breaths.

When he crossed the threshold to the kitchen, his tears came flooding back.

A ghost in the khaki fatigues of a British enlisted man was eating mushy peas, turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce, standing at one of the washing sinks.

“I just missed your father, and it was forever before I found a cab, and I –“

Bruce rushed to the man, hugging him with every bit of his strength, and wept full on.

Sergeant First Class of the U.S. Army, and Captain of the Royal Armed Forces, and Best Friend of Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth hugged him in kind.

“I missed you too, Mister Bruce,” Alfred said, wiping a tear from his own face, and squeezing Bruce even more tightly.

Bruce Wayne finally felt truly thankful.

Chapter Text

“Hades, all the fine suits in the world won’t change the fact that you stink of death.”

RACHEL SMYTHE • LORE OLYMPUS

Loose Ends

Gotham Police Commissioner Yiannis “Johnny” Gelio was spinning an ever-more-precarious number of competing plates.

There was his new position on the Board of Estimates. Three hundred Henchmen (Johnny hated the nickname, but it refused to come unstuck around the department) furnished by Henshaw Allied, which was in no uncertain terms, a shell corporation for Carmine “The Roman” Falcone. And those henchmen needed to be groomed into loyalty to him, to the work of Justice. The work of preserving the enlightened Man against the brute force of Gods. 

Carmine Falcone represented the Old Way. Something unencumbered by the modern understandings of quote-unquote legitimate business, and Johnny was providing a modern take on police work with a mind on the future, corporatist organizing that was doing so well in Falcone’s homeland.

But there was the inherent conflict between “keeping the peace” and the ominous threat of Falcone’s illegals. Not something that Johnny had to be afraid of, per se, but that didn’t stop him from giving more responsibility and overtime opportunities to the Greek, Polish, and Irish henchmen. A little extra insurance was easy enough to come by.

In all of this, his people – the people of his city were getting restless. Between the heated local politics, the constant, looming paranoia of The Bat, the moment seemed ready to foment popular action. But Chaos was fickle, and Eris could rearrange even Athena’s best plans.

The brutal efficiency of his henchmen were creating a precarious push toward boiling over. Fourteen non lethal officer-involved-shootings in as many days, and four people dead at the hands of police just this month.

The people had been pushed to their limit: law and order didn’t mean much until the proper systems were in place, and in Gotham, the system was broken in multiple places. 

Roosevelt was making an honest effort to set these systems up properly, but it was clear that the man’s mind would eventually fall into the same disrepair as his body – Johnny had seen the man’s bizarre gait, and was certain that the poliomyelitis that afflicted his body was being diminished only by a concerted conspiracy on behalf of the press. But he knew the President would succumb, just like Althea had.

I could’ve taught him a thing or two.

Roosevelt surrounded himself with trade unionists and communists – there were rumors that Stalin himself had illegals in the White House – but FDR governed in a way that did show a remarkable understanding of the gears within the machine. Roosevelt was governing as though the plot of Capitalism was a waning, ephemeral thing, and Johnny agreed.

The kind of populism that Wayne and his kid brother were peddling could be re-framed and made appealing to men like Falcone – but not if the people were so aligned against their bosses. 

In Johnny’s view, the best strategic move that Thomas Wayne had ever made was resigning after he unionized his business – he got to live out the (admittedly small) remainder of his days with the wealth of building a successful business, but without any of the enmity of his subordinates. And the truth was, there shouldn’t be enmity. The people and the bosses should all have similar goals based on the work they do, and similar power to advocate for those goals with the government.

Police, steamfitters, and school teachers all had different priorities, and a state that reorganized around industrial syndicates and recognized and accounted for those priorities by giving everyone some of what they wanted was a model that was taking hold to great success in Italy. Eliminate class not through some homogenization of everyone’s economic station, but by letting things be as the should be already, with bosses and laborers working toward new innovations daily. 

The Nazis were attempting something…similar in their new Germany, but they were taken to atavistic evaluations that didn’t sit right with the commissioner, having been mistaken for Jew, Slav, Italian, and Ottoman, Johnny found himself agreeing with the Italian Prime Minister that “national pride has no need of the delirium of race.” 

That said, Johnny had to admit that getting the negroes to fully trust the police did present a complicated and arduous conundrum. One made more complex by the presence of the wealthiest colored man in the country living right in town and, by all accounts, sowing unwarranted distrust between his officers and the people of colored communities.

All of this was just a facet of what he’d need to discuss with Falcone after the dust settled on the recent, unfortunate violence coming from his adjusting department. After the debate and after the election. Carmine would be a much easier sell if the conversation with the man they currently had in custody went (accounting for chaos, of course) according to plan.

Johnny approached the latest addition to the department: the superhuman entry, interrogation, and detention room; or “S.H.E.D.” Filippou and Zaleski kept watch over the interview thus far. The commissioner unlocked the many bolts and twisted the handle to the lead-lined box, and Lieutenant Jim Gordon emerged.

“He isn’t saying shit to me,” Gordon said, the frustration only barely showing in his murmuring.

“It’s alright Jim, we’ve got time now,” Johnny placed his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder. “Go home, get some sleep.”

“Yes sir,” Gordon answered, pulling a cigarette out of his jacket case and striking a match against its exterior.  

At a lead table, with lead bracelets connecting his gigantic wrists and ankles, a hulking man sat silently. It was, in fact, remarkable that he was still alive. Hastily-tended bullet wounds in his bicep, shoulder, and ribs were just beginning to clot, brown stains on the dressings we no longer getting larger. In the hollow, washed out light, the cape that was clumsily strewn on the floor looked more deep, blood red than black. The man’s blonde hair was drawn back in a ribbon behind his head like a secretary’s, his scraggly beard made him look older than Johnny guessed him to be. 

Johnny would be the first to admit that it didn’t make any sense: bullets were lead, and they couldn’t stop Superman, but the material stopped his x-ray vision, and it might have a more profound effect on other varieties of supermen. For now, this was the best solution they had, but it occurred to the commissioner that the man shackled to the table was toying with them, or that he was trying to get “inside the department” to do more damage; thus far, he hadn’t made his move.

The stench was unsettling. For all of this monster’s blessings in strength, speed, and power, he played an exceptionally convincing Gotham City invalid. In a way, the man looked like one might imagine a modern Mordred to look. A dark knight of sorts, and an adversary to Order.

“Mr. Valley,” Johnny started, pulling the door shut behind him where it was rebolted by the guards outside. “Should I call you Batman, or do you go by The Batman?”

 -♞-

“Apprehended?” Lois Lane shouted it into the phone, and no one seemed to notice, except Clark. Clark always noticed. Lois offered him half a smile and then sat down in her chair and spun so she was facing away from the farm boy from Smallville. “Vicki this better…I just…me? Me, specifically? Why me?” Lois listened to the voice on the other end of the line. The woman was talking a mile a minute, and Lois was scribbling notes in shorthand onto a tattered stack of scratch paper that had maybe, at one point, been a legal pad.

“Thanks Vick, I’ll figure it out and we can touch base when I get to Gotham.” Lois put the receiver down on the cradle. She pushed her chair out, and stood up, performatively brushing nonexistent wrinkles out of her  dark blue pencil skirt.

Five minutes later, there were muffled shouts from Perry White’s office. When Lois emerged, she was again, rubbing her hands along the front of her skit to straighten out creases that weren’t there.  Not a single hair was out of place.

“Everything alright?” Clark asked with that clumsy-but-authentic empathy that Lois found so grating. He opened his mouth to say something in followup but Lois just held up a finger at the ape of a man.

“Mm,” she answered, only making eye contact with Clark for a passing second. She picked up her phone, and clicked the cradle twice for the operator. Lois didn’t want to give Clark any further details, but she didn’t want to be outright rude either. She just needed to make arrangements and discussing her feelings with the guy who she too often caught undressing her with his eyes wasn’t high on her list of priorities. “Mary? Can you please get me Vicki’s desk at The Voice? Thank you.”

Clark closed his mouth and turned back toward his typewriter, hunting and pecking for keys with all the grace and speed of a donkey.

“Vicki? Hi. Yes I’ll be coming in by bus in a couple hours. Is your photographer available? Perry is sending Jimmy to Washington to get pictures for the Townsend piece…Okay, I’ll figure something out…at half past six, yes. Oh Vicki, only if it’s not too much trouble…Oh, thank you Vick…Maybe you can give me more notes over a martini at the Iceberg Lounge. That won’t be a problem, I know a guy, I’ll introduce you.”

A beat.

“It’s a private club, Vick, the curfew won’t matter. Anyway how is that curfew still in effect if they have him in custody? Excellent, I’ll see you then,” Lois hung up the phone, piled some papers together into a messy stack, threw her coat over her shoulders, and pulled on a pair of suede gloves.

“Have a good weekend, Smallville,” she said, shoving a pen into her moth and heading for the elevator.

Clark Kent set his jaw and searched his typewriter for the “B” key.

 -♞-

“I want to thank you for these interviews Commissioner. If they’re newsworthy, they’ll be in the evening edition of tomorrow’s Planet, though I’m afraid the Batman interview will supersede yours.”

The commissioner smiled politely, and the Voice’s staff photographer, Spence something-or-other started snapping pictures of the quiet, poorly-ventilated facility, which Lois presumed was previously used for evidence storage.

“I think I need to state for ethical reasons that, while many assume that an exclusive interview would afford them some level of quid pro quo , that won’t be the case here. I cannot make any implicit or explicit guarantees on what these interviews will look like after the editors work their magic, and either or both piece may not even see print. I have been told I ask tough questions, and I would never compromise my reputation as a journalist by sending puff-pieces to print.”

Gelio’s face creased, just barely, into a frown, and Spence blushed, looking away under the guise of taking more shots. Vale had insisted he was a good photog, and she’d started as a photojournalist, so Lois trusted her, but the kid seemed easily rattled.

“Ms. Lane,” he said, furrowing his brow in consternation, “I brought up your name to the man we have in custody because of your reputation. And it seems you’re the only person that he’ll speak with.”

Lois made a puzzled face, pursing her lips. The commissioner, whose body Lois thought to be what a marionette brought-to-life might look like, did a pantomime of grace that was equal parts unnerving and mesmeric. 

“Follow me,” the commissioner rolled his neck and slunk toward a small room. Lois noted the officers standing guard outside of a larger, more ominous windowless cube that sat conspicuously in the center of the caged-concrete bullpen of a sub-basement. 

“My plan is to give you a brief rundown on what we know about Mr. Valley, and tell you about our containment and security procedures, how we’ll work to keep you safe during the interview, and then allow you to do your work.” Gelio was methodical, sounding like these protocols were rote, and like there wasn’t a vampire-monster-superhuman being held within the cement-and-lead cube they’d passed on their way to this makeshift office. “Does that work for you?”

Lois nodded. She didn’t love the idea of having too much background going into an interview – information like that tended to inform a bias, and the police were especially crafty when it came to trying to influence stories but this Valley character, like his Batman persona, seems to have just sprung into existence out of the shadows.

“Jean-Paul Valley, who has confessed to being the individual known as ‘Batman,’ was, according to his own accounts, born in the year 1412 in Vosges, in the North of France.” The commissioner stopped, staring stoically into Lois’s eyes. Lois didn’t love it when people tried to read her like that, but her expression was ambiguous, betraying nothing of the lunacy that she’d just heard.

“I’m sorry, I’m not quite up to date on geography,” Lois broke the silence. “Isn’t that the village where and the year when Joan of Arc was born?”

“I’ll admit I’m not a student of Western History,” Gelio confessed, “but if those details are ringing a bell for you, then it wouldn’t surprise me if that was true. Unfortunately, there is no birth record of a ‘Jean-Paul Valley’ in Gotham or anywhere in New Jersey, New York, Delaware, or Pennsylvania. While we are conducting more expansive research into this, we have, more or less ruled out that he is a five hundred year old Patron Saint of France.

“What we have been unable to rule out is the possibility that this individual is a former resident of The Arkham Hospital Asylum For the Medically Hysterical and Criminally Insane – the hospital used to be,” the commissioner’s eyes seemed to search for the right words, “suspiciously easy to break out from, and prior to the most recent renovations taking place on the island, there was a serious fire and a mass breakout. So our Batman could be a former patient. We also, with some level of skepticism, of course, have not conceded the possibility that he may be a so-called Kryptonian or a visitor from some alien planet, such as the individual called Superman claims to be.”

“Why are you skeptical of that possibility?” Lois questioned, pen at the ready.

“I believe that Superman has shown…remarkable qualities, but I’ve looked the man directly in the face, I’ve seen his movements and heard his voice. I’m skeptical that he originated in outer space as well, and, while this isn’t the official position of the department or Mayor Karlo, I suspect that the story of his dying planet lacks the substantive evidence needed to be taken at face value.”

“How do you mean?” Lois had her doubts, to be sure, but she wondered if the commissioner had any novel theories that she hadn’t discussed in her meetings with Luthor. Maybe she would find a correspondent ally in Gelio.

“He’s said his ship burned up in the atmosphere, so why didn’t he burn up? And – and mind you I’m no astronomer – it seems convenient that he tells us he comes from a planet that was literally destroyed, so even if we had technology powerful enough to find it in the sky, it wouldn’t be there?” Gelio paused and rolled his eyes. “I’d bet he’s a government experiment. If he had an accent or was blonde, I’d bet my bottom dollar he came out of Germany. They’ve made a lot of claims of advancements in our understanding of genetics?” Gelio emphasized the second syllable, making the word sound like “ Jen-UH-ticks.”

“Genetics,” Lois corrected.

“Yes, pardon me. In any case, we cannot fully rule that out, but the suspect has not demonstrated any of his observed preternatural abilities since being brought into custody. He has been remarkably calm, showing no indications of pain while he received wound care from our medical staff, and–“

“ Wound care?” Lois was more incredulous than she’d wanted to let on. “Superman has never been wounded. Bullets flatten against him. How did you apprehend this man?”

“He was sleeping, in costume, in a site of interest,” the commissioner sounded more self-satisfied to Lois than he had before. “A number of the drifters we’ve spoken with in the area identified this as a place where they’d witnessed someone matching the description of the Batman. Dark costume, cape, a tendency to work at night. We found him intoxicated on what appeared to be several bottles of low-quality, possibly prohibition style gin, and were, after a minor engagement, able to take arrest him and bring him in.” The smug tone lingered, but Gelio didn’t smile.

“Why were there wounds ?”

“Valley is exceptionally strong. Both in this confrontation and in previous confrontations he has been observed to move at unnatural speeds and to have high durability. In a sting where I was personally present, I observed him to jump through a brick wall from a third story warehouse. The suspect was easily able to overpower two of our officers using unorthodox combat techniques, and run, almost losing us in the process. Thank god for broad daylight though. Detective Selina Kyle gave fresh pursuit on foot, and, in order to avoid a repeat of previous entanglements, discharged her service weapon four times before other officers arrived. She’s the real hero.” At this , the commissioner smiled.

“Ms. Lane, Jean-Paul Valley has not shown any signs of violence or resistance since we put him in chains early this morning. The only thing he has done aside from request bread, water, and for someone to write the confession that he would eventually sign is to ask for you, specifically . He has not eaten any of the provided food or drank the water, he has not relieved himself or requested to do so. He has not been observed to sleep, and he has spoken aloud infrequently. We consider him to be exceptionally dangerous, mentally insane, and to have abilities and biological prowess beyond our comprehension. You will not be left alone with him, and a syringe that has previously been able to penetrate his flesh filled with a high dose of tranquilizer will be ready for administration should he become aggressive or show any signs of potential threat. This is obviously not any thing resembling a guarantee of your safety, but we believe that, given the circumstances and protocols we have in place, we are doing everything within our power to minimize your risk,” Lois nodded, and Gelio continued: “I do want to reiterate, however, that this is done at your own risk and liability, and that we will not bear any financial or medical responsibility for what happens here today. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

 -♞-

Barbara Gordon was concerned. The debate was three days away, and Dick was pacing back and forth in the dining hall.

“I don’t think you understand, Barbara. When people hear what I am saying they overwhelmingly agree with it. That’s why Karlo is so afraid of the debate. It’s why he wanted to do it private, with no reporters and no radio. He doesn’t want to give people the time to think about the comparison.”

“That’s just it! People need to hear what you’re saying, Dick,” Barbara blew a sputtering sigh out in annoyance at her principal. “And they won’t magically absorb your comprehension of complex or bureaucratically-entangled policies just because you use lots of big words.”

“We haven’t been insulting people’s intelligence before, why start now? Gothamites are smart and well-read,” Dick shot back. “They know what tools Karlo has used to try to keep them down.”

“Aren’t you at all concerned about how well you’re doing? About how many people we’ve logged as ‘likely or strong support?’ Because if you asked me what was the downfall of the ostensibly-good kings or military leaders in the books I’ve read, the answer is hubris more often than not, and no amount of whining about how you didn’t get your way is going to conjure the votes you need to win after they’ve already been counted.”

“Karlo completely underestimated us. If anyone is overconfident, it’s him.”

“Dick.” Barbara didn’t immediately continue, letting the pause turn the candidate’s name into a jab. “How many years have you been the mayor of Gotham?”

“What?” Dick asked, confounded. Bruce and Alfred opened the door to the dining hall quietly, taking seats across from Barbara’s like a couple who’d arrived late to the theatre. 

“Clayface has been doing this job, however poorly, for nearly eight years. He had a plot to be Mayor that relied mostly on being a well-known actor. He had name recognition. And he made it obvious very early on that he was willing to listen to less-than-savory ideas if they came with the right kind of ‘gifts.’ Maybe I need to ask this question another way.” 

Barbara began rummaging through a leather briefcase, leafing through inscrutable paperwork to find something in a filing system that only she understood.

“Wayne Industries and the Pennyworth Foundation employ more people in this city than any other organizations,” Dick said with defiance. “They’re the first and third largest employers in Gotham, and number two is municipal workers.”

“Got it!” Barbara exclaimed, pulling out what looked like an old playbill and the sample ballot for the elections. She slid the latter towards Alfred, no doubt roping him in to one of their quarrels. Al was always a good sport about it, and if Barbara thought hard about it, so was Dick. He might get annoyed or loud, but he rarely took criticism personally, even if it sometimes led to his family needling him. “Alfred, could you please read to me who is running for mayor on this ballot?”

Alfred smiled, and cleared his throat.

“Dick (Richard) J. Grayson appears first and on two separate party lines. Mayor Basil Karlo appears next, with both his title and indicia that he is the incumbent . ”

“Alfred, does it say ‘kid brother of Bruce Wayne, the guy with the buildings?’ Anywhere on the ballot, or possibly ‘youngest son of the third wealthiest man in the world, but he has a different last name?’”

“Overdoing it,” Dick supplied. Al made no effort to stifle his snickers, even Bruce gave a single, genuine chuckle.

“You say this is overdoing it,” Barbara picked back up, “but even your employer ranking scheme doesn’t work, because guess who signs municipal workers’ checks? On a fundamental level people know that they’ll still get paid if someone else becomes mayor, but there’s a feeling in the gut like ‘what if the transition goes poorly?’ And it’s a fair question – how many of those municipal workers can afford to miss a paycheck, however unlikely that scenario might be?

“And how many movies have you been in? Because Karlo was a bonafide celebrity before he ran for mayor. The guy knows how to deliver a line.”

“But I’m not going to lose a debate to him! He’s not smart, and people will know that when they see us go head to head.”

“He’s not constrained by the truth, either,” Bruce added. “That’s a disadvantage.” Bruce stood up, walking to the head of the table, and Dick accepted the invitation, rising from his own seat.

“How is it a disadvantage? I can just point out if he’s lying,” Dick sighed. “People trust me.”

“It’s a disadvantage because you have to teach people something new. Your ideas are appealing if people understand them, but that ‘if’ has a lot of work to do.”

“The mayor gets to take shortcuts by lying, and it is much easier to construct those lies within the framework of the familiar, so they’ll sound true,” Barbara joined in. “ And there’s a political machine to contend with. We’re still missing precinct captains in crucial districts. How much money do you think Karlo or Falcone would have to pay someone to ‘lose’ a few ballots?”

Dick cracked a knuckle against his jaw.

“So how do we prepare for that ?” Dick asked, tussling his hair.

“Shorten the inferential distance. Make sure that the average person in the audience has the comprehension needed to come along for any rhetorical rides you want to take them on. And victory will need to be decisive. You’ve got three days.”

“But how ?”

“If you don’t understand the words someone says,” Barbara joined in, “you just get confused, or you tune out. But if you know the constituent words, you can make it mean anything.”

 -♞-

 Lieutenant Jim Gordon turned the typewritten page over in his hand.

Invisible ink?

He held the paper up to his desk lamp, waiting for it to warm up, or to detect a watermark.

Nothing.

“These off the cob bums have no idea what detective work really is,” Gordon muttered to himself. “Highfalutin codes? What am I supposed to do with this. Who can I even ask?”

Gordon crumpled the page into a ball, and made to toss it into the wastebasket, but hesitated. He uncrumpled the paper, and folded it into his breast pocket, lifting the dingy patina’d phone from the cradle.

“Barb,” he said to the voice on the other end of the receiver. “Hey sweetie. You ever read that Abigail Christie?”

A beat.

“Agatha, that’s her! What are you doing for dinner tonight?” Jim lowered his voice into a more inconspicuous tone, “I need some help on a case.”

 -♞-

“I haven’t really done codes since junior high, dad.” Barbara admitted. “But I read Murder on the Orient Express.”

Her father grumbled, and Barbara suspected it was because he had no time for leisure reading anymore, or possibly because he didn’t much care for detective stories, which he described as oversimplifying his work.

“What was the solution?”

“Everyone,” Barbara paused, trying to remember all of the passengers. “Twelve people – I think.”

Jim rolled his eyes and muttered more discernibly. 

“If that isn’t the stupidest goddamn thing…”

“It says ‘hack’ right there in the note, Dad.”

“So it does,” an annoyed sigh. “So what’s the rest of it mean?”

“You know I bet Bruce could solve this, if you’d give him a chance,” Barbara said, and her father just stared. “ Failing that , let’s see. So ‘rotate’ probably refers to a type of code,” Barbara tore out a page of her notebook as the waitress came by, refilling her father’s coffee mug, and setting down a plate of meatloaf covered in beef gravy in front of him. Barbara’s grilled cheese was set down with the waitress’s other hand, and father and daughter thanked her as she walked away. “There’s a code called a ROT-13 that was invented by Caesar, I think?” 

She pushed her plate out of the way and began writing. 

“So if this is a ROT-12 , then maybe the letters that don’t look as crazy aren’t part of the code? Maybe they’re a clue or a separate message? I noticed that ‘Crow donut’ and ‘Ear Numb’ feel like they might be just scrambled letters, and ‘all of them’ feels a little too clean. So…” 

Barbara laid the letters out, with additional spaces between each, whispering letters under her breath as she solved.

“W...O…D…no…”

Then, a moment of contemplation bursts with electric excitement.

“Word count, (a number)!” Barbara triumphantly showed her father, who had tucked a paper napkin into his collar, and was grinding a bite of meatloaf with his teeth. “And maybe ‘all of them ’ is referring to the number of killers in the book.”

She began quickly drawing a tiny grid. Twenty six letters up and down, and twelve numbers across the top. Then she filled in each letter, hastily scrawling them to the point of only the barest legibility.

“So let’s assume that’s this rotates each letter 12 times, that gives us this:

a liberal tiny 

rumor avenge a 

velveteen lemon 

heel a clean finch

“And what if this is an anagram for the solution? We need to make twelve words out of these letters.”

“Anagram?”

“Words that you can jumble up to make other words, dad.”

Barbara turned the napkin over, writing the partially decoded message again, and then created a line of all the letters, in alphabetical order:

a a a a a a b c c e e e e e e e e e e e f g h h i i i l l l l l l m m n n n n n n o o r r r t t u v v v y

“Twelve words,” she tapped her lip with her pen, “hmm, twelve words. Gotham?”

She wrote the letters to Gotham, scratching through one each time it was used, like solving a hangman puzzle with a lot of duplicates.

a a a a a a b c c e e e e e e e e e e e f g h h i i i l l l l l l m m n n n n n n o o r r r t t u v v v y

“Hill? Gotham Hill? Is that something?” She looked up at her father, who stopped, mid-chew to shake his head, his reading glasses glaring the last shards of sunlight to the point that she couldn’t see his eyes. “Wait. L…I…B…”

a a a a a a b c c e e e e e e e e e e e f g h h i i i l l l l l l m m n n n n n n o o r r r t t u v v v y

“Gotham Library!”

By the time she had twelve words she found acceptable, it seemed almost as jumbled as before.

“Gotham Library Eleven Eleven Eleven Atrium Alone Final Chance? What in the world is ‘ eleven eleven eleven?’ ”

Her father turned the paper around, holding out an open hand for Barbara’s pen, which she handed off, tapping her foot under the table, and remembering her sandwich (which was cold enough to just be a cheese sandwich at this point), took a disappointing bite. 

“Hrm,” the detective scratched through the letters making up the three elevens, and began writing.

11/11 11(o’clock). Gotham Library Atrium. Alone. Final Chance.

“Shit.”

Barbara had solved it, but hadn’t considered that it could be a date and time, (though whoever had given this to her father had wildly overestimated his prowess with puzzles).

“Dad, who did you say this was from?”

“I didn’t.”

Chapter Text

“Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.”

KURT VONNEGUT • SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE

Parallels

 Sitting in the Commissioner’s office, hued a high blue-green by the fluorescent lighting, Aurelio Liberatore considered the work he was doing. Aurelio wore a badge and had access to every police building in Gotham, but he wasn’t truly an officer of the Gotham Police Department.

The job paid well, and he got to keep himself in fighting shape. But the title of officer wasn’t extended to contract workers. Contractors – like Aurelio –  were placed with the department through a company called “Henshaw Allied,” a multifarious organization with a speciality in “private security services.”

In most of New Jersey, that meant union busting , but the places in Gotham that wanted a union had a union. Not to mention, hiring scabs in The Big Gargoyle was basically an invitation for Wayne Enterprises to come in and do a hostile takeover. 

The free market giveth, and the free market taketh and maketh more equitable.

Technically speaking, Aurelio’s title was agent , but he held a particular affinity for an epithet that had been hurled at him (alongside stones and glass bottles) by the people of Gotham: brute.

The long, lean, and unnervingly stoic man with a pointy, hard set face sat down across from Aurelio. To the agent, the man looked like a woodcut of Niccolò Machiavelli that he had seen as a boy in the old country. Young, confident, and with a lie ready for any occasion, but a lie that lived underneath layers of truth. He was a general-king, the kind of leader who strode into battle at the front of his regiment. His men trusted him, and Aurelio was slowly becoming one of his men.

Commissioner Johnny Gelio looked directly into Aurelio’s eyes. In most of their work, which was work without the benefit of the full light of day, the man’s eyes appeared a light, dull brown. But here, within arm’s reach, Aurelio could see flecks of dazzling emerald orbiting the commissioner’s unblinking hazel irises. Red veins streaked across them like lightning, a clear sign that the commissioner was doing too good of a job of leading by example. Gelio took a deep breath.

“Agent Liberatore, in your own words,” the commissioner’s lip twitched so slightly that Aurelio might have missed it if he didn’t know about the man’s condition , “please explain what happened when you were on patrol the night of October 30th.”

C.P. Gelio noted to Agent Panagiotou that the two suspects matched description of curfew-breaking vandals charged with malicious mischief for intentional disfigurement of Flying Sphinx statue located in Powhatan Park. At this point, I called out to the individuals, requesting  curfew passes.

NOTE: Curfew begins at 6 o’clock p.m. which had been updated from 7 o’clock p.m. to match more closely with keeping streets clear after dark. Suspects ignored the request, at which point C.P. Gelio and patrol agents approached suspects in an orderly and courteous manner.

- - - - 

“You boys are out awful late! Let’s see those papers’ fellas!”

Jesse slowed down and looked at his watch, pointing at the time, and indicating to Walter that they were still thirty minutes from curfew. The air was filled with mingling aromas of restaurant trash from the alley and burning wood smoke piping out of Gotham chimneys. 

“It’s only 5:30, and we just got off work,” Walt shouted over his shoulder. “Heading home for the evening now. Have a good night!” The air was cool, but not so cold that Walter could see his breath. 

“Are they cops?” Jesse whispered, and Walter shrugged in answer.

“Can’t really tell, too dark,” he said under his breath. Walt’s heart started beating faster. The police had become especially dangerous recently, or at least that was the chatter – the papers tended to publish their stories based on official comment . People were dying though. Walter’s auntie had told him about a man who she was sharing a taxi with on her way to an overnight shift at Farck & Foster, when the man was pulled out of their yellow cab, and beaten relentlessly. He’d provided a curfew pass from the pharmaceutical manufacturer, and Aunt Bertina was told to head on to work, and that her co-worker would receive the needed medical attention. 

The man never returned to work, and she’d attended his funeral last Sunday.

Jesse leaned in close, “Look man, let’s stop and talk to them, show them where we’re going, and we should be fine. Whaddaya say?”

Walter couldn’t focus. He might have agreed if he could sort his thoughts, but instead, he just tapped the back of Jesse’s arm and increased his pace.

Jesse looked back at the men following them. Overcoats. Shiny shoes. And one of them was freak tall, something was off about the way he moved.

“I think that’s that new commissioner, Walt,” Jesse said. “Walt?”

Walter kept walking. Not any faster, but he didn’t make any indication that he was slowing down.

“Dammit, Walter.” Jesse shuffled up to Walt, grabbing him by the elbow. “It’s the commissioner. Let’s just let them do whatever they’re going to do, and get the hell home. It’ll be okay. Walt?”

Walter just turned and looked at Jesse. Seeming to shake off an almost fugue-like distance.

“Yeah. Um. Yes.” He muttered.

The two restaurant workers stopped, and turned toward the group of lawmen.

- - - -

C.P. Gelio re-stated the initial request for Curfew Passes, remaining calm and courteous and inviting cooperation from Wise & Cook. Cook muttered something to Wise, at which point Agent Panagiotou warned the men about speaking in a foreign language in front of our patrol.

- - - -

“Look, officers, we don’t have passes at the moment. We usually walk home, and it only takes about ten or fifteen minutes from here.” Jesse was trying to be charming, but there was a catch in his voice, between the brisk air and the tense situation, he was getting nervous. He’d heard Walt’s story  about Mr. Holland and it seemed like everyone in the neighborhood had a story about a run in with the curfew patrols. Assuming the stories were true (and at least half of them probably weren’t) the cops had killed about a dozen guys. Even cutting that number in half, they’d done more harm than this dracula that all the kids were spooked by.

“If you’d like, I could go back to Dimitri’s and ask Whip for a couple passes?”

“Dimitri’s eh?” The voice bled from the commissioner with a lilt that seemed unnatural. “Grew up with his family. He working?”

Walter shook his head, Jesse just shrugged.

“Never actually met him, but he hired Walt,” Jesse explained. “Whip hired me, and he’ll be there for a while longer, I think.”

“His father was a gambler,” the commissioner spat. “His mother slept all day. So we just ran the streets, getting into all kinds of trouble.”

Jesse chuckled, and to Walt he sounded nervous. 

“You two wouldn’t have been getting into any trouble earlier this week, would you?”

“Sir?” Jesse asked, the fake smile evaporating from his face.

“Just you don’t often see a pair of fellas like the two of you walking toward such a questionable neighborhood after dark without being up to something.”

“We work together,” Jesse said, but he made the statement sound more like a question. “I always kind of thought Keaton was a good area. Safe, ya know?”

Walt’s chest felt tight. He closed his eyes, hard, trying to breathe deeply.

“You pointed that way when we asked where you were headed. Only thing down there is Fingerton and the harbor.”

“Sorry, sir. I must’ve got disoriented.”

“Not a problem. Just want to know where the two of you were the night the statue got busted up,” the spindly officer set his jaw and Jesse noticed that he didn’t sound relaxed, but his face was a blank slate. Free of any visible emotion. Like he was straining to keep a straight face.

“I didn’t know any statues got busted up,” Jesse said. 

“Hm,” grunted one of the officers, who leaned to whisper something to the commissioner that Jesse didn’t catch.

“Why don’t you go ahead and get those passes, son?” Jesse nodded, pulling Walter’s arm. The commissioner nodded, adding “He can stay here and wait. You wouldn’t leave your friend, would you? What is he a mute?”

“N-no sir,” Jesse answered, releasing Walter’s arm. “Walt, get a grip man. I’ll be right back. Alright?”

Walt just kept his eyes closed and nodded, and tried to focus on breathing.

- - - -

Suspect Cook ducked into the same alley from which he and Wise had emerged, ostensibly attempting to use the shadows of the alley for cover.

- - - -

Walter’s hands were in the air, as if to plea for compassion, but he was gasping in panicked, sharp breaths while being held by the collar of his coat in the grip of one of the officers. Jesse started coming into focus in the distance, then bolted toward the scene.

Jesse was a good kid, but that wasn’t doing either of them any good. 

“Officers, I have the passes! I have the passes,” Jesse waved his hands emphatically. All of the officers and Walt turned toward the commotion of Jesse’s approach. A woman climbed out onto her fire escape two floors up, having heard arguing outdoors. The world moved in slow motion, punctuated with an officer spitting onto the ground.

Jesse slowed his pace, catching his breath. He tried to force a smile as the officer released his grip on Walter, who hit the ground, hard, but he would be okay. 

And then, Jesse reached behind his back to pull the folded forms from his waistband.

“Whip gave me the pa–“

“GUN!”

BAM! BAM!

Jesse slumped onto the cobblestone street.

“WHY–“

BAM!

More windows opened up. More heads poking out to see about the commotion in the darkness. Walter’s hands were pressed against his gut, and a bloodstain was spreading on his apron.

He fell to his knees.

- - - -

I discharged my service weapon, incapacitating Cook, Agent Antonelli then attempted to administer medical attention. I left agent Antonelli and suspect Cook to assist fellow agents with Wise, but upon arrival, suspect was bleeding out on the ground from a gunshot wound to the stomach.

Per the report and confirmation of C.P. Gelio, suspect Wise had made threatening gestures, eventually striking agent Santori and attempting to take his service weapon, at which point C.P. Gelio fired a shot, which grazed agent Santori and hit suspect Wise center-mass.

Both suspects died at the scene before the arrival of paramedic or fire department.

”Thank you Agent Liberatore,” the commissioner never broke eye contact. Aurelio wasn’t nervous because of what happened. Nervous wasn’t the right word. Things had been tense over the past weeks. Curfew patrols, and often conflicting orders from his boss and his Boss . 

“We’re going to take care of this, Liberatore,” the young commissioner of Gotham City wasn’t prone to smiling. Aurelio had patrolled with him more than once, and had been as close to him as he allowed any of the contract agents to get. Aurelio had never seen the man laugh or so much as smile. The rumor had been that he couldn’t control his face to even form a smile. “Keep your head down for a few more days, and things will be fine. The whole city is about to forget that the curfew even happened.”

Gelio must’ve thought himself some kind of Svengali. People had long memories, and this made October the deadliest month for curfew breakers (so far). 

Eight people had been killed (or shot and then died in the ambulance or a hospital bed), three of them just in the last week! 

Walter Wise was the third guy who had been personally shot by the commissioner in October, and the second one to die. Aurelio had to admit that Johnny Stoic had a way with words, but there would have to be a pretty big break to sweep these latest bodies under the rug.

As he thought about it, Aurelio considered his expectations – he sat down at the commissioner’s desk expecting to get canned, but Gelio made no such implication. The man treated them well enough, but there was something to be said for famiglia .

“Could you please send in Antonelli?”

“Of course, sir,” the brute nodded, and left the commissioner’s office.

-♞-

Lois Lane left the Gotham City Police Department Central District Headquarters with pages full of notes from a commissioner who had all of the obvious narcissism of a politician, and all of the vision of one of a labor organizer.

She understood how someone would find that charismatic (even if she personally didn’t). Lois had to admit that he made Gotham sound like a place with a bright future ahead of it, and she hadn’t felt that way since she had first come to the city on field trips in grade school. 

Metropolis was unquestionably the better of the two cities, which didn’t feel like a fair comparison. Gotham’s motto went so far as to acknowledge this. Quod in urbe umbra suspectus Olympum translated to something like “What is this city in the shadow of Olympus?” 

Even giving Gotham her very own resident god, the motto was more true now than ever.

The interview with Gelio was too much of a puff piece, and Valley was whacky enough that Perry would never run the piece, but mashing the two together was probably newsworthy, enough, and the Voice would pay her her standard rate for a thousand words and a byline. 

Lois breathed in the comparably fresh air of the city streets, worrying that the smell of Jean-Paul Valley would never leave her nostrils.

I don’t know Batman, Lois thought as she rounded the corner toward the Gotham Voice building, but I’d bet my bottom dollar that that fella isn’t a super human.

At the reception desk, Lois Lane produced her credential and got into the elevator. 

“Four please,” she said to the elevator operator. She needed to get to a good typewriter, and Vicki would have some nip bottles of gin in her desk drawer. 

-♞-

Mayor Basil “Clayface” Karlo hadn’t slept well. Not knowing the disposition of Falcone’s illegals was a source of major stress, and ‘Face had half a mind to cancel the evening’s debate.

The mayor anxiously swapped between neckties, needing to prep for the press conference that he’d be leading on the steps of City Hall in less than an hour. He had his talking points, but he knew that Commissioner Gelio was likely to upstage him. 

In any case, it would be a big win for him, and there wouldn’t be a better day to hold the debate than today: Ending the curfew and the manhunt for a dangerous child-killer would be the crowbar he could use to bludgeon Grayson.

By the time he made it to his office, it was 7:30am, and the morning edition of the paper was folded on his desk. Back when he worked as an actor, his pals always told him not to read any of your own coverage, and at this point, the mayor thought of reading the story like a jinx. The picture of Valley didn’t do justice to the man’s monstrous size, but you could practically smell him through the image. It was appropriately haunting.

And now, he’d get to deal with the press on his terms. In the twenty two hours since his police commissioner had arrested the Batman, Mayor Basil Karlo had not taken any requests for interviews, aside from a single sentence to the reporter working on the story, and his secretary had been unrepentantly telling callers that he was out of the office.

So Basil was unsurprisingly jumpy when the intercom on his desk blared to life. It was Dorothy telling him she had Carmine Falcone on the line.

“Put him through, Dorothy.”

Dorothy connected the call, and Basil hoped that she knew that this was not a call she for which she could stay on.

Carmine wasted no time with a flurry of questions and thoughts and expectations. And Basil simply listened.

“I can’t give specifics just yet, Carm, but, yes, we have him in custody. Yes. Batman. The Batman.” the mayor said into the phone. “He’s a little uh, Carm ? Carmine? “

Without another word, the line was dead, and Mayor Karlo stared at the handset.

-♞-

Smoke billowed out of the building, filling the night sky with black clouds. A pair of black boots ground against the gravel on the roof, and a rebreather was whipped from belt to face in a single motion.

The Batman dropped in through the skylight counting off heartbeats, and stood low below the smoke line.

He laid a coughing child soaked in tears over his shoulder. The kid didn’t look badly hurt, but he was red with first and second degree burns.  

The Bat stepped to the window with the collapsed fire escape and began working it open. He tried not to imagine the outcome of just breaking the glass with a child slung over his shoulder, and wondered if the kid’s mother had the insurance coverage she would need.

The curfew allowed for the fire to not be quickly attended. That meant that Batman would be able to talk to the mother, and direct her toward resources she would need.

I’ll leave an envelope of cash at the shelter for her, he resolved. Hopefully she’ll come in for it.

He manually deployed the cable of his grappling hook, winding it around a floor radiator, and then his free arm, and leapt from the window, rappelling down the wall to the street below. Batman stepped toward the child’s mother handing the hacking toddler to a weeping mother. He calmly whispered the information about the shelter to her, assuring her that after she left the hospital, there would be a bed available for her and her son for as long as they needed it.

Batman stepped out of the glow of the burning building, and into the darkness of an alley.

- - - -

Steam billowed out of the shower, filling the bathroom with dense fog. A pair of bare feet slapped against the polished stone floors, and a white towel was whipped from waist to clothesline in a single motion.

Dick Grayson dropped to the floor counting off pushups out loud, and stood again when he’d reached fifty. 

He laid a washrag soaked in cold water over the scar that Superman had burned into him. It didn’t quite hurt anymore, but it got red and angry whenever hot water hit it.

The boy wonder stepped into the shower and began working a bar of soap into a lather. He tried to imagine possible outcomes of the evening’s debate, and wondered if it would garner the kind of newspaper coverage he was hoping for. 

The curfew meant that the debate would only be attended by press which meant Dick wouldn’t have the advantage of playing off the crowd. 

Neither will Karlo, though, he reflected, and he’s a professional performer, too. 

Dick considered how Barbara Gordon refused to relax, and she took too long to warm up to people, and she wagged her finger at him a lot, but Dick was certain that they’d hired the right campaign manager. She was an incredibly fast study, and, she had an innate understanding of the way of thinking that Al and Bruce had drilled into him. Even if she didn’t know she always understood. She argued well, and made legitimate challenges to Dick’s way of thinking on almost every vector (except police, but nobody’s perfect). If Dick was ready, it was in no small part because Barbara never underestimated Karlo. She compelled him to consider angles he otherwise wouldn’t.

Dick stepped out of the shower and onto the floor of the bathroom.

Chapter Text

“Sometimes you make up your mind about something without knowing why, and your decision persists by the power of inertia. Every year it gets harder to change.“

MILAN KUNDERA • THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING

Inertia

TOP COP GELIO: “BATMAN IN CUSTODY”

-♞-

Alfred Pennyworth took the silver tray containing the morning’s papers from Misses Ella Worthing, and thanked her, pushing open the door to his favorite room in the house. The family portrait above the mantel was an oil painting of Alfred, Bruce, and Dick, but in a cutout at the center of bookshelves on the opposite wall, remained a smiling family portrait of Thomas, Martha, and Bruce Wayne.

Alfred believed that he’d beaten the younger man to the library, but Bruce was dragging his finger across a page of Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle.

“Listen to this,” Bruce said, not looking up. “‘They were trying to save their souls- and who but a fool could fail to see that all that was the matter with their souls was that they had not been able to get a decent existence for their bodies?’ It is a miracle that this book didn’t spark a Revolution by itself.”

“It saved lives, Mr. Bruce,” Al said. “Surely more than a Revolution would have cost, but probably fewer than a Revolution could’ve saved, in time. But it is unequivocally better for public health that we no longer eat diseased sausages and tubercular beef.”

“Hm.”

“The Voice and The Planet,” Alfred offered the folded papers to Bruce, setting the tray down on a small table, and took a sip of his black coffee.

“Do you think he’s ready, Alfred? Dick, I mean,” Bruce asked, unfolding the morning edition of The Gotham Voice, and placing his copy of The Daily Planet on the ground next to him.

“Age and experience make cynics of all of us,” Alfred said, cracking a modest smile. “Mayor is a job for an optimist.”

Bruce closed his eyes and nodded without a word.

“But the cynic in me wonders,” Alfred continued after a beat, “is Gotham ready for Mister Dick?”

Bruce chuckled at that, and Alfred took a seat in the chair facing Bruce’s. Each man removed a pen from his shirt pocket, and silently began to read the front page of The Gotham Voice.

Their process was so similar that to an observer, it would appear choreographed.

First, a scan of the articles for specific headlines, relating to the debate, the curfew, or, in this case, the Batman. Then, underlining or circling relevant passages and quotes, scratching notes into the whit space between columns, murmuring or nodding thoughts quietly as they read something that bore reflection.

And so it was that father and son, within moments of each other, refolded their newspapers, placed them on their laps, and looked up at one another.

Alfred was a man who wasn’t often at a loss for words, but, as Bruce opened and closed his mouth without actually saying anything, Al only managed to say:

“Well ain’t that something?”

-♞-

There were easily more than a hundred and fifty people in the street immediately in front of the steps of Gotham City Hall.

Some of them, unquestionably hoped to get a glimpse of the urban legend Batman, some wanted to hear directly from the mayor that the curfew was ending, and some were just victims of the human predisposition to gathering in crowds (regardless of whether you know why you are gathering in a crowd).

But many of them – about fifty if Johnny recalled correctly – were there at his request. There was no reason to leave the recognition that the Gotham City Police Department deserved go without the requisite fanfare. This would be a public relations victory for the mayor, for the department, and for Johnny. And if it couldn’t happen organically, Johnny would put his thumb on the scale like he had with Ms. Lane.

He hadn’t planned on her just transcribing their interview from last night, in fact he was certain she wouldn’t, but he’d said enough to give her the quotes she would need for a story about the visionary young police commissioner who supported his officers and gave them the resources they needed to claim victory against the oppression of a terrorist. By the end of it all, Valley was as good as in the chair for his crimes, and Johnny wasn’t just a hero, but a champion for mankind’s ability to rise to any challenge.

And all it had cost him was giving the exclusive to a reporter who would probably win the Pulitzer this year for her interview with Earth’s first superhuman.

Johnny didn’t like playing games, he liked setting up the board so that any sequence of moves led to a victory for him.

In Gotham, a culture of distrust in the media meant that the citizens would second guess even a world-famous reporter writing for the local paper of record. The city’s reputation for violent crime made it easier to show the need to win an arms race with criminals and get his department the resources they needed. Between the curfew and residents’ concerns about a supernatural serial killer, a precipitous drop in violence was all but inevitable. And the honey on the baklava was a lack of community faith in policing, which paved the way for better-than-average cops like Gordon to deflect from the more aggressive approach that Johnny knew the city needed.

Things didn’t always line up perfectly like they had in Gotham, but knowing what “perfect” looked like and being first in line to be a part of it was the kind of opportunism that could make Gelio a household name.

Commissioner Johnny Gelio stood patiently. Straight-faced, he betrayed no emotion in his dress uniform, not a crease, pin, epaulet, or pleat out of place. Behind the stoic façade, he gleefully pulled his tongue across the back of his teeth.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Gotham City, we have lived in fear, and in darkness for too long. Because we are Gothamites, because we are a city built on big ideas and even bigger ideals, we value our humanity above all else. But importantly, we value one another, because that is what differentiates humanity from humans. We have cooperated to be more tolerant and understanding of one another, working together to identify and…” Karlo pushed a pair of reading glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “…apprehend the individual responsible for the deaths of our sons. We stood firm, rejecting the idea that any price could be equal in value to human life!

“We have given up so much in these last months; for safety, we made the necessary bargain of sacrificing a degree of freedom.” Basil paused here, for too long, and Johnny almost expected to hear hissing at the idea. “It was something our forefathers warned us against. It’s why we had great minds toiling on how to best negotiate that bargain, how to ensure that power was not abused, and that there was a horizon and that we would all again be able to see the first rays of morning light emerge from behind that horizon. Because people – human people – need the sun. Just as in the ‘Star Spang’led Banner,’ ‘Dawn’s Early Light’ is a quintessential part of who we are, and in Gotham, Humanity Comes First.”

Applause and scattered but enthusiastic cheers erupted throughout the gathered masses.

“Today is that sunrise. Today, we get it all back. Earlier this year, we became the first city in America to have a woman detective. And detective Selina Kyle is a bona fide hero! She will be the first in what I am sure will be a rich tradition of women proving that their competence and aptitude more than makes up for any difference between them and their male counterparts!

“Just last month, we became the first city in the world to make a law regulating these so-called supermen because in Gotham, we believe Humanity Comes First.”

A roar of affirmation punctuated the mayor’s words, and even Johnny thrust his hands together to show support.

“I am proud to announce that yesterday, in another first, Gotham City became the first police department in history to peacefully and professionally apprehend and contain a superman. With the news of multiple cases concerning Metropolis’ Superman being heard in the United States Supreme Court, we know Gotham has made ourselves humanity’s vanguard, challenging and, in fact, defeating any notion that mankind is not our Creator’s greatest and most prized and beloved achievement.

“It is with that same spirit that I introduce to you one of Gotham’s greatest achievements. A champion for Humanity, and, in my humble opinion, one of our most successful sons –“

The mayor was interrupted by an even louder ovation than before, one that he obviously hadn’t expected, which hadn’t come at one of his poorly-planned applause breaks.

“Yes,” the mayor chuckled, sharing a wide smile and a grateful wave. “Yes, we feel the same. Yes. If Gotham is the vanguard of humanity, then Gotham’s men and woman in uniform are the spear. And it is my pleasure to introduce to you, the hero who is, by all measures, the tip of humanity’s spear – Commissioner Johnny Gelio!”

Johnny’s men in the crowd started whooping and clapping, and rhythmically stomping their feet. And it was more than his “plants,” others joined the chants and cheers and hollering in kind.

“Today,” Johnny began. His tone was even and cool, but he set both hands on the lectern and gripped the sides with the knuckle-whitening ferocity of a latter-day Jonathan Edwards delivering unto the assembly a Fourth Great Awakening; one that would free humanity from Gods altogether. “I want to thank the people of Gotham for their patience, their understanding, and their assistance through these dark times. As Mayor Karlo said, we have worked together to put Humanity above any assertion that there is something better than us. Today, I am in the debt of the brilliant, decisive, and brave people of Gotham City. I want to thank Detective Selina Kyle for her exceptional bravery and initiative,” here Johnny stopped, raising both of his hands to spur cheers for Detective Kyle, which came in turn. “Her willingness to put herself in harm’s way in the name of protecting this city and the people who call it home cannot be questioned.”

More raucous cheers, from plants and others alike.

“I want to thank Lieutenant James Gordon for his leadership in assembling what would become the Super Human Task Force, which will surely be a model for police across the country.”

Cheers rang out at the mention of Gordon, and at the mention of the department and the standards it was setting for a world where demigods walk among us.

“Our esteemed mayor hasn’t mentioned this, and I thank him for giving me the honor. I’m sure you’ve read it,” Johnny allowed his mouth to play at a grin. “In fact, I’m sure this is why many of you are here today: Effective immediately, the curfew is ended.”

Cheers sprang from the crowd, and Johnny waited for them to die down organically, making no overtures to wanting to interrupt the acclaim.

And in the tumult of the latest round of applause, a man in a black overcoat and hat took his leave.

-♞-

Carmine “The Roman” Falcone was in one of his cars, being driven away from his estate in Pinewood Barrens within minutes of hanging up the phone.

To The Roman, taking matters into his own hands was a surefire way to get things done, and the arrest of the murderous freak was just more supporting evidence. Henshaw Allied had been a good investment, and could continue to serve as a formless business entity, providing a legitimizing front for almost any need. He could keep it legitimate because of the systems he’d set up to run the business, regardless of its purpose.

A direct intervention from him could stop Henshaw Allied from taking an action, but failing that, the shell company would move along whatever course it was on as though everything were completely on the up-and-up. Financing expenses through contracts, investments, and a trust that Falcone had set up through a third party.

Carmine had believed in inertia ever since he’d learned the word for the concept. Allow things to stay in motion unless acted upon by an outside force: him. That meant nightly, weekly, and monthly phone calls to check in with his people at various levels of his myriad organizations, but it also left him with a number of self-sustaining streams of income which would outlast him and create wealth for his family in Gotham and back home long after he…

Maybe having Silvio killed was short-sighted , Carmine thought.

Today, he would see justice served. And when justice was served to Carmine’s satisfaction, he would make the call to send his people home. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Basil, but Carmine knew the kinds of lengths that cowards would go to to protect themselves.

Already in motion, was a scheme set up to ensure Basil’s victory. But no amount of ballot box stuffing would be a win for ‘Face if Carmine’s madness was allowed to descend upon Gotham.

Falcone exited his car, whispering something to his driver on the way out, and slamming the glossy black door behind him. When he entered the Central District Headquarters his eyes were moist with the brisk morning air, which was a fortunate and relatable truth because his emotions roiled within, and it wouldn’t do for the cops to see a man such as him cry.

“Mr. Falcone,” said an agent who Carmine didn’t recognize. Mister felt so incorrect. He’d been explicit with Piccione’s handler – Italians were a priority, and from the Old Country whenever possible.

The Roman shot the man a look out of the side of his eye; Carmine thought the guy had the asiatic subtleties of a Russian, but he didn’t detect an accent. He put a hand on the agent’s shoulder, and gave him a respectful nod.

The agent said something he couldn’t hear to the officer who was working the front desk, and then turned and beckoned Carmine to follow him.

Falcone was acutely aware of the odd lighting. It cast a desaturating hue onto everything, making it look like an old penny pulp cover that had been washed out from sitting in the sun for months.

The agent opened a metal door, and they descended concrete stairs into a basement hall. The sign to the right of a very conspicuously different door covered the words “Evidence II” with masking tape, onto which was written “SHED” in black block letters.

A keychain jangled in a deadbolt, and SHED was opened. This damp-looking blue-hued cavern of a room was what became of Carmine’s donation to the Gotham Police Benevolent Society. A dull, windowless cube dominated his view, and Carmine Falcone marched toward it, outpacing the agent who’d been escorting him.

The man standing guard at the door saw Carmine and looked him in his eye, stepping in front of the door, and unlocking the various latches and bolts which housed a shackled monster, an armed guard, and a telephone.

“Signore,” said the guard, pulling the door open, and flooding Carmine’s olfactory senses with the high ammonia scent of stale piss and the recognizable body odor of an opium user. Falcone dropped his overcoat and hat on the ground outside the door, not wanting to ruin them with what seemed like a very enduring odor.

Entering the cell, he cast a disgusted look at the guard within the box, not understanding how he managed to maintain his watch without so much as a mask. The guard pulled his billy club off of the loop on his waist, and set it on the floor. The dull thud of metal on metal suggested to Carmine that the club was, like the room he stood in, made of lead.

“The phone, if you need us,” said the guard, and he exited the room without making eye contact, closing the door behind a man who was pulling a handkerchief around his face and tying it into a makeshift mask.

A gaunt but muscular invalid sat at a table that was fastened to the ground in the center of the room, and The Roman heard the bolts click shut behind him. He was shackled into a pair of bracelets that looked a part of the table, and his ankles were likewise restrained at the table’s legs.

He looked like a man who’d survived among the tigers in Kipling’s jungles and had only recently been rescued. He was bandaged and stitched in multiple places, and his filthy, inconsistently-matted blonde hair was tied in a ribbon behind his head.

Carmine wasn’t interested in explaining anything to the man. Strong? Sure, the man looked like a brick shithouse, but you don’t develop the Falcone Crime Family from a collection of numbers runners and bootleggers into a multi-million dollar enterprise by not pressing your advantages.

This monster should suffer, but Carmine could think of better ways to be cathartic. This was about putting a definitive end to unquestionable evil. Carmine owned a judge or two, but there would be no chance for this diavolo to rot in Arkham. It wasn’t worth the risk, and the chair took too long.

Falcone picked up the nightstick, it was cold in his hand, and heavy.

“Look at me you piece of shit,” Carmine commanded, but the man just coughed.

Carmine took a step forward. A rush of air. A spatter of red. A thunk of a man’s head falling dead onto a lead table.

Falcone dropped the club on the floor with a clang, and picked up the phone.

“I’m done in here,” he said, and put down the receiver.

The door was unsecured, and it opened to two men running in, and Carmine emerged feeling triumphant.

The commissioner of the Gotham City Police, Johnny Gelio, stood in the blue-hued room with a face that betrayed no emotion.

“Thank you, Johnny,” Carmine said sincerely. “In my book, you’re as revered as any made man.” The Roman opened his arms as if preparing to hug the commissioner. “I’ve told my guys. Anything you need, it’s yours Johnny. Anything. And tell ‘Face that I took care of that thing for him.”

“Carmine,” Johnny began, two agents tackling the former crime boss of Gotham City. “Falcone, you are under arrest for the murder of Jean-Paul Valley, aka The Batman.”

Carmine could taste blood in his mouth. The tears in his eyes were blinding. He was sure his nose was broken from the rough takedown. The commissioner stepped toward him, then squatted low. The man was a blurry Pinocchio, all points and twiggy, dangling limbs. All stuffed into a dress uniform.

“No, Carmine, thank you.”

“You fucking idiot,” Carmine spat blood onto the floor onto Johnny’s shiny leather shoes. “You have no ide–“

The world went black.

Chapter Text

"Political Power grows out of the barrel of a gun."

– MAO ZEDONG • AUGUST 7, 1927

A Death In The Family

The sun was setting in Gotham City, casting the college campus in vibrant magenta, violet, and tangerine light that glittered off the calm waters of the Gotham Harbor.

There was something of an amphitheater set up here. There was hardly any slope to the hill, with just enough to make it easier to get a view of the stage, which had a concentric semicircular shell to provide for better projection of the performers. The area was located to the left of a standing placard that read: 

“Martha’s Crossing”
Fondly remembering Martha Wayne, a fierce advocate for progress
1893-1920.

There were so many people here. More than at this morning’s press conference.

Approaching the stage, Barbara Gordon recognized a reporter from the Gotham Voice.

“I’ll be right back,” she told one of the volunteers. “See if he needs anything?” and with that, she dashed away from Dick to try to get the reporter’s attention.

“Ms Vale? Barbara Gordon. I’m Dick’s campaign manager,” Barbara was confident, and felt as good as she could about the campaign they’d run. She’d (often with the candidate’s resistance) put Dick in a position to win. Now they just needed to win the debate. “I wanted to let you know that Dick will be available for comment immediately after the debate.”

“We’ve met, Barbara. A couple times,” Vicki said, then quickly added, “Sorry, I didn’t want that to come off accusatory. I just wanted you to know that I remember you.” Vicki smiled.

“Oh! Wonderful. Well, I hope we can catch up after this?”

“That would be nice. And Barbara,” Vicki leaned in close. “Off the record: The Boy Wonder has my vote. I’m rooting for you both.”

Barbara smiled and thanked the journalist, jogging back to the place where Dick stood shuffling through note cards, attended by his pair of campaign volunteers.

The stakes were higher than Barbara anticipated, but that’s why they practiced.

“Even if it’s just three reporters and campaign staff, pretend it’s a packed auditorium,” she had advised Dick of this more than once, and could actually see him improve at the method each time they’d done a mock debate.

And it was a good thing; with this many people in attendance, there were many more opportunities to win (or lose) votes. They couldn’t rely on press coverage alone.

Mayor Basil Karlo strode out onto the stage to polite applause. A moderator, who Barbara learned was none other than Skip Freeley, host of the Gotham Gossip and the Superfans radio shows, announced the mayor from a table in the center of the stage. The mayor crossed to Skip’s setup, turned to the crowd and waved with a bright smile that even Barbara had to admit made the mayor seem likable.

Freeley’s not nearly as handsome as I pictured him, Barbara shook her head and looked at Dick, who was straightening his tie, and thanking the volunteers with handshakes.

“This is it,” Barbara said, a mess of nerves and adrenaline.

“Thank you, Barbara,” Dick smiled, turning toward the stage, and took a step just as Freeley invited him out.

“Please welcome the challenger, Dick ‘The Boy Wonder’ Grayson!”

The applause for Dick was similarly polite, with a random cheer or shout from the crowd. Dick met the mayor at center stage, shaking hands first with Skip Freeley, then with Mayor Karlo, and both candidates moved behind their lecterns as Freeley explained the format.

“We received more than one hundred questions from voters,” Skip held a stack of maybe twenty-five white envelopes in view of the audience. “These questions have not been reviewed by either campaign in advance of this forum, nor has The Gotham Gossip looked at them.” Freeley melodramatically pointed to himself with a thumb. “Each of you will get one minute and thirty seconds to answer the question. And we will continue until our event concludes in ninety minutes. Each of you will have two minutes to tell us about yourselves before we get underway. As the challenger, Mr. Grayson has allowed Mayor Karlo to go first.

“Mr. Mayor, are you ready?”

Karlo nodded, loosening his tie, and placing both hands on the podium.

“I’m Mayor Basil Karlo, and I hope that tonight, you’ll understand why I am the best choice to continue Gotham’s successes. Every day, I get to say that I am the mayor of the greatest city in America. When I decided to run for this job all those years ago, I saw a city that was in desperate need of real leadership. A city that needed to support its people and the amazing industries that our best and brightest have built from the ground up.”

Barbara scanned the audience, and there were people nodding along with Karlo. Dick was always so matter-of-fact about how unpopular the mayor was, and Barbara hoped that he was paying attention; Karlo’s nickname was “Clayface” because the guy knew how to work an audience.  

“Tonight, with the election looming less than a week away, you are faced with a very serious choice: Do we build on the experience, success, and safety that my mayoralty has built for almost a decade, allowing competent Gothamites who heed the call of constituents to remain in their positions, with victory in our sights? 

“Or do we risk everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve for the pie-in-the-sky promises of someone who has never run so much as a lemonade stand? Now I’ll admit, when I was his age I believed that we could achieve a better world overnight! I was a starry-eyed idealist. But I believed in America, and I trusted in our country to do what we’ve always done so well – reward hard work with health, wealth, happiness, and safety; that’s the American Dream!”

Speeches were powerful. Karlo’s certainly wasn’t flawless, and Barbara could see people telegraphing their cynicism at some of the mayor’s boasts, but great oration had always been a  reliable way to mobilize people.

“We have come through one of our darkest times, and we’ve emerged stronger and more cooperative than ever before. Gotham has a renewed sense of purpose as defenders of Humanity, and opponents of chaos, crime, and division. Tonight, I ask you to throw off the chains of division, and embrace the future! A future where you, and your family will thrive along with all of Gotham. I am Mayor Basil Karlo, and, if you re-elect me as they mayor, I am committing to you that over the next four years there will be no better place to make the American Dream a reality, because Basil means business!”

The applause was not overwhelming, but people were clapping with more vigor than just cordiality, and it took a moment to fade out. 

“Basil means business” is clever. It’s easy to remember, Barbara noted, scribbling some thoughts into her notebook.

“Thank you Mr. Mayor. Mr. Grayson?”

Freeley keeps calling Karlo “Mr. Mayor,” or using that title. Barbara thought. We knew he was a donor, but it seems like he’s trying to reinforce an association in people’s minds between “Karlo” and “Mayor.” Barbara jotted more down on the page.

Dick smiled and detached the microphone from its stand, walking out from behind his lectern. It wasn’t something they’d rehearsed, but Barbara loved the visual, it was dynamic and energetic.

“Good evening. I’m Dick Grayson, I’m a son of Gotham City, and I am proud to call it my home. You may know that I was orphaned at a young age, and I was extremely fortunate to be taken in by such a charitable family. Being the son of Alfred Pennyworth and the little brother to Bruce Wayne has afforded me fantastic opportunities through my life, and I am here to tell you that I believe that all of us deserve those opportunities.”

Barbara cringed at “little brother.” Not only was he going too far “off book,” he was solidifying the picture that Karlo had painted of him as a starry-eyed kid with a lemonade stand.

“I have personally knocked on more than ten thousand doors, and spoken to thousands of Gothamites who have told me that they are ready for change. I remember talking to a woman named Carlotta Mason, and she loved the big ideas that our campaign has brought to Gotham.  

“Now Ms. Carlotta is a lot like many of you. She’s a widow, and she works at the post office, she has two sons, and she just wants their lives to be better than hers has been. I told Ms. Carlotta that change is hard and do you know what she said to me? She said ‘Dick, I’ve been working my whole life. I’m ready to do the work to make things better for all of us.’”

People were relating to the story, showing agreement with their body language as they connected Ms. Carlotta’s story to their own. 

“You see, Ms. Carlotta knows that Gotham is at a fork in the road. One way is a once-in-a-generation opportunity to rebuild Gotham City for families, for the poor, for the sick, and for the working class. The other way is to continue to maintain the status quo. Mayor Karlo likes to say ‘Basil means Business,’ but it’s more like ‘Basil means Business as usual.’ A vote for me is a vote for an improved Gotham. A Gotham that is better for all of us is better for all of us. 

“So I’m asking you to join me. Join Ms. Carlotta, and the thousands of people who aren’t afraid of rolling up their sleeves and working hard to make Gotham a more healthy, wealthy, and wise city. A city of solidarity. A city for all of us!”

Cheers and more than a few wolf whistles broke the momentary silence of Dick’s opening remarks. Barbara had winced a tiny bit at the direct attack on the mayor, but the extemporaneous “business as usual” line landed well. Dick returned to his lectern, and Skip Freeley fumbled with one of the envelopes, tearing it open, and pulling his microphone in close.

“Thank you Mr. Grayson. Now our first question will be directed to Mayor Karlo, who will have ninety seconds to answer, followed by Mr. Grayson who will also have ninety seconds. Here we are, from Gus Shuler on Nanticoke Island. Gus writes: ‘Back when it started, I thought we’d be out of this curfew by Christmas. Now, I don’t know. What are you doing to end this curfew, and with supermen becoming a part of our everyday lives, how will we prevent more curfews in the future?’ Mayor Karlo, you have ninety seconds.”

Karlo fiddled with his microphone, as though he was considering removing it to move around the stage like Dick, but then reconsidered. He wrinkled his face up first, then smiled that disarming smile of his and began.

“Gotham is a city where news travels fast, but in case you haven’t heard, we have apprehended the  child-killer who calls himself Batman, and the City Council voted unanimously to end the curfew. I had my own concerns when Commissioner Gelio first told me his idea for bringing in this vicious killer, but I trust the police, and I trust Commissioner Gelio. Under my leadership, we have brought a dangerous murderer into custody, and we have put laws in place that will protect innocent Gothamites from costumed aggression, with harsher punishments for so-called super humans. Gotham City has made it known loud and clear – our priority is humanity above all else. Humanity above insanity. If you find yourself wanting to put on a costume to prevent crime and enforce the law, might I suggest joining our police department, the finest group of officers to wear a uniform in all of America, led by visionaries like Commissioner Johnny Gelio, Lieutenant Jim Gordon, and the nation’s first woman detective, Detective Selina Kyle. These are the real heroes, folks, let’s give them a hand!”

Pockets of enthusiastic cheers burst into existence with half-hearted acknowledgments from others, and Dick began without needing an invitation from the moderator.

“Gotham City has been through a tragedy that is incomprehensible. Losing a child is a devastation that is felt by more than the parents, the brothers and sisters, the aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins. It’s a loss that’s felt by the whole community. I know this because I saw it first hand. I’ve attended memorial services for too many sons of Gotham in these last months. And I know first hand the way that fear has gripped this city.

“And that fear was exploited and turned into power by Mayor Karlo, by his chief of police, and by the city council. Men and women who we are told to trust betrayed that trust, and they have battered anyone bold enough to point it out. In a dark and tragic year for Gotham a ruthless and brutal police department has made it darker and more tragic. They’ve gone unchecked by a local government that was willing to sell your freedom for their job security. How many people have the Gotham Police Department and their contract agents killed in just the last month? The ‘solution’ provided by the police and the mayor killed more of us in October than the so-called Peter Pan murderer ever did!

“The only thing that separates Commissioner Gelio from a serial murderer is that a serial murderer will be put on trial before a jury, and Commissioner Gelio will remain one of the most powerful men in Gotham. As mayor, I would prevent more of these curfews by making a city that is more just. A city that relies on the strength and trust of our neighbors instead of giving police the power of judge, jury, and executioner. As mayor, I’ll never use a curfew, because we never needed a curfew in the first place.”

Barbara was beaming. She wasn’t totally sold on the police-as-working-class-traitors bit, and her father was still her hero, but when she began looking for the abuses of police power, especially by the commissioner, she started to see the evidence everywhere. Even her father was less and less likely (or able) to rationalize it away, and she could see his faith in the institution being tested, even if he was still the guy they always pointed to as an example of the consummate “good cop.”

Karlo was still smiling, but it was clear he was becoming flustered. People were moving around in the crowd, surely trying to get a better view for a debate that was already proving to be a barn-burner.

“For our next question, we are going to Mrs. Priscilla Scuggins, of Keaton North. Mrs. Scuggins says ‘My son Doug used to be mixed up with the Pennypincher Boys.”

People in the audience almost all intoned recognition. 

The Pennypincher Boys had been a gang of ill-fated bank robbers with a strange proclivity for only stealing rolled or bagged pennies. Their leader, who called himself Joe Coyne, claimed that pennies were “impossible to trace” and “in wartime, copper was more valuable than gold.” Having a gimmick made them easier to predict, but there was a period of about six months where you couldn’t get pennies if your life depended on it. 

Skip paused and looked at both candidates, adding “I think we all remember The Pennypincher Boys and their calamitous copper capers,” to nods of agreement in the audience. “Mrs. Scuggins continues: ‘If it weren’t for the reformed convict work program, my son might be dead. How will you ensure these important programs remain in place?’ We’ll go to you first, Mr. Grayson.”

“You know that’s a great question, and while I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Scuggins or her son, I believe in these kinds of reform programs because they work. They are the kind of programs that my family has championed for more than a decade. In fact, we’ve just funded the Project ALICE program with Rose Botanichemical to support getting more women, colored folks, and immigrants into fair-paying careers in science and engineering.”

There was less movement in the crowd, and this felt like a strong answer from Dick. Barbara attributed it to the fading light, but she wrote something down just the same.

“And you know what? These programs are good for all of us. They shouldn’t exist at the whim of the wealthy. They should be something that we, as leaders of the city, make a priority. The only way to do that is to make it a line-item on our city budget, because a budget is a list of our priorities. It is a clear, concise notice of what our government believes should come first. Programs that create jobs, educate our residents, and help people who have fallen on hard times will be the lion’s share of any budget over which I preside.”

Barbara’s gut reaction was to push Dick away from words like “preside” which might not be obvious to some in attendance. The enthusiasm among the spectators visibly waned, and Barbara wondered if it was because Dick didn’t take a swing at Karlo. She scribbled another note for review later, and started crafting a quote to give Vicki Vale on the topic:

My goal tonight wasn’t to embarrass the mayor. It was to point out that he isn’t embarrassed, and to ask why not? How do you slash money for schools, for utilities, for public health, and for veterans, and then have the guts to look people in the eye and ask them for their vote?

“Not bad,” Barbara whispered, scanning the quote and tapping her pencil against her lip.

“…strengthening our police, who have shown us true innovation in these troubling times,” The mayor was answering the question about the Pennypincher Boys, to somewhat anxious approval from the gathered.

Twilight quickly became night, and people shifted around even more under cover of darkness.  The stage and candidates were easy to see, but people were leaving or arriving or just swaying in place and it was impossible to tell which with any clarity with this lighting. Barbara put her pencil into her pocketbook, and focused on the men on stage.

“Thank you Mayor Karlo,” Skip licked his index finger and pulled at an envelope, lifting it into his hand, and tearing it open theatrically. “Our next question comes from Mr. Salvatore Sciacallo. Mr. Sciacallo begins…”

At the reading of the name, there was an audible rustling from enclaves in the audience. Whispers and stirrings within the crowd, and movement – inscrutable movement – from without.

“…’The Mayor of Gotham has failed us. He has failed to protect our children. We promised him blood and jackals in the streets of Gotham City, and here we are.’ Well, as we said, ladies and gentlemen, we didn’t review these before receiving them, so let’s just try another question, shall we?” Skip picked up another envelope and –

BAM!

A gunshot rang out from somewhere.

Gore and bone blew through the back of Skip Freeley’s head, which fell, lifeless onto the desk.

Terror erupted in the crowd as bright explosions and deafening blasts signaled shots firing from multiple different gunmen.

Barbara ducked low, shoving a volunteer down to the ground as she did and telling him to cover his head and stay low. On the opposite side of the stage, Mayor Basil Karlo was squatting behind his podium. Gotham Police Department officers were fighting – literally punching and kicking their way through the roiling sea of people trying to scatter or find safety. 

Barbara tried to keep an eye on Dick, but he was lost in the audience, trying to shepherd people to cover. More shots cracked through the confusion, and she found the second volunteer, who she pulled violently down to the ground by his belt. 

“Stay down!” She shouted, handing the younger man the keys to the pickup truck. “Get away from the stage, and then run until you get to the truck, then get back to Wayne Manor! We’ll be meet you there!” She shouted at the hyperventilating twenty-something.

Dick Grayson was back on the stage, duckwalking in a low crouch toward Barbara.

“Get down Dick!” Barbara screamed, and Dick laid flat on the stage, speedily crawling to her. “Let’s get the hell outta here!” she huffed, “We have to go!”

B-R-R-RATAT-R-R-R-RATT-A-TAT-TAT! B-R-R-R-ATTT!

Machine gun fire spat a flurry of bullets in a sweep through the audience.

”Get out of here!” Dick yelled back, barely audible in the madness. “I’ll be fine!”

Even in this chaos, he smiled in a way that made Barbara feel like he knew what he was doing, which was always, always a red flag for her.

“Why Dick? This isn’t your fight!”

“Saving lives is my fight, Barbara!”

Barbara gasped, “The mayor!” and pointed at Karlo, who was cowering behind the lectern. She knew that a wood podium provided barely any cover from submachine gun fire. Dick nodded and did an acrobatic leap toward the moderator’s desk, ducking behind it and pushing it over to provide some kind of shield from stray bullets.

R-R-RATT-A-TAT! B-R-R-R-ATTT!

She could see Dick hesitate, try to shout at the mayor, and then tuck and roll toward him, splinters of wood exploding on the surface of the desk that was facing the chaos. 

Dick looked back, nodding to indicate that he had things under control, and turned back toward Karlo.

The sound of ricocheting bullets and spent shell casings hitting the ground contributed to the confusion, but Barbara felt strange hands suddenly gripping her by her hips, and pulling her decidedly away from the stage. In front of her, she saw a spindly shadow, all jagged points and sharp angles grab at Karlo and pull him backwards at the same time as she was swept away by the phantom hands.

As she was dragged backward, two objects that looked like medieval morning stars hit the stage in a clang and bang of cast-iron on hardwood.

“Barbara! Come on!” the unmistakable voice of her father cut through the cacophony, and she turned around to see her hero, and the two of them were spontaneously diving backward as burning heat suddenly welled behind her back.

-♞-

The Granata di Baldari stick grenade was extremely analog in its operation. The fuse had to be lit by hand, but it had the benefits of more accurate throws, and, in a pinch, being used to bludgeon an opponent in close combat.

When two such grenades hit the stage directly behind the overturned desk, Dick made the mistake of investigating instead of running toward his campaign manager (who was, presently, being either rescued or kidnapped).

Dick didn’t see the sparkling flare of a safety fuse. He kicked the desk as hard as he could, springing backward and upward into the air as the desk slid, dragging the grenades with it into the back wall of the stage.

The explosion happened as Dick was mid-flip, sending shards of wood and metal, and waves of concussive heat to meet his airborne body. Dick had been shot before – it was a pain he could handle – even if it was the most excruciating physical agony he’d ever felt. 

He’d leapt away from an exploding building before and lived through it. He was a Flying Grayson, goddammit, and more than that he was The Batman.

The first shard of metal entered through his posterior deltoid, and burst through the anterior deltoid  like a visceral comet with a tail of blood and muscle tissue.

Dick Grayson’s whole world was pain as his backflip was turned into a corkscrew by the assault of splinters and shrapnel. He felt the devastating heat of the explosion singe his eyebrows and eyelashes into nonexistence just as two jagged fragments ripped through his stomach and thigh followed by dozens more opening ragged tunnels through his torso, neck, and back.

He hit the ground flat on his face, breaking his nose and fracturing the orbital bone of his right eye.

Dick Grayson’s body tried to inhale to cough, but only made a gurgling sound as velvety crimson liquid pumped flaccidly from the dozens of wounds in his body.

As his left eye fluttered closed, Dick could only hear the high pitched ping of tinnitis in his ears. He saw blurry bursts of machine gun rounds and then saw them abruptly stop as an angel blacker than darkness itself descended from heaven, folding a belligerent like a paper doll.

Chapter Text

ORIGIN STORIES: THE FLYING GRAYSONS

The Very Edge of Sherwood Forest, Nottingham, England 1322 

(Oak Point Park, Midway City, Michigan, 1922)

The Sheriff of Nottingham was right behind him.

“I’m right behind you, scoundrel!”

And he would stop at nothing to make his arrest.

“I’ll stop at nothing to make my arrest, you fiendish outlaw!”

 And so it was that the outlaw was running for his life. 

“Your English accent is banana oil, Sheriff,” the scoundrel shouted. “Why don’t you go back to Bar-the-lona!”

The sheriff was gaining ground, but ahead lie the royal hunting wood of the shire, and an environment known better to him than any man. 

In the wood, he was nobility, respected by all of the dwellers of the forest. Man and mineral, flora and fauna alike knew him as Robin, Prince of Trees!    

“Hep!” and Robin caromed off the trunk of an old oak, grabbing a thick branch and kicking into a force out to gain some altitude. He landed, a little shakily, on the bough of another of these oaken sentinels, then turned and looked at his pursuer.

“Hep!” The sheriff mimicked Robin’s maneuvers, and his slightly taller frame (the sheriff was a year older, after all) allowed him to do so with ease.

“No fair! There’s no way you could do that!”

“Have at thee!” The sheriff called back when his own force out flung him closer to his quarry.

“Yikes!” and Robin hepped, stepped, and swept through the labyrinth of the woods, pausing only briefly to snag a couple acorns, which he would toss back at the airborne stalker.

“Hey! You almosth got me in the eye!” 

With Nottingham behind him adopting variations more suited to his stature, the thief leapt downward, corkscrewing through a particularly crowded lattice of branches, and laughing gleefully as he wound, one-handed, around a lower bough, and gracefully landing among the fallen leaves. 

A drifting and distant sound, carried upon the winds. “Dick! Bobby!” 

“Toodle-loo!” he called back at the sheriff. With a mocking salute, Robin ran out of Sherwood Forest.

“I’ll get you next time, Robin!”

Dick Grayson’s mother was calling him, which meant he was late, which meant Roberto was even more late. 

“On our way!” Dick yelled back in the general direction of the tent city.

It wasn’t really anyone’s fault, it was just that they took the fun way back from procuring lunch.

Dammit, Dick thought. I left the sack of sandwiches on the other side of the thicket.

This was going to throw everything off schedule. 

Just as Dick began hustling back toward the tree line, Bobby emerged from the woods, with a cloth drawstring bag in hand, held high like a fresh kill.

“I think I just saved our lives,” Bobby said with a smile.

“Ugh, I guess I owe you one,” Dick rolled his eyes. “Last one to camp gets the liverwurst!” and he took off.

-♞-

Bobby got stuck with the liverwurst sandwich.

Roberto “Bobby” Ramos was a runaway, and Dick Grayson’s best friend. The two were almost never seen far from one another, and they both slept in Dick’s tent whenever the circus stopped to make camp. Dick never really asked the story of Bobby’s past, but he was a gymnast in Spain, and that meant if he was going to be a part of the act, he was going to be a Grayson.

The Fantastic Flying Family of Graveproof Graysons were undeniably the stars of the show at the Ping, Ping & Hardy Circus – if you didn’t count Peanut and Shorts – but Dick never counted the elephants.

Bobby had only performed in rehearsals. He was only a year older than Dick, but he had hit a growth spurt that made some of the women performers say some things that Dick didn’t exactly understand, but (unfortunately) got the gist of. On more than one occasion, John Grayson (Dick’s father) had asked Bobby if he was really only eleven years old.

The plan was, if Bobby kept growing the way he did, to use him like an understudy. First for Dick, but eventually, for Dick, Mary, or John. As he developed, “Bobby Grayson” could eventually become a permanent part of the act.

For his part, Bobby would often tell Dick how he desperately wanted to be a part of the act now. He’d spent a year training, and he had the act memorized. Today was no different.

“I’ve been doing this since I could walk,” Dick explained. “You’ll get your chance.”

The two boys followed Dick’s mother and father to the sandbox that had been set up for outdoor practices. Bobby would practice first, going through the act front-to-back, and then Dick would replace him.

“Hep!” 

“Hep!”

“Hoo-ohh!”

“Hep-hep!”

Bobby was executing like a man on fire today. His precision, his attention to detail, and his showmanship were all top notch.

Bobby landed, on the board with Dick’s parents, and Dick clapped hard, whooping for his best friend for an exceptional performance. His mother embraced Bobby, his father shook Bobby’s hand, and Dick’s face was straining from the smile that was plastered there.

Dick chalked his hands and ascended the ladder as Bobby climbed down.

-♞-

In 1922, it was very uncommon to see a flying trapeze act without a net, but the Flying Graysons were hardly a common circus act. 

The most exciting part of the act happened during the final third, and that part was the source of the Flying Graysons’ fame. Pyro the clown would begin juggling torches beneath the acrobatics happening above, and would stumble, dropping the torches onto the safety net which would burn away causing audible gasps from the audience (the torches weren’t solely responsible for the fire, a technician would set a timer at the beginning of the act that ensured the net went alight at the prescribed time).

It was all part of the show, but the ringleader would nervously run around saying “It’s all part of the show, folks!” using a trick of psychology to make spectators certain that it was anything but.

Tonight would be different, however, because Dick thought the best way to pay Bobby back for saving him from a scolding from his dad would be to fall during rehearsal (they rehearsed with a net, of course), and to feign a twist in his ankle.

So the net wouldn’t be set on fire tonight (because he’d never had the opportunity to do a proper “dress rehearsal”) but Dick would get to watch his best friend’s dream come true and it only cost him “resting his ankle” for the next three days while they were on the road to Missouri.

People would still be dazzled, and while Mary doted over “her poor son,” John had a knowing twinkle in his eye.

Bobby gave Dick a stern “you need to be careful,” but it was all for show – the older boy was clearly in on conspiracy.

When Dick’s mother and father had wandered off for their afternoon nap, Bobby ran over to Dick, almost knocking him over. Dick simply held up a hand and laughed.

“Don’t even mention it,” he insisted.

 Tonight, the Bobby would be a real deal Flying Grayson.

-♞-

“Hump! Hump!” John Grayson called out to the technician, Humphrey Hardison. But the jaundiced man was nowhere to be found.

“Richard!” He shouted, and spun around to see his son staring back at him.

“Hey pop,” Dick said, “right here!” John smiled for an instant, then crouched down to address his boy.

“Hump is probably busy, so I need you to step up tonight, alright?”

The boy’s shoulders dropped. “But I wanted to watch!”

“I know son,” John consoled. “You’ll have the best seat in the house though, follow me.”

The interior of the tent was dim, it was difficult to see, and the dirt floor shifted underfoot. The part of John that believed that his son actually had twisted his ankle hoped he wasn’t exacerbating the injury.

“How’s your ankle, Richard?”

A sigh.

“Not too bad,” he paused. “At least it’s not swollen.”

“Mhm. Here we go.”

Father and son had been following a cable which barely protruded from below the floor – invisible if you weren’t looking for it – running from the right platform to a canvas curtain which John pulled aside. Behind it, John stopped in front of a freestanding switchboard with a three-by-four grid of switches.

“One-two-three over,” John counted aloud. “One-two down.” 

The switch was down.

“A ‘hot’ switch is on,” John explained. “Down means hot, which is easy to remember, because the net is below us, or down, and the net will get hot during the act if the switch is hot.”

“Down-hot. Down-hot. Down-hot.” Dick repeated to himself.

“So you’ll want to come back here before we start, and make sure this is,” John gripped the switch, grunted a bit, and pushed the switch up. “Still up, like this. If it’s not, push it up. Three over, two down.”

Dick nodded to confirm he understood.

“Remind me to give Hump a piece of my mind next time I see him,” John smiled at his son. “He’s making his own hooch and he’s gonna get us shut down.”

-♞-

Mary Grayson’s smile was radiant. When she was just a girl she’d been studying at the convent, and Mother Superior told her she was very plain to look at, which was “good for a bride of the church.” 

It was the first time she’d ever heard something so cutting. But the nunnery was exciting and conspiratorial at first, as though she were being given access to the Divine Mysteries; being inducted into a clerical order of women that shared a bond with a supernatural power that was unrivaled. But the study was boring. She loved to read and to analyze and to discuss, but – here there was no room for analysis. No challenges were brooked. She remembered very specifically when she’d become disenchanted with the idea of a life of devotion.

It was when Sister Julian said “It certainly doesn’t seem like you love books.”

She was crying on a bench downtown when she’d met the man she would eventually marry.

“Sister?” The man whispered. “Sister, has someone hurt you?”

It began with a free pair of tickets to the Ping, Ping & Hardy Circus. It rose to sneaking out after dark with Sister Martin. The climax was learning her mystery man was a part of an acrobatic family of tumblers. It ended with Sister Martin heading back to the convent alone.

Mary was shaken from her reminiscence by her son entering their trailer. She was running a brush through her hair when she turned to her only child and smiled.

“Dick!” She worried at the boy. “You have to stay off your ankle!”

She hurried toward her son and hugged him, kissing him all over his face. He breathed deeply.

“Oh sweetheart, I love you so much. You’re such a smart and talented boy. We’re the luckiest family in the world!”

Dick blushed at this, but he held his mother tight, and Mary squeezed him even tighter.

“I’ll see you out there, my handsome boy. Stay off that leg!”

She watched her son limp out of the trailer, and smiled into her mirror.

-♞-

As his father, mother, and best friend began their climbs to the platform, Dick scurried back to the curtain with the switch panel. His father had given him a bucket of popcorn, which was his favorite, and he dug into the bucket, shoveling a handful of the buttery snack into his mouth. 

Mom’s gonna kill me! He thought when he saw the grease stain on his nice shirt. 

Slinking under the curtain, he saw Hump passed out on his stool, with an empty jar tipped over on the floor beside him.

“HUMP!” Dick’s whisper was a shout, but even with a push on the man’s leg, he barely stirred, just nodding his head and letting out a snore in reply.

The switch had been restored to the hot position, and Dick needed to turn it off before the timer burned their safety net off. Setting down the popcorn, he gripped the switch, and found he couldn’t get the leverage to push it upward.

His hands slipped on the kill switch, and he was just not tall enough to really put his weight behind it. 

But Dick Grayson didn’t panic. He was a world famous acrobat, and he was quick on his feet. He stepped up two rungs of Hump’s perch, hearing an audible gasp from the audience. He smiled and gripped the switch again. 

With a grunt, he pulled, and the switch felt stuck. He hopped down, wiping his hands on Hump’s dozing thigh, and tried again.

Nothing.

And again.

Still nothing.

And Dick still didn’t panic. He stepped back from the switchboard, got a running start, and caromed off the stool, grabbing the switch and yanking it upward in a kick out that sent him two feet higher into the air. He spun in free fall, sticking a stylish three point landing in the dirt.

Hump just snored again.

Dick Grayson smiled. He grabbed his popcorn, and dashed out of the “control room” to watch the final part of the show.

-♞-

Hump Hardison stirred on his stool, yawning, and scratching his stomach.

“That ain’t right,” he remarked, annoyed at the slick switch that controlled the pyrotechnics on the Grayson’s act. 

He flipped the switch, and moments later, the circus was ablaze.

-♞-

Pyro was juggling plain old bowling pins when the net caught fire, and Dick dropped his jaw. From this height, you could much more intensely feel the heat of the burning net. Pyro even dropped a pin, and he never accidentally dropped what he was juggling.

“It’s all part of the show, folks!” Mr. Daisy, the ringleader reassured the audience. He was always in character. “All p-p-part of the, oh my, all part of the show! Remain calm!”

Did I? Dick went through the mnemonic device. Down meant hot like the net below them would be burning. He was certain he’d flipped the correct switch. How did this happen?! No time. Calm down. Bobby is excellent.

And the Graysons didn’t miss a beat. Neither father or mother made any inclination that they were worried, and if Bobby tensed up, Dick didn’t see it in the graceful way he floated through the air.

He connected with Mary in a near miss Hocks Salto catch, interlocking hands with forearm, but something had been off, like she was lower on the swing.

Dick exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath, and watched as his mother deposited Bobby on the board (Dick assumed she was just being careful, trying to end things early. 

A pirouette into a cut catch later, Dick’s father confidently caught his mother, certainly they would dismount now, but Dick’s heart sank; Bobby was back on the swing.

Dick panicked as Bobby kicked out of the swing just as his parents did the same.

The mid-air collision sounded like bare feet on hard floors, and was met by shrieks and gasps from the audience.

THWUMP! 

THWUH-THWUMP!

-♞-

Two months later

Branch Brook Park 

Newark, New Jersey 1922

The moon was low and full over Branch Brook Lake, its reflection on the water a shifting circle of silver. Dick’s head was hung low on the bridge over the Branch Brook Lake. Reflecting the painfully shifting circle of scenarios that would mean his parents and best friend were still alive.

Dick still blamed himself, but had continued the tour with the circus, largely stalking the camp, and occassionally assisting with set up. He’d been waiting for a coastal city, but Metropolis wasn’t for another three days, and he had to get out of this place.

Hump hadn’t been canned, and Dick largely avoided him, but seeing him slosh around the grounds at camp was always grating in a way that Dick couldn’t quite articulate.

Dick walked to the street, and kept walking until he saw a pair of headlamps, and stuck out his thumb. A motorbike with an empty sidecar buzzed up next to him, and the driver, a colored man, pulled off his leather cap and goggles, and looked down at Dick, the engine idling.

“Where you headed, young man?” The man’s voice was warm, like if maple syrup could speak. 

“Downtown? I suppose.”

“I’m headed to Gotham City, but I suppose you could ride along and I could drop you off on the way. How does that sound?”

“Thanks, mister.”

“I was thinking of grabbing a very late supper on the way, you wouldn’t happen to be hungry, would you?”

Dick had a couple dollars and some loose change, but he didn’t really have restaurant money.

He shrugged.

“My treat?”

Dick responded with a half-hearted smile.

“Okay, hop in. There’s a cap, should be your size in the bag there. Your parents know you’re taking a trip into town?”

Dick dug the leather aviator’s cap from the well-worn bag strapped to the back of the sidecar. It was a little big, but it clearly belonged to someone roughly his own age. He looked at the driver, but didn’t really say anything.

“That’s alright, son. I have a boy nearly your age, and we lost his parents just a few years back.”

Dick was confused. How did this fella’s boy lose his parents?

Probably just the way these folks talk, Dick thought.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Dick. Dick Grayson, mister. What’s yours?”

“My name’s Alfred. Pleased to meet you Young Mr. Dick.”

Alfred smiled again, and kickstarted the bike, the red taillight streaking down the road like the tail of a comet.

-♞-

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 27

“The wretches will suffer punishment and will shortly meet the end which they deserve"

– Nero Claudius Caesar

---

OEDIPUS IN EXILE

It was unseasonably warm for November, and thunder crashed in the night sky of Gotham City.

Votes were cast amid gunfire and the violent competition for territory by a fractured mob family.

Mayor Basil Karlo was re-elected in a curious (but only if you had the luxury of thinking about it for more than five minutes) landslide.

Each faction of Carmine Falcone’s organization had laid claim to one of Gotham’s five constituent islets, bolstered by a sudden crush of migrant mercenaries; the very same mercenaries who killed twenty-eight people – including frontrunner Dick Grayson – and injured more than a hundred at the candidates’ forum on November 1st.

The people of Gotham stayed indoors for safety unless they absolutely had to go out, and Johnny Gelio, the commissioner of police, was in front of council almost daily trying to gin up new money for his “critically underresourced” police department.

The Batman had torn Gotham City apart looking for Carmine “The Roman” Falcone. After a series of interviews, bribes, and bruised knuckles, he learned about a repurposed evidence locker in subbasement of the Gotham City Police Department Central District Headquarters.

With officers and henchmen alike assigned to “peacekeeping duties” across Gotham, SHED (the superhuman entry, interrogation, and detention facility) was not being guarded. Without a proper superhuman to be contained within, and with the Batman dead at Falcone's hands, the commissioner was overconfident that simple security measures would keep the Roman contained.

-♞-

Carmine “The Roman” Falcone didn’t have super powers. Using S.H.E.D. to hold him had been an order given by Commissioner Gelio, because The Roman did have access to incredible attorneys, and near-limitless money to fund bribes and the types of scoundrels who could orchestrate a prison break.

A “flight risk,” which was ironic since any “guilty” verdict would, at this point, be likely to result in a deportation.

So The Roman sat, for now, and pondered. He was certain there was a standing order to serve a writ of habeas corpus to the Gotham Police and police departments in the ten closest major cities if he didn’t check in by Friday, that order didn’t seem to be compelling any of the judges in Gotham to act.

The lights flickered, joined by a tonal change in the noisy electrical hum of his cell. Carmine wrinkled his nose and pushed the tray of hours-old “meatloaf” away.

The whole room smelled like piss, and the lack of a proper toilet meant choosing a corner to make that smell even worse. Five days in this hole.

Left alone after (if his watch was still keeping good time), 9:00pm every night.

The lights flickered again, and then, went out. Carmine carefully felt his way through the pitch black room over to the door, hoping to see if this was a blackout for just the interior of the cell, or the entirety of SHED. The door was locked, per usual, and the legitimate businessman got down on his hands and knees to inspect the window through which his food was served. It was jammed shut, but that that stopped him from trying to slide it open.

Carmine grunted in the darkness, and as he made to pull himself up on the door handle, it turned, slipping from his hands. Falcone fell forward to brace himself, and the hard floor stung his palms.

The door was heavy. Thick steel, lined in lead, then sealed with lead sheets, and painted with lead paint. It took effort to open. And in the darkness, something did.

When the lights flickered again, it was only for a second, and a terrifying, blacker-than-black shape remained as light flooded the rest of the room.

The Roman was joined by The Devil.

-♞-

Moments Earlier...

The lock on the door into SHED would be easy enough to pick, and as luck would have it, the breaker box was in an unlocked utility closet. Batman reached into one of the pouches on his belt, and pulled out the deconstructed fuse. A sliver of lead coated in rubber, with the rubber burned mostly away would interfere with the connection, creating a flickering effect. It would eventually blow the fuse, but for now, it would create the atmosphere he needed to get into Falcone’s head.

The caped crusader picked the lock with little effort as the lights flickered for the first time. The interior of the room was cold and smelled like metal and human waste – the salt of sweat, the ammonia of urine, and the…sulfur of excrement.

An abandoned card game waited for its players on the table to his left, and the cell meant to hold superhumans stood like Liberty’s plinth in the center of the facility.

Whoever designed this room had nowhere near the level of paranoia required to contain a god; the lock to the cell was a simple knob lock – not even a deadbolt.

When the lights flickered again, Batman pushed the door open.

The Roman.

“You’re supposed to be dead!” the old man was surprisingly calm for seeing what he believed to be a corpse standing in front of him.

Batman lurched forward, and Falcone took a fearful step back, reaching for a holster that wasn’t on his vest; and the Dark Knight stopped short of what he guessed was Falcone’s area of effective reach.

“We need to talk,” he whispered.

“Looking to finish the job you started with my son…” The Roman’s voice trailed off in a mutter that Batman couldn’t comprehend.

“Answers. How did the mayor win in such a landslide?”

“Well I got quite a few questions myself, because if you’re still alive, it would follow that you and the cops must’ve set me up.”

“If I were police, I would be on your payroll.”

Carmine spat at this, but the roiling shadow that constituted the Batman stood silent, waiting for a spoken reply.

“That kid, Dick Grayson? Wayne’s little brother. People liked him just fine, but they didn’t think he would keep them safe. Poor people are stupid. They believe the mayor will keep ‘em safe. When the uh – riot – broke out, it was all the more reason for people to vote for ‘Face,” Falcone exhaled like he was blowing cigarette smoke out of his lungs.

“No. Too many votes. Something was arranged,” Batman’s eyes shifted behind his mask, but Falcone wouldn’t be able to see it. “Karlo’s lost the council. Talk of a federal investigation. Did you help Karlo from in here?”

“Look,” Falcone said, showing the Bat his open, upturned palms. “Maybe I know a little something, but I should’ve been habeas corpus’d the hell outta this hole days ago. You get my lawyer a message, and maybe I can help you.”

“Your lawyer will get the message.”

Carmine paused and sucked his teeth. Trying to appear relaxed, Batman thought after a scan of the man’s body language. He might even be relaxed.

“Basil wanted insurance,” Carmine began, “he’s upside down on a number of volatile investments, and the only currency he has right now is being able to help with permits, award contracts, sweetheart deals. As you know, I’m a legitimate businessman, but back before the Depression? Used to be you could buy a judge. Basil can’t afford no district court or circuit court judge. But an election judge? Sure. Two or three, easy. Town like this? They come pretty cheap.”

“There’s a lot of dead people in Gotham. Fires in every district. Gangs. Your family.”

“A family needs a father. If you can get me outta here, I can get this under control. You took my son from me, you owe me this.”

“I didn’t kill your son. I should kill you for what you did!” An echo of tone and color found its way into Batman’s voice.

Falcone inched back.

“I ain’t no saint, but I-I can fix this,” Falcone rolled his shoulders, straightening his posture into something resembling fearlessness. “Anyhow, I know a lotta guys who say you don’t kill an–“

“I haven’t killed. Doesn’t mean I won’t.”

The color drained out of the Roman’s face, and the lights flickered, then went dark.

A whisper, “But I’m not going to kill you, Carmine. Not tonight.”

-♞-

Carmine could feel the warmth leave his face. The lights flickered, then went dark.

“But I’m not going to kill you, Carmine. Not tonight”

Any sign of emotion in the Batman’s voice was gone just as quickly as the light, and if he was supposed to feel relief, it wasn’t enough.

“Hello?” Carmine called out, but he didn’t feel Batman in the room anymore.

“What about my lawyer? Hello?”

The only light was distant and soft. Moonlight from the hallway?

Moonlight from the hallway?

The door to his cell was still open, and so was the door to SHED.

Carmine gathered himself up and walked through the open door to the hallway, following a trail of cool grey fog.

Up a cement staircase, like the one he’d descended when he was originally put into this hole.

The fog grew thicker as he climbed, and he found himself covering his mouth, trying to avoid breathing in too much of the miasma. Carmine could make out one person in a Gotham Police uniform with a carpenter’s respirator strapped to his face laying on his stomach. Pieces of a service pistol lay disassembled on the ground in front of him.

The soft glow of Gotham’s light pollution refracted throughout the harshly lit district headquarters, and eventually, Carmine found his way to a side door where he pushed a brass bar, opening it to fresh air.

And a half dozen reporters shouldering their way toward him.

A black car was waiting by the curb – and Carmine’s driver leaned against the door, smoking a cigarette.

“Mr. Falcone! How long have the police been providing you with protection?”

“Mr. Falcone! What was the nature of your arrangement with Gotham Police Department and the Commissioner?”

A dark haired, well-built man cut through the flock of press. He wore thick lens glasses, and Carmine was sure he recognized the guy from somewhere.

The man held out his hand, snatching Carmine’s and leading him to the waiting car.

Reporters attempted to get answers for questions as they got into the waiting vehicle. The driver continued to enjoy his cigarette with patience, as if he had nowhere to go, and the press were shoo’d with a resentful-sounding “no comment!”

A smile tore across Carmine’s face. He recognized Salvatore’s voice, even if the phony mustache and thick glasses managed to make him look unfamiliar. Sal Maroni pushed the Roman into the car without closing the door, and briskly circled the vehicle, entering through the driver’s side rear door, and slamming it shut.

Sal wore a scowl as he tossed the glasses to the floor, blinking hard to adjust his eyes.

“Maroni! You handsome bastard! You were always my best cap–“

“Best rat poison's always been lead,” The man pulled a revolver – a snubnose Detective Special – and shot Falcone three times in the stomach. “This breaks my heart Carm,” said the man with the gun, pulling the sputtering, choking businessman’s mouth down over the weapon as blood flowed forth from his lips.

“I swear!” Carmine tried to choke out, but he found it hard to enunciate with the burning .38 in his mouth.

Sal pulled the trigger once more, sending bits of bone and viscera into the air behind the Roman. A reporter was spattered, dotting his face and collar in crimson.

The assassin pushed Falcone’s corpse out of the car and into the gutter and pulled the door closed with a slam, startling even the bravest among the reporters who were struggling to regain some level of courage after the shots were fired.

The driver calmly took another drag of his cigarette, got into the car, and drove off into the Gotham night.

-♞-

Batman winced at the sound of the gunshots, but he needed to be elsewhere.He mounted a black motorcycle near the mouth of an alley about a half a block from the Gotham Police Department.

Tonight was unseasonably warm for November, and rain started falling in great sheets onto the streets of his fallen city.

-♞-

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I didn't anticipate being gone for more than two months, but had a lot of competing priorities with a new job (I work in legislation/education policy/advocacy, and our legislative session – 90 very intense days – in Maryland started the DAY after I started work.

There's a little under two weeks left, so it's possible that Chapter 28 won't be completed/posted until after "Sine Die," but we should be back to a regular, every-Thursday schedule by mid-April.

There's also been some Mental Health and Personal stuff, that I won't get too far into – I won't say that I'm doing "great" now, but stresses are starting to ease.

Thank you for continuing to read, and I hope you enjoyed Chapter 27 – Oedipus In Exile. Thanks for reading.

Chapter Text

"I would say 'it's nice to meet you,' but I don't believe in time as a concept, so I'll just say 'we always met.'"

– Darius Epps • ATLANTA

Funeral For A Friend

Alfred Pennyworth cleared his throat.

“When I was 22 years old, my life changed forever, and it hasn’t stopped changing since. If you had asked me on that day if I was ready to be a father to a teenager who had just lost his mother and father, I would’ve said ‘Hell no!’ and that would’ve been that.”

Behind Alfred, Bruce Wayne cracked a smile. Alfred knew this because nervous lips throughout the gathered mourners began to twitch into cautious smiles.

It was a brisk, but clear Sunday in November, and Alfred pressed on with glassy eyes.

“But Bruce Wayne went from being my kid brother to my teenaged son in the flash of a pistol, and in many ways, I like to think we raised each other,” Alfred looked back at Bruce, who wasn’t fighting the tears anymore. “Bruce had always been precocious. Always mature for his age – and mine – and he never once allowed me to feel like I wasn’t a true part of this family. I love you, Bruce.”

Al nodded at Bruce, this time eliciting a wave and a chuckle from his adopted son.

“But I guess I got cocky, because two years later, I thought to myself: Al, you have so much, and there is this little boy to whom you can offer a better life, and how hard could it be?

“Edmund Burke once said ‘The arrogance of age must submit to be taught by youth,’ and while there are very few things with which I would say I agree with Mr. Burke, I can unequivocally say that Richard John Grayson became a part of our family and immediately proved that you should never ask ‘how hard could it be?’

“Dick Grayson was a man of words. I want to take a moment and ensure that you heard that correctly. I didn’t say he was a man of few words, I said that he was a man of words. Dick really liked to talk. Dick loved to argue. And while I see people smiling out here, I cannot stress deeply enough that Miss Gordon can personally provide stories of her physically pulling Dick from off of a stoop to get the two of them inside before curfew.

“Dick used those words in situations where violence would be a completely reasonable response. Once upon a time, Dick came home and insisted to me that I needed to find a job for a man. I asked how Dick had met this man, and how he, a boy of only fourteen years old, knew anything about this man’s professional qualifications. ‘Alfred,’ he said ‘I just told this man that I would find him a job so he didn’t need to rob people anymore.’ I remember thinking about it for a moment, and then noticing that the boy’s watch was missing. ‘Did Archibauld steal your watch, Young Mister Richard?’ I asked. And Dick shook his head and smiled, and said ‘no, he planned to steal my wallet, which was empty, but I gave him my watch so that he could buy himself a nice shirt and tie.’”

Somber, sincere laughs brought the backyard of Wayne Manor to life, and Alfred could see the clouds of breath hovering in front of the funeral goers.

“But Dick was also a man of action. When he joined our family twelve years ago, he would take any loose change he encountered in the house and redistribute that money to homeless children he would meet on the streets.

“Certainly noble, but when I found out he was meeting these boys when he should’ve been in school, I had to figure out a way to encourage him to pursue his education while allowing him to help others.

“This resulted in a substantial ‘allowance,’ which included Dick being the youngest board member of the Thomas & Martha Wayne Boys’ Shelter Network. He managed, at one time or another, to make every other board member – including myself – walk out in frustration –”

Alfred paused, a warm smile crossing his lips as he reminisced.

“–But we went from a single, twenty-bed shelter in Powhatan to shelters in Midtown, The Narrows, Lakeside, Harborview, South Kane, and West Ward inside of a year, because Dick fought – with his words and his actions – for what he believed in.

“As a man of words and action, Dick understood that neither are universal. It’s easy to say ‘violence is never the answer’ when you live comfortably in Silverwood Barrens or in Parkside East, but in places with such stark inequity, violence gives a voice to people who are in need, people who have been ignored. He once told Bruce and me ‘If we don’t give people a choice, then violence might not be good, but it’s still correct. Giving people a choice gives them hope.’

“When he said that, that’s when we knew that he should run for Mayor of Gotham. To give people a choice. To give them hope. We couldn’t possibly know that he would be taken from us in the senseless and hopeless violence of November First. As Bruce said earlier, ‘The meaningful revolutions outlive the revolutionaries.’

“But justice for Dick Grayson doesn’t mean holding a grudge. It doesn’t mean retaliation. It means   carrying a torch for Dick’s legacy. It means hope.

“When I asked Dick how far he would go to make Gotham a better place, he stopped and thought about what he was going to say next – and if you knew Dick Grayson, you know that was rare. When he finally answered he said ‘It’s not about how far I’m willing to go. It’s about having the fire and the passion and the commitment to keep going, no matter how far that may take me.’”

“In closing, I’ll ask you to keep going,” a beat. “Not for Dick Grayson, but to see how far it might take you.”

-♞-

Bruce Wayne stood and embraced his tearful hero. His eyes were bloodshot, red with the fires of loss, and insomnia, and anger. He made his way into the throng, trying to smile as friends, employees, neighbors, and strangers stopped him to offer condolences.

A redheaded kid (who couldn’t, Bruce figured, be older than Dick was) in a hand-me-down suit tried, unsuccessfully, to be discrete when he snapped pictures of Bruce shaking hands with or hugging notable public figures.

A man in a dark overcoat and hat, who was hunched over and broad and barrel-chested, clumsily made his way from the photographer’s side toward Bruce.

“Bruce, I’m so, so sorry,” said Clark Kent, offering a handshake. 

Bruce took it, covering the top of Clark’s gigantic hand with his left hand, and surreptitiously sliding Clark’s note from his palm into his pocket.

“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” Bruce stopped short of walking away, catching a distorted reflection of his pain-stricken face in the reflection of Clark’s absurd glasses. “Jesus, I look like shit, don’t I?”

“Anyone would if they’d been through this.”

Bruce wrinkled his nose and patted Clark on the shoulder, moving along.

-♞-

Alfred spent nearly an hour in the backyard after the conclusion of his eulogy, then vanished without pomp or circumstance, knowing that he could rely on his staff to account for his absence and conclude the reception.

 He and Bruce Wayne entered the library within moments of one another, in uncanny silence.

Each man reached into his pocket, first retrieving a handkerchief, then a folded note. Across from one another, they opened the notes in such mirror-like synchronicity that an observer would’ve believed it was a piece of performance art.

“What do you think he wants?” Bruce asked, breaking the stalemate.

“I think it’s quite clear, Mister Bruce: When we’re ready, Mr. Kent would like to talk with us.”

“Do we think he knows?” Bruce asked, pulling the stopper out of a decanter. He made eye contact with his counterpart, inclining his head and pouring the deep amber scotch into shallow glasses.

“Well I don’t know how this so-called x-ray vision really works, but I don’t think it can reconstitute carbon,” Alfred’s eyes shifted toward the urn containing Dick’s remains, and Bruce handed him a glass. “But, in the spirit of sufficient paranoia, I would assume that he does.”

“To sufficient paranoia, and to Dick.”

“Salud.”

Their glasses clinked together, and after a time, they were full again.

Chapter Text

All his life, Klaus had believed that if you read enough books, you could solve any problem, but now he wasn't so sure.

LEMONY SNICKET • THE BAD BEGINNING

Jellyfish

A funeral certainly makes for a curious date, thought Jeremy Tetch, Lead Policy Advisor for the Project ALICE initiative. And while his suit was secondhand, it had been tailored and pressed, and soon enough he would be able to afford a new one.

His date was as disarming as ever. Even in the muted felt of her black cloche hat and simple dress, Jeremy found Harriet to have otherworldly appeal.

Of course, Jeremy knew that this wasn’t a proper date. Harriet’s professional entanglements with Project ALICE meant working in close proximity with Jeremy, and when he’d looked on in anxious silence when Ms. Rose conveyed the invitation, Harriet patted him on the shoulder and said they’d be arriving together.

“Truly sad,” Jeremy remarked following Mr. Wayne’s eulogy. It was brief and passionate, and between his remarks and Mr. Pennyworth’s there were no dry eyes in the garden. “I voted for him, you know.”

“I was on the fence myself,” Harriet commented in more discrete tones. “But I must say you convinced me that even posthumously, it might be worthwhile to vote for Dick.”

Jeremy gripped the brim of his overworked hat tightly, the sweat of his hands softening the carroting to a point of critical disrepair. Add it to the list of wardrobe upgrades, he noted.

As the service – which featured a maddening flock of humanity (increasingly more of whom seemed to know Jeremy through his work with Project ALICE) – began to wind down, Jeremy was pulled by Harriet toward the house, and the long, extravagantly-appointed tables which were enumerated by reception-worthy lite fare, and an array of dark wine bottles, many of which seemed to radiate in the cool chill of the November afternoon.

“The park,” Harriet asked, but without Jeremy fully understanding the question. “For a picnic?”

“I-I suspect that we’d be missed here,” the man was flummoxed, stumbling over his own tongue. “And I’m afraid that I hadn’t thought to prepare us a basket, Harriet.”

Harriet rolled her eyes, and twirled toward the table, waiting for the butler to tend to something elsewhere and smuggling a bottle into her overcoat.

“We’ll find something to chew on, I’m quite sure.”

Harriet’s hair flared with another carefree twirl, and Jeremy Tetch became far less confident in this being a strictly professional engagement. She took his hand and they headed out of the garden.

-♞-

“Hey! Mister! Mr. Jeremy! Hey!” The deep (for a child) pitched voice of Natalie called out from the huddled regiment of the Newsboys Legion, the unhoused newsies-cum-gang who had become much more communal in the wake of the child-killer stalking the streets of Gotham. The cool, crisp air of late autumn carried the girl’s voice across the park to the path where Jeremy nervously strolled next to Harriet –

Natalie was second-in-command, as far as Jeremy could tell, and a boy named Joey who Pockets would sometimes follow around seemed to be the one in charge of everything, at least since the tragic departure of Extra. The girl, whose hair Jeremy was seeing for the first time out of her cap, was bounding towards the unlikely couple. Jeremy immediately regretted not having a stash of candies to hand off.

“No carts today?” Asked the girl, huffing clouds of breath into the air.

Jeremy shook his head, removing his hat with a slight bow, “I’m afraid not today, Ms. Natalie.”

The girl’s face fell. “Where are all the grown ups anyway? There’s nobody in the park today.”

“A funeral for the slain Mr. Dick Grayson. A very somber affair, indeed.”

“That why you two are so dressed up?”

Harriet smiled at the girl, unbuckling her handbag, and pulling a handful of differently-sized (and flavored) wrapped candies from a hidden cache.

“Take these to the other children,” instructed Harriet. “Share them amongst your cohort, and next time that Jeremy is working in this park, I’ll see to it that he has some extra favours for you all.”

The children were steadily-advancing on them, to the point of being within earshot, and Jeremy waved enthusiastically at those that he recognized, but resisted the temptation to shout out to Pockets or Joey directly.

Natalie took the sweets and ran back toward the Newsboys, happily distributing the candies to the others.

“Where’s the red one?” Joey asked, annoyed. “I saw her give you a red one.”

Natalie smiled, holding the saliva-slick globe between her teeth.

“Give it,” instructed Joey, holding out an open hand. Natalie sighed and spit the slimy hard candy into his palm, and Joey tossed it into his own mouth, wiping the red spit from his hand on his trousers. He handed two of the candies wrapped in white foil to Natalie. “Don’t act like I ain’t fair.”

The boy turned, smiling and waving at Jeremy and Harriet as though he hadn’t just committed a minor heist.

“Well that doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Jeremy asked, not looking directly at Harriet for an answer.

“Remember,” Joey’s voice carried as the Legion walked off. “I only ask for first dibs, but everyone gets their rightful share.”

“He’s their leader,” Harriet supplied after observing the way the children orbited Joey. “Pretty soon she’ll be bigger than the other boys, and then maybe she’ll be in charge. Things tend to work themselves out.”

The duo continued their purposeful but casual stroll, the late afternoon breeze flowing sharply against their procession. 

“Colder than I’d hoped,” Jeremy remarked, noticing Harriet’s shiver.

“Quite. And this shawl isn’t as warm as it looks. If only I had a proper coat.”

“This one does the trick and was very reasonably priced. Would you like to return home to get yours?”

Harriet stopped, cocking her head to the side and pursing her lips.

“Oh my, where are my wits?” Jeremy fumbled his way out of his wool suit jacket, clumsily draping it over Harriet’s shoulders.

“What a gentleman. Thank you, Jer– may I ask you a personal question?”

Jeremy blinked rapidly, and after saying nothing in the span of an awkward moment, he nodded, adding a mumbled “I suppose you may.”

“What happened that caused you to go by Jeremy instead of Jervis?”

Jeremy bounced his fingertips off of each other like a guilty child.

“If it’s too personal, Jeremy –“ Harriet began, “please I didn’t mean to bring up something painful.”

“No, it’s just, well, I suppose ‘embarrassing’ is the best word for it.”

Harriet and Jeremy walked in near silence down the footpath and then off to a sunny clearing to the west, where they sat down on the ground, using Harriet’s shawl as a makeshift blanket (though it was far too small, forcing Jeremy and Harriet to need to sit perilously close to one another). Jeremy removed his hat, and the autumn wind licked at the top of his head in a manner that would be unpleasant if it wasn’t so hot all of a sudden.

“Jeremy,” Harriet started, “it’s clear that this embarrassment is a private matter, and I didn’t mean to cause offence. I apologise for the discomfort. Let’s not toil over this any longer.”

“Ms. Harriet, I quite like working alongside you,” Jeremy was waiting to blurt the words out, but he dared not interrupt. “And I believe if we’re to be friends that I should tell you about this episode of my life, so that you have all of the information.”

He twisted his hat around in his hand, one rotation, then another, then another.

“You see, I find that I tend to get along better with young people…”

-♞-

“I can’t believe that you’re still planning on being there,” Alfred’s voice was surprised but not worried. His pacing back and forth across the stone floor of the mine wasn’t distracting, and it was a habit that Bruce had mirrored when he needed to look at things from another angle. 

But Bruce had already committed to his decision. There wasn’t another angle he could see.

“Are you even slightly concerned that this will be a trap?”

“My only concern at the moment is that it will be a waste of time. I don’t even know if he solved the puzzle.”

“It’s curious that you’ve decided to trust this man when you are so disinclined to trust in general.”

“The city is under siege, Al,” Bruce looked down at his boots, then back up at his oldest friend. “Gelio and his cronies are making things worse. People are at the end of their ropes. Falcone’s underbosses are each trying to consolidate power, and Saturn might know who Dick really was – he might know who I am. I need…”

“An ally?”

“An accomplice. Someone who I can trust enough to second guess the commissioner. Maybe eventually I can count on him to see things our way. For now, I need someone with proximity to Karlo and Gelio. And if my intuition is right, Gordon would benefit from feeling like he has a friend.”

“So you’ll manipulate him? And then what? How does a sleeper agent keep the city from imploding under the weight of this power vacuum?”

“If the one cop – the guy that everyone trusts – publicly second guesses the commissioner, maybe the council will follow.”

“Or you split the jellyfish.”

“What?”

“When the mayor was afraid of losing the election, he brought in Falcone to stuff ballots. Then he needed to worry about keeping Falcone in check, so he brings the commissioner to the table. Then the commissioner, in the course of getting Falcone under control, turns Carmine’s organization into five distinct organizations. Divide and conquer has two meanings, Mr. Bruce, and the less popular one means you’re getting flanked on all sides instead of just one.”

“But what’s that got to do with jellyfish?”

“When you cut a live jellyfish in half, it releases all of its sex cells.”

“Um.”

“And they can reproduce asexually.”

“I see.”

“We were never much for the whole ‘one person can make a difference’ thing, what makes Gordon different?” 

“Saturn changes all of those calculations. And with the lieutenant as part of our conspiracy, we’ll–“ Bruce stopped, wanting to say four, but reorienting. – “we’ll have three.”

“I just think I need to raise the concern that this will cause more problems than it solves. Course correction in Gotham is going to require a herculean effort, and it will get more and more difficult the more time we allow to pass.” Alfred offered. “And this sounds like a lot to invest in something that might not work. 

Bruce tuned the earpiece in the costume’s ear, and pulled the mask into place over his head.

“We meet with Hercules in the morning. For now, the long term investment is the focus. We know a thing or two about investing in the future,” Bruce Wayne became the Batman, and his voice became a secret susurration.

-♞-

Nothing on the scanner about the library or any of the surrounding locations.

Rows of watchful sentinel pines streaked by on either side of the speeding motorcycle, and the Batman’s cape slashed at the night with overbearing darkness. 

A generous donation from the Pennyworth Foundation meant some additional cover if he needed it – six half-scale sculptures of the Gotham’s Flying Sphinx now stood in the atrium, each outfitted with different diversionary devices that Batman could set off from with a hard enough kick, a smoke bomb, a batarang, or a grapnel.

By his estimate, he’d have forty minutes alone at the library – maybe more – to do final checks before Gordon arrived.

-♞-

Lieutenant James Gordon was conflicted – he’d have to break into a public building – but resolute. The only person who knew about this cockamamie parley with the Batman was Barbara, maybe Selina if she knew anything about codes.

And Barbara was still shook up by the massacre. The service today was the first time she’d left her apartment since Election Day, and Jim drove his daughter home afterward.

Part of me hopes he really was Valley, and we can put all of this behind us as just a strange, unbelievably tragic year.

Jim shook his head and walked around to the rear of the imposing neoclassical Gotham Public Library, pulling a shim out of his overcoat as he approached. And then he put it back; the heavy door was wedged open, waiting for his arrival. The lieutenant snuffed a cigarette into the handrail, and with caution (and more than a little fear), he entered, pulling the door closed firmly behind him.

Even making an effort to tread lightly, his shoes clacked loudly against the marble floor, and by the third step away from the rear entrance, he stopped and wondered how he could be less conspicuous. This could be a trap, sure, but Jim didn’t know how to – or if he even should – let Batman know he’d arrived. 

He removed his shoes, setting them next to a lectern holding an atlas, open to a map of Gotham City proper, and continued forward toward the atrium.

Squinting at his wristwatch, and holding it too-close in the darkness, it read 10:55, and Jim muttered a private annoyance at Barbara’s insistence that he throw away his old Omega with the lume.

Early, Maybe you beat him here, Jim dismissed the notion, recalling the door, and noticed the overwhelming brightness of the space before him. 

The library’s atrium was flooded with moonlight, and in the contrast of the rest of the building’s darkness, was like a lighthouse in a storm. Six enormous statues of Gotham’s mascot, The Flying Sphinx from the city seal, drove the light outward into radiant spokes.

Those are new.

Or at least, he hadn’t seen them on his last visit, which was before the forum. A last minute sweep of the corridors to check for shadows or traps netted nothing, and another look to try to pick out suspicious reflections or undulating blackness was also fruitless.

Jim Gordon stepped forward, into the center of the atrium.

Do I clear my throat? Say ‘hello?’

“It’s Gordon,” he said with trepidation. “I’m alone.”

Nothing.

Jim turned back toward the way he came and nearly jumped out of his skin, but it was just the orange glow of the streetlamps cutting the door into an  intimidating silhouette.

“No shoes?” The source of the whispered inquiry was a shadow out of the corner of Jim’s eye.

“JESUS!” Gordon grabbed the half-smoked cigarette that fell from his lip. “I was trying to be discrete.”

“Mob is on a rampage,” Batman got right into it. “Protection rackets are back and worse, because each underboss has men across all the districts. Bleeding people dry, forcing them out of their businesses. And if they close up shop, the mob goes after them in their homes.”

“Yeah? You wanna see us reinstate the curfew? Nobody would go for that. They barely trust us as it is.”

“You have a lot of men out here making it worse. Contract guys in the department are extorting too. Gelio’s looking the other way.”

“You got any proof?”

“Have a few names.”

Batman’s living silhouette was broken by an arm, presenting a typewritten page.

Jim mumbled the names aloud as he read them. “…McKinney, Noonan, Rodello, Brocato, Weich, Flass, Bullock…some of these guys aren’t contract.”

“Money got a lot shorter when Grogan got canned. Does Flass seem like he’s pinching pennies?”

“I–“

“–The guys who lined their pockets before are gonna fall into their old habits. And whoever ends up on top of this turf war –“

“–Maroni.” Jim answered.

“Probably. But whoever it is will be the Falcone of ten years ago. Before he went ‘legit.’”

“Look, uh, Batman. There’s still a killer on the loose. And the mob is opening up shop in every neighborhood.”

“You’ve got a killer in charge of the department. How many people did Gelio kill during curfew?”

“You know it takes some kinda nerve to,” Gordon trailed off as the Bat stiffened abruptly. “What?”

“The Narrows. How fast can you get there?”

“Might take five, six minutes after I get to the car, why?”

“522 Kilmer Avenue. Report of a kid’s body. Buy us some time.” 

“How the hell do you…never mind. Do you need a ride?”

No answer. No Batman.

Jim bolted for the door, and a pure black blur blazed down the street in front of him like a bat out of hell. The door closed behind him before he remembered his shoes by the atlas.

“Dammit,” he grunted, and took off toward his car.

The radio squealed to life, and Jim picked up the handset as the call for on-duty officers in the Narrows repeated in the tinny voice of dispatch.

“Lieutenant Gordon, en route.”

“10-4 Lieutenant.”

A bullet-sized drop of rain crashed into his windshield. Then another. 

“Goddammit.”

-♞-

Batman hoped that Gordon would be the first (and only) responder at the scene, but he remained swathed in darkness on a fire escape observing from a safe distance. The first police cruiser pulled up, and it was Gordon, and he was alone.

“No one else is coming,” Jim said to the night sky, as he circled the body. He pulled the last drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the gutter. “You can come out now.”

 Batman swept over the railing of the second story escape, releasing his grip on the rope at the peak of the swing, landing on his feet with little more than a quiet flap and a dull thud that could’ve easily been the sounds of rain.

“You forgot these,” he said, offering the wet-socked lieutenant a pair of well-worn oxfords.

Batman leaned in close to the body, and took a deep breath, then pulled the child’s tongue. 

“Red,” he said, looking up at Gordon.

“Hm.”

The boy was soaked through, and the Bat silently cursed that the blood usually found at the scene would be washed away. 

“Give me a hand?”

Gordon squatted down and pulled the body toward himself, while Batman retrieved a microscope slide from his belt. Lifting the boy’s head revealed that his hair was matted down with something sticky and glistening, and he scraped some of it onto the slide and held it up in the light of the streetlamp.

“What is that?” Batman whispered.

“Orange blood?” Gordon puzzled.

Batman sniffed the slide before covering it and putting it into his belt.

“More like blood orange.”

“I was thinking on the drive over here – we need a better way to get in touch.”

A siren blared in the distance. 

“I thought you said no one else was coming?”

“Sounds like you have about five minutes until no one gets here.”

“You’re right.”

“I was thinking, Central District has an old fog lamp on the roof. Doesn’t really get used anymore, but maybe if I need to talk to you, I could–“

“Shine a spotlight into the sky and let the commissioner know we’re meeting?”

“People don’t really look up.”

Batman heaved a deep sigh, and turned back.

“Check under your driver-side fender. If we need to talk, leave a note.”

“What if I need to talk to you?”

“Call in a code eleven-eleven on your police radio, followed by the location. If I can make it, I’ll be there.”

Gordon removed his glasses to wipe them clear of rain.

“Alright,” Jim replied. “And hey. No more codes.”

Batman pulled at the cord hanging from the fire escape, and disappeared into the dark alley.

Moments later, his cape was whipping in the rain as he sped away.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 30

The truth is you can be orphaned again and again and again.

“The truth is you will be.

“And the secret is, this will hurt less and less each time until you can’t feel a thing.”

TENDER BRANSON, SURVIVOR

---

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE

Greathorn Diner, Ashburton 5:58 a.m.

“You two can follow me in if you don’t mind sittin’ in the dark for a minute, hon,” the waitress said, he breath hanging in clouds in the November morning air.

Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth did just that, removing their hats and coats in such synchronicity that George Gershwin would’ve had half a mind to consult the duo for choreography.

Taking seats on opposite benches in a booth by the window, the two men wore polite smiles. Not a trace of nervousness could be detected, as the pair had discussed alibis, cover stories, and potential purposes for Clark’s requested parley on the drive over.

The lights flicked on and the waitress appeared at the table side with a silence that impressed even these two veterans of stealth.

“First cup of coffee should be ready in two,” she said. Then, examining Bruce’s face more closely, “Daily Planet?”

“Two please,” Alfred replied with a bright smile. “We’re waiting on one more,” he added. The waitress retrieved the newspapers and soon after, she was filling their mugs with steaming black coffee.

Alfred and Bruce unfolded the papers, scanning for articles of interest, and both earmarking a story featuring Lex Luthor, philanthropist businessman’s pro-Superman advocacy.

“What do you make of this, Al?” Bruce motioned to the headline and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I wonder if you’ve read the guest list? Notable is who didn’t attend.”

“‘Gotham City Mayor Basil Karlo, and his appointed Commissioner of Police, Johnny Gelio, were unable to attend due to a former commitment…” Bruce muttered through, scanning the text and reading aloud under his breath with intensifying scrutiny, “…the funeral for Dick Grayson, the populist candidate who opposed Mayor Carlo in the mayor’s race. Grayson, 22, was slain just days before the Midterm Election in the violent Fatal Friday massacre.’” Bruce furrowed his brow.

Alfred thought about yesterday’s service.

“Is it possible we missed them?” 

“Not a chance,” Bruce snapped. “Sorry, I’m just – Luthor even made time to send flowers. We had an usher for public officials.”

“And the mayor absolutely would’ve wanted to say something, whether we would’ve let him or not.” 

Bruce let out a long, dark sigh, and removed his glasses, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“There’s more,” Alfred dragged his finger across a line more than a paragraph down, “‘Mr. Luthor said that he would meet with Mayor Karlo and Commissioner Gelio, who are seen as the architects of so-called CAPE laws, privately in the coming weeks to further his case for Superman.’” The server refilled his coffee cup, and Alfred thanked her with a nod. 

“Don’t be so anxious Mr. Bruce,” Alfred was reserved with the instruction. “You’re clenching your jaw again.”

Bruce’s face relaxed, and Alfred took a sip of the coffee as the door to the diner opened, inviting in the chilling outside air and a demigod in a wool hat.

Alfred rose and crossed the booth to sit next to Bruce, offering Clark Kent a handshake as he joined them.

“Alfred, it’s nice to see you,” Clark shook Alfred’s hand sincerely and pushed his glasses up on his nose, sliding into the booth. “Bruce, Alfred. It was a lovely service yesterday, and I wanted to offer my condolences to both of you.”

Bruce offered Clark a soft smile, and Alfred thanked him for attending. There was a volley of small talk, and the waitress found her way to the table to fill Clark’s cup with coffee.

“Do ya know what you’d like to eat?” She asked, and after a time, she brought two orders of  steak and eggs and a bowl of grits for Clark to the table. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Clark inclined his head. “I work with Lois Lane at this newspaper,” he offered, pointing at Alfred’s copy of the Daily Planet.

“He was here with me a little over a month ago,” Bruce said, and the waitress appeared to accept it and went about her duties.

“I’m glad you could both be here, because I’ve been doing some thinking.”

Neither Bruce nor Alfred betrayed a thing, each wearing the perfect mask of curiosity about what Clark began to tell them.

“When I learned who Alfred was, we had a long chat. It was about a great many things, but he told me that he thought I might break,” Clark took a deep breath, and Alfred wondered if it was just for show. 

Did Superman breathe? Did he even have lungs?

“I asked him, directly, if he intended to kill me. And he said that he would kill me if he had to,” a beat. “The two of you are the only people alive who know, aside from my mother,” Clark paused, not saying anything for what felt like an eternity. “My mother couldn’t do it if she had to.”

Alfred and Bruce both leaned back in unison. 

“What are you saying?” Bruce asked, and Alfred wanted to jump in but waited to see what else the Man of Steel would say or do or show them.

“I’m saying I think we should get the check,” came Clark’s answer, and he set two small, leaden boxes on the table with a heft that rattled their breakfast dishes. “Is there somewhere in your home that’s more private, maybe an outbuilding?”

Alfred looked at Bruce, and both men knew without words what came next.

“We have an old airplane hangar,” Alfred responded.

-♞-

Rose Residence, Ramapough 6:47 a.m.

The doorbell rang, and Lilian Rose was not expecting company.

Roger is never this early, Lily thought, dismissing that it could be the postman. She was up, of course, but she’d just stepped out of the shower, having only moments ago come in from taking notes on the pollination experiments with her Tacca chantrieri. It was a passion project, to be sure, but one which made cleanliness essential. The flies weren’t pollinating the plants – a hypothesis she thought to be stupid to begin with – but it would be something of a novelty to let her sundews feast upon the vile pests. 

Lily vigorously shook her vibrant red hair in a towel, wrapping it into a terry vase above her head, and tied her bathrobe closed, descending the polished wood of the stairs to the door as the bell rang a second time.

“Coming,” she called out, still annoyed at the intrusion.

She unbolted the door, and pulled it open with a scowl which wouldn’t be improved by her caller.

“Lilian,” said Johnny Gelio, commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Meet me around back in five minutes, I need to make myself decent,” she commanded.

Having made him wait for more than fifteen minutes, Lily Rose opened the door to her backyard, walking out onto her overgrown terrace. 

“Took you long enough, Johnny,” Lily said in announcement.

“Look Lil’ I,” Johnny paused, his right eye twitching in the same way it did when he’d first asked Lily to go on a date with him more than a decade ago. “I…ma’s getting worse, and this whole city’s on fire, and the timing just never seemed right. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Well I’m sorry about your mother, Johnny, but you’ve been back in town almost a year and I haven’t heard a peep from you. You’ve got some nerve if you think I shouldn’t be sore with you.”

“You’re right,” Johnny agreed. “And while I hope you can find your way to forgiving me, I’m afraid this isn’t a personal call.”

Lily did what she could to keep the confusion off of her face, but her outrage was not putting up the fight she’d hoped it would.

“You have an employee – Tetch – goes by Jeremy, but also known as Jervis; I’d like to know what you know about him.”

“I know enough,” Lily said, rolling her eyes. “I know about his past, I know that he got an unfair shake of things in New York and then again with Wayne. I know that he was never found guilty of anything, and I know–”

“–Kidnapping, Lil’,” Johnny interjected. “Kidnapping. You know how screwy the courts can be. They found a missing kid in his apartment when he was working for Roosevelt. You think that’s worth the risk for one of your charity cases?”

“World could use more charity,” Lily shot back. After a moment of quiet: “And frankly, it could use fewer children.”

Johnny helped himself to a seat at a small cast iron table on the terrace. Grass and clover grew through the paving stones which made Lily’s backyard look like a garden party that had been consumed by a swamp. An echo of something classy in a life past.

“Fewer children?” Johnny sucked his teeth three times in rapid succession. “That’s a little bit west of crazy, ain’t it?”

“Is it? How much better off would the poor be if they didn’t have children? How many orphans are running the streets of Gotham? You think those brats in the park selling stolen newspapers are going to grow up to contribute to society?”

“I heard about this program you’re running with Wayne, Lily. It doesn’t sound like the type of thing that you do if you believe that people are hopeless.”

“Surely you understand the difference. The potential fight for environmental resources that children who have their whole lives ahead of them possess, but which adults have largely expended. What’s another thirty-five or forty years compared to  another seventy?”

Lily didn’t join the commissioner at the table, instead very purposefully wandering in sharp angles around the perimeter of her patio.

“Children are an ecological cataclysm waiting to blossom. I don’t think that Mr. Tetch has anything to do with the dead children that you’re no doubt asking about. But I don’t think that a car full of kids being murdered is any worse than what your people did during the curfew with impunity.”

“Lily, come on,” Johnny begged, “desperate times and all. And your people are done working well before curfew, this didn’t affect you.”

 A lock of damp red hair crept from under the towel on Lily’s head and in front of her eye, and a geyser of her warm breath shot up from her lower lip to displace it.

“I could spend the next several hours trying to explain to you why it’s worse, but I actually have things to do today, Yiannis.”

Johnny let himself be bothered at the sound of his Greek name, just as Lily knew he would.

“I came here to ask you about Tetch, Lilian, and to give you time to prepare, because he’s a person of interest in the Peter Pan case. He’s the person of interest, in fact.”

“You’re a goddamned idiot, Johnny,” Lily spat. “What’s to keep me from telling him?”

“You don’t care about this guy, Lil’. He’s a mark. You got what you needed from him, and I’m giving you the chance to put some space between you and your company and your project and him. 

“We got the warrant this morning.”

Johnny stood up and buttoned his overcoat, running his hand through his sleek, wet-looking coif.

“I’ll get outta your hair Lil’,” he said, taking a half dozen steps toward the side gate. “I’m sorry this visit wasn’t a personal call, honest, I am,” the commissioner broke eye contact, and Lily tucked the out-of-place strands back under the towel. “You should come by sometime. It’d be nice for ma’ to see you again.”

Ass.

“Goodbye, commissioner.”

Johnny let himself out without looking back.

Lilian Rose needed to make some phone calls.

-♞-

Wayne Manor, Silverwood Barrens, 7:15 a.m.

Bruce slid open the hangar-cum-garage door while his adoptive father and an alien journalist looked on.

Rows and rows of automobiles, all meticulously kept, were parked before them with numbered, empty spaces denoting cars that either hadn’t yet been purchased, or that were currently elsewhere. 

“Lotta cars,” Clark said.

“We have doubles of the cars, some of ‘em. That way we know we have a pristine one in here. If an employee needs to borrow one, and it gets scratched,” Bruce shrugged, “we don’t care.”

Clark cocked an eyebrow, and Bruce imagined with a smirk that he was puzzling over the cryptic comment. Then the reporter again produced the two small boxes, handing one to each man and holding up a hand to indicate that they wait while he took an oversized step backwards.

“I’ll ask you both not to open these until I say so,” Clark instructed. “I’d like to tell you about what this is first.”

“It’s a vulnerability,” Bruce said. “Something that could kill you, or, at least weaken you, maybe make you human.”

“From your ship?” Alfred added.

“H-how–“

“Lead boxes, the step backwards. You really take your immortality for granted,” Bruce set the jewelry box on the hood of a Chevy. “But what is it?”

“It’s – it’s an element from Krypton, or at least, it’s not something that can be found on Earth,” he began. “As far as I can tell without endangering myself, it supplied the power for my ship, as Alfred deduced, and it has the curious effect of making me feel a little dizzy, nauseous, or downright weak depending on proximity and quantity. You can open the boxes now.”

Bruce and Alfred each opened his small, lead jewelry box, and Bruce snapped the lid closed immediately, cocking his head in Kent’s direction.

“Is this radium?” He demanded. “Things don’t tend to glow like that without being radioactive.”

“It’s not. As far as I can tell, it’s not harmful to humans. It doesn’t emit any detectable radiation using devices available here – aside from the glow, of course – before Pa died he kept a shard in a box in his nightstand, and in the storm cellar, to use like a flashlight. That was before we knew it was causing things like blurred vision and headaches for me, but it was years of him sleeping next to that nugget and he was as strong as an ox when he passed. And, before you ask, he died due to complications from diabetes.”

That didn’t make Bruce feel particularly comfortable. And he suspected that Alfred was evaluating the alien similarly, albeit with a bit more empathy. Even if this was truly an alien element, the universe has rules – it would be likely that a Geiger counter would detect the radiation if it were dangerous – but, in some quantity, this was able to power space travel over a distance that suggests (at least) approaching light speed, and it could possibly kill Superman? 

This does too much, Bruce thought. Just like him, and we know he uses shortcuts when he doesn’t understand his own powers –

“Why a ring?” Alfred asked, breaking Bruce’s train of thought.

“Mine isn’t a ring, it’s a rock.”

“Alfred has more experience with close combat,” Clark answered. “You’re in good shape, Bruce, but strength alone doesn’t make you a fighter.” Bruce smirked. “I figure you can cut and polish that into a slug for a gun.”

“I guess it’s been a while since I took a boxing lesson.”

Clark smiled.

“I won’t ask you not to experiment with it, because I don’t think you could resist. I will ask that you don’t tell anyone what it is, and that it doesn’t leave the property unless…” the reporter looked down and away, his meaning implicit in the silence.

In the quiet, Bruce pondered.

“How deadly is this stuff to you?” He finally asked.

“I think a bullet might kill me. Or a knife, but it’d be difficult to get close enough. Proximity in general makes me feel like I need to throw up, and I go a little off-balance, too. But I don’t think it would kill me without penetrating my flesh. As far as I know, my internals have the same invulnerability as my skin and hair, but if, say, I were holding a crystal, you might be able to harm me with conventional weapons.”

Bruce still felt confusion at the situation, and the explanation only served to broaden the feeling.

“Why? Why are you giving us this? Why not give it to the President, for example?” Bruce demanded.

“Because I don’t have anyone I can really, truly trust, not for something like this. And let’s be clear: A lot is going to have to go right if you want to assassinate me. This is just a chance. I wouldn’t want the military to have this. What if it can be duplicated? What if scientists found a way to use it as a power source? No. I can’t be personally responsible for the technological advancement of humanity, writ large. My interventions here have to be objectively good.”

“Can you prove it?” Alfred offered the question that Bruce would’ve asked next. Clark grimaced and took a step forward.

“Bruce, if you’ll hand your box to Alfred,” and Bruce did, and Clark looked for all the world as though he was holding his breath. “Alfred, I’m going to hold my hand out. You can try to cut me with the sharp part of the crystal.”

Alfred removed Bruce’s crystal and stepped toward Clark – toward Superman – and the glow of the rock became more bright and intense. Both men winced when Alfred dragged the jagged corner of the green stone across the back of the alien’s wrist. The skin seemed to tear as easily as wet paper, with deep red blood weeping from the scrape almost immediately.

Clark withdrew his hand, and a sickly yellow vomit consisting of a bowl of grits and whatever approximated stomach acid for a Kryptonian hurtled toward the concrete floor with enough force to crack it. The alien staggered, and braced himself against a Chrysler Imperial, crushing the front fender and flattening the two front tires. Bruce couldn’t tell if Alfred was reeling because he’d harmed Clark, or because one of his favorite cars would need an embarrassment of bodywork. 

“I hope this is one of the ones you have doubles of,” Clark said. “I’m sorry.”

-♞-

En Route to The Narrows 8:24 a.m.

Detective Selina Kyle didn’t like the way the commissioner drove, but figured that riding shotgun in his car to an arrest was better than waiting at her desk on Jim, who was still at the dentist.

Johnny didn’t talk while they drove, he just breathed deeply, and let an unnerving grin deform his face into an exaggeration of emotion, like a film funny character. Fifty miles per hour on tiny residential streets that would be crowded if not for the sudden outburst of mob violence, this was the one place he let his guard down?

Two additional cars followed them, each with cherry-red lights rotating on their roofs. No sirens, just lights. One marked Gotham City Police Department, and a newer model Ford that was painted a dark royal blue with a single gold pinstripe with no department indicia.

Henchmen. Selina knew the pinstriped car was filled with agents from Henshaw Allied, actually filled. There were five men in that car, and each of them was a mongrel in his own right.

“Sir,” she began, breaking the hush of their squad car’s cockpit. “Do you really think it was a good idea to bring five of them? Aren’t they kind of…aggressive?”

Johnny’s head turned to her, the rictus smile still pasted on his face, and then back to the road. The smile faded quickly, and he contorted his expression into something more presentable.

“We don’t know anything about this sicko,” Johnny stretched his neck, and didn’t slow down nearly enough for a sharp left turn. “Better safe than sorry!”