Warwick and Flores LLP Offices, Downtown Gotham City.
9:45 AM.

"Good morning. This is a deposition in the matter of Estrella Bertinelli Incorporated v. Science and Technology Advanced Research Labs Group in U.S. District Court for Gotham County and taken at the offices of Warwick and Flores. The court reporter today is Marcia Snow from the firm of Gotham City Reporting. I am Mateo Flores, legal counsel for Ms. Bertinelli. Your names are?"

The stenographer was already busy faintly clicking away in the background, mixed only with the rain drops tapping against the glass windows of the room.

"Helena Bertinelli. B-E-R-T-I-N-E-L-L-I, Helena spelled the usual way."

Her eyes never moved. It wasn't an attempt at intimidation to any other person seated at the long wooden conference table with it's high glossed surface. Surrounded by glass on three sides, her eyes were stuck on the one non-glass wall in the conference room on the 31st floor of the office building in downtown Gotham City. Most of that wall was glass, too, but at least it was a better view: a corner of another glass and steel tower just off to the right, with historic Gotham City off in the distance, including, if she focused hard, the four story stone building her father had once owned where he operated his empire out of; both legitimate, and illegal.

"Gabriella Slate. S-L-A-T-E. Gabriella is spelled the usual way."

"Arthur Reeves, legal counsel for Mrs. Slate. R-E-E-V-E-S. Arthur spelled the normal way."

The wheel went back to her lawyer. "Mrs. Slate, what is your occupation?"

Blonde and middle aged; the granddaughter of Garrison Slate. Her pretty features were currently icy, hairline cracks caused by what could be irritation. "Chief Executive Officer for the Science and Technology Advanced Research Labs."

"Just ask the question."

Helena didn't need to move her line of sight to know that every set of eyes in the room were suddenly on her, and her only. She was interrupting the regular flow of the deposition, because she really didn't have the time to waste.

Her lawyer was the first to twitch. "Helena--"

"--no, no, Mr. Flores, it's fine." Gabriella Slate's hairline cracks widened; her heart rate increased, the woman's posture in her chair changed from leaned back into the seat to leaning just slightly forward.

"Gabriella," Reeves tried, but it didn't stop the CEO of S.T.A.R. Labs.

"Mat."

There was a pause in the noise of the room after Helena spoke the demand by saying the name, for everything but the tapping of the court reporter on the stenograph and tapping of rain drops on windows. "Ms. Slate when Estrella Bertinelli Incorporate purchased the Gotham City S.T.A.R. Labs location and assets, the specifics of the deal were that S.T.A.R. Labs would disclose all current experiments, select staff to be selected by Estrella Bertinelli, and Gotham City site historical records going back fifteen years. When Estrella Bertinelli conducted a survey and accounting review of the assets they found inconsistencies. Did Estrella Bertinelli make S.T.A.R. Labs aware of the inconsistencies?"

Gabriella Slate leaned a fraction of an inch closer to the table. "Yes. We reviewed the same data and maintained everything had been transferred upon the conditions of the deal."

Finally Helena moved her attention from the windows, to the room, to the CEO of S.T.A.R. Labs seated across from her at the large table in the conference room of the multi-million dollar lawfirm. "So we're suing you for incompetence instead of fraud?"

"Why don't we take a break," Mateo Flores may have said it first, to let the room cool down, but Reeves was so quick to agree it was as if he had the exact same thought at the exact same time even if they'd just gotten started. Gabriella Slate had iced over once again, leaning all the way back and into her seat. Didn't matter; Helena could see the tell-tale signs of the woman's elevated stress levels. Didn't hurt Helena knew those exact signs from this exact woman up close and personal; very quietly, very briefly, long before taking over for her father and marrying a Silicon Valley tech wiz, Helena and Gabriella Slate had dated.

If you wanted to call it that.

Helena could all but still feel the woman's neck gripped by her own hand in lustful flashback, seeing those veins flush to the surface. She knew what to look for already; their history just made Gabriella Slate the easiest read Helena ever had to make in a conference room. And the read was telling her that the woman was lying about something, that S.T.A.R. Labs was lying about something. When, not if, she found out what it was...

"I hope you're as smart as you think you are, Helena."

Helena only smiled as the woman walked off. You and me both.

---

S.T.A.R. Labs Gotham City Site.
12:21 AM.

Shadows within shadows, slipping past the barely concious in silence; so the Huntress stalked through the darkened vaults of a building closed for transition. Swift and silent she moved. The security firm hired by Estrella Bertinelli was one of the best in Gotham City, and that was no low bar. They were trained, they were armed. The two on duty were former US Army; both had served two tours in Anbar. Both young men lived the 17/5/2 life. Neither knew when the Huntress was mere feet away from them in the building they were assigned to guard.

On their best day they couldn't catch her a mediocre day. Today was one of her better days. The building was empty, said the naked eye, and the paperwork caught up in a legal battle between S.T.A.R. Labs and Estrella Bertinelli. The latter had shared instrumental readings stating an outsized energy presence in the building. Either there was something hidden in the walls, or there was some sort of lingering affects caused by...something. The readings, tested and repeated five times at various times of day and on differing days, spawned the very legal battle that took up most of her morning. During the time she usually gets the majority of her sleep--little of it that she normally got.

Gabriella Slate's body told her what scientific instrumental readouts could not; that S.T.A.R. Labs were hiding something. As both the guards starting to make a second round and talk about some American sport, the Huntress slipped past for the first time, and up the stairs of the three story building. The readouts were the same on the second floor as they had been on the first floor. And on the third floor they were the same as they had been on the second and first floors. It was enough to make the woman to arch an eyebrow, and re-consider.

The basement was concrete and a vast landscape of nothingness cloaked in blackness; she needed only to past the two guards one more time on the stairs from second to first floor to reach it. The drip-drip-drip of a leaky pipe off in the distance, doors shrouded in ghostly green emergency light that didn't extend more than a foot in either direction past the door. And then the detector on her wrist spiked. Wild, sudden, past the limits of the digital readout. Few things made a predator in the dark blink in confusion--this did.

"Do you really know what side of the glass you're on, Ms. Bertinelli?"

Her heart stopped. Her head darted, her body tensed, every hair on body stood on end. Few were better at detecting from which direction a sound had come than a hunter in silence, but what training and instinct were telling her could not be. No sound came from every direction at the same time. Who? What? The moment her secret was known was the moment Helena Bertinelli was buried and dead. Bruce Wayne could survive outed, the Waynes could survive it even if Bruce might not. But the Cosa Nostra would bring every Bertinelli line to extinction in every country it was found the world over.

The thought terrified. Yet the Huntress wasn't scared. The Huntress didn't scare in the dark.

Only one sound cut through darkness and silence in that moment; the sound of a pistol crossbow being pulled from it's holster, and her thumb switching the smartbolt in the crossbow to explosive and scatter. The guards would hear; the Huntress didn't care. If they were wise they'd call it in and investigate. If they weren't...it wasn't her concern. Her cape snapped in the room as she circled the spot where the readings were highest. Gotham City was an old city; the kind of city that was built upon the decaying bones of it's past lives. The secret of S.T.A.R. Labs, she became convinced, wasn't hidden in the walls--it was hidden under the fucking floors. Enough distance was put between her and her aim point, and the crossbow came to life. A half dozen little red dots illuminated once, twice--BANG.

Something roared, rumbled, and howled. Ground crumbled away from the Huntress, her body stumbled and her perfect balance was betrayed by the structure in which she felt so suddenly trapped. Her beloved darkness replaced by blinding light; a crimson glare that saw her as steel came rushing up to meet her falling body with a crushing crash. The world froze, and then one tiny spark hit her shoulder, then the back of her neck, then upper body. One spark became a dozen, a dozen became countless in seconds. She was burning, the Huntress realized before it was too late, before she couldn't escape, couldn't move, couldn't even breath.

All she could do was scream.

Gotham City,
Somewhere Beneath the Wayne Estate,
12:22 A.M.

There was a darkness in the cave complexes beneath Wayne Manor that surpassed even the most shadowed corners of Gotham's streets. By night, it grew deeper still until it was almost tangible, almost alive. It was a heavy, sullen thing that resented being pushed away by the cheerful, insistent hum of artificial lights. It lurked at the edges of these bubbles of illumination, eager to swallow up those who ventured far enough away and make them disappear. It was the sort of darkness that liked to slither into the backs of human minds, settle into a half-forgotten ancestral corner, then start quietly birthing nightmares.

Damian Wayne found it insufficient.

Therefore, he had blindfolded himself with a monogrammed hand towel he'd sneaked from one of the bathrooms and now hung suspended upside down from a stalactite, slowly spinning to ensure the proper degree of impairment. He had a throwing knife in each hand and a target propped up at the opposite side of the cave, or what he had been sure was the opposite side when he'd started to spin.

Eyesight and basic spatial orientation were things that any common human could use to hit a target, so Damian had taken them away. Now he could feel the silken, calligraphic W pressing against his face and the tickle of air currents against his skin as he twisted and swayed. There was an older smell underneath the harsh, lemon-tinged acridity of antiseptic cleanser, something that was part animal, part musty stone and part aerial dampness. Comfortingly cthonic, he'd labelled it. It was the sounds that Damian found were most improved, though. He'd become accustomed to the roosting bats in the cavern roofs, their chatter-shriek and the flap-snap of leather wings. The sound of his heartbeat and breathing were there if he checked, a subtle sussurus over a tiny, steady drumbeat.

There was something else, constant and pinprick sharp in his ears. The high, quiet electrical whine of the Computer as it monitored the city's sins. The noise shifted subtly as he spun, giving him direction. The flow of air across his face and through his hair gave him timing as he twisted, a point of reference narrowed down further with each heartbeat. He waited until they were all lined up perfectly and threw.

Damian's heart briefly jumped up into his stomach after he picked up the sound of metal blades sinking into the target, but after a moment's consideration he tore the blindfold away in frustration. As Damian had suspected, he'd struck a full centimeter off of the bullseye!

It took a few moments thrashing and flailing, some of which seemed more dramatically angry than was strictly necessary, for the boy to undo the knot at his feet. He tumbled soundlessly to the floor in a neatly executed roll, marched over to the target with a purposeful stride, and began kicking it with all of the considerable vindictive savagery a nine-year-old could manage.

Tantrum thoroughly achieved, Damian plucked the twin throwing knives from the target and walked back over to his starting position. He threw both behind himself without bothering to look back and confirm that they had drilled the center exactly, still too nauseated by his earlier failure to care. the boy crossed over to his father's over-sized chair and hopped up to sit in it cross-legged, brooding in unconscious imitation of its' usual occupant.

Pennyworth couldn't have been right about lack of sleep impacting his training no matter how patronizing his tone. After all, 'bedtime' was not now nor had it ever been a term applicable to Damian himself and his League of Shadows training ensured that a maximum of three hours sleep was all he required to function. More likely that it was Father's fault.

If Father was going to go missing for a month, he could have at least had the decency to give Damian free reign of the city in his absence rather than leave him trapped in a nearly empty headquarters with nothing to do but train endlessly, reflect and sketch the occasional bat. Damian had even begun naming the creatures out of boredom based on minor physical tells or behaviors, but it was hardly diverting enough.

The only other things to do were watch the Computer for alerts or use the internet, and moronic, self-indulgent garbage aside doing so offered Damian only glimpses of a realm that was increasingly deteriorating in his father's absence.

Oh, it wasn't that Damian was worried, of course not! Apart from maybe Damian himself there wasn't a human being yet born capable of killing The Batman. It was just that it would hardly do if half of his inheritance burned to the ground while Father was away on some adventure. Besides, how was Damian supposed to prove his superiority as the Wayne heir sitting here doing nothing?

Damian huffed and spun the chair in place, debating forcing Pennyworth to tell him where he'd hidden the sweets if only to practice his interrogation skills. A multi-colored blur caught his attention as he whirled, and it took considerable effort for his small, light frame to slow the chair down enough to figure out what had caught his attention and why.

It was the Robin costumes, over by one wall underneath transparent casings. Damian got out of the chair and started looking them over, face and hands pressing against them in turn to get a better look. Utterly senseless attire for urban combat and stealth for the most part, but they were traditional. Father undoubtedly kept them there for some unfathomable reason involving nostalgia or symbolism or the like, but they did give Damian an idea.

He wasn't allowed off of the grounds of Wayne Manor alone as Damian Wayne.

But what if he were...someone else?

Chinatown
2004

Slam Bradley rode shotgun in the unmarked car. Captain Grogan sped through the city at "Fuck-Traffic-Laws-I'm-a-Cop" speed. Slam smoked and saw the sights. Open-air drug markets. Fiends scuttling across streets like cockroaches. Hookers peddled their stuff by the curb. Corner boys trading blowjobs for blow. Slam cracked the window and blew smoke.

Slam smiled. He felt alive. He felt jazzed. Grogan's squad worked the streets. They ran the streets. They were the landlords out here, and everybody paid their rent or they got hit. Two-Gun Jack was a hick from somewhere out west, Oklahoma or Texas or something, and he had that southern twang prairie accent. The hump wore two six-shooters on both hips, the hump wore shit-kicker boots and a white stetson with a goddamn bolo tie. He chewed tobacco and thought he was Jonah Hex reincarnated. He looked like a clown on the surface. Beneath it, he was all killer.

Grogan spat tobacco juice in a coffee cup. He wiped his mouth and said, "Samuel, how you been liking these past six months?"

Slam beamed. "Fantastic. Anything to get me out of Gotham Central and Vice."

Vice straight bored him. It was either hooker rousts or gambling busts. He was too well known around Gotham to work undercover. Vice required him to roust prosties and break bookies. It was straight shit-work. His brain was wired for the street. He needed to be out here in the thick of it. This was his element. Grogan picked him because he was big and intimidating. The captain promised muscle work and he made good on the promise. Anybody he wanted worked over Slam worked. Fist work, brass knucks work, rubber hose work, followed by dental and surgical work for the poor sap.

Slam flicked his cigarette out a window. The butt hit a passing wino in the forehead. The wino flipped it away and shook his fist at the car. Slam laughed. Gorgan roared.

The GCPD car rolled through Chinatown. They met up with Detectives Tommy Burke and Mal Harris. They piled back into the car. Slam drove and Grogan rode shotgun. Burke and Harris sat in the back. They were headed to a Tong summit to act as muscle. One Tong family swore vengeance on another Tong family. A Chinatown war loomed on the horizon. It defied Grogan's mandate for the mobster squad. They kept the peace at all costs.

The convoy pulled up to a fish factory. They got out with pump-action shotguns and automatic pistols. Slam had his big .45 in his hand. Grogan wore two six-shooters on his belt. Grogan stuck a plug of tobacco in his mouth and strutted into the factory with a bullhorn in his hands. The factory floor: Wall to wall to Chinese men yelling in their heathen language. Six Nation Tong on one side in red, the Yellow Dragon Tong on one side in yellow. They jabbered at each other, flashed knives and guns and threatened to go to war right then and there.

Two-Gun Jack held the bullhorn to his mouth. His voice amplified across the din. The bullhorn made it screech weird. Grogan's voice sounded inhuman. Slam realized he was speaking Chinese. The Okie fuck gave the Tongs the spiel in fluent Mandarin. The gist: Calm down right now or we will send in the riot squad and bash all your heathen brains in.

The panic subsided. Grogan grinned. He motioned the rest of the squad to flank out. Burke and Harris covered exits and corners with their guns. Grogan and Slam walked towards a card table in the middle of the mob. Fat Ricky Fat of the Six Nation sat on an opposite side from Hau Song and the Yellow Dragons. A third chair for Grogan sat between them. Two-Gun Jack sprawled into the chair. Slam stood behind him as muscle. Hundreds of eyes fell on Slam. He winked en masse to the crowd.

The negotiations began. The two old men spoke through Grogan. They talked to him and he talked to the other. All eyes fell on the negotiations. No noise from the crowd. You could hear a pin drop. Ricky Fat said something in his gobbledygook. He pounded the card table. A buzz filtered through the crowd. Ricky Fat made the throat slash sign.

Hau Song shook his head and rattled off gibberish. Grogan held both hands up. He talked, talked, talked in their tongue. He pointed to both men. He expounded on some theory that made both men's heads nod. He finished. They both agreed. The crowd clapped. Wolf-whistles broke out.

Grogan got up smiling. He pulled Slam close. Slam could smell his tobacco breath as he whispered in his ear. "I give you peace. Peace for our time, son. Go find Burke. We've got some more work to do."

--

Burke drove and Slam rode shotgun. Grogan and the head of Six Nation Tong sat in the back. Fat Ricky Fat spoke in Chinese to Grogan, Grogan gave it right back. They laughed. Slam looked in the rearview mirror. He saw a pistol and hatchet in Ricky Fat's lap.

Grogan switched to English. He said, "GCPD caught a dead body two days ago. A Chinese girl stabbed to death in a Chinatown motel room. The victim was Ricky Fat's niece. Her murderer is Yellow Dragon. Some punk she was fucking is the fiend. He saw her with some Six Nation boys and got jealous and stabbed her sixteen times. A real Romeo and Juliet story. I learned all this at our summit just a few moments earlier. Knowing Homicide like I do, they'll give the killing a cursory investigation and drop it. If it's not white, they don't care. This degenerate who killed Ricky Fat's niece has tarnished his family honor. Old world customs dictate that he must regain that honor with vigorous bloodletting."

Slam saw the hatchet blade glint in the sparse light. Ricky Fat held it up swung it around the backseat gracefully. Grogan laughed. Grogan said, "To advert full on war, Yellow Dragon has agreed that this heinous crime must be avenged. Up here on the left, Thomas."

Burke pulled up to an apartment. They got out. Slam and Burke walked point, Grogan and Ricky Fat behind them. They hit the fourth floor. Apartment six. Slam had his .45 out, Burke gripped his nine mil. Grogan pulled his six-shooters. Ricky Fat had a hatchet in one hand, his pistol in the other.

Grogan said, "Go!"

Burke kicked the door. Once, twice, three times. It snapped on the third kick. It swung back on its hinges. They pushed through it. They walked in on five Chinese junkies geezing up on Big H. Slam and Burke aimed at the same man. They blew holes through his chest. Two-Gun Jack opened fire with both six-shooters. He turned two men into swiss cheese. Six shots a piece center mass. Ricky Fat charged the one man left alive. He screeched something in Chinese and hacked at the man with his hatchet. The man screamed and fell to the floor. Ricky Fat kept hacking. Grogan nodded, he spun his guns like a cowboy and holstered them. Burke went green. Slam holstered his piece. Grogan put a hand on his shoulder and lead him and Burke out.

"Let Ricky Fat have his fun. We need to talk since we have a moment."

Grogan spat tobacco on the floor and shook his head. He talked over Ricky Fat's screams/the killer's moans.

"Tonight's your last night working with me for some time, boys. I did what I could, but you both gotta pay something for that mess with the drug dealer from last month. Thomas, you're going to the Eastern District flexsquad to work drugs. Samuel, they're packing you to Homicide. It's supposed to be temporary. How long it'll last, we'll see."

More screaming inside. Choked and phlegm filled death rattle. Blood ran out the door and pooled at their shoes. Burke dry-heaved. Slam saw a severed eyeball float by.

Gotham Gardens
Now

Smoke filtered across the casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes and worked slot machines with dead eyes. Dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across the floor on too tall heels, dishing out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up couldn't hide the miles and the years. They were in that downward spiral that would end with them picking up tricks on street corners. Drunk businessmen played blackjack and eyeballed the girls, none of them too drunk or too bold to touch them. Geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriner fez hats played roulette. Slam sat at the casino bar on his lunch break. "Lunch": Six shots of rye and three beers. A straight up liquid lunch.

He moonlighted as a security goon for the cut-rate casino. It was shit work, but it paid. He worked over drunks who got too handsy with the girls. Card cheats lost teeth, card counters got to count the fractures in their arms. He got paid more than the rest of the goons because of notoriety. People still recognized him from time to time. Geeks wanted photos with Slam, geeks wanted to pose with their fist on his chin in a faux knockout punch. One card counter asked for his autograph after he fractured the fuck's arm. He spat blood and smiled. He said he had something in common with Goodnight Garcia; both got their asses handed to them by Slammin' Sam Bradley.

Slam watched the beer swirl in his glass. He was in debt up to his eyeballs. Gambling was his vice. Gambling along with booze... and cigarettes. Gambling, booze, and smokes were his only vices. He owed the Russian Mob four grand. He'd get a few hundred working tonight and tomorrow at the Gardens, but there was no PI work to be had. The law firms wouldn't call him back or give him the time, civilian walk-ins were rare in the business. Dames in distress coming into a PI's office was straight out of the movies and books. Slam didn't even have an office. He worked out of his flop over on the East End. The only steady clientele happened to be the underworld. He had a reputation among the city's crooks. And it was because of the bank job in '05 and all the shit that came afterwards. He gulped the rest of his beer down and looked at the dregs in the glass.

Chinatown.

That's where he always went when he had enough booze in his system. The night they got street justice for Fat Ricky Fat's niece fucked Slam up in more ways than he would ever admit to even himself. He crossed a line that night. Beating shitbirds was one thing, but he had killed them. He'd taken a life; a life of a scumbag, but still a life. The transfer to homicide saved what little bit of his soul that he had left. He got teamed up with Gordon and the rest was history. But those days were over. As dead as the junkie rapist he gunned down in Chinatown all those years ago.

Slam pushed himself away from the bar and started back to his security post. He already had his eyes on a needle-nose prick that was getting too loud at the craps table when his phone went off.

Nobody called him. He had no family, no friends, and sure as shit no clients.

"Hello?"

"Slam Bradley?"

He ducked into an alcove and put a finger into his right ear to try and block out the sad sounds of the casino.

"Yeah, who is this?"

"Barbara Gordon, Jim's daughter, I need your help."

Sunset Valley, West Gotham
Valley High
12:11 AM

Steph was favouring her right side again. The bullet wound had healed perfectly ages ago. But it's disuse had made her less dependent on it. Didn't help that she hadn’t been getting any real combat training, with Batman & Co all going dark right after giving Spoiler his blessing. No practice, aside from the small time punks that pestered the suburbs. They weren't even good enough to be considered practice really. The one directly in front of her was gearing up for a roundhouse so obviously she almost felt bad. Steph ducked sideways, careful to keep her footing. Her opponent had put too much weight into the swing and staggered forward just enough for Steph to bring her knee to his chest, spin, and drag him down on his back. His two friends still hesitated.

"Who are you?" To his credit the he looked about ready to give up then and there, but the third of their merry trio went around and circled her, and on cue he began to charge towards her.

“If you don’t mind I’m a little busy” She pulled a thin metal rod from the back of her belt, with a very quiet click it stretched out to a full bo staff. Just as she placed one end of the ground, the attack from behind hit her, hard. Fat kids apparently. She lost her balance, but used the momentum to lean on the staff, and roll into the opponent in front of her. Two down, her staff a few feet away, and her cape had flipped itself, blinding her.

Very smooth.

But these where suburban teens, not even a gang. She spun in what she hoped was the last one’s direction, stepping on another along the way. She didn’t make contact, but her cape fell back into place and she could see him going after her bike. In two swift steps she kicked his shins out and buried her elbow into his back, hard.

"Ow. Bitch!"

“Yeah well don't try to steal from crazy people in masks.”

All three stayed down, but only the last one was hurt, even then not badly. Clearly, they weren’t looking for a fight, or even trouble. Unfortunately for them, Steph had been. Practice. Not that the three combined had been worth much more than one of Oracle's fortune-cookie bots.

Yes, curse these suburban streets free of hard crime, you'd think I was in Metropolis.

She pulled her bo staff out of the ground and collapsed it while staring at the brick wall of her high school. A rather wobbly but recognizable bat symbol was sprayed on. She kicked one of the cans the vandals had dropped and tried not to laugh.
Spoiler; fearsome vigilante. Trained by assassins, master martial artists, and the world’s greatest detective, protecting the streets of Gotham from tacky street art.

“Don’t supposed I can get one of you to sign my community service form for this.” A groan and what was very close to a whimper was the only response.

They were just kids, messing around with spray paint at night. Truly the dark underbelly of Gotham’s suburban crime. Getting pushed around a bit was probably enough to knock some better sense in. Not to mention the nearest station was eleven miles away, her motorcycle could only hold two at a time, and Steph really had better places to be.

“Thanks for the dance!” She kicked her bike into gear and headed for the west bridge, going over a number of possible greetings once she got to the cave. Oddly it would be easiest if Batman was there. Hoping to run into the Bat was an odd change of pace, a sign of how much she really had changed. Or she really had just gone plain crazy.

Stephanie slammed her breaks forcing her bike to a halt with a screech loud enough to wake everyone in a four mile radius. Since she was halfway across the west bridge well after midnight on a Tuesday; that would be no one. The dark figure she'd so nearly run over appeared not to notice and continued to walk across the bridge without even looking up.

“What the hell!” She shouted jumping off the bike and chasing after the unknown person as it toppled to the ground. “You're really-”

Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.
The man, -the wind had picked up enough to push the hood of his sweater off his head- was climbing the damned guardrail.

Manually identify fingerprints? Sure thing.
Kick the teeth in of a man twice her size? Probably.
Double backflip onto different elevations? Did it blindfolded.
Play grief counselor to a potentially suicidal teen? …

Well the first thing would probably be to get him the hell away from the ledge. She took a few steps towards him.

“Bit late for diving practice.”

Wow.
Stephanie was very confident in her limits, there where things she could, and could not do. Ten seconds in, and already whatever it was she was doing, was falling deep into the latter. Not that doubt had ever stopped her before, and it wasn’t like she could just watch a teenager jump into Gotham River. She’d have to go in after him. The guy was shaking, from the back it was impossible to tell the cause, cold, fear, tears?

“What’s your name?” That didn’t get a response either, Stephanie took another step as to stand beside the teenager. He turned to face her – smiling. Laughing. Vacant eyes with dilated pupils, even directly under the street-light. Joker venom was the first thought that came to mind, but that wasn’t possible, Joker was gone and his recipe with him. Not to mention the man’s laughter was more akin to a giggle than the maniacal ravings of venom’s victims. Still, Steph knew a user when she saw one, and this guy was certainly wacked out on something, something that reminded her of the data she’d had to study in the cave over a year ago. She took a more stable stance and reached out, ready to grab his arm.

“This conversations gotten a little bit one sided for-Hey!” He stepped forward.

Always have to say something don’t you Steph? Even to the hyped up junkie that wasn’t listening.

Her hips slammed hard against the guardrail, trying to brace against the weight of the man now dangling some hundred feet above the river. Judging from the pop and following shrieks bellow, she’d dislocated his arm.

Half an hour before everything went to hell. Well done Girl Blunder.

An abandoned Youth Correctional Facility on the South Side of Gotham

"Repeat it back to me," Trent said as he leaned forward from the back seat. His face emerged from the haze that sat like a stale cloud in the old Sedan. Chance was just cleaning off his FN Five-Seven, giving it another once over, because the first fifty checks weren't enough. As he holstered his piece his hands began to wander from the top of his body down to the bottom. Making sure that all of the lumps in his pockets, on his belt, and holstered were present before he pushed off. "Repeat what? Your normal sandwich order at Marty's?" this comment was accompanied with the driver of the sedan, Lisa, shaking her head and grinning. Trent restrained himself, I should smack the fuck out of the kid but last thing I need is his abnormality grabbing my arm and breaking it. ,"No dumbass, the plan."

The three amigos, of sorts, sat out front of where it all started for Chance, The Youth Correctional facility on the south side of the city. The facility was thankfully closed a few years back after a few of the employees pissed off the wrong side of Gotham's justice system. Talk had been spreading that not everything had been taken from the facility upon its "untimely" closing. So any pharmaceutical drugs that Chance could get his hands on would definitely help out the locals.

"First things first, I go in that door right," finger tracing the front of the building until it met the double doors, "There." Trent gave his eyes the old 360 treatment and thought to himself, Here we fucking go. "Then, this is where it gets good Lisa so pay attention," he mentioned as he gave a friendly tap on her shoulder. "Then I waltz back toward the lab area where all the crazy experiments happened." Giving a bit of jazz hands to accompany his speech. "That, if my memory serves me well, is the best spot to get in, snag the goods, and get back to the Martin house before dinner gets cold."

Lisa began to notice that Trent was having enough of Chance's nonsense so she went to give him a punch on the arm. Mind you, Lisa was just recently introduced to driving for the Hoods, and thus this was the first time working with Chance. Without missing a beat, Chance's right arm clamped onto her wrist with his left arm in tow to secure her shoulder joint. In one swift motion his "medical enhancement" took over and pinned her shoulder to the steering wheel while the rest of her arm was held taut ready to snap.

"Chance!" Trent had shouted gripping onto the seats in front of him. Chance's body had already tensed up in transition back to his normal state. Eyes trailed down to see the potential damage that had been done. As he inhaled he stared back at Trent with a nod. Lowering his mask and looking left and right for any cherry tops potentially in the area, Chance took off.

"What in the ever loving fuck was that about?!" Lisa exclaimed as she took solace in having both arms still attached to her body. Trent's eyes were trained on Chance as the kid slowly crept into the building through the double doors. "Apparently when you got hired on they left out a very important detail about our star child here. Don't ever, EEEEVVVER, make any rash movements toward him. See this facility here." Her eyes assessed the building as Trent continued on, "We could have hit a clinic, a corner store, anything else to try and grab these drugs. However, this right here was where they fucked that kid up. So on top of us getting what we want, he feels a tiny sense of justice stealing from these fucks." The young woman was still in a confused state but slowly understanding the situation. Even if all of this alleged mumbo jumbo was the cause of his attack was true she would still do well to just abide by that simple rule. "Now pull the car up to the corner of the building so we can get a good view of both ends of the street."

Poor fucking girl, why do I have to be such a freak?! Bunch of damn nutt jobs up in this place really did a number on me. Chance would think as he walked down the hallway flashlight first. All the needless memories raced back to his head from the days he spent locked up in this house of torture. Thankfully, it was run down, covered in dirt, decay and cobwebs. Finally, he found one of the old maps of the facility on the walls. "Let us see here, we have the room and board area, kitchen, there is some of the old lounges and boom," Chance's hand smacked the paper, "The lab."

As if his hand hit a button setting off a trap door from an Indiana Jones movie, a loud thud could be heard down the hall accompanied by a series of squeaks as rats scampering off. Drawing his pistol slowly, he paired it up with his flashlight as he made his way toward the origin of the noise. Ideally, I won't be using this on whoever might be down at the end of this hall. Last thing I need is to make unnecessary noise and set some loones on my buds outside. Hopefully, this will just scare the bastard.

The trail of rats backtracked to a closet that sat barely open. He had dropped his flashlight about moments prior in hopes of masking his presence better. Eyes finally adjusting to the dark as the muzzle of his pistol sat right at the opening of the door. Here we go, and in one swift motion he kicked the door open and pied his way into the room. The only assailant on this day was a lone broom stick that had been left propped against the door. This wooden bastard left it's resting place and made it's way straight for Chance dome. Body, taking over again in the most unnecessary of ways, lead his left arm to grab the broom and hurl it at the ground. With a growl of quick pain coursing through his body while his mind took back over he just shook his head as he turned to take off.

Although he didn't fully turn away from the door. When Chance moved the flashlight back up to eye level it moved over something that glistened. Scanning the floor for where that came from he found one brave rat that hadn't left the scene yet. "You little chubby bi..." he couldn't bare to finish that sentence because a feeling of rage covered his body instantaneously. The rat was not a brave rat but a fat fucking scoundrel that was pigging out. The meal of choice? Little morsels of meat that still clung to a bony hand laying on the floor. Chance's mind shot straight to the only plausible thing that hand had once belonged too. "I'm going to kill them, everyone of them, if any still fucking reside within a ten mile radius of the city they are going to fucking die!"

Icy blue eyes shielded by large glasses narrowed at the screen, the brightness reflecting off the glass and making them practically glow in the dimly lit room. The figure, identifiable as a woman due to their form, leaned closer to the screen. A low hum escaped them before their fingers began to dance over the keyboard, lines of code whizzing by. The woman muttered under her breath in low tones as she did so. And ‘the woman’, as if you didn’t know already, was called Victoria.

On the monitor to her left was a Skype call, no camera. “Are you in?” A distorted voice asked, clearly modified by a voice modification system. The woman gave a decidedly unlady-like snort before replying in a deeper and overall raspier tone then you’d expect her to have. “I’ve, uh, been ‘in’ 5 minutes ago, have the files as well. At this point I’m just downloading some more files for, uh, my own enjoyment.”

The voice was silent for about a second before responding in an angered tone. “Then why have you not sent me the-?”

Beep!

“Already sent, you’ve just received them by the way, that’s what the beeping sound was. I mean, I know you old people don’t, uh, really get tech. I even, to be extra nice because I’m a nice guy, added the Gotham City police file on your brother, Mrs. Davenport. You know, the one that was apparently ‘buried’ within the system?” She rambled off, leaning back in her chair as she picked up a, still smoking somehow, cigarette from an ashtray. She brought it to her lips as the mysterious voice, now revealed to be Mrs. Davenport, seemed to go silent while the faint sounds of typing came over.

A small smirk rested on the woman’s face as she heard the faint gasps of her employer. Easy, her mind concluded and Victoria was powerless to do anything but nod in agreement as smoke bellowed from her lips like a cloud.

“T-thank you so mu-.” The watery voice caused a frown to appear on Victoria’s face, the woman shifting uncomfortably. “Hey, lady? Calm down, will you? I’m not good when girls cry, it gets me all gross inside. Besides, I’ve already extracted my, uh, payment from your bank account. Thanks for the $10,000 bonus, by the way. I mean, I know we didn’t agree on it but I mean, I just figured. I was right there, after all. It’d be a true crime to NOT take advantage, ya know.”

Ignoring the woman’s stuttering, the white haired woman rolled over to the left where a pile of books and papers sat. Grabbing a large book, she then proceeded to roll over to the other side of the room where her bed sat. “Okay, I may have lied. Just a little bit.” She said louder to the still stunned woman, having to do so to make her voice heard.

“The info on your brother? It wasn’t a free thing. I’m not a nice guy. BUT, think of it this way, after another month and a half wasted trying to get information, you would’ve come to me anyway. And, uh, I would’ve charged a LOT more. See? It all works out in the end.”

Her words were rushed as usual, her attention only half on what she was saying while the rest of her attention was on the book and notebook in her hands. Her eyes flickered back and forth between the two before she ended up rolling back to her computers.

“Anyway, you know the drill by now. Tell your friends, keep my name out of your mouth or away from your fingers when you’re talking to certain people in Gotham. Last thing I need is the wrong attention, you got me? Brilliant! Now, I have things to do and money to make SO, this is where I give my goodbye Mrs. Davenport. Or, uh, can I call you Doris at this point? I’m thinking Doris. I mean, we’ve been through a lot together and I think we’ve grown close enough. Anywho, BYE DORIS!”

Victoria cut the confused woman off, exiting from the Skype call without another glance. Checking to make sure she was still properly encrypted, the hacker let out a sigh as she went boneless in her seat. Tugging at her baggy sweater, the woman took off her glasses to idly clean them as she got lost in thought.

Another day of the daily grind down, sweet. Hmm, but that name: Bruce Wayne. Personally, Victoria had much preferred to stay out of that whole thing. She never got caught by the bat once. Then again, that’s probably because she never went outside and stayed off the radar as much as possible. Unlike some of the other… colorful baddies of the past, she much prefers to stick to her own merits. She has little interest in starting her own crew and going around robbing banks and blowing up hospitals.

But imagine what would happen if the goodies and baddies found out that you were playing both sides, her thoughts tried. Well, there’s a good way to counter that. She’s stated many times that she’s neutral. She doesn’t work for the good guy or the bad guys. Whoever pays her the most, that’s where she goes. She doesn’t sell out the other side and fucks both of the sides over equally if she needs to. See? She’s all about equality.

Her thoughts shot over to the book and her notes. While rummaging through the files of a ‘legitimate’ banking agency for her client, she’d came across one of the alias’ of her ex-boyfriend Joshua. It was the first sign she’d found of him for the past couple of years. He got involved in some stuff he really should not have.

That means that, most likely, he was trying to act as a mole and got caught. So, most likely… her mind spiraled down to some dark places before she managed to resurface. Let’s try and forget that. We’ve moved on, yeah?

A small meow grasped her attention and, looking down, Victoria saw the small black cat rubbing against her legs and purring. Unable to stop her smile, the woman leaned over and picked up the squirming cat. Holding it to her chest, she tried her best to push away thoughts of Joshua. But, the sinking feeling in her gut provided a constant reminder.

Bertinelli Estate, Gotham Heights.
7:32 AM.

Gasp.

Shock ripped through Helena Bertinelli's body as it jolted to consciousness. The world spun like a top set to maddening speeds; her eyes blinded by a golden glow that allowed no definition or clarity to her sight. Her body curled fetally as her lungs just tried to breath through the heat. It burned to breath, yet the world all around her was sweetly cool to the touch, like a giant cold compress on a body racked with fever. Hands slowly stirred, rubbing down shoulders, chest, ribs, sides, hips. No holes. The relief set her mind out of panic mode, and dropped it into straight survivalism.

Slow, careful, rythmic breathing and the best worst focus of mindfulness allowed her brain to compensate for some of it. The golden blinding glow dimmed enough to reveal the light of the rising sun filtered through white curtains bouncing off the white tile of the bathroom, the warmth of the sun mixed with the gentle cool of the tile lulling her eyes to a slow close in the bathroom. The first floor east wing bathroom of the Bertinelli Estate in Gotham Heights. Her eyes snapped open, stretched wide in a new stab of terror. Her father's home.

I live in my penthouse, not my father's home.

Her mind snapped to half a heartbeat after her body snapped to stand, arms and hands spreading to catch herself as the world's spin began to slow itself enough to allow her moments of spatial calm even as her heart began to beat into her chest. The day before, the night at STAR Labs, it all came rushing back at her in a tide of reality humbling a waking dreamer. Her eyes danced around the sunlit room until they stopped dead at the sight before her; the reflection of the young woman with the brown hair and the big brown eyes that looked to be watching a ghost, afraid to move for fear of warding the spectral sight away.

She was wearing a silk robe, floral designed and metallic in material, tied at the waist in a bow. It was something she could never remember herself wearing in the history of all her life; she hadn't even bought the thing. One of her designers had purchased it for her because the designer hadn't a very solid grasp on her style. The robe came ripping off, thrown to the floor as the Italian stepped up closer to the mirror with one, two, frantic steps. The inspection started with both hands sliding under her soft, long, straight hair and lifting it up and off her neck and shoulders; head turned this way, than that, then this again just to ensure nothing was missed. Nothing was missed, but she found nothing, either.

Her body twisted, checking shoulders, shoulderblades, upper back before straightening her body and checking her collar bone, upper chest, breasts, naval area, midsection, and on, and on, and on it continued until she turned every which way to see every which angle of her body. There wasn't a mark. Not a scratch. Not even a bruise--and from what precious little she recalled from the night before there should have been at least a bruise or two. The ground literally crumbled under her feet. Barefeet made quickfire steps across tile and then the hardwood floors of the first floor as she darted through corridors and to the back staircase, where--

"--first floor office, Ms. Bertinelli."

Her body snapped to a sudden stop in as sunlight in hues of greens and reds and blues and yellows and blues bathed her image from the two story stained glass mosaic window that stretched from the third floor of the back stairs to the second floor of the back stairs. Her lungs began to burn again, the mind felt like it was beginning to rock in an ocean once more, her equilibrium threatening to disjoint from reality. Her eyes closed, her mind silenced, her thoughts were released as the Huntress began to wait, and listen, like only a life long trained super predator could.

Ten seconds became thirty, then a minute. Then two. The grandfather clock in the corridor. Birds outside the stained glass window. Every syllable and note an empty mansion ought to make. It only brought stress back into her mind. Nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of someone, not even the hint of an electric whizz or whirl or anything otherwise indicating electroni--

"--you won't hear me anywhere but in your head, Ms. Bertinelli."

Brown eyes opened until they were the size of saucers. Her breath almost stopped, her heart skipped a beat, several beats, her mind raced at speeds that made the spin of the world around her blush. For a reason beyond her, instinct, maybe, her head tilted just to the side as the analytical recesses of her brain went hard and fast on the question of sanity vs. insanity, of audible hallucinations, of anything that might begin to explain what happened to her. Logic suggested it was something from the night before, that if...wait, the office.

Her body sprung off the stairs and onto the perfectly polished hardwood floor of the corridor. In seconds she was going through the open door of the office, and scanning the room: the bookshelves with their leatherbound tomes, the antique desk, the globe, the humidor, the couch with her Huntress suit still draped across it's--waitaminute. On instinct alone Helena gathered the suit up, rolled it up into as tight a ball as she could, and held it tightly to her body in both arms. If her cousin saw it, if one of his men saw it, even if one of the maids saw it--no one was in the house right now, but if they had. If they had it wouldn't just be an awkward tense moment like in some movie.

If it happened she might have to kill someone to keep her secret.

Because it was either that, or her death. Likely her torture, then her death. Assuming they could get her, and assuming...the scenario was shoved, kicked, into the back of her mind. She had other things right now, like the burn and ache of her body, like the dizzying spincycle of her head. Like getting the suit upstairs, in her bedroom, into her closet, and into the hidden safe before anything else. The stairs were harder than they ought to have been, not yet difficult, but not seamless. Her physical motions weren't perfect. But they were fast. When you spent your entire life training, pushing yourself, gauging your body and it's capabilities you noticed little things. Like how fast you were moving.

The cellphone from her utility belt was snatched before closing and locking the safe, then pressing down on the retracted wall panel so it hissed back into place. The hallucination had been right about the suit. It still didn't explain the robe. It still didn't explain the Bertinelli Estate instead of the downtown penthouse, or the Huntress Lair underneath it. But there was one thing she could do to get some sense of the night before and it's aftermath, one number she could call with a question that should clarify some part of it all for her, anyway. "Hey, Miranda, can you call the security company we hired for the STAR Labs location and ask if they had an incident last night? Someone said something cryptic to me and it's got me curious, now."

The lie came easy to Helena; lies came free and easy to her always. They were tools of the trade. When you led a secret double life, you just got used to lying. Some people it tore up, having to lie to family and friends, having to weave webs of lies build upon each other. To Helena it was just life, as easy as breathing. In another life she would've been a great CIA case officer, she was certain of it, or a--"Yeah, I'm still here.....nothing? That's according to the guards they had there last night? Yeah?...okay. No, that's good, I don't need anything else. No, I probably won't be in today, something's come up. Thanks, you too."

The line went dead, and Helena felt numb.

"That's not surprising. The floor can be rebuilt in under an hour, and the guards were probably 'dealt' with so they wouldn't have reported anything."

So lost in her own numbness and thoughts, this time, the voice startled her enough to make her jump up--and smash her head instead the tight confines of her pink marbled, white with pink accented, drawers and closet rack spaces. Grimacing and cursing in Italian was just her way of venting a little bit. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. I don't believe you."

"I have no reason to lie."

Everyone has reasons to lie.

...nothing. "Great. I get the voice from Field of Dreams that talks when it wants. Of course I do."

"You didn't respond."

It wasn't normal. Helena's life was normally crazy, but she didn't her voices. So it wasn't that kind of crazy. Now it was? The smack of her head against the shelving above her closet race space in which the safe hid behind only seemed to make the spin of the world speed up. Or maybe it was the stress of even the security guard idea not panning out? Or maybe it was the voice in her head. "I spoke in my mind."

"Oh. I can't read your active thoughts. I don't think, anyway."

Helena snorted. "Wonderful, so I have to appear to be talking to myself. And then when people ask I'll just say I was speaking to the voice in my head. The Mob will understand all of that, surely. They totally won't think I've lost my mind and plot to kill me and overthrow me. The Mob would never be so murderous and self-serving. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?"

"...you're in the Mafia? But you're a wo--"

"--seriously don't finish that sentence." Maybe it was the tone, maybe it was the growl, maybe it was the elevated heart rate and sections of her brain that controlled anger and stress. Whatever it was, the voice sounded...sorry? A sorry tone from a meek man with a slight Southern drawl. That's what it sounded like.

"Right. Okay, I didn't mean...listen, I got you here because I was able to read enough of your memories to know this was home. I'm not very good at it, so I had to go linear-ally through your memory."

"What did you see? How much did you see?"

"...I saw it all. I saw what they did. I saw what you saw when they made you watch what they did to that other little girl, I'm so sorry, Ms. Bertinelli. That's so awful." Now she just felt sick. "I don't know how...if that had happened to my little girl, I just...I'm so so sorry you went through that." Seconds. That's how long it went from bad to worse to Jesus make it stop. Seconds and she was on her knees in the bathroom attached to her bedroom, leaned over the toilet, losing anything she had eaten the day before. Which wasn't a lot.

"...shut up. Just shut up about it."

"You need to get to a hospital."

Her right hand holding back her hair, the left balancing her against the toilet against the spin, all she could do was laugh. Painfully. "What part of Mafia by day, vigilante hero by night do you not understand Ghost of Christmas Hell?"

"My name is Karl. I'm not ghost, I don't think; I have a body. I hope I still have one...it's a long story, and we need to get you to a hospital. Or a clinic. Or somewhere you can run some tests on yourself to see how far it's spreading and how fast."

"IT?"

"It'd be a lot easier to explain if I could just show you. Isn't there anywhere you could go to run a few tests?"

And it clicked. Her father's home, Bristol. Gotham Heights. Bertinelli Estate, right down the hill from Wayne Manor, which meant..."Yeah. Just let me get dressed, it's right up the road." Black teeshirt, old jeans, Nikes. It was the wrong kind of fashion statement, but right now she didn't care about fashion statements. She just needed to get going, to move. In the garage she found one of her older Ducatis. When 'Karl' voice concerns about her ability to safely drive, she chuckled. Granted, he wasn't entirely wrong. Driving straight was difficult, but possible, and she never went over twenty miles an hour. There was no need, it was only a few minutes until she was at the gates to Wayne Manor as it was. The "secret" security system allowed her to let herself in without bothering Alfred, though she was certain he'd be alerted to her presence, if he was awake. And by now he likely was; unless he was up monitoring someone doing something. Nightwing was back, apparently, Tim was around. The kid wasn't allowed to GO out, thank God, and Barbara was on the West Coast trying to forget the Batman or the Batcave even existed.

Lucky bitch.

When she walked in to the Cave, she heard Karl. She heard exactly what she thought she might: "Wooowww. Is this really...maybe Batman can help you?"

No. Helena never let Batman help her. She wasn't the other capes. She didn't depend on him. He was a useful ally in a fight against the Mafia, little more. He had asked her help with a few things, when he needed the extra pair of hands, because Nightwing and Batgirl were out of the picture, and Red Robin had been...somewhere. A sidekick? No. Even part of his little clan? No. "He's off with Superman gallavanting around the universe, or some shit that makes him too busy and unavailable to help me. What tests do I need to run?"

"Blood tests. Does Batman have an electro--"

"Yeah. He's got it."

"I didn't finish?"

"I know. He's got it. That's..."

"What is it? You hear something. What is it? Robin?

In his dreams. Her voice was rough, impatient. She didn't have the time, let alone the state of mind, to deal with snooping and nonsense right now. "Kid, if you think you're sneaking around on me, then your father seriously underplayed how good I am at the games you capes play." Even as she spoke she continued to move, sitting down at the medical level of the Cave, preparing for her own blood sample. "If you throw that thing at me, swear to God you'll need your own medical attention..."

Gotham City, 01:00
Somewhere in the Narrows

It had taken some time to get a serviceable uniform in order given how much longer it had taken past Robins to be combat-ready by comparison, but by taking portions of the others costumes and combining them, Damian had managed to created a suitable facsimile for his purposes. The cape and utility belt from the Second Robin Memorial, Grayson's original mask and boots, the detachable R-symbol shuriken from Drake's outfit were all incorporated. Grayson's clingy, short boots gave Damian terrible traction as he sprinted across the rooftops, but they were the only ones that had fit a nine-year-old's feet. Thankfully he'd been able to use his own bodysuit and training gloves then quickly spray-paint a ballistic vest robin red with equipment at the Cave. Then it was child's play to hotwire one of the spare R-Cycles Father kept in the garage and take an access tunnel into the city.

Even late at night in the grimiest and most haunted corners, Gotham City felt gloriously alive. Noises drifted up to Damian in a cacophonous chorus of urban struggle, somehow forming a harmony from so many chaotic parts. Father thought he needed to be caged, but he'd never understood that this city should be Damian's birthright, the throne of his empire. Damian hadn't really understood it before either, but now the night air crackled and sang around him as blood pounded through his veins like thunder. Every leap from roof to roof felt like flying.

Damian's exultation was cut short by the panicked shriek of a nearby car alarm. Whatever imbecile had apparently left a half-decent car in an alleyway in the Narrows unattended deserved their fate-

Wait. No. Damian was Robin now. It could be fun to properly act the part. Besides, at some point he would have to begin cleansing the streets of filth and ne'er-do-wells. Best get some practice in now.

There were four men below him on the street, one holding a tire iron, the rest with weapons unknown. Damian aimed to neutralize the most obviously armed one first, leaping down onto him and wrapping his legs around the man's neck as he fell, spinning to throw him hard to the ground with an unsurprisingly well executed kani basami.

Damian had to roll with the fall to avoid injury, not bothering to check how badly he'd injured his first victim as they hit the ground and the tire iron clattered across the alleyway.

Damian was smirking as he rose, but the three remaining carjackers were looking at him with a mix of amusement, shock and outrage.

Eventually outrage won.

"Look you little shit," began the one nearest to him, ever so articulately "I don't know what got into your stupid, tiny brain just 'cause Mommy bought you a Robin costume, but if you don't get the fuck out of here right now I'm gonna-"

The threat was never elaborated on, mainly because Damian had crossed the space between them, front flipped to land on the poor man's shoulders and gouged at both of his eyes with mantis-fists before pummeling him all the way down as he fell. It hurt his fists to keep repeatedly hitting such a thick skull, but the pain was nothing compared to the satisfaction.

As Damian stood and turned it became apparent that he hadn't hurt the first one with the tire iron enough, seeing as he'd just gotten to his feet still swaying like a drunken camel. Damian glided back over to him on silent feet and kicked his leg out from under him. Then he grabbed the fool's arm, braced the elbow joint against his own body and wrenched. Hard.

"-tt!- Now stay down, mongrel."

In retrospect, Tire Iron may have been unable to hear him over the sound of bone breaking, tendons tearing, car alarms and wholly unnecessary screaming. Inconsiderate of him, really.

A soft flick-click and the sound of steps behind the would-be Boy Wonder made him whirl around on the balls of his feet.

Switchblade. Stabbing forward.

Damian didn't have time to register anything else as years of conditioning took over where conscious control had been before. He seized the wrist, yanked the blade toward himself and and spun to avoid and redirect the force of the thrust, twisting his opponent's arm around and inward to impale him on his own knife.

Kill or Die.

The sucking sound of metal piercing flesh, the shuddering intake of breath that presaged the scream of agony, the hot copper scent of blood on his hands, none of it mattered in the face of that truth. He twisted the knife and-

There was another noise nearby, another enemy! Operating on training honed to instinct, the young assassin ripped the R-shaped Shuriken off of his vest and flung it at the last remaining carjacker, striking him in the groin with the throwing blade.

Damian was only able to process what he'd done after the man in front of him slumped over onto the ground, clutching the knife handle and moaning wordlessly in shock. The others were either unconscious or left in similar states of trauma.

The sense of joy and freedom he'd felt before was tarnished now. Damian had killed before, sometimes without batting an eye, but always because it was what he'd wanted or needed to do. Killing like this felt wasteful, wrong somehow.

No, worse. He had promised Father he wouldn't kill as a condition of staying with him.

Does this mean I'd have to leave?

Damian tried to think, pausing only to choke the tiny seed of panic in his head to death. Given the typical response time of emergency services in the Narrows, an anonymous tip would have too high a probability of failure. Also, It wasn't as though he could carry four grown men to a hospital on the R-cycle, and just leaving them in the street would mean certain death.

I could easily find a solution if not for that car alarm stabbing into my brain and-Oh!...Well this is going to be practically Kafkaesque.

Damian struggled with loading each of the four men into the car they had just been attempting to steal before completing their job for them, far more competently of course. The plan did at least involve silencing the alarm before he hot-wired his second vehicle of the night even if he had to occasionally smack the semi-conscious passengers back into compliance.

Then it was only a quick drive over to the non-for-profit emergency clinic of one Dr.Leslie Thompkins- mentioned extensively as a trusted confidante in his father's files -and the childishly easy task of starting up the car alarm again and slipping out of the car before anyone noticed him.

Still, when he finally stripped off his makeshift Robin costume, cleaned all of the blood off of the borrowed parts and scrubbed them for DNA remnants, returned the R-cycle with a full tank and finally collapsed into his own bed, it was with a great deal more questions about his place in the household than he'd had before he left.

---

Stately Wayne Manor,
Damian's room,
07:39

Damian's sleep was...troubled, to say the least throughout the night, so he felt almost relieved when he was shaken out of a half-dream state by a series of very specific vibrations against his wrist. It had taken an age and a half to get the Bat-Computer to signal him whenever someone entered the Bat-Cave, but it wasn't like he had had anything better to do.

Slipping down to the Cave first thing in the morning was becoming a bit of a habit for him. Just in case it was Pennyworth that had accidentally tripped his alert, he took care to try and make as much noise as possible as he entered through a false closet and started searching the Cave. The old servant had admonished him more than enough times about eventually tying a bell around his neck if he didn't, after all. Besides, Father would never forgive him if Pennyworth had some sort of attack because Damian had forgotten to make noise as he moved.

"Kid, if you think you're sneaking around on me, then your father seriously underplayed how good I am at the games you capes play."

Damian was more than surprised to find Helena Bertinelli, business woman and secret Mafia Don, sitting in the medical station. There were only a handful of people in the world with knowledge of the Batcave's existence and location.

Given everything Damian knew about her, which was considerable, there were only a handful of possibilities and all of them were annoying.

Partly to be sure, and partly in exchange for the almost inevitable annoyance, he plucked a blunt batarang up off the floor and-

"If you throw that thing at me, swear to God you'll need your own medical attention..."

Damian lowered the batarang and stepped out of the shadows to face the Huntress's secret identity.

"-tt-, Do you even know how to work that device? I was unaware that they taught hematology at business schools. Or is it something anyone who dabbles in vigilantism and organized crime is expected to know?"

"Ms. Bertinelli, have you always felt this kind of anger?"

Karl could sense what remained hidden behind an exterior that gave no sign, no hint, of the hidden anger inside. "...yes. What do I need to do?"

"That's...I don't think I've ever been this angry in my entire life. You seem to get that angry very quickly. It's...useful to you."

After tying off her arm with the rubber strap and pulling the needle's cap with her mouth, and spitting it out, she smirked. "Very, now, focus. What do I need to do?"

There was a long pause. It never mattered to Helena how angry she got. Anger had always been under control. When the masked monster kidnapped you and raped the girl held in the same shipping container as you to death in front of you, beating you and burning you until you watched every twist and grip and thrust, every drop of blood and sweat, you learned to control yourself. Or else you were next. When your closest confidant was one of the world's most accomplished assassins that could hurt you more emotionally than you ever thought possible if you let your anger get the best of you, you learned to control the shit.

"Just take the blood sample, and study it under an electron microscope. You'll see what we're looking for."

Her eyes flashed up to Damian Wayne. The burning hot coals of the Huntress' eyes running like a jack knife into Damian's eyes. Anger, heat, violence, cunning, and the unmistakable desire to rip the kid limb-from-fucking-limb was hard to miss in the moment as she stuck herself with the needle and let blood do it's thing. As she pulled blood into container, her neck bent to one side. Pop, crack, pop. Slowly, it moved to the other side. Pop, crack, POP.

Never once did her eyes leave the kid's. Brown eyes that could be so pretty suddenly sharper than a knife at the kid's throat. "I have a voice in my head. His name is Karl. Don't be a little bitch about it."

Her voice was so calm, so placid, Helena would've been lying if she said it wouldn't have freaked her out a little bit if she were Damian. And that was the point: if she could freak herself out, odds were good in giving the kid at least a moment's hestiation of ohfuck. Rarely did Helena, or the Huntress, ever have to actually prove that she could fuck someone up. Usually all it took was the person looking into her eyes, studying her body language, and realizing that they stood on the cliff's edge of irrepairable damage. "You're bored, kid. I need a car. I'm stealing one of the Batmobiles. Go pick out a good one, and I'll let you drive. I shouldn't drive right now."

She said, grinning, her eyes alive with the hint of madness.

Was she mad? No. Well...weren't they all? On some level? Every night was a possible death sentence. One slip, and you were dead, in this line of work. No one had this hobby and had complete sanity. Maybe you were like Dick or Barbara or Tim, and your sanity was in place, and the hobby corrupted you. Or maybe you were like Bruce, Jason, and Helena herself--maybe the universe just had made you the right amount of crazy FOR the hobby to begin with. Maybe, for you, it was inevitable.

Frankly she was still trying to read which one Damian was. If she had to bet.....he was like his old man. And like her. The way in which he narrowed his eyes at her words and demeanor was one thing, but the way he showed her his back and went to go find a Batmobile to take gave her one hell of a big hint as to which side of the spectrum Damian Wayne fell into.

And she liked it.

Into the BioHazard bin went the needle, and the strap, and the needle cap. The screen just off to the side came alive. "This is a hard computer system to synch with...it's...got alien tech in it? It's strange, never seen anything like it before, but I think I connected. I think I'm figuring it out. Look at the screen. Do you see it?

He wasn't, she realized, asking if she saw the screen itself. Of course she did. He was asking if she knew what she was looking for. And her heart sank, because, at least, she thought she did see what he was hinting at. "There are nanobots in my bloodstream."

"Yes, you see it, then. They are self replicating nanobots. Get one on you, and in very little time, there can be an army of them inside you, self replicating, connecting their own little network using themselves as a battery and signal connector and emitter. I designed the system, I designed the first nanobot."

Dry, cold, the Huntress just stared at the screen. "What went wrong?" It was an assumption, but it was an easy one to make. Why would Karl be in her head if everything had gone according to plan? It wouldn't. Something haywired, something went a way it wasn't supposed to.

"It's all ran by an A.I. Except it's not a genuine A.I. It's...complicated. It's a long story.

"We don't have enough time?"

"No. Not unless you want to become like me." Strangely she heard more dread from Karl than she felt in that moment. Maybe it was because he knew if she became like him, it was, ultimately, his fault. His sin. "It isn't a pure A.I. There is a person in there, too, a brain I used as a short cut. A brain entered into a holographic matrix superimposed into a crystalline structure that acts as a large capacity data device. A brain I thought I could trust."

"Computer, delete blood sample. How much time do I have?"

"I don't know, honestly. It took the system only a day before I lost my body to it. But you're different...every difference is another variant in the equation, so it's almost impossible for me to predict. But I wouldn't imagine you have much longer than a day, yourself. Maybe a day and a half? It's been busy, my system, according to what I'm reading from Batman's computer there were a few break ins last night that I would think are related: Wayne Enterprises, microchips. And the other...Integrated Power Systems of Gotham, company."

Helena's head...tilted. "I own that last one. It deals in experimental battery designs for aviation."

"That's not good. We need to learn more about each break in, the system is up to something. We need to stop it so you can save yourself."

Cynically, maybe even bitter, Helena snapped back quietly. "And save yourself."

"I don't hide that hope from you, Ms. Bertinelli. Please. We need to know what the system is planning, because it's planning something."

Of course it is. "KID! Need that Batmobile..."

Gotham City
Diamond District
11:20 PM

A lock is like a woman.

It's expensive?

No, that's not it.

A lock is like a woman.

It's what stands between you and money?

No, still not it.

A lock is like a woman.

It requires just the right touch.

--CLICK!--

There it is. And there it goes. The deadbolt lock was free, leaving the single lock on the doorknob that I could have opened with a strong look. I popped it free quicker than a high school boy pops off his girl's bra. And just like the proverbial teen necking in the backseat of a car, I was in the promise land.

Through the door and down a dark corridor was Zinkman & Sons Diamond Exchange, one of the top diamond emporiums in Gotham and by extension the entire east coast. I am Ahab and this is my white whale, I am Javert and this is my Jean Valjean, I am the Trix Rabbit and these are my Trix. I'm at the finish line after sixteen months of prep, recon, and manipulation. I bribed bureaucrats at City Hall for copies of the building's blueprints. A hacker I know who owes me more than a few favors broke into the security company's mainframe to pull out their security schematics on the place. I dated Issac Zinkman's youngest daughter for six months just to get a feel for the family and learn any trade secrets. We had just broken up two weeks ago. Oh, Cinnamon. You had the face of a horse, but the body... of a horse. And now that I think about it, was Cinnamon your real name? I thought it was your nickname... and there was that strange way you laughed at my jokes, like a neigh or something...

....

Did... did I date a horse for six months?

Before any more thoughts of my potential bestiality could fill my head, something hard and firm found itself resting on the back of my neck.

"Don't move," a voice said from beside my ear. "You're coming with me."

"Or what?" I whispered back.

"Or--"

Something sharp and painful coursed through my body. My feet fell out from under me and I slammed to the floor writhing in pain. The electricity was still working its way through me when a black sack was pulled over my head. Just for good measure, a sharp kick to the face bloomed more pain through my body and knocked me unconscious.

----

Gotham Heights
1:12 AM

When the bag came off my face, I was relieved to see that I was not in a police station. That relief quickly vanished when I saw where I was. It was a large, open-ended room with high ceilings and ivory furniture that matched the ivory carpet, that matched the ivory walls. Pretty much, me in my black burglar outfit now stained with my own blood stuck out in the room like a sore thumb. Even the two muscular thugs flanking both my sides were dressed in ivory shirts, slacks, and shoes.

"Did I die and wake up in the 70's?" I mumbled to myself.

"If only kid."

In the middle of the room, in a big chintz chair the color of -- What other color but Ivory -- was Rupert Roth. I didn't know Roth personally, I wasn't big time enough to, but I knew him based on the stories I'd heard about his infamous fashion sense. He looked like an extra from a bad disco movie. He wore an ivory shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He had on a pair of ivory pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age, but made Roth look clownish.

Rupert Roth was the last great Jewish gangster in America. Now days most people associate the mob with the Italians, and it is a fair association to make given the sheer numbers involved. But back in the day Jews were the top dogs in the underworld. Guys like Arnold Rothstein, Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lanksy handled their business like CEOs and quietly made millions. Murder and violence were involved, sure, but not like it was with the Italians. More importantly, they got out of crime and went legit. Roth had followed that model very well. A gambling empire amassed in the 50's and 60's went major league in the 70's and he removed himself from crime altogether by the time the FBI had started hitting the Gotham mobs hard. Now, the only organizations Roth belong to were the Chamber of Commerce and the Rotary Club. But there was still that edge. He still had the juice that made him very dangerous, and had me scared shitless to be dragged into his living room in the middle of the night.

"Johnny Lamonica," he said after a moment of silence. "I've heard of you."

"Good things, I hope."

Roth waved his hand in a so-so manner.

"I hear that you're smart, I hear that you're a good thief, I hear that outside of some trouble as a kid, you ain't never been pinched."

"And that I like long walks in the moonlight and a good '62 Bordeaux?"

"I'm questioning your smarts, Johnny," Roth said, ignoring my joke. "First off, I've had a tail on you for a solid week and you didn't see him, and then your here with me making stupid jokes."

"Sorry," I said with a shrug. "It's a defense mechanism, I guess. Why have you been following me?"

"Issac Zinkman is a close and personal friend of mine. We go to the same temple, we sit on the same charity boards. He knows who I am and about my past. So, he comes to me asking about this guy dating his little girl Cindy--"

"Cindy," I said with a sigh of relief. "That's right, Cinnamon was her nickname... thank god."

Roth looked at me with contempt and a half second later, the muscled gorillas on my right slapped me across the face. My face, which was already operating at a dull painful throb, exploded in pain. My ears rang and I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. Roth stared at me long enough to make sure he'd gotten his point across before starting back.

"So Issac has this funny feeling about the guy his little girl is dating, especially after they broke up two weeks ago. So he comes to me and says 'Rothy, this putz made my little girl cry. Find out what he's got to hide and then fucking burn him.' And what do I find out, but the fact that this son of a bitch is an ace burglar, a burglar with a rep across town as reliable and smart, two things that are almost impossible to find when it comes to crooks. Not only is this guy a burglar, but he's planning on robbing my dear friend blind. You, my friend, are in for a world of hurt."

"Unless," I said cautiously, mindful of the two looming thugs on either side of me. "If you were going to hurt me, you would have done it right away with no spiel, or you would have turned me in to the cops. You did neither, so I'm waiting for the part where you give me options."

Something passed across Roth's face. It could have been a smile. It may have been a snarl, or it may have been gas. It was something of a mix between the three.

"Smart," he said. "Just like they said. Option 1. I inform Issac that you not only broke his little girl's heart, but also that you were in the middle of stealing his entire life's work when I caught you. Knowing my friend like I do, he will kindly ask me to feed your own balls."

"A cannibalistic eunuch. Not the way I wanna go out."

"Option 2. You're a thief. Steal something for me and we will call it quits."

"Steal what, and from where?"

That look again. I was now certain that pained grimace had to be Roth's version of a smile.

"The where is easy. GCPD headquarters. The what? Now, that's gonna take some explaining..."

The Ballad of Blackface Johnson

Act One

Scene One

---

Twelve years. It had been twelve years since Cochese had earned his stripes. He was a child when he went inside, and not much had changed in East End when he got out. Once vibrant nightwalker's sag, though the creases in their faces paired well with the crow's feet. Streets themselves didn't change much either, still littered with potholes and uneven sidewalks; alleyways flush with intense sun orange blaze from the barrels the resident hobos used to keep themselves warm--and to see if the syringe had entered the right vein. Turf lines hadn't changed much either.

As expected, Diddy Bop's death sent ripples through East End--for a week. His mother wailed at his funeral, news media hardly payed it much attention, there was a vigil and some distant "you are in my thoughts and prayers" social media posts. Then everybody moved on. A yellow cab came to a stop in the heart of Five Crowns territory, dead center of East End. Johnson peered through the pale glass of the cab window at the Crowns renovated base of operations; a graffiti laced warehouse, it was certainly more than the old abandoned tavern they used to occupy. Outside the warehouse stood four young looking recruits: 15 or 16 at most, they weren't even alive when Blackface earned his colors. One had a comb-over, one had Kurt Cobain length stringy hair that rested on his shoulders, the other adorned in a set of tight maroon skinny jeans and denim shorts. One had an iPhone. Maybe the End had changed since he was gone.

He got out of the car wearing his T-Shirt and and a pair of jeans provided to him several years into his sentence thanks to an anonymous donar who put money on his books. His kutte flung over his shoulder, he had grown quite a bit since he was a teenager (a fruitful sprout from 5'9 to a well proportioned 6'2). Up to the curb he went, black and white striped Adidas kissed gravel for the first time in over a decade. A grin clouded his face; a King was home, but there were no trumpets blown, no red carpets rolled, and the four court jesters ahead of him hadn't payed him any mind. Even the air was different, things were quiet and somber, for a moment those same feelings overcame him as well. He did his best to shake off the uneasy vibe and made his way into the warehouse. The four young wannabes hadn't acknowledged his presence.

---

"Well, from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes--" spouted Lunatic,
". . . A Five Crown King with so much soul!" Cochese patterned in return.

"You bad motha--" Terry continued,
"Shut cho' mouth!" Cochese stamped.

"How you been? You finally out, huh? How the joint treat'cha? Ya'ain' drop the soap did'ja?" Terry was one of those white guys with that indelible "soul" black people always accuse white people of lacking. He had rhythm, flare, style. He was, as Shaft so eloquently elocuted, bad.

Cochese gave a half-smile and a wholesome laugh in accompaniment; the dread he felt earlier had subsided, for the most part. Terry's warm reception of his return amidst several claps and jeers from other full-fledged members (albeit many new initiates who had recently earned their colors) and some wannabes gave him ease. He continued his banter with Terry without missing a beat,

"I ain't no sissy! ME? Drop the soap? You know who you talkin' to? I'm THE Blackface Johnson, baby! The coolest, smoothest, rudest, crudest, most dubious cat this side of Gotham!" Terry and Cochese cackled in unison.

"We been waitin' for you to come back, we got a present for ya! Brutus, bring it out!" On command, a burly colossus rose from the elongated oval table and went to one of the many crevices sprawled along the back of the warehouse and returned not long after his departure. An unfamiliar face, Cochese sized him up--and Brutus moniker couldn't be more prophetic of his physique. He was a big, ugly man who's muscled arms and scar-stitched face bore the marks of a man whom life hadn't treated well or fair. Terry placed the suitcase in front of Cochese as the two of them made their way to the oval table amidst incremental chatter from other members, chatter which gave way to anticipation and disinterest all the same when Terry dramatically dragged out the reveal of the homecoming present. A fresh kutte, emblazoned with a skull on its right side; the mark of one who has killed for his right to be one of the Crowned. Beneath the new patching were two crowns joined together at the side with decorated pearls and other accouterments; the symbol of the second-in-command.

"Welcome home, Prince!" Terry sung. Cochese was the number two now. He took orders from no one but Lunatic Terry himself. His emotions were mixed. Among the raucous lauding and whistling he mustered a smile.

"We gonna boogie tonight!" chimed a high pitch voice from the crowd.

Boy was it good to be home.

Something's Fishy
Dixon Docks, Dixon’s Fishery
Southwest Corner of Gotham City, 0235

The fishery was noisy with crackling plastic from the translucent splash suits worn by thirty of The Penguin’s goons. Various fish from bass to sturgeon were stuffed full of bags of coke—an excellent cover for his drug business. While the roulette wheels continued to turn, tumblers emptied, and customers from the supposed honest politician down to the scum of the streets made their purchases, their orders were carried out miles away from the Iceberg Lounge. The thugs posed as fishermen—some got carried away with their roles, growing beards and trying to appear as dirty as one would believe. The drug-stuffed fish were packed into wooden crates that were stored inside a container and then hauled onto a cargo ship by a crane. The ringleader was Stefano Calabria, former Marconi.

When Dante lost his eyes, Stefano became scared. That day, the Marconis had fallen harder than Rome, and he had feared their enemies would rush to destroy whoever and whatever had survived. As a Marconi, Stefano had learned a lot as a businessman so much that The Penguin trusted him to run the warehouse. However, the trust Dante had placed in his family could not have been replicated. He had betrayed that trust. Mentally, he didn’t believe he had done anything wrong. He had made the most logical decision. If he hadn’t joined The Penguin, then The Penguin would have dusted them all eventually. Emotionally, even after having not seen Dante in almost a year, he felt scared. It was like a phantom at his back, watching his every move, and he knew the fear as Guilt.

The dark, curly-haired man walked the metal catwalk above the fish-stuffing trash bags. Stefano looked younger than he actually was with a bristly jaw, tired brown eyes, and a black suit he had been wearing since the previous morning. He hadn’t had time to shower and change since, and it bothered him that he was going to return to his apartment smelling of fish. In his right hand, he held a black rectangular radio with a square encryption unit protruding from the back. If anyone attempted to intercept his frequency, whatever listening device the interceptor was using would receive only a stream of incomprehensible gibberish. The endless nonsense was programed to replay over and over again in pseudo-conversation.

There hadn’t been any interceptors or trespassers for the past few nights. The fishery had operated as one would expect. No cops or nosy good-for-nothings came by. Stefano’s job was easy. He raised the radio to his thin lips and asked: “How is everything up front?”

With the few hours Stefano was granted to sleep, Guilt made sleeping difficult. The nightmares wouldn’t stop. His betrayal of Dante were the only dreams he had, and they played over and over again. As much as he desired the dreams to have gone differently, he still left Dante behind every time. He left him when he was bedridden, broken, and asking for his help.

The security outside felt like they were taking forever to respond when in actuality it had taken them ten seconds. Stefano had stopped walking, closed his eyes, and rested the warm radio against the side of his skull. He nearly dozed off. The buzz of the radio caused his eyes to snap open as the gunners outside responded, “Nuttin’ new!”

Stefano’s arm and the radio dropped lazily from his ear to waggle at his side. His eyes closed again as he fought a sleep spell, inhaling deeply through his nostrils just to expel the breath on an exasperated sigh.

Somebody kill me, he thought. The monotonous job brought him only aggravation. The Penguin had to have more use for him.

Grasping his face, Stefano yawned and resumed walking the catwalk not expecting the sudden roar...was that a rocket? The RPG detonated behind him at the eastern wall and the shrapnel spiraled inside the warehouse, slamming into bodies. Shards of cement passed like javelins through the plastic goons as the aftershock sent all those closest to the wall flying. Stefano had fallen flat upon his stomach, fingers curling into the grate of the swinging catwalk as the radio went sliding across the grate to plummet and clatter into pieces on the cement floor below. A support wire had come loose and the catwalk wasn’t going to hold.

Stefano’s panicked eyes stared down at the trash men running about, screaming, drawing submachine guns from under the tables and from inside their plastic suits. Every hair on his body stood up when what sounded like numerous machine gun fire filled the room. Hot rounds streaked through the bodies of several of The Penguin’s men. The catwalk emitted a low metallic groan that he felt vibrate through the grating. Stefano’s heart was rapidly hammering in his chest. He was about to drop right into that mess!

“Oh shit, shit, shit!” Stefano muttered to himself. He looked around for some figment of hope. Anything that could save him. The other wire snapped and for a brief few seconds Stefano’s heart sprang into the air as his body lifted off the grate in the plummet. One side of the catwalk collapsed with a metallic bang on the floor. Stefano landed back against it and became a victim of gravity, rolling down the tilted walkway to the floor. He landed in an awkward and almost comical position. His legs had managed to pass over his head and had put him in an uncomfortable spot, but he wasn’t about to move during the firefight. Peeking through the crook in his hip, Stefano didn’t recognize the mob that charged through the new entrance the rocket had made. Smoke and dust continued to swirl before the gaping entryway, obscuring how many gangsters there were, how many vehicles might have been outside or if they had even brought vehicles. A few thugs clapped by him in dress shoes. They must have thought he was dead.

Hey!

Stefano was trembling all over in his desperation to stay as still and dead as he could imitate.

Hey!

Someone was shouting at him. Who would be trying to get his attention at a time like this? Slowly he turned his head in the voice’s direction and saw a trash man lying a few feet away from him. The man was lying on his stomach with his head turned in his direction. He wasn’t moving either. Was he playing dead too? He was looking right at him as though he knew that he wasn’t really dead; and when their eyes made eye-contact, he shouted: “We’re gettin’ outta here!”

Was he insane? Stefano immediately thought. Bullets were flying everywhere! Stefano frantically shook his head, but the other man was persistent.

“I’m gonna run over to you!”

Stefano silently mouthed to him over and over, No, no, no!

Suddenly the wail of police sirens were heard. Police? So soon? The intruding mob continued to mow down The Penguin’s goons, but they were slowly starting to pull back. The trash man ran over to him, uncurling his legs from over his head and grasping him by the lapels of his jacket even against his thrashing-protest. The trash man gave him a violent shake, jerking him up to his face by his collar.

“Look dumbfuck! If we don’t get outta here we’re gonna wind up dead or behind bars!” the trash man screamed at him.

Just then, a suit holding a launcher with another rocket in it stepped through the smoky entrance. He shouldered the launcher and fired a second RPG at a group of trash men who had been camping behind a fish crate. It was the last action the suits made before they started to swiftly retreat back through the smoky entrance. The trash bag who had his hands about Stefano’s collar immediately went limp against him. Stefano also comically went lifeless as two suits ran passed them. They remained still until it seemed most of them were gone and the police were growing apprehensively louder and closer.

The trash bag was the first to snap his head up and exclaim, “Let’s go! We’re goin’ out to the ship!”

The trash bag and Stefano sprang to their feet. Stefano followed the man, watching as he zipped down his plastic suit and squirmed out of it in mid-run. He hopped twice, raising one leg at a time to tug the rest of the plastic free of his shoes before he resumed running again. When they reached the docks, Stefano looked over to the parking lot, watching several flashing police vehicles screeching up to the smoking building. The men who had destructively swept the place were nowhere to be seen.

“Come on!” the former trash bag yelled at him.

Stefano returned his attention to the escape and followed the trash bag passed the ship to a small motorboat at the end of the dock. He recklessly hopped into it, the bobbing vessel causing him to fall to his knees as he scrambled over to the motor to get it started.

“Untie that rope!” Stefano was directed.

Stefano frowned a little in suspicion before he hopped down into the boat, also stumbling a little, and then untied the rope. Surely the man didn’t think he was a fool to untie the boat while standing on the docks? After untying the rope, Stefano sat down and stared at him, still scowling. The man merely looked back at him, grinned in amusement at Stefano’s expression before he backed the boat away from the docks.

“Smart guy. Although, I wasn’t plannin’ on leavin’ ya. I wouldn’t want you squealin’,” he informed.

Stefano firmly replied, “I don’t squeal.”

The boat turned and the two were gone, darting across the Gotham River. The former trash bagger decided to change the subject as he guided the boat further away from the Dixon Docks.

“Do you think those goons were Russian?” he shouted over the buzz of the motor.

“I’ve never seen them before!” Stefano yelled back. He didn’t turn his back to the man. Despite him helping him escape, he just didn’t trust him. “Why did you help me escape?”

“Are you kiddin’? You’re Stefano Calabria. You’re The Penguin’s best money head. If I returned to him without you, I might as well jump off this boat right now and drown!”

The Penguin…Stefano gazed back at the smoking fishery. He was going to be furious. “The boss is gonna be mad.”

“Ha! He’s gonna be pissed.”

“Do you think he’ll kill us?”

“Probably. Now that I think about it, even if I did bring your ass back to him, he’d probably still kill me.”

Stefano bowed his head and grasped it, his fingers curling into his hair. “How could this happen? How did our guys not see them coming?”

“Those Russians are pretty smart. Who was expectin’ a RPG? What could we have done? We weren't prepared for that kinda’ firepower!”

Everything was falling to pieces again. First with the Marconis and now The Penguin. Why couldn’t things just run smoothly? Why did someone or something always have to come along and fuck it all up? Stefano inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. Releasing his head, he looked up. They had managed to escape with the night being on their side.

“Are we gonna go back?” Stefano asked.

“I’m not goin' back.”

Stefano’s brows shot upwards. “The Penguin’s gonna put a hit on you.”

“I doubt that fat bastard even knows who I am. I’m not as special as you are.”

Stefano paled a little. He was right. While this guy was just another goon, Stefano had actually been responsible for the activity at the docks. Shuddering, Stefano grasped his hands to keep them from shaking.

“I’m not goin’ back either. I’m as good as dead. He’ll blame that whole bust on me.”

“Well, you were kinda’ in charge.”

Stefano went back to grasping his head. The stress was giving him a headache.

The former trash man smiled at Stefano’s discomfort and informed, “I’m takin’ us to the Tricorner. I gotta hideout there. I don’t mind you stayin’. You just better not go tellin’ anyone about it or go usin’ it after.”

“I won’t. Thanks.”

The former trash bagger smirked. “You and me…we’re in the same boat.”

The joke seemed to simmer for a few seconds until Stefano felt the corner of his lips quirk in amusement before he started laughing. The two shared in the corny and well-timed humor. It was a moment of respite from the devils that would soon come looking for them.

Something’s Fishy
Dixon Docks, Dixon’s Fishery
Southwest Corner of Gotham City, 0315

There were cops surrounding the crime scene that they were trying to determine if it had been a terrorist attack or a gang war. After 9/11 and the Boston Marathon, anytime an explosive of some sort was used in an assault, terrorism was always the first label that popped up. Terrorism at a fishery though? It didn’t make sense, but with the amount of psychos that escaped Arkham every once in a while, a lot of the crimes didn’t have to make sense. Detective Brock Sinclair was on the scene. The police had received an anonymous phone call about an explosion at the docks, and from what he could gather, it hadn’t been terrorism.

Twenty-three were dead, five were injured and taken to the hospital in police custody. The detective stood behind a group of CSI who were packing fish stuffed with cocaine into evidence bags. Was it a drug bust? Brock turned from the officers and walked over to the second hole on the far western side of the fishery. He walked with his hands tucked within the deep pockets of his tan coat. The man looked tired just as anyone would that time of night. When he stopped before the gaping hole, his grey eyes examined the size and the direction most of the rubble had been scattered.

A curious police sergeant approached the blonde detective and asked, “Hey, Detective Sinclair…” He offered his hand to the man, “Sergeant Stokes.”

The detective first glanced at the cop’s offered hand before he reached over to take it in a firm shake. Sergeant Stokes continued, “So what do you make of this so far? This couldn’t have been just some drug operation gone haywire.”

Brock was slow to answer as his eyes continued to sweep the scene before him. He had to be careful with how he answered. “This was a possible gang war.”

The sergeant raised his brows. “A gang war? Between who?”

“I haven’t had a chance to question any of the survivors, but if I was to guess, I’d say The Penguin and possibly…” He crouched and rested his forearms upon his knees. “Looks like a grenade or possible RPG was used here…we don’t have any suspects from the other group who attacked this one, which means the attack was quick.”

Standing, Brock ran his hands back through his blonde hair. “I just can’t say. With the types of loons we got running around Gotham, it could be any of them.”

“Why do you think these men belong to The Penguin?”

Brock turned away from the hole and answered quite simply, “Because it’s fishy.”

The sergeant blinked before he roared with laughter. Brock walked away from the cop and headed over to the dock where the cargo ship had been anchored. He stood on the platform facing the open river. The Penguin drug bust was only going to make him look good. Ever since he started working with the Marconis, work had never been so easy. The Penguin was burned, the boss got his man alive it seemed since he wasn’t one of the apprehended goons, and he was not only going to get paid for doing his part but his reputation as a detective was only going to grow. The whole operation had went so smoothly that he had to admit that Dante was a clever guy.

Damian had spent his childhood raised to inherit the League of Shadows, taught by his mother and by Ra's Al Ghul himself and that meant one thing if it meant anything:

He knew how to recognize a demonic possession when he saw one. Bertinelli was shaking, pale and twitching occasionally, not to mention covered in sweat and talking to the empty air. Oh, the ignorant might attribute such a thing to simple psychosis or drug use, but Damian knew better. He had seen ghosts and monsters in plenty in his short life.

Before he could say anything more, Bertinelli fixed him with a surprisingly familiar sort of glare. The kind that said 'fall-in-line or I kill you, painfully.' He'd seen better if he was being honest. David Cain, for example, had a fantastic murderous glare when he was teaching. but Damian could at least respect that she knew how to properly communicate.

Huntress surprised him further by actually admitting to her possessed state in a rather matter-of-fact manner. The boy couldn't help thinking that this was actually a breath of fresh air, even if her phrasing left something to be desired in terms of deference.

"Tch, as if I have anything better to do."

Damian walked off to find a Batmobile while Huntress finished taking her blood sample, stopping to collect a sticky note and a pen and jotting down a message in small, precise handwriting.

Dear Pennyworth,

Have been kidnapped by Helena Bertinelli, who is possessed. Will likely miss breakfast and lunch. Attempt to prepare something adequate for dinner before my likely return. If not back, Send Grayson. Do NOT send Drake.

Yours,

Damian W.

Damian then crumpled it slightly and partially hid it under a tea saucer Pennyworth was sure to check, in case Huntress decided to check on him. Then he went and fetched his Batmobile of choice. It was a newer, prototype model his father had been working on for some time before his arrival: a Batmobile that could fly. Damian had since worked out the problems for himself with all of his extra time and got it running based on his father's designs, with a few tweaks of his own. It was a Batmobile at least partly of his own design now, and he was proud of that fact.

Not to mention, it was the only one with a seat and hand controls adjusted for his size.

He popped the canopy, hopped inside and used a combination fingerprint and retina scan to log in, grinning as the engine purred to life. He backed it up, spun it and came to a screeching halt right beside the medical bay before popping the canopy open again.

"Were you saying something? I couldn't hear you over the engine."

Dutch Hill
10:15 AM

Detective Sergeant Harrison Doyle sucked on a colorful Starbucks coffee as I slid into the booth across from him. Picture your average Irish cop. Ruddy faced, dark-haired, rumbled suit. That's pretty much Doyle in a nutshell. A squad supervisor in the GCPD's central robbery unit, he's also a crook's best friend. Competent and always looking for a slice of the action.

"Lamonica," he said between sips of his drink.

"Doyle," I said with a scowl towards his drink. "What is that?"

"Unicorn Frap," he said with a shrug.

"Riiight. Got a joke for you, Doyle. How many cops does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"

He burped and said, "None. They just beat the room for being black."

"Heard that one, huh?"

"A time or two. Now what do you want so bad that you call me in the middle of the night?"

I spent five minutes explaining my predicament; getting nabbed at Zinkman & Sons, the ride to Rupert Roth's house and his threat. Doyle took it all in with a look I'm sure school children give their teachers during a long lecture. Doyle slurped down the last of his frap and shrugged.

"So, what does he want you to do, and how much are you gonna pay me to help you with it?"

"I'll give you an even grand."

Doyle raised his eyebrow. "For?"

I leaned across the booth and looked Doyle up and down. "What are you in the pants, Doyle, a 32-30?"

---

Gotham Central
3:45 PM

Okay, Lamonica... you can do this.

I stepped out of my car and looked at myself in the reflection of the driver's side window. I'm a few inches taller than Doyle, so the pants ride up a bit, but otherwise he ended up being a perfect match. To even the most untrained eye, I look like a GCPD uniform officer. The badge and nameplate are fakes, Doyle can be bought but he's not stupid enough to give a crook his badge. The fakes pinned to my chest were damn good ones.

Getting through the front door was gonna be the easy part. Getting into the evidence room? Well, that's going to be another story. And leaving with what Roth wants? That's going to be almost impossible...

Gotham Heights
Last Night

"Black Spider."

"Is that like a cocktail?" I asked Roth.

"No. He was a man."

Roth ordered one of his pet goons to fetch him a drink. A minute later the man returned with a glass of milk that Roth took down in four swift gulps.

"Sorry, kid, I'm getting old. Gotta have my milk. Now, Black Spider was a man. He was like the Bat, only not. Back during the 80's, the town was a huge shit hole thanks to things like crack. Murder rate was through the fucking roof. The Black Spider was a vigilante, like the Bat, except he did not leave any of the scumbags alive. He used a gun and he fucking shot to kill. Summer of... '86, I think it was. He cleaned up whole sections of the Narrows by force. Cops start a manhunt for him, dealers but bounties on his heads. He gets capped right before the fall, two in the back of the head on a street corner. Nobody ever ID'd him so he went into the morgue as a John Doe, and all his belongings are in some GCPD archive somewhere."

"What does this have to do with me?" I asked, but I already had a feeling.

"One of the ways I make money now, a sideline business, is selling crime memorabilia online. You have no idea how much some dumb shit from Iowa will pay for the Penguin's fucking shoe or one of his goofy umbrellas, or some shit like that. If the Joker is good and capped like they say he is then I want something from him, like a lock of his hair or something like that that may be something we work out if this goes well. I want you to break into GCPD and take the Black Spider file, along with the evidence."

"That's over thirty years, Mr. Roth. What makes you think they still have it?"

"For your sake," sneered Roth. "They better have it."

---

Now

I took one last deep breath and started up the steps to Gotham Central. Ever since I was a teenager, I swore I wouldn't come anywhere near a police station if I could help it. And now? Now, I was willing walking into one to do what was without a doubt the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life. No, the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life was go to that Limp Bizkit concert. This was the most dangerous. There we go. That's better.

Schwariz Bypass
12:37 AM

Really the most dramatic part of the situation was the screaming. Whatever of the rest of her training, Steph had not let her physical fitness diminish. It was not a question of if she could pull him up, but rather how to pull him up, keep him close-by, and praying no passersby looked closely enough to see a masked assailant holding a young teen over the river. After a minute of cursing and fending off vain, clawing attacks from the boy's free arm, he lay on the ground in front of her, head on the pavement, and staring blankly into the streetlight. The drug had kicked in harder, or the panic of nearly falling to his death had tried him out, or maybe the pain had made him loopier than before. Steph took a moment for her own heartbeat to recover. Her shoulder almost certainly had a pulled muscle, but that pain wouldn't set in till morning.

“Alright Chuckles; school night, time to get you home.” She gently slapped his cheek and lifted him with her as she stood, minding his shoulder. No sooner was he on his feet, than she leveraged one arm beside his neck and in one movement popped his joint back into place. Whatever calm had been gained was lost. Her companion howled, and turned to swing at her with a blow she dodged and returned with an uppercut strong enough to knock him back off his feet. Perhaps too strong, she realized, looking from the fallen boy to her fallen bike. She used his more compliant position to swab his mouth with a piece for gauze from her utility belt, before dragging him to the motorcycle. When she did eventually get him to sit on the damn thing, he swayed precariously; leaning far to either side each time Steph tried to adjust him.

“I did not just do all this for you to go flying off at eighty miles an hour.” She huffed, and eventually conceded to flex-cuff his arms around her waist as she drove. Tempting as it may have been, Gotham wasn’t a city where you could leave a drugged stranger on the street and just hope for the best. She’d have to drop him off at the nearest hospital. Which of course with Steph’s ever-lasting fortune, was Mercy West; first exit off the bypass, staffed by one nurse Crystal Brown. Who, if she heard even a whisper of a purple-hooded figure prowling at night would at best end whatever tentative relationship Stephanie had tried to reform. If not just kill her outright.

The patient in question had no thoughts to offer on the matter, aside from fractured laughter, interrupted by the occasional wince of pain.

Well then, if it's all the same to him...
She went to the police station instead, just north of the Narrows and before the bridge that would take her to Wayne Manor. It wasn't like the kid was dying, and besides going off the highway in that part of town would only lead to more trouble. Still, it wasn't exactly something Batman would have done.

He seemed almost passed out when they arrived, very much alive but placid even as Steph cut the flex-cuffs and dragged him up the station's steps. Inside she was met by a sole, somewhat shocked, officer who took the boy with what was probably the proper amount of suspicion.

"The hell are you supposed to be?"

“A good samaritan.” He looked her over again, boots, cape, and all.

"Right. I'm going to need ID for processing..." Steph shifted uncomfortably, should have just left him outside.

“Look officer, just get the kid some medical attention. I really don't know anything about him and have to get going.” The cop looked at the boy she'd brought in again, sitting on a wire chair across from his desk.

"There's paperwork-" She was already outside again, kicking her bike into gear.

-

Bat-Cave
01:03 AM

It almost surprised Stephanie to find the cave was empty. Not that it was normally a hub of activity, but she’d never been alone inside. Even Alfred, whom she'd half expected to come down and throw her out, was no where to be seen.
Unsupervised computer use, how liberating.

Her pace slowed as she passed the bat-mobile. Strange maybe, but not terribly unusual that it was still there. Unguarded, and no one had specifically told her no…

Bad idea. A joyride, even in the bat-mobile, wasn’t quite worth losing her access to the cave again. It took some scouting of the area to find the drug scanner; the entire place seemed to have gotten even bigger. Steph put the gauze in and went to the computer while she waited for it to process.

There was a flashing alert before she could even sign on. Wayne industries security breech. So that was where everyone was, and Steph wasn’t invited. She brushed the feelings that thought brought up off before they could settle and keyed in her ID. A schedule opened on the screen, dated back a full month. Training. But she hadn’t even gotten so much as a call from the cave in that long. The screen flashed again, a new notification.



Well the nickname had fit. Steph frowned. A dead Joker and imprisoned Maxi, one apparently still dealing out to the suburbs. Recreational drugs where decidedly not the Joker’s style though, and it was some venom supplies where still lying about with his crew mostly scattered. Just waiting to be found by other criminals, in which case, the supply would eventually run out.

Shame I’m the impatient type.

She removed her cowl and settled more comfortably on the seat before opening all files pertaining to both the drug and Maxie's known associates in the West-Gotham area.

Gotham Central
2005

Slam flipped a quarter.

"Call it in the air."

Jim said. "Tails."

Slam snatched it out the air with his big mitts. It came up tails.

"Damn."

Jim laughed. Slam flipped him off. A man in handcuffs sat on the other side of a two-way mirror. Jim went in with a stack of papers. Slam lit up a smoke and prepared to watch the show.

Jim sat down and offered the kid a smoke. He refused. Jim lit up and took a few puffs before speaking. "Says here you never knew your father. Alcoholic mother, it was your grandmother that raised you. You didn't ask to be brought into this world, Pat. You inherited this shitty place and time from your shitty parents. You were given a raw deal the second you started breathing, son. How else were you supposed to respond but with anger?"

Slam smiled. Fucking Father Jim. That's what the dicks in the homicide pen called him. He was a touch self-righteous like a priest for sure, but goddamn could he work a suspect over. Within a few minutes of talking to a man he could take their measure and figure out exactly what motivated them. He could employ just the right amount of hate and affection to get someone to tell their deepest, darkest secrets. He could cut through all the bullshit and presumptions and false fronts a person showed the world and get down to that bedrock underneath.

Jim said, "We're all trapped by forces that we don't understand, son. You think I want to be in this room, talking to you about beating an old lady to death for her welfare money? No. Fuck no. But here we are. You're not the only one trapped by circumstance, Pat. But you have a chance to break the cycle you are trapped in. Tell me about what you did. Confess and we can get you off drugs and get your life back on a right path, a path that will be of your choosing."

Slam stubbed a cigarette out on the side of the wall. Father Jim. He could sell ice to an Eskimo. In the room, Pat was breaking down in tears while Jim consoled him. The more the kid spoke, the more and more he dug his own grave. Father Jim, the best salesman on the face of the earth: He sells life sentences in prison to a customer base who has no need or want for them.

----

In Collaboration with @Ruby

The Nite-Owl Coffee Shop
3:18 AM

Slam sipped coffee doused with hooch. The caffeine perked him up, the booze leveled him out. Barbara goddamn Gordon, blast from the past right there. Hearing her voice got him spooked, her pitched spooked him even more. Doris walked by his booth. Two hookers and their pimp sat two booths down. The hookers were all legs and halter tops. The hookers had go-go boots on. The hookers had glassy eyes. The hookers vibed smack addicts. The pimp had a purple fur coat. The pimp picked his teeth with a switchblade. The pimp ordered eggs and hashbrowns, no sausage or bacon, he said pork was haramin his religion. At the counter a lush nodded off and took a nosedive into his plate of eggs. The hookers giggled. The pimp roared. Quarter past three in the morning and the Nite-Owl was doing its usual business.

Slam finished off his coffee and waved Doris down. He ordered another coffee and pulled a flask from his jacket. Two plugs to get him level and goosed. He needed the liquid courage if Barbara was going to be face to face with him. He hadn't seen her in, what? Five or ten years? He'd been Uncle Slam once upon a time. Neither of them had siblings growing up. Jim was the smart older brother Slam never had, and Slam was the kid in need of a mentor Jim never had. They gelled, they clicked, they got simpatico. They got spoooky fucking good when it came to police work.

And Slam fucked it all up.

Doris plopped coffee in front of him. He poured the rest of his hooch into it and took a big sip. The bell clattered by the door. He was still sucking down coffee when she slid into the booth in front of him.

"Just a coffee, please."

Barbara Gordon smiled at her dad's old partner, and friend, Slam Bradley as she walked into his view and slid into the both. Palo Alto, California, had been good to her, and good for her. Her skin was tanned, her red hair a little brighter from all the sun she got on such a consistent basis, and the smile came easier to her lips than it would have in living memory. It helped she hadn't been dealing with psychos and murderers on the regular.

Even her style had changed a little bit. Her jeans were a little tighter, her boots a little more Italian leather and polished in appearance, instead of a teeshirt and old jacket she wore a black silk blouse and a fitted, glossy, leather jacket. Her hair looked recently done, her nails were manicured and black and yellow and glittery gold alternating. Even a little eyeshadow, a touch of blush, and slight eyeliner. She'd had fun on the West Coast, she'd been set free and just allowed to be another college kid with tons of talent in Silicon Valley.

She even had a black leather clutch that was slid onto the table, hands slipping under her hair and pushing it free of her jacket collar, waiting for the coffee to arrive. When did she thanked Doris, and immediately went in for a sip. Black coffee didn't bother her. It was the healthiest way to take it, and in her former hobby, that meant everything.

"Thanks for meeting me, Slam. How much do you know about what's going right now?"

Slam almost spit up his Irish coffee. Pigtails. She'd been wearing pigtails and flowery dresses the last time he'd seen her. She'd been a girl back when he'd partnered with Jim. Now? She was a woman. Slam caught a reflection of his face in the window by the booth. Gray -- too much, far too much -- in his hair and stubble. Where the fuck had the years gone?

"Nothing," he said. "I don't know a thing about what's going on with your dad. The last time we spoke--"

Shouting between them. Accusations. "You're a worthless boozehound, now." Slam decked him. Slam drew blood. Jim's glasses cracked. He fought back because Jim had nailed him cold.

"It... didn't go well. That was a few years back, to say the least."

"The department says he was last seen exiting Estrella Tower;" said Barbara. "The corporate headquarters of Estrella Bertinelli, and home to Helena Bertinelli and her cousin, the reported Don Bertinelli, Guiseppe Bertinelli. Yet every shred of evidence I can find says the last time Jim Gordon was seen was when he went to Gotham General's morgue to see about the Joker's autopsy."

Barbara knew the entire dinner; that is to say, she knew what every person was focused on and what they were doing. She knew, deep down, there was no real danger. If you want to be ignored, hang out around Slam Bradley, apparently. But that didn't stop her from leaning up to the table and just over it, lowering her voice just a touch.

"GCPD is lying, Slam, and you can get into doors to talk to people I can't. Ask any old cop friend you can. Maybe go check out Estrella Tower, if you're feeling brave, or head to Gotham General. But the narrative that my dad was last seen walking out of that tower isn't good; it may not be a good lie, but if you're looking to discredit Jim Gordon, trying to create the idea that there's a connection between him and the alpha dog of the resurgent Gotham mafia isn't a bad way to start. Ten thousand up front, that includes operating costs; bribes, any equipment you may need, whatever is left of it is yours. Find out where my dad is, find out who in the department is out to make him look on the take, even better find out why and another ten thousand is all yours. I need this done and done right, and it has to be someone that knows him. Someone that won't believe lies about him......are you that man, Slam?"

Slam lit up a smoke and breathed it in while he took in Barbara's words. The pimp in the booth behind him started doing tricks with his knife. The whores whooped and clapped. Jim Gordon was missing. Nothing wrong with that in itself. He'd just retired, maybe he took a vacation? No. Whatever it was that had Babs spooked was serious. Family knew when something was wrong. The brush-off from the GCPD was SOP for them. They had no love for Jim anymore. None for Slam either. There were millions of stories in the Septic City, and this was but one.

"I'll do it," he said. "I'd do it for free, but if you must pay me just a few thousand to cover some debts. How in the hell do you have twenty grand just lying around?"

"Honestly? Algorithmic function integration, and a few jobs to detect backdoors in cyber security. Sony got tired of getting punked, and Stanford isn't a bad place to find talented coders with a little free time."

It was all true. A few classmates paid her a lot for a few algorithms; they really didn't have to but part of the deal was she not really sharing it with anyone else who asked so their dumb idea for an app could maybe have something of an edge on the third party app market, and maybe get them some summer break cash. Babs honestly never checked back in to see how it turned out, but they were sloppy aglorithms in the first place, so what did she really care? The Sony job was easier than it should've been, even if what she didn't admit is that she used the Batcomputer just a little, to make her life a little easier on that job. Nothing major, really, she had just needed the extra processing power.

"I know you're not always popular, but that's where the cash comes in. I need you doing this. And as strange as this is going to sound, Slam, if you get into trouble I need you to call me. I need you put me on speed dial, and call me. Always have your phone on you, and always have it powered it on."

The way the Batcomputer can track you, and if need be, Batgirl can save you.

"Something isn't right here. Layers of something-isn't-right, if my instincts are right, and I inherited my father's instincts for this sort of thing."

"It's Gotham, kid," Slam blew smoke as he spoke. "It's a rotten town built on a rotten foundation. It's never been right."

Slam stuck the cigarette in his mouth and dug out the phone. It was one of those flip phones that you paid for by the month. It could make calls and texts. He was either too drunk or too hungover to ever hit the buttons just right on texts. The battery on it was half charged.

"My phone will be on and waiting for you, Barbara. I'm sure when the criminal underworld hear I got a hundred and fifteen pound redhead as my muscle they will quake in fear."

"Keep it charged, Slam. And it's a hundred and twenty; crossfit builds muscle like you wouldn't believe. Good luck."

A quick wink, and the clutch was in her hand, her body slid from the booth. The last thing she did was laugh at the pimp as he shot her a 'dangerous' look, and try to hide her even more dangerous grin.