The day's clock was ticking down at the speed of molasses on a cold day. Every noise became very apparent to the two occupying the car at the time as they waited for Chance. Trash being rummaged through by a person down on their luck, crackle's and pops from a hobo fire sitting at the edge of an alley way, Trent wasn't liking how long it was taking.

"If we don't get that squirrelly bastard out here soon we are gonna start having people get curious about the car." Head bobbing back and forth from window to window to make sure he wasn't missing anyone approaching the car. "Easy killer. I am sure Chance will be back shortly..."

"Drive!"

The door slammed behind him while whipping the bag of drugs to the back seat. "Have a bit of a hangup or something back there?" Lisa would try to ask before getting cut off with another demanding "Drive!" Move now and ask questions later she guessed. Popping the old, rattling, Lincoln sedan into drive she slammed the gas pedal and they were off. Chance was stiff, tense, the veins popping out of his neck became even more visible once his mask was whipped to the ground. All his friends could do was watch him in pain.

"What the fuck happened back there man?!" Trent's mind began to race. Mothefucking cops were there weren't they? Damnit, they might be following us! No, maybe other thugs were there? Two faces guys perhaps? I am just weaving together some nonsense right now. No answer would come. His only response was a determined hand being thrust into his pocket in search for something. Maybe a pill to pop to cool his nerves.

A paper. A fucking paper was unfolded and Chance began to scan it. All of his focus was set on these names and phone numbers it would seem. It was an old employee directory that was fairly easy for him to find on his way out "Give me something, anything, something!" trembling in undeniable rage as he stretched the paper out with an audible pop!. "This is my bitch right here!"

At this point Lisa and Trent just stayed silent. With a train of thought set and them in high speed to return home they just let him decompress. Well, so they hoped their silence would help him out on this intense drive home.

Screeching to a halt as they made it back to their home near Port Adams. Chance busted into the house and went straight for the computer. A rush of wind and clicks were heard as the old piece of junk turned on. Creaking doors were heard behind him as the other two goons brought the bag of meds straight down to the basement door to begin organizing them for distribution.

Come on, come on, give me something google. That sadist's name was what? Dr. Richard L. Klineman. Alright, let's go.

Ideally, a hospital will populate with his name and I can search for his home from there. Wait? You have got to be fucking kidding me! Fists slamming into the table as the words came across the screen. "Dr. Klineman at it again with another fundraiser for his Pediatric care practice! This mother fucker!" Chance's eyes picked the story apart piece by piece. The blinders were up and the world fell silent to him. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart as it supplied his rage with the energy it needed to flourish.

"Gotham Gazette you are the voice of the people I tell ya." These words fell in sync with the bottom of the article where information on the good doctor's home sat. More than likely left for anyone wanting to send donations, aid, or for all he knew thank you notes from people who weren't aware of this demon's past.

Upper East Side

"Yes hun I know...yes dinner will be ready by the time you get...I know babe I burned it last time but that's...yes hun...alright hun I will see you when you get home then...I love..." the phone went silent as she hung up on him. Klineman let out a long sigh of grief as the water began to spill over onto the stove from the scalding hot pot. "Shit! Why tonight?! Why!?" whipping the drawer open to grab some pot holders, he tried to get the pot off the stove as quick as he could. Didn't go so smooth for the Doctor as the water burned the ever living hell out of his hand. With a scream he got the pot moved.

Klineman chucked the pieces of cloth to the ground and flexed his hand. Trudging over to his favorite recliner he leaned back and tried to breath easy. Stories would wiz by the TV screen from the same old stories of Gotham. Police chase this, robbery that, potential murder victim over here, drug ring broken up over there, maybe we need to finally get out of this town. It seems to always be oozing with degenerates on every corner. His hand trailed under the coffee table so he could fish out a Motor Trend Magazine. At least mechanics didn't have some crazy mind you had to figure out. Problems can normally be traced back from bracket to brace and boom, the issue could be pinpointed. Cars wouldn't tell him that he was a shallow shell of what he once was. Trucks wouldn't sputter under the exhaust that he was a piss poor lover. Ah fuck it, Klineman needed a drink.

Laphroaig quarter cask, now that was a solid choice. That smokey flavor would do his mind right by taking him back to the few times his wife and him would go camping when they first started dating. Sitting around the fire, staring at the stars fly by, you could say they were living life in the easy lane.

The damn TV would have other plans for him. Poking in dark subtext to his memories with him hearing clips of news stories. "This TV could do for a break for a bit don't ya think?" he would say to himself as he reached for the remote.

"Nah Doc, I haven't watched this story yet. Let it roll just a bit fucking longer"

Klineman froze. When one speaks to the wind he doesn't exactly expect a response. Especially from a male voice in a home that he only shared with is wife. A final shimmer emanating from that fire long past would lay in his mind. It would be snuffed out by a blunt, fierce, pain exploding from his temple created by the butt stock of a pistol.

Something's Fishy
Tricorner, Decommissioned Naval Yard
Gotham City South, 0310

Their escape had gone smooth. Too smooth that he couldn't feel comfortable. Nothing went right in Gotham. It might not go wrong right then, but it always did later. Karma was a bitch. As much as he liked to believe he and the trash bagger had gotten away Scott free, he didn’t feel free. His nerves were encasing him and he couldn't escape.

“He’s gonna hunt us down,” Stefano muttered staring wide-eyed between his feet at the belly of the boat.

The former trash bagger looked back at him nonchalantly, his teeth gnawing idly at the corner of his inner cheek. He didn’t look bothered at all. How could he be so calm?

His associate shrugged and looked ahead at the approaching bank. He cut the engine and hopped out of the boat to plunge waist deep into the water in what Stefano felt was a good way to ruin a nice suit. Beneath the plastic he had worn earlier, the guy wore clothes a person wouldn't normally wear if they were planning to play in the sand. The man guided the boat onto the bank and tugged it onto shore. Stefano stepped off the boat into the mud, grimacing a little as his shoes sank into the squishy sediment. He wasn’t a diva, but who liked getting mud caked on their shoes? After glancing down at them, he looked up at the former trash man like a child desiring guidance.

The former trash bagger smiled and waved him over. “I gotta place not too far from here where we can shack up until things calm down.”

Stefano followed him. He didn’t know why he did or why he trusted him. The guy had a nice honest face, and he had helped him escape. He didn't have to do it. He could have left him there to die. Was he planning to hand him over to The Penguin as some sort of redemption? Stefano stopped and raised his chin a little as a defiant scowl weighed heavily on his lips.

“Who are you?” Stefano asked.

The former trash bagger stopped and gazed back at Stefano curiously. He studied his mannerisms for a moment before he replied, “Nobody important.”

“Answer the question,” Stefano said curtly.

The former trash man turned to face Stefano, tucked his hands into his pants pockets and parted his lips to answer him when Stefano snapped, “Take your hands out of your pockets!”

The man removed his hands and raised them in surrender so Stefano could see them.

“My name is Joseph Miller. People call me Joe,” Joe answered.

“Why did you help me back there? Why didn’t you escape and leave me?”

Lowering his hands, Joe smiled and explained, “I’m gonna be frank with you. I knew how important you were to The Penguin, and I felt if the cops had arrested you, you’d squeal.”

“What!? Me? Squeal!?”

“I said I was gonna be honest, didn’t I? So I thought if I saved you, I could turn you into The Penguin to save my ass…”

Stefano stiffened in shock. He knew it!

“...but then I realized The Penguin would just kill me anyway. As I said, I’m nobody. He has to put the blame on somebody and I don’t see him putting the blame on you. You got somethin’ he likes.”

Stefano deflated a little. “What are you gonna do now?”

Joe peered up at the sky in thought and stroked his chin with his fingertips. “Leave this shithole that’s for sh’or. I think I’m gonna go to California.”

Stefano began gloomily staring down at the ground again. What was he going to do? He didn’t want The Penguin to catch him. He was afraid of what the man would do.

“Can I go with you?” Stefano asked.

A large smile expanded on Joe’s face before he broke into laughter. “Man, you’re like a puppy dog. Hell no, you can’t come with me. Everyone will recognize your face.”

Stefano gave Joe a dejected look, distress creasing his face. “You really think I have that much notoriety?”

Joe waved a dismissive hand at him and grinned. “Nah, I was just fuckin’ with you. You can come with me I guess.”

Stefano exhaled a breath of relief on a laugh that the two shared. Joe was...a comical guy. Joe waved Stefano along.

“Come on before the sun starts risin’. It’s not far.”

They walked up the bank onto a cement turf to a naval yard that was long decommissioned. Old rusted containers and warehouses were stacked about claimed as housing by the homeless. Stoners were slumped in the doorways and dealers were dealing inside. Stefano gazed ahead at Joe hoping he wasn't planning on sharing the space with the riff-raff. It wouldn’t have been a bad cover, but it might have brought them unwanted attention. The Penguin had birds everywhere. They steered clear of them, walking at a distance that even if they were noticed, they couldn't be recognized in the twilight.

Unfortunately, Joe did seem to own one of the containers. They stopped before a red one that was covered in graffiti and sealed with rusted chains and a padlock. Joe grasped the lock and jerked the chains to make sure they hadn’t been compromised, and then crouched down to lay flat on his stomach. Stefano glanced left and then right, making sure they weren't being eavesdropped on. He watched Joe dunk a hand into his pants pocket and fish around inside it for a cardboard Starbucks card. He had two more drinks to go before he got a free one. Joe then proceeded to slide the card between the cement seams and managed to prop up a brass key. Plucking the key free, Joe stood and held it up before Stefano with a smile.

“Voila!” Joe presented with a pleased smile.

Stefano didn’t show much amusement, desiring more to get out of eyesight.

Joe faced the container and unlocked the padlock. He pulled the chains free, dropping them aside for now and grasped the handle to open the door. The door opened and before them was a simple rectangular interior arranged to be a room. There was a bed against the back wall with a steel bedpost, spring mattress, and a desk and chair against the adjacent wall. A lantern-style lamp was on the desk. Joe walked in spreading his arms in presentation.

“This is it. Suite 2B in the five-star Hobo Hotel,” Joe presented.

Stefano stepped in and out of Joe’s way when the guy swiftly passed him. Joe stepped outside to pick up the padlock and chains, and closed the container door. Dropping the chains and lock in a corner, he stepped over to the desk, cut on the lantern, and began rummaging through his pockets. He removed a Ziploc bag of cigarettes with a lighter and a pistol. Stefano’s brows rose.

“You have a gun on you?” said Stefano in surprise.

Joe unzipped the Ziploc bag and fed a cigarette into his mouth before he flipped the chair around and sat in it. He glanced over at the gun on the table and then up at Stefano.

“Yeah. Don’t you?”

Stefano didn’t answer that question. It disturbed him a little that Joe could have put a bullet in his head if he had wanted to, but then why would he? He had needed him before right? Joe removed the lighter from the Ziploc bag next and cupped the end of his cigarette as he lit it. Setting the lighter on the desk, he waved over to the bed.

“Go ahead and sleep. I’ll take first watch. You look like you need it.”

Stefano hesitated. “You’re not gonna disappear on me are you?”

Joe arched a brow at him and smiled through his cigarette. Grasping the fag between his pointer and middle fingers, he removed it from his lips and exhaled a grey sigh. “No, man. I promise I won’t disappear on you. I think it’s better we stick together. That way we both can make sure we won’t go squealin’ on each other.”

Stefano slowly nodded. He still felt a little apprehensive about Joe’s trust. It irked him how he seemed like such a swell guy. Giving in, Stefano walked over to the bed and took a seat. The springs gave under his weight, squeaking a little. He reached down to unlace his muddy shoes and slid his feet from them. He then unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his tie, removing both to set at the edge of the bed. Stefano gazed at Joe once more and then laid down upon his side, drawing his knees up a little. He watched Joe until he couldn’t no more, studying the man’s expression as he stared at the wall. No; he was thinking. He was deep in thought perhaps planning their next move. His vision blurred as his eyes grew heavy. He couldn’t hold them open anymore. Stefano fell asleep.

Something's Fishy
Tricorner, Decommissioned Naval Yard
Gotham City South, 0405

Flash. A bright glaring light engulfed Stefano, stirring him from his slumber as his hand rose to his face to shield his eyes. He squinted through his fingers at the flood light and the four shadows around it. One of the shadows strode toward him and swung a tin pail in his direction. Cold water slapped against his body, startling him into alertness. The other two men approached, grabbing him by his wrist and leg. A fist slammed into his face. His nose went numb as a sharp pain passed through it. Instantly, Stefano began to squirm, crying out in horror as he was dragged to the floor. He curled into a ball as he was kicked and stomped. A hand snatched his hair and raised his head as another fist slugged him in his right cheekbone.

A hand was raised, and the three thugs immediately stopped, looking back at the fourth man who sat in a steel chair behind a canvas and easel. The room had gone eerily quiet. Stefano remained hidden behind the arms that protected his face and his curled legs that protected his stomach. He was shaking all over, peeking through his forearms with horrified eyes. Was he still in the hideout? Where was Joe? Stefano cautiously raised his head and peered up at the men who stood around him like feral dogs. They were wearing nice suits, similar to the group that had attacked the docks. Oh no; had they been caught? Joe! What happened to him?

Stefano sat up further, using his forearm as support as he raised his hand before his eyes, squinting through the glare of the lights.

“Who’s there? What do you want with me? What have you done with Joe?” Stefano shouted.

The floodlight was turned off. The abrupt change in lighting caused Stefano to grasp his eyes against the darkness that dance before them in the form of black spots. When his eyes had a moment to adjust, the only light in the container was the white light cast by the lantern on the desk. The man behind the easel was completely obscured by the large white canvas. He saw a pair of long legs and a hand holding a palette of paints. Stefano’s brown eyes shrank, face paled, and a chill skittered across his skin. It couldn’t be. His jaw clenched tightly. The soft patter of brush strokes was the only sound that managed to wade through the thick silence.

“D…Dante?” Stefano wondered aloud with uncertainty.

The man’s second hand came into view slowly lowering from the canvas clenching a paintbrush. Stefano didn’t receive an answer. Again, silence. It was driving him insane! It was Dante! It had to be! Walking over to stand to the painter’s right was Joe, gazing down at Stefano like a saint did a damned sinner.

“Joe! Joe, what’s going on?” Stefano questioned. Joe would answer him!

Joe just stared at him as though he didn’t even know him. The painter finally spoke and his voice had been from a man he had once served. It was different. It was deeper and darker. It made Stefano uncomfortable:

“I’m surprised that I still remember your face. Do you know what I’ve been working on?”

The voice was nonchalant and empty. Stefano was immediately overwhelmed with grief for it was the voice of Dante Marconi. The Guilt and shame overcame him, causing him to weep pathetically instead of answer the mafioso’s question.

“Dante forgive me please!” Stefano exclaimed. On his hands and knees, he started to crawl pathetically toward Dante. “I regret leaving the family! I regret it!”

“Of course you would beg for forgiveness now, chickenshit!” one of the thugs growled before he kicked Stefano in the ribs. The attack triggered a series of assaults. Stefano curled into a ball once more, weeping as the thugs started beating him again.

“Stop!” the painter bellowed.

The three thugs quickly stopped and stepped back from Stefano nervously.

Dante asked again, “Do you know what I’ve been working on Stefano?”

Stefano shook his head as tears continued to roll from his eyes and strings of snot mixed with blood from his probably fractured nose. Dante stood, the tall six-foot-four man was dressed just as impressive as he remembered. Black suit, wine-red undershirt with a black satin tie. He had a silver tie clip, a nice watch on his wrist, and his suit was so crisply-pressed that his pants legs were like the edge of a blade. His eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses. He was bigger than what Stefano remembered. Had he put on some muscle?

Dante grasped the sides of the canvas and picked it up. He walked over to Stefano and stopped before him, holding the canvas parallel to the floor as he looked it over. After he gave the painting one last inspection, he flipped it over so Stefano could see it. There was a man in the picture with his wrists handcuffed to the faucet of a white porcelain bathtub. The man’s mouth was agape with agonizing screams for from the faucet spilled blood and it was on fire. The surroundings about the tub were an inferno. The man was him; and even after having not seen Dante in months, it was terrifying how well his boss remembered his face. He had captured every detail.

“No; no please!” Stefano cried.

Dante dropped the canvas on him and stomped his shoe against the painting. He smeared the painting all over Stefano with his foot as the man squirmed and continued to cry “No!”

“That’s exactly how you’re gonna die, Stefano!” Dante snarled. His lips rolled back as he bore his teeth like fangs in his anger. “You cowardly piece of shit! You would abandon me for The Penguin! The Penguin who tried to murder my family when we were starting out. Surely, you could have picked someone else to disgrace yourself under!”

Stefano slid out from under Dante’s foot and wrapped his arms about Dante’s other leg as he groveled, “Please forgive me! Take me back! Please! I won’t leave again!”

Dante gazed down at Stefano as his lips pressed into a straight line. “I never abandoned you, Stefano. But you abandoned me when I needed you.”

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry; I’m sorry,” Stefano wept, burying his face into the cotton material of Dante’s pants leg.

“Do you know what kind of Hell I had to go through to come back here?”

Dante glanced to his left and right at two of his thugs, giving them a silent command. The thugs nodded and quickly passed Joe as they left the container. Dante’s hands went to the first button of his suit jacket and descended, undoing each one. He rotated his shoulders, muscle shifting beneath the red material of his undershirt as he shrugged free of his coat and handed it to the third thug. As he started unbuttoning his cuffs, the low heavy grind of what sounded similar to a cement block being dragged across asphalt was heard. The two thugs returned dragging inside the container a white porcelain tub similar to the one Dante had painted. The thugs kicked the easel aside and stopped the tub in its place.

Dante had rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing his wide forearms and the red, pink, and yellow scars that made up his flesh. The scars were thick and wavy, and though the rolls of his sleeves stopped at the crook of his elbows they went all the way up to his shoulders. The backs of his hands were similarly scarred. Stefano turned his head to peek up at Dante with a single eye as he continued to cling to the mob boss’s leg. He saw the scars where layers of his flesh were melted and stripped away.

“I’m not the same man you remember,” Dante told Stefano as his hand rose to the leg of sunglasses and removed them.

Stefano recoiled in fear when Dante presented his large, cybernetic spheres. They jutted from his head, the red pupils whining as they darted down to peer like lasers at Stefano. Stefano screamed in horror, crawling back away from him and earning himself Dante’s rage. The corner of the mob boss’s lip raised in a nasty glower before he reached down, grasping Stefano by his collar and effortlessly dragging the man across the floor toward the tub.

“No; no; no!” Stefano shouted over and over as he kicked and clawed at Dante’s hand.

Dante’s fist twisted into the material of Stefano’s shirt, his knuckles pressing against Stefano’s windpipe. Stefano rasped, choked, and kicked. Dante released Stefano’s collar once he slid him violently into the tub. Stefano’s back met the porcelain wall, and he rocked forward in a poor attempt to escape only for Dante’s hand to lock about his throat. Gasping again, Stefano felt the weight of his body pulling on his neck when Dante lifted him and choke slammed him into the tub. Stefano laid there winded, his legs sticking out of the tub. Two of Dante’s thugs reached into the tub to grab Stefano’s wrists as they yanked him into an upright position. They stretched his arms out toward the faucet and a third thug crossed the chain of the handcuffs around it before snapping them onto Stefano’s wrists.

“No! Let me go!” Stefano shouted, jerking back on the cuffs. He pressed his feet against the wall of the tub and pulled back, trying to yank the head of the faucet free to free himself. Dante’s thugs just socked him in the face to discourage him. They grabbed him by the hair and hammered his face with vicious punches until Stefano’s head dangled with ropes of blood leaving his nose and lips. The salt of his tears began to cause the wounds on his face to sting.

Dante had reached into his pants pocket to remove a cigar case and popped it open to retrieve a cigar. He slipped the cigar between his teeth as he returned the case to his pocket. He removed a cutter next and removed the rounded end from his mouth to give it a cut before returning it to his mouth. One of his men walked over to Dante to set a red gas can at his side. After returning his cutter, Dante removed a flip-lighter and took the cigar from his lips.

“I’m gonna send you to Hell, Stefano,” Dante muttered as he rolled the end of his cigar over the lighter’s flame. Once the cigar was lit, he returned it to his mouth and bent over to pick up the gas can. He began slowly pouring the gasoline over Stefano as the cigar-less corner of his mouth unzipped in a lopsided grin. A grey plume left his teeth on an excited hiss as he doused Stefano’s head.

Stefano coughed and kept his eyes tightly closed. The fumes of the gasoline were asphyxiating and he shook his head to hopelessly rid his hair of the liquid.

“Don’t kill me please! Take me back! I’m sorry!” Stefano screamed on strangled coughs. “Joe! JOE!”

Ah, shit, Joe thought as he watched Stefano. He didn’t want to be the last person on Stefano’s mind just before he died. The man was screaming his name as though he was his lifeline. He felt the eyes of the other thugs on him, but he never looked their way. Dante was going to light Stefano up. Even if he did try to save him, he didn’t know if he would be successful after Stefano had recoiled at the sight of the boss’s face.

Stefano was vomiting. He was hunched over in a puddle of vomit and gas. His mind was swimming. He was dizzy. The fumes would probably kill him before the fire did, Joe mused.

“Joe; Joe please. Joe,” Stefano begged.

Joe bowed his head. God damn it...

“The Penguin found Stefano to be useful,” Joe spoke. Joe peeked up to see Dante still pouring away. He continued, “You might be able to use that boss.”

Dante lowered the can, dropping it at his feet and grasped the fat cigar in his fingers, giving it a few puffs before he removed it from his mouth. “Has Stefano been sucking your dick, Joe?”

Joe continued to casually gaze down at the floor with his hands in his pockets. “You could still use him. He’s your best inside man.”

“I got you on the inside, Joe. I don’t need a fuckin’ rat.”

“I’m a nobody on the inside. Stefano was runnin’ the show at the docks when I picked him up. He’s still loyal to you.”

Stefano was no longer moving, and Dante suspected the fumes had caused him to faint. It was always better to burn someone while they were conscious. It wasn’t long before Dante’s thugs were dunking Stefano into the river with his handcuffed wrists still bound to the tub faucet that Dante had kicked free. Despite having rinsed the gasoline from his body, when they tossed him flat on the bank, Stefano still wasn’t moving. Dante leisurely sucked on the end of his cigar, his red eyes gleaming in the twilight. One of the thugs nudged Stefano with his foot before looking over at Dante and shrugging.

Slowly Dante’s eyes rolled over to Joe as a grin crept onto his face. “Go give your girl a kiss.”

Joe’s eyes widened momentarily before he sighed in exasperation. Was that what they thought?

I should have let him burn, Joe thought, but he hadn’t wanted his name to be on Stefano’s dying lips. It had just irked him.

Joe walked over to Stefano and crouched next to his head. He pressed two fingers to his neck, and then gazed down at the unconscious man. As much as Joe wanted him to wake up then and there, he knew it was too good to be true.

“You said I needed him alive, right?” said Dante still wearing a smile.

Joe looked back at his boss and then the three other thugs. One of them had a Polaroid camera and was waiting to take a picture. Joe scowled at the guy. The camera flashed and the thug grinned in amusement, snatching up the photo that came out. He delayed long enough. If he didn’t do something, then Stefano would surely die. Joe tilted Stefano’s head back and pinched his nostrils together. He then leaned down, paused for a moment over Stefano’s lips to whisper, fuck my life before he pressed his mouth against his.

Ooooooo!

The thug took another photo while they all chuckled away. The first breath hadn’t been enough and Joe was starting to get pissed off. He continued to give Stefano mouth to mouth until finally after the fourth breath, he coughed. Joe stood dragging his jacket sleeve across his mouth. Stefano coughed and wheezed, rolling over onto his side. His lungs were on fire and his head felt like someone had drove a nail into it. He pressed his forehead against the cool wet mud as he continued to gasp and suck down fresh breaths of oxygen.

“He’s yours now Joe,” Dante told him. “If he betrays me again, then you will have betrayed me as well.”

The mob boss swiped the cigar ashes away with his thumb before pressing it against the end. Whatever heat was absorbed by the rough callous on his thumb and he pocketed the cigar before he turned to head back toward the naval yard. Joe just stared irritably down at Stefano. What a thorn in his side…he hadn’t expected to really get stuck with him. The act had become a curse.

The other thugs grinned at him as they turned to leave. The one with the camera waved the photo and him giving Stefano the kiss of life.

“Yeah, you go wank to that,” Joe jeered. He then nudged Stefano with his foot. “Let’s go. Walk it off. You’re lucky to be alive. I thought I was gonna burn with you, and let’s get something straight. Next time you’re at Death’s door, don’t say my fuckin’ name. Call for God, Jesus, your mother, whomever, just don’t call me, got it? I only saved your ass because I thought you’d be useful to the boss and apparently, he thought so too.”

“My throat and lungs are on fire, and my head feels like it’s splitting,” Stefano groaned. “I think I would have rather burned than feel like this.”

“Oh don’t worry; I’m sure that’s still an option. You know, I’m responsible for your ass now. So if you fuck up, we’re both fucked!”

“I’m sorry, Joe.”

Joe bent over to grab Stefano by the arm and help him to his feet. He slung his arm across his shoulders and supported him as they both returned to the naval yard.

Westside Gotham
4:35 AM

Blue lights and arc lights illuminated the crime scene. Three prowl cars parked in a semi-circle provided light. Slam stood behind crime scene tape with all the others. Patrolmen directed traffic and kept civilians and reporters at bay. Geeks on the sidewalks peddled merch. They sold cheap Batman t-shirts, cheap Batman capes, chunks of rusty metal claimed to be genuine bullets used in the murder that just happened. Slam smoked with steady hands. A half-pint of Ripple on the drive over steadied him.

FEATURE: A dead body on the pavement. A blue tarp covered him. Crime scene techs and plainclothes officers converged on the scene. He saw Homicide dicks and crime scene techs in windbreakers. He saw Charlie Fields in a sharp suit. Charlie was part of Slam and Jim's squad in Homicide. Charlie loved the Life; capital L, always with a capital L. Charlie loved being a cop and solving murders. Slam used to. Slam told boxing stories to criminals and criminals alike. Slam shadowboxed for effect. Slam used to be all about the Life. The Life turned on him. The Life chewed him up. It was still chewing him. Spitting him back out: TBA.

A crime scene tech was coming out of the scene. Red hair with flecks of gray in them. He carried a camera around his neck. Slam locked eyes. Jim Corrigan was as dirty as the day was long. Slam remembered him going through three different IAD investigations and not a single one touched him. The Teflon Crook. Corrigan was slicker than goose shit.

"Corrigan," he said as the man passed by. He flashed a roll of cash. "A few bucks for your time?"

Corrigan got stiff. Corrigan looked around to make sure the coast was clear.

"Slam fucking Bradley," Corrigan said softly. "Where the fuck does a smokehound like you get a wad like that?"

Slam laughed. "Fairy godmother. She's got redhair and weighs a hundred and twenty, apparently."

Corrigan led Slam to his car. The leaned against the hood. Corrigan bummed a cigarette off Slam and passed him his camera. Slam thumbed through the pix on the digital camera. Crime scene pix showed a dead body face down on the pavement. Shots got in close on the back of the head. Two shots, two entry wounds. No pix of the front because it would be fucking pulp. Slam saw stippling around the wounds. The killer got in close before pulling the trigger.

"Who was he?"

"Some drug dealer," said Corrigan. "Obviously, solving this one is a top priority on the homicide list."

Slam scrolled through the pix faster. Shell casings near the body ruled out a revolver as the primary weapon. Entry wounds looked like either a 9 MM or .40 were used as the murder weapon. It probably didn't matter. If it was a pro job, the gun was already down a storm drain on the other side of town somewhere. He liked reviewing the shots. Years since he flexed his murder police muscle. It felt good.

"What'd you know about Jim Gordon, Corrigan?"

Corrigan shrugged. "He has a mustache."

"No shit?" Slam pulled a couple of twenties out of his wad. "I'm talking about his so-called disappearance. Supposedly, he was hanging out with some shady people. C'mon, Corrigan, you know that's bullshit. This is Father Jim we're talking about."

Corrigan blew out smoke. "What can I say? America loves a fallen idol. It's very poetic."

Slam flicked his cigarette butt across the street and fumed. He pulled out more rolls of bills and laid them in Corrigan's lap.

"The Surveillance Squad is where the intel came from. They were the ones that placed him with the Bertinelli mob."

Goosebumps went up Slam's arm. The Surveillance Squad. His old unit. Chinatown. Two-Gun Grogan. Then: Shakedown artists and two-bit thugs. Now? Who knew what the fuck they were now.

"Can you get your hands on that report?"

Corrigan laughed. "Given my reputation, IAD would be all over me like flies on shit if I got anywhere close to this thing. They probably don't like me even here taking pictures, man. I me--"

"You're right, Officer Corrigan."

Slam and Corrigan turned. A tall, think black man in a three-piece stood close by. His head was shaved and he wore big, black frame glasses. Slam's face flushed and he balled his fists up.

"Mr. Bradley," he said with a grin. "It's been awhile."

"Go fuck yourself, Bock."

McKenzie Bock. IAD captain and all around shit-bird. It was his investigation that ended Slam's career. Once upon a time, it had taken six full-grown men to pull Slam off Bock and to pry his big mitts off the thin man's windpipe.

Bock picked lint from his suit. "You're a civilian now, Bradley. I could have you arrested for making threats to a sworn police officer, but I'll settle for your swift departure from the scene. This is a GCPD matter." Bock flashed a smirk and raised an eyebrow. "Where were you tonight, say around midnight?"

"Ask your mother." Slam grabbed his crotch. "She's my fucking alibi. Literally."

Bock's grin disappeared. He played with a phi beta kappa chain attached to his waistcoat.

"Get the fuck out of here, Bradley, before I get the patrolmen to toss you out. And Officer Corrigan, get back to fucking work."

Bock turned around and headed back to the crime scene. Slam flipped him off. Corrigan stubbed out his cigarette and shrugged at Slam. He followed Bock back to the scene. Slam shook his head. What was an IAD captain during here at this time of night on the scene of a two-bit drug murder? Fuck it, he thought. And fuck Bock. Not his problem anymore.

Slam lit up a fresh cigarette and beat tracks back to his car. He thought about Corrigan's words earlier. The Surveillance Squad had spread word about Jim's dirt. Corrigan said he couldn't get to them. That didn't mean Slam couldn't.

Unincorporated Gotham
2004

They called it Billyland. Rednecks and peckerwoods from all over Appalachia flocked to the city during and after World War II to work the industry jobs all the upstanding crackers left behind when they went off to war. The Hillbillies, Billies to those in the know, made unincorporated Gotham a hicktown haven and had been there ever since. Billyland was a running joke through the city. You going through Billyland and hear banjo music? Roll up those windows and drive faster, boy. How do you castrate a Billy? Kick his sister in the mouth. What do you call a Billy girl who can run faster than her brothers? A virgin. Billyland: 10,000 people and only six teeth.

Slam drove the unmarked car, Two-Gun Jack Grogan rode shotgun. They cruised through Billyland and took in the sights. Dig those trucks and big ass tires. Dig that Billy music blasting out the trucks. Fat girls in tight jean shorts and tighter tops. Muffin tops abound. Tweaker sores abound. Teenage mothers pushing babies, rebel yells, motorcycles, more jacked up trucks. Bush '04 stickers, Confederate Flags and "Heritage, Not Hate" signs as far as the eye can see.

Slam was on a work high. He and Grogan worked over an informant about a diamond heist. Feature:: Two days earlier, an armored car headed for Zinkman & Sons had been robbed by four masked men with assault rifles. Said heisters made off with a half a mil in hot rocks. Grogan's informant, a safe cracker with a dope addiction, spat teeth and spat out a name finally. A guy named Clay from Billyland had been asking around about muscle for a job. The snitch had wanted in, but they turned him down the racist crackers. Never mind anybody with half a brain could tell the informant was a full-blown needle fiend, the last thing you need on a job like that. The informant gave them a basic description and a bar he met the man at. Grogan made a call and a few hours later, here they were.

Two-Gun Jack spit tobacco in a paper cup and said, “Pull over right here.”

Slam parked on the side of the road by another unmarked. Two men got out. A dark haired man with a ‘stache and a red haired man with cruel green eyes. Grogan made introductions.

"Slam, this is Sergeant Tommy Burke and Detective Mal Harris. Guys, this is Detective Slam Bradley, the boxer. He is the latest member of our happy little band."

Harris with a nasally Boston accent, "Is he up to this, skip?"

Two-Gun Jack spat tobacco and chuckled. "I think you’ll be surprised by what Slam is capable of."

Burke’s voice rumbled deep. “He looks the part anyway.”

Grogan said, “Yep. What did your tail job muster?”

Burke lit up a cigarette. “We found that bar you told us about. We sat on it and saw a man matching that description. From there we tailed him to a trailer park. It’s a mile away from here.”

Slam spoke up. “Out here is sheriff’s territory. Do we call them before we move in?”

The three men laughed. Harris held his ribs. Grogan slapped a knee.

Burke wiped his eyes. “Holy shit, you really are virgin.”

Grogan held his hand out. “Now, now. You'll find that Slam is gonna be a quick study. Did you bring the other supplies, boys?”

Harris winked, “It wouldn’t be a party without them, skip.”

Burke popped the trunk. Slam looked in. Four pump-action shotguns, four pairs of leather gloves, and four ski-masks. Slam felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He looked up. Grogan smiled. Harris smiled. Burke fucking grinned.

Grogan said, "Welcome to the Surveillance Unit, son."

Burke slipped on a pair of gloves and racked a shell into a shotgun.

"Heart breakers and life takers."

Slam heard his pulse in his ears. Burke drove the car, Harris in the passenger seat. Slam and Grogan sat in the backseat, shotguns on their laps and ski masks rolled up on their heads. Kevlar vests tight on their chests. Grogan checked his shotgun and quarterbacked the raid.

"Slam, Mal, and I go in through the front. Tommy watches the back door. These men are highly armed and dangerous, so be vigilant. I want to take them all alive if possible. If we succeed then we black bag them and take them across the city line into Gotham City."

Harris chain-smoked from the front seat.

"What about the diamonds?" Slam asked.

Grogan winked.

"What diamonds?"

Slam mounted a flashlight on his shotgun, racked a round into the chamber. Burke pulled into the Jefferson Oaks Trailer Park. He killed the lights and engine and coasted down gravel roads. Grogan rolled his mask on. Slam followed his lead.

They jumped out and ran across gravel. A double-wide with peeling green paint, a USMC flag mounted on the porch. No lights on. Burke sprinted around the back. Slam took the stairs. He stopped by the front door, flicked the flashlight on. A party two trailers over. Skynyrd playing loud. "Saturday Night Special" blasting through the trailer park.

Grogan said go. Slam kicked the cheap door. It bucked. It groaned. It crashed open. He went in fast, Grogan and Harris right behind him.

---

Dutch Hill
9:09 AM

Slam made three passes before he parked his heap. Jim's house sat on a quiet block filled with working stiffs. Nobody around to see him come and go. He sipped Starbucks coffee laced with booze. Dutch Hill was très stylish now thanks to gentrification. Thirty years ago it was Crack City, drug wars dropped at least two bodies a day. Today it was hipsters and artisan cheeses. Slam sipped coffee and wondered if artisan crack was a thing.

He killed his coffee and headed towards the front door. He wore latex gloves. He carried lockpicks, a penknife, a digital camera, and a flashlight in his coat. He picked the lock in thirty seconds and went through the door. Jim's house reeked of cigarettes and TV dinners.

The house was straight bachelor decor: panel wood and flannels. Slam clicked his flashlight on and knew right away the place had been tossed. It was neat, too neat for Jim. Jim was a Felix compared to sloppy Slam, but Slam had been to the house enough times to know Jim wouldn't have left it this pristine. He stepped through the house, caught a trace of a scent underneath the cigarette smoke. Slam pegged it as Clorox. Jim's den was neat and pristine. On the bookshelf: History books, law tomes, criminology books. Books on the desk, books about science, robotics, and philosophy. Odd. A map on the desk beside the books. The Gotham subway and sewage system laid out in grids. Check marks on grids. Slam studied it with his flashlight. It read Greek to him.

Slam snapped pix of the maps with his camera. Pix of the books on the shelf and books for future reference. He went through the house for ten minutes. Wipe marks on surfaces, more cleaning stuff on the floor. Conclusion: Jim's pad was searched by a pro. Said pro went behind the tossing with a Mr. Clean routine. Said pro wiped away any prints or clues with their cleaning. Whatever they were looking for, the maps and books were not it. Slam clicked off his flashlight and headed for the door.

---

The Rose Hill Motel
4:45 PM

Slam sat in his car and eyeballed the dump. The Rose Hill Motel. Twenty years since the city condemned it. A no-tell motel dump before then. Now it was rotting slowly on its foundation. It straddled the line between city and county. Rooms 1-6 were inside Gotham proper, 7-12 in unincorporated county turf. Far away from prying eyes, the place was perfect for the needs of the Surveillance Unit. Slam's "office" had been Room 5 when he was part of the detail.

He'd went back to his flop after tossing Gordon's place. He passed out the bed without bothering to take off his jacket. He'd been running twenty-fours straight on nothing but booze and coffee. No dreams in his sleep, no nightmares. Four unmarked cop cars were parked outside the motel. Two big sons of bitches came out. Shaved heads and tight black t-shirts let Slam know they were cops. He sighed. Young cops all dressed like skinheads. Feature on the man between them: bloodied and bruised with a limp. The Surveillance Unit's mandate: discourage further mob encroachment into the city. "Discouragement" was brass approval to kidnap, beat, and send packing any out of town mobsters who had disillusions of grandeur. The cops took the money the would-be crime lords had on them and donated it to the GCPD widow & orphan fun. After they got their cut, of course.

The two meatheads shoved the beaten man into the backseat of a car and pulled out. They U-turned and headed towards Slam's car. He scrunched down in the seat as they passed. Slam popped back up after they were gone. Feature on a grey-haired man in a plaid short sleeve button-up and jeans with work boots. Slam made out tats on his forearms and a Glock on his left hip. He wore glasses with bulky black frames. To Slam he looked like an aging hipster. Word on the street was that he was a stone killer. Captain Marcus Wise, head of the Surveillance Unit, lit up a cigarette and walked to his car.

Wise drove off away from the Rose Hill, going in the opposite direction of the two meatheads. Slam waited and counted off seconds. At seventy, he started his car and gunned it. He caught up with Wise just as his car got on the highway. Slam hung three cars back and followed the man as he entered the city.

Helena stood so fast she almost fell. The darkness of the cave was a comfort, the contrasting directional light a cold reminder of the work that needed doing. And yet when Damian Wayne appeared she seemed to feel both sensations in the same beat of her heavy heart. She heard noise in the back of her mind, but it was only the low screech of metal on metal, until her eyes opened, closed, and opened slowly again. At that point her mind focused; on the darkness, on the light, on the places where the two intermingled. That was when the focus returned to her. That was when the slow metal on metal screech slowly grinded into a voice she could hear. Into the voice that hid inside her mind.

"It's started. But I require more of the original code to get it done faster. I can't say whether that'll be fast enough. I do have an idea, something that might help. With this computer, and my original code, it could be enough. I can't say for sure."

"None can."

Said with acceptance, like the acceptance of death after life. She knew it was coming. She could feel it in her mind, at the tips of her body; fingers and toes tingling as if alive with electricity. Everything from the space-aged materials to the fuel it used to the safety wire used to finish off unforeseen last touches. When the exhaust fired, it did not surprise. When Damian Wayne appeared and prattled his line to her, her head rose in the air, and her eyes appeared to steel themselves upon him. About time.

"It's ready. I think it'll work, well enough."

From a machine made of tubes and vials and computer chips a protective covering popped off, and one vial among twenty rose slowly, carefully into the air. Within the vile rested Helena's best hope for not a cure, not salvation, but merely a stay in the execution. A delay was the best she could hope for, and if Karl was worth his immaterial genius, it would be enough. She had better hope so. They had all better hope so. In a movement as casual and easy as most people showed in sitting, so Helena Bertinelli leapt into the air and took her place in the cockpit beside Damian Wayne.

"Go into the city. It's mid-day, do not create the stir you would like to. Stay close to the ground, stay close to the water. Loop around to the east side of the city, approach from the sea. Your aim is the city drainage flow tunnel #4; it hasn't rained heavily lately so you should be able to navigate it. It will be tight, so try not to suck at driving. The tunnel will eventually lead into a bypass; go up a level, and turn west. You'll be in the subway. Estrella Tower has a pre-war subway station under it, reinforced and hidden now behind heavy blast doors. Approach it. Karl?"

"Yes, Helena?"

"You can get the Batmobile into the Huntress Lair? Transmit the door codes, you can find it in my head?"

"I should be able to find it, I'm already linked in with the Batcomputer, I can interface with this Batmobile."

"Good." Her head rolled to the side, big brown eyes starting to fade in and out, even as a glow pale blue like the cooler of thick ice began to creep into the edges of her eyes. A blue glow that brightened even when the rest of her eyes shadowed as they fixed on Damian Wayne. "When you approach the doors, that voice in my head will have the Batmobile transmit the door codes. Park it, and wake me up."

The teeshirt was pulled on, just slightly, a readjustment of comfort. The vial collected from the chemical synthesis machine was carefully unscrewed, the vial's edge brought to her pink lips just a beat before her head went back, the contents poured down her throat, and swallowed. Death would've tasted better, she imagined, her face twisting as taste soured her tastebuds. "I can't tell if I hate this city, or love this city. Mostly I imagine I feel a little of both, maybe a lot of both. Whatever your mother and grandfather told you, however you were trained to hunt and kill, no matter how ready you think you are for this city...you're not."

A sigh came loud and long from her lungs, from those pretty pink lips, as her body settled into the seat next to Wayne and those brown eyes with the blue glow creeping closed to rest. "I need to rest, my body is...fighting something." She moved again, a little this way, a little that, trying to find a comfortable rest, whatever inner struggle keeping her from it. Finally she just stopped moving, and gave a far smaller sigh. "Don't play your pop music too loud, please."

"As if I'd need you to tell me how to sneak a Batmobile into Gotham."

Honestly! It was his Batmobile, or if nothing else close enough to being his! How dare she imply he might not know how to drive it? That was what really bothered him here, not the fact that Father apparently hadn't trusted him enough to give him full information on Huntress and the Mafia. Certainly not the numerous unfortunate implications Huntress's impaired behavior, glowing blue eyes and that serum of hers had for what was actually going on here.

Well, it wasn't as though Damian had intended to just rocket them into the city through the sky, at full blast and in plain view of every passerby while blaring obnoxious music out the window for sheer shock value. Not after the Bertinelli woman had ruined any enjoyment he was going to get out of it with her stupid lectures. As if she was in any position to talk down to him with a voice in her head. Worse yet, she'd started babbling at him barely lucid if that, all about her relationship with Gotham City and how unprepared he was for it.

Damian prepared a comment he was sure would put the Bertinelli woman in her place, but something about what she'd said brought back the events of last night in too-vivid clarity. There was a bloody knife in his hands and a shuddering weight against him while a man gasped through shock like a speared fish. His nostrils filled with the scent of blood and...eugh, had the man really pissed himself back then without Damian noticing? But there was more. That same squirming, sickening feeling in his chest he'd had to suppress back then, part panic and part...something else, all of it ridiculous!

Still, such a humiliating reminder of his lack of control soured his mood. Damian didn't bother putting on any music, he just drove in silence. He didn't bother to use the flight mode at first either, not until they got close to the water, and even then they were practically just hovering.

Damian was shaken out of his entirely non-childish not-pouting by the view. Not that there was a ton there, but seeing Gotham's shoreline glide by in the full light of day for what felt like the first time was oddly pleasant. Damian would have to replicate this view on paper later on, he decided. Not that he normally did landscapes, but he was getting tired of having nothing to draw but bats. In spite of his slow going, it wasn't too long before the pair of them had arrived at the old drainage tunnel. It actually was a fairly small space to navigate through, though Damian threaded the needle into the old flood runoff pipe with ease, a self-satisfied grin on his face at the smooth work the custom hand controls made of the maneuver.

Damian glanced over at Helena Bertinelli and briefly considered waking her for a well-deserved I-told-you-so, reconsidering at the last minute. He didn't want her babbling to the spirit or infection or whatever it was in her head, or worse, scolding him like he was some ordinary child. No, let her sleep in relatively peaceful silence. Naturally, his driving prowess was obvious enough without some woman's recognition!

As they slowed and then rose through the cracked and crumbling storm safety system, Damian wondered exactly how these arrangements had been made. Had it all been done with just ill-gotten gains from the Bertinelli family's extensive criminal coffers? Or...had Wayne Enterprises been involved as well? If Father had been bankrolling the secret construction of a hideout here it was yet another thing he hadn't seen fit to tell his own son.

Then again, Damian had an irritatingly scant knowledge of the woman sitting in his passenger seat. She was supposed to be a legitimate corporate face for the Bertinelli family, and in reality she was likely heading their operations. Apparently she was the Huntress as well, a vigilante who primarily targeted members of Gotham's more traditional organized crime rings and was known to be looser with the 'no kill' rule than most of the others Damian knew about. That itself had some interesting implications, maybe Helena was using the Huntress identity to kill off her competition? But if she were working with Batman...

Perhaps Damian's father was a hypocrite after all?

Before Damian had time to think through that dizzying spiral of logic, they arrived before a set of reinforced blast doors. Damian felt a minor impulse to simply load up the heavy ordinance and wake Bertinelli by blowing through her doors and activating her ejector seat, but he bit down on it. He'd never get the answers he wanted by pranking her.

"We're here, wake up."

You ever watch the static on a TV screen that almost has the correct signal? Fizzing pictures in and out trying to give the viewer the best it can while staying on the chosen station. Klineman's mind emulated that. Sounds of tape being stretched out and torn from it's original roll. Accompanied with his own hectic breathing to give his mind almost too much to process in his current state. His eyelids began to rise and fall as his body began to reset his system of sorts.

"...so many years...Freak!...family..." words would echo over miles to reach the good Doctor's ears. He caught snippets of the scene his life currently played out in this horrific moment. The rising and falling of his head let him see some behind the scene footage of what was occurring. Somehow he had moved from his recliner to one of his desk chairs. Wait not somehow, this man was doing this!

"If you want money," struggling to catch his breath as the bonds that held his arms to the chair and stomach to the back seat gave him little room to breath, "Their is a safe in the..." One last piece of tape spread over his mouth silencing him for the moment.

Chance had stayed bent over in front of him, blood red eyes locked with the doctor's through his mask, hands practically grafted to the forearm's of Klineman. "I will never want, beg, nor need your blood money you psychopath!"

That was rich coming from the stranger that bound me to this spot. Tears began to well up behind the mask and stream down Chance's face. "Dr. Klineman saves another child from death's grasp! Dr. Klineman aids in the successful rehabilitation of a child! Dr. Klineman and a kid this! Dr. Klinman and a kid that!" Chance reached into his pocket, spun out a butterfly knife and plunged it deep into the Doctor's leg. "In this life we have so many 'Chances' to fix things. Everyone should have the ability to reconcile for their actions! Not you Klineman you sick fuck! Not you."

An orchestra of muffled screams attempted to drown Chance's words out as Klineman writhed in pain. The masked demon would stand upon his soap box again, "It all makes so much more sense now! The city couldn't be covered in people like me? Not everyone gets to be so lucky like me do they? To survive your 'Miracle' drug!"

This was the answer to the plot twist. The man standing before Dr. Klineman was that Lucas kid. Their only success. Thoughts were beginning to get harder to string together. He had never been stabbed before so the sensation was not only alarming to his being but caused a rush of adrenaline that terrified him. With a swift tear, the tape was removed from the Doctor's mouth. "How many died?! Tens, hundreds?! How fucking many sins do you have to repent for?!"

Klineman would join this lunatic in shedding tears. "I don't remember man! I don't fucking remember! It was so long ago and Ahhhhhhh!" A scream was let out again as Chance removed the knife and plunged it into the other leg.

"Liar! I bet you remember ever last one of them! Why would you choose to be so generous now huh?! Why would you choose to try and show such a good face to society from a past that reeks of deceit and torture?! Because of you," ripping the knife out of his leg as an exclamation point, "I had no family anymore! Adjusting to a life of not knowing up from down! I was 15 you bastard! Praying on the downtrodden and poor because they have no where else to turn...I swear to god you will know ever ounce of..."

Knock, Knock, Knock "Hun, why is the door jammed? Can you let me in please? Hunny, are you watching one of your cop dramas again?! You better not be watching the new episode without me!"

Time was up, the wife was home. Shit, she can't come now? Why now?! Chance would think as he slapped another strip of clean tape onto the Doctor's mouth. "We can't all get what we want can we? I can't get my answers, however," the gun met with the center of the wretched Demon's cold heart, "I can find some solace in this." Not one, not two, but fifteen thunderous rounds from his 5-7 would ring out in the apartment. Every one of the shots came with a stronger trigger squeeze to follow.

Glass could be heard crashing the hallways as Klineman's wife dropped a floral arrangement onto the ground. "Oh my god! Baby! What is going on?! Baby answer me?!" she began to bang on her neighbor's doors screaming for help from anyone willing to give it.

Chance had to go.

Shoving the rolling desk chair to the side he launched out the fire escape and made his way to the street below. Tripping every few steps while his body continued to push blood through at the speed of light. Every passing person's eyes were on him as he dropped to the alley way. Or so Chance's mind would have him believe.

How could someone live with that bastard? He must have lied. He must have never shared his work history with her. Oh this feels good, no, this feels fucking great! I need to go though, I need to go now!

Making his way to the sidewalk he tried his best to integrate with the crowd passing by. Ripping the mask off his face and shoving it into his dark grey satchel. Hope no one saw that, I need to get somewhere to collect myself and fast.

Bennett Beach

The Beach was Pierogi Paradise. Russian expats and gangsters mingled with the old Jews of the neighborhood. Yiddish and Cyrillic script cohabited on walls and storefronts. Kosher meat hung from store windows. Dig those Hassidic Jews. Dig those wild beards and hats. ZZ Top meets Run DMC. Feature those Russian bears in six thousand dollar suits. Slavic whores walked the streets. Beautiful and wearing cheap clothing, but dead eyes underneath all that makeup. Sinister pimps nearby, drinking strong coffee and smoking Polish cigarettes. Operating with impunity in the early afternoon.

Two-car convoy through the beach, Wise in front and Slam tailing. He gave the guy a long leash. Wise's unmarked made him as a cop from a mile away. Slam smoked cigarettes. Slam chain smoked butt to butt. He craved vodka and avoided hitting babushka's pulling carts. Wise's unmarked pulled in to a restaurant beneath the raised subway track. Slam drove by. The sign out front in English, Yiddish, Cyrillic: Nikola's Tea Room.

Timewarp back to his days on the streets. The Tea Room was where the Chechen ran business. He remembered how the fuck looked. Black suit with no tie, goatee, prison tats on his hands, and looking as Slavic as the chow at Abramowicz's Deli down the street. Slam heard the rumors around town: the Chechen was former Russian intelligence turned Russian Mafiya. No, he was a krusading KGB Kommando who had a kill kount in Afghanistan that approached triple digits. No, he fought the Russians in Chechnya. Ruskies raped his mother and he slaughtered an entire battalion in the name of revenge. The FSB had a six-figure bounty on his head. Putin himself had decreed that the Chechen would be killed if he ever left America.

Slam shook the Chechen down one time. He dunked his head into a fishtank. Two-Gun Grogan roared with delight. Grogan called the move Russian Dip. Slam parked his heap down the block and watched from the rear view mirror. Wise walked out twenty minutes later with a duffel bag. Wise chucked it in the backseat of his unmarked and hauled ass. Slam waited twenty seconds before following.

Back on the highway and across town again. Slam drove with one hand. The other hand groped along the dashboard of the passenger side. He steered with his knees, he swerved, he got beaucoup bad looks from passing motorist. Slam pulled a half-empty bottle of Fireball up from the floor and took slugs from it.

The crusade for booze let Wise get ahead. Slam sped and caught up just in time to see him get off the highway. Two-car convoy into the westside. Racist cops called it the Congo and they always showed up in force. Open air drug markets abound, junkies doing the dope fiend lean ditto. Feature those liquor store/check cashing places. Wise rolled into the Finger and Slam had to call off the tail.

The Finger == The Milton Finger Housing Projects. Six twelve story tall high rises surrounded by twenty low-rise housing projects. A small kingdom for Jefferson Skeevers to rule over. Skeevers, one of the few remaining gangsters from the days before the Bat broke the Mob.

Slam sat in his heap and watched corner boys serve junkies speedballs. The Bennett Beach to the Finger run proved that Wise was dirty. No doubt about it in Slam's eyes. But what in the hell did it have to do with Jim Gordon's disappearance?

Sunset Valley, West Gotham
Valley High
12:00 PM

Stephanie made it as far as third period chemistry before missed sleep caught up with her. Given she hadn’t returned to home until five in the morning, barely beating her mother’s arrival, she’d done quiet well: An almost sickeningly cheery breakfast with her mother and she’d even taken notes in English. Not that any of that mattered when Mr. Stroff spotted blond hair fanned across the desk, and just maybe having heard something that could have been a snore.

“Miss Brown,” Stephanie woke, more aware of the silence in the room before noticing nearly all of her classmates eyes on her.

Well shit. She let her head fall to the desk again with an audible thunk
Stroff cleared his throat, and the silence gave way to tittering. Apparently she was past the stage of –troubled new kid gets a free pass-

“Am I boring you Miss Brown?” Steph lifted her head to rest on her arms and looked to the board, then back to her teacher.

“Do you want me to make a joke or can you skip to giving me a detention slip and get back to it.” Something about waking up in a room full of highschool students didn’t do much for Steph’s temper, or her tact apparently. Whatever amusement that had been lingering in Stroff’s face was gone.

“Beckland’s office. Now.” He slapped a pink slip on her desk with what was probably more force than needed. Principal or not, at least it was out of the classroom. Steph swiped her notebooks into her open bag, swung it over her shoulder, and winced.

Yeah. That's pulled.
She adjusted the bag and began a bee-line to door, but stopped and turned half way there. The class had already begun to settle to its normal ambiance.

“Mr. Stroff” He stopped to look at her again halfway to the front again. "I apologize for any undue sulfering" She grinned and did a mock salute, ignoring his increasingly annoyed look, and clicking her heels together before turning around to enter the hallway.

Getting sent to the principal’s office didn’t exactly instill Steph was fear. If anything a suspension would give her a chance to catch up of sleep, figure out exactly what was going on with Moxie and a dead joker, and finally track batman down and get him to tell her what the hell was going on. Not like that was going to happen, Ms. Beckland cared far to much to work at a public school. The worst punishment to come of meeting with her would be a mandatory session with the school counselor. She considered how that conversation would go as she made her way to the office, rubbing her right shoulder.

A wealthy masked man hasn't been inviting me to his basement and training me as much as I'd like so I've had to strike out on my own. Except last time I did that I got tortured and was close enough to dead that I just went ahead and let everyone think I was while I ran away.

Steph couldn’t remember the secretary’s name. Which was just as well, the past-middle-aged woman was muttering on the phone, and barely gave a raised eyebrow. The door behind her, leading to Beckland’s office, was open anyways. She was typing on her computer, and a knock was needed to get her attention.

“Oh, hello Stephanie, is there anything-“ She stopped mid sentence, staring at the pink paper in Steph’s outstretched hand as though it where some foreign object. Steph placed in on the desk in front of her, but did not sit down. The sooner she was out of there the better. Beckland continued to frown at the note as she read it, then sighed, folded her hands, and looked at Stephanie with an expression that would be more appropriate for a wounded puppy.

Oh no.

“Please have a seat Stephanie, I’d like to talk.” The only movement Steph made was to shift her weight to one hip. Beckland sighed again. “I have- had asked the staff to grant you some additional leniency, given your… Circumstances; but your behavior has continued to be erratic.” She displayed her hands outward, the same sympathetic puppy smile on her face. Steph had been more comfortable receiving lectures from Batman. Sympathy just made her unjustifiably angry, and this woman didn’t even know the half of it.

“We are here to help you Stephanie. I would like to help you Stephanie, to move on from the death in your family and make you comfortable here.”

Dying was the first decent thing my father did in 16 years.

Before she could respond, Steph’s phone vibrated in her pocket. Out of apathy for the conversation, or mental exhaustion; she answered it. Beckland’s smile stayed in place, even as the rest of her face strained to keep it there.

“Hello?”

“Hi Steph, do you have a minute? I’ve got something that might be important.” Leslie Thompkin’s voice caught Steph off-guard, and she sat down immediately, ignoring the tapping of Beckland’s pen on the desk.

“What’s going on?”

“Well it might be nothing, but we received four patients last night pretty beat up, one was in critical until just an hour ago.”

“Miss. Brown I really have to-” Dropping the first name didn’t seem like a good sign. Steph bit her lip and did her very best to look on the edge of tears.

“Critical condition? He made it? Will he be okay?” It got Beckland to back off, but Leslie paused and resumed with audible confusion.

“I- well yes he’s fine now. The problem was how they were brought in. Dropped off in a stolen car, no one with them.” There was another pause on the phone, Steph waited it out. “They’re all saying it was some kid dressed as Robin Steph.”

“What?” Not, that couldn’t have been right, Tim would never leave anyone at the door of the hospital. Steph glanced up at her principle "Do you think it was?”

“I don’t really know, their stories all match, even though the one was unconscious since they were brought here, and a cut on one of the other could be a shuriken. But all their descriptions say it was a kid, definitely under thirteen” Well that couldn’t be Robin then could it? Right. Just some other young kid with a red, yellow, and green suit who was able to take out four thugs somewhere in the Narrows. Steph covered her face with her free hand.

Damn Bruce and his stupid secrets.

“Steph?”

"I’m here, but I really don’t know what it could mean." She chose her words carefully, and avoided eye-contact with Beckland.

“Well there’s just one other thing, the main problem really. The stab victim, the one that was in critical, Robin stabbed him, in an artery Steph. It was a lethal strike.” Steph’s stomach twisted.

"An accident?" Leslie gave a bitter laugh in response.

“I don’t know, it’s something of a one in hundred chance to just hit an artery at random, but I’m no detective. I’ve tried calling the cave but no one’s been answering.”

”Of course. I’ll be there as soon as possible”

“What? No you don’t-” Steph had already hung up the phone and was wiping away fake tears from her stubbornly dry eyes. Beckland offered her a box of tissues, sympathy face plastered right back on.

“I’m so sorry Mrs. Beckland” Steph spoke slowly, as though to compose herself as she took one of the tissues and blew her nose. “It was just- my-” Her mind raced for a suitable candidate ”-Uncle Ross got into a car accident last night, we’ve been waiting to hear about it all day.” It was probably best not to mention ‘Uncle’ Ross was a failed bank robber she hadn’t seen in two years.

Beckland sighed for a third time.“If your family needs you of course you should go.” Steph was already standing before she’d finished “- But I am making you an appointment to see consular Abrams on Monday, over lunch.”

So close. Steph nodded silently and walked out the door as quickly as she could manage without breaking into a run.

--

It was still early noon, which mean Crystal Brown would be sleeping off her double nightshift. While it wasn’t the worst discovery her mother could make, Steph didn’t like the idea of explaining why she was dismissed from school early. So, she climbed the oak tree that hung over the back of the house and leapt to the roof, where she removed her shoes and quietly ran across to her where her own room was located. Her window was unlocked, as always, and she swung in almost silently, freezing when the panel slammed back down into place. When there was no sound of other movement in the house, Stephanie allowed herself to breath again. That would have to be fixed at some point. She gave a longing glance to her un-made bed before rummaging through the laundry in her closet to find the carefully buried Spoiler costume.

"How's Gotham?"

It was a pivot. A desperate attempt to change the subject, because Jessica didn't like where the subject was headed. You weren't supposed to catch feelings like this, Jessica. It wasn't in the plan. And it didn't particularly make sense. Jessica was off to South America over the break, while Barbara Gordon returned home to Gotham City. No one really understood it back in Palo Alto, but it didn't matter what they understood. If there was one thing Babs had become amazing at, it was keeping her emotional distance while making others feel as if she was emotionally right there beside them. She'd been doing it for longer than she could remember. At times she'd even done it with her own father, Batgirl getting the better of her.

"Oh," She paused, tilting her head as she watched the penthouse from a few streets away, her eyes glued to the high powered viewer, "it's going okay. You know, pretty boring all things considered."

"How's your dad?"

She frowned. "Preoccupied and stressed as always." Also missing and definitely in trouble. She left that part out.

Jessica started saying something; some mindless keep the conversation going longer than required small talk that Babs endured because she was too nice to brush the girl off. At least, until she heard the sound she heard too many times to ever miss in Gotham City: gunshots. Bang. Bang. Bang...Bangbangbang...bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bangbangbang. Her mind replayed it immediately, to double check the mental math: fifteen shots. All the same caliber. It sounded like someone emptying a clip into an entire room, or someone panicking and emptying an entire clip into one or two people because emotion got the better of them. Batgirl dropped the viewer and pressed her gloved hand up to her ear. "Yeah, Jess, I gotta go. Sorry, dad calling me."

Lies that sounded so natural, lies that came too easy. Batgirl always made Barbara Gordon's life easier, and yet more complicated, in the same breath. It was easier to lie, but it complicated life. Live a double life long enough, and the wrong behaviors became easier and easier. She imagined it was the exact same for behaviors of the worst kind. Do it for reasons you considered "right", and they got easier and easier over time. Her run-in with Poison Ivy the night before seemed to reinforce that. Or the corrupt cops she had been watching the day before.

Or anything Jason Todd ever did since his return from death. Not that Jason was really THAT bad anymore. She hoped.

Thoughts silenced as she moved towards the edge of the rooftop, facing the direction the sound of the shots came from. Thoughts silenced, and her mind emptied, as she did nothing more than watch and listen. The echoes of a fire escape rose above the other endless layers of night time Gotham City sounds, the tiniest blur of motion in the edge of her vision, before her head turned and her cowl zoomed in with a few taps just behind her ear. The figure tripped, moving faster than he ought to be, moving faster than his mind could keep up with. Where was the gun? Probably still on him?

The muffled sound of her grappler popped into the night air, and she began to glide, drifting above the busy Gotham avenue alive with light and cars and pedestrians, zeroed in on her target. Legs stiffened, back arched, head "steering" with slight tilts this way and that, arms controlling pitch with little adjustments as she went. Her upper back arched up to increase air resistance, to slow her, as she watched the man ditching the mask peel off the main avenue into a side street, a little alley between apartment blocks. Her landing on one of the apartment building roof tops was flawless, practiced, and silent. Batgirl was no more than a shadow amongst shadows as she peeked over the edge, and narrowed her eyes.

The man bent at the waist, breathing heavily, his pulse high. He probably had the gun still on him. Probably in the satchel. It wasn't in his hands, though, and that meant she could react faster than he'd be able to. A simple hop, and her world became a dance of gravity and her cape's resistance, the unlit windows and empty fire escapes of the buildings looming over the alley below blurring by as she touched booted feet onto the ground, a stone's throw behind the man bent at the waist and trying to collect himself--from the sound of his heavy breathing. The cowl noted the blood on his body, and the gun powder on his hands.

Her head tilted, her tone turned callow, playful. "Really bad party, I guess?" When he froze at the sound, she only smiled a razor thin smile. "Be smart here, guy. Turn around slowly, and show me your hands--while you can still lift your hands above your shoulders." The threat was a little more than implied.

@Americore

8:30 PM. Somewhere near the docks.

Like a merciless buzzing drone, the alarm clock hammered into his eardrums. The large man-beast stirred up lazily, a huge paw full of outgrowths reaching for the offending device, as a deep, guttural rumble surged from the depths of his throat. Deftly tapping the crocodile-shaped alarm clock, the man grumbled and stirred. The bed heaved and creaked under his enormous weight, as his eyelids opened slowly. A couple of slitted, reptilian eyes peeked into the darkness of the room, as his other claw reached for his chin, scratching it. Waylon Jones was finally awake. He slowly got up from his resting place, half due to being careful as to not need a new bed or trespass one of the wafer-thin walls of his cheap lodging, half because his metabolism seemed to go at an snail's pace this eve.

The ever-present ringing of police sirens announced that it was night once again in Gotham city. When all up and nice people slept, and the crooks and the freaks raved, taunting the police. Waylon, the Killer Croc had once been one of them, but now. Now he had a night shift to comply, so he grumbled in his inhumane voice once again as he head for the sink. Spraying an entire toothpaste tub in a custom-made hybrid between toothbrush and toiletbrush he began to energically tend to his reptilian sharp teeth. Truth to be told, even if his bucal hygiene had been lacking several times because of obvious reasons, and the fact that he could grow teeth, he had coworkers who would rather be spared of his usual sewer breath. Straightening forward, he dared brave to look at himself in the mirror.

Still ugly as sin. But hey, those are the cleanest crocodile teeth ever. He added, before finally settling for getting dressed. He could always take a shower at work. The communal showers were way more spacious. He did remember ruefully the time he had tried to shower in the shower attached to his room. He had to pay the wall's repairs afterwards. Plus for a time, his neck hurt considerably.

"Hrm." He gutturally growled as he fumbled for his keys as he got into his clothes. Simple jeans and shirts. Durable enough and cheap to replace. He had long forgotten to ever buy shoes. They never fit, and when your soles were made of crocodile skin, there was hardly any point in doing it. The finishing touches were a massive trenchcoat and a fedora. They did hide his most bestial features, but he could hardly hide his size or bulk this way.

And thus, he braved into the outside space of the apartment in this guise. A couple of neighbours eyed him for a moment, before exchanging customary greetings, to which Waylon answered. There was a perceived tone of deference, but otherwise, he could not feel scorn nor fear from them. Waylon wondered if they had seen too much, or had too much to worry about in their lives to pay attention to the big croc man.

"Well, time to work." The beast-sized man uttered, as he began to walk the streets.

4:30 AM. Somewhere near the docks.

Tired and cold, the crocodile man sniffed the air of the city. The shift had been long, and it had taken a toll on everyone. Waylon himself could never remember in his short stint as a welder so many crud in the same place. And it had been the Penguin's fault. Well, that or of the Bat himself. Apparently one of the trick umbrellas had fell into the docks, and had rotted for years, before misfiring in a septic sewage and spreading a lot of...well...waste. His nostrils still felt numb for swimming in that kind of stuff. Well, sometime in the past, this had been par for the course, but he couldn't help but see his coworkers reel at the mere sight of him.

The more polite ones (the ones that were not trying to contain their lunches inside their own stomach, who struggled to be free) directed him to the showers after the deed had been done, much to the big reptilian's man grumble. And the secretary, that fiery ginger of Stacey, was nowhere to be seen. How would he ask her out like that? A big, crocodile man, stinking worse than the Mayor's farts. He sighed, and decided to let it go. Tomorrow would be a new night.

He carefully opened the lid of the massive bucket of Cobbler's Chunky Chicken, and let the oily and crisp aroma awake his sense of smell once more. He had been lucky that such a shop was open at this time of the night (well, probably to cash on nightcrawlers and drunks, much like him). The chicken... well, it didn't look like chicken exactly. Most likely, it was a mix of several creatures (!) that even the smell of the Killer Croc could not tell apart. But they tasted nice enough to his empty stomach. Mindfully, he nibbled the fleshy bits until the bones were stripped out of flesh, and then thoughtfully, eyeing what other people would discard, hurled the small bones into his gargantuan maw, crushing them with a forceful bite, letting the flavour of the marrow seep in his palate. Waste not.

Once upon a time, he had been known as Killer Croc. Now he was just Lonnie, enjoying his crispy chicken after an ardous night shift. He continued to parade around the dark streets, sure and mindful that no one in their right mind would attempt to disturb the half-concealed gargantuan man and his bucket of food. For the sake of old times, he even hummed one of his old phrases...

"Tic toc...feed the croc."

Is it a cop? I didn't see any cops on the street? A squad car in the distance maybe, but no cops on foot his body slowly straightened out from his hunched fit of exhaustion. I need to make a break for it but the walls of the buildings paired together with only the fire escapes to drip down little pieces of hope upon his very troubled head.

Blood splattered, gloveless, hands raised toward the sky to show...wait...gloveless?! Eyes whipped down to his belt to realize that his knife still rested in the thigh of the deceased Doctor. "Fuck it all" announcing in an disappointed tone. With an, assumed to be, impatient cop behind me, knife in a dead guy that is covered in finger prints, Chance felt far from kosher at this moment. To throw his brain into overdrive, all he needed to do was take a quick glance at the enigma that stood behind him.

Chance's head shot forward with another, "Fuck it all!" emphasizing each word. It was one of the Bat clan. Of all the potential do rights in this city he had to be cornered by one of the Bat's. With a knife littered with his fingerprints in a dead guy, covered in blood, down an alley with no exit, and a true blue vigilante at his rear...Chance felt a few degrees more than fucked. So he did the only thing plausible at this point in time.

A long sigh began only to be cut off with a gruff response, "I'm a rat in a corner here. A bloody rat at that. It is obvious that something about me is amiss. Hell, a little more than amiss." Slowly, Chance turned to face Batgirl, hands still lazily kept above shoulder level. "As of right now you see a guy covered in blood, darting from an apartment that had quite a fall out from anyone with ears. I was brash, my brain was torn asunder with emotion, however" he couldn't keep a spare tear from rolling down his face, "The bastard deserved every shot you heard!"

Keeping his right hand above his head as his left hand grabbed the strap from his satchel. With great care he lowered the bag to the ground and continued on. "That fucker killed kids! Well, more than that he..." it was hard to keep his train of thought on track at this moment. Taking a breath as he got back to standing tall, "Look, the person upstairs was a man living a false life that he didn't deserve. If a court called for evidence of that fact then I would be exhibit mother fucking A."

A trash can would rattle as a stray cat leaped from it and blasted past him. Chance's eyes whipped to the ground to watch this interference scamper away. You need to calm down, all you can do bud is explain yourself and then hope for...well I don't know...anything. "The story is long, and it would probably seem like I am just trying to distract you. I hear about you Bat folks all the time on the streets. Yous guys are some smart folk. However, every ounce of me is telling you the truth." His right hand pointed up toward the direction of the apartment. "That man...no...that thing deserved to die. All I wanted was retribution for all of the kids that weren't lucky like me to walk away from that facility."

Like she would know about the facility. Dead kids huh? Great! You are practically the king of broken story telling now. Beating himself up internally Chance's eyes burned into her cowl. Twitching back and forth from eye to the other, unable to focus on one iris he stated, "If you give me the time, I will explain every ounce of my reasoning along with actual proof of that monster's travesty."

Spoiler & Red Robin

---

_{@Chaotic Chao}

Sunset Valley, West Gotham
Brown House
1:54 PM

Tim was not having the greatest of days, at all. Everyone else in the Batfamily were more than just busy, and they sort of left him out. On another note, though, he has learned something; someone was recently using the Batcomputer ,what made it much more strange is that it was his 'dead' ex-girlfriend, Stephanie Brown.

Tim thought about this while sitting in his bedroom, searching on his computer about the vigilante nicknamed 'Spoiler'. By now, he figured out she was the vigilante, but he wanted to know just a bit more.

He knew exactly where to look for her, though. She didn't hide her tracks well, that is if she was trying to hide her tracks.

Tim then grabbed a badly worn out red hoodie and walked out, looking for someone he thought for a while was dead.

A nurse who worked double night shifts, and a high-school student/vigilante living in the same house and they’d somehow managed to run out of coffee. Steph would have screamed if her mother wasn’t snoring peacefully in the room directly above the kitchen. She settled to blow out the strands of hair in her face. Grocery shopping was on her list now, right between finding murderous child in robin costume and stop joker venom drug getting to highschool students. She quietly, calmly, placed the coffee pot back on its stand and retrieved her bag.

Tim knocked on Stephanie's door and stuffed his hands in his pockets, not sure what exactly to say if she opened to speak to him. Stephanie and Tim were also the same height, so it would be hard not to stare directly into her eyes and be awkward.

What do you say to a loved one you haven't seen a long time, at least on normal circumstances?

And then how was Tim going to explain why he was there and why he knew that she was there? That would make him seem like a stalker, but then again, he was stalking her.

"Ahem." Tim cleared his throat awkwardly, waiting for the door to open and hopefully she wouldn't snap at him or do anything crazy. But it's been awhile, and they both most likely have changed and matured a bit, so he didn't really have an hypothesis of how she would interact with him. Shit.

Before Steph could even debate the issue of opening the garage and getting her motorcycle out quietly, there was a knock on the front door. It might as well of been an earthquake for the surge of panic it spawned. The smart thing to do would have been to bolt and let her mother deal with whoever had come to their house in the middle of the day. Of course that stroke of genius didn’t strike her until the door was already swinging open.

“Shit.” And she’d said that out loud. She closed her eyes, giving the threshold a moment to open beneath her feet. No such mercy was granted.

Step up from a brick to the face at least.Her sense came back to her before words, and she pushed Tim out of her doorway and closed the door behind her. Tim Drake. Robin. Ex-superhero partner and boyfriend who she had let believe her biggest lie for over a year. School counselor had it coming next Monday.

“Sorry. I was-” There was a time she could speak coherently, she tried to remember what that was like. “Hi.”

Tim bit his lip, being pushed back, he then looked her, as if she was a stranger.
"Stephanie Brown." He spoke, not knowing exactly what to say. He chose his words, carefully, as he did not want to say anything he really wanted to say. Because that would involve him screaming.

"Deceased." He said flatly.

Steph shrugged, suddenly very grateful she hadn't given him her middle name. Stephanie was bad enough. “I got better.” Her smile and attempt at relaxing the situation fell flat.

"You've been on the Batcomputer recently."

“Wasn't locked out, seemed as good as an invitation.”

"I... I... Should go. I'm starting something that would probably end up badly." Tim said with a shaky breath, turned around, took a few steps, then stopped. He exhaled and turned back around.

"You know, I was never the same when I thought you were dead. And for a few months, I would've been willing to kill to bring you back."

Okay so a month long cooling off period wasn't quite enough to forgive, forget and all that. But standing at her front door almost falling over with exhaustion really wasn't the time or place for a heart to heart. Steph let him finish.

"It's probably one of the reasons I stopped being Batman's sidekick. Let me guess, you're Spoiler?" He said this only for them to hear.

No boy clueless, someone else has been running around in my costume, figured where the batcave was, and used my pass-codes. For what could have been the first time in Steph's life, she swallowed her sarcasm. She followed Tim another step down from the front door, arms folded in front of her.

"For what it's worth I'm glad you dropped by. If you have some time, I could use your help and there are some things I'd like to tell you” God. She sounded as cryptic as batman.“Did you bring a ride?”

"I got a car. But tell me, why the HELL should I be helping you?" Tim ran his fingers through his hair, and sort of thought this through. He regretted saying that, but he had his reasons. He came here to confirm his suspicions, but did he really, could he really forgive?

"I know I was no perfect boyfriend or friend, but.... Nor a crime-fighter."

"I'm trying to be better, at least at two of those things. So fine. I'll help. I have a red Porsche, being an adopted son of...." Tim didn't finish his sentence, Bruce Wayne gone missing still was an raw as hell subject.

And plus, using the word 'son' reminded him of the Joker. And it made him shutter just to think about that smile.

"I’m not asking you to forgive me Tim. Just trying to move past… Everything” She followed him down the steps to his car, a sore thumb in the pinnacle-of-middle-class neighborhood.

"And unless you managed to single-handedly set all of Gotham on fire without me hearing about it, I’ve got you beat on worst-vigilante front. “ By a mile. She jabbed him gently in the elbow, determined to break the barrier of tension that lay between them. Lying about her death probably won her some terrible girlfriend awards as well. But she’d already spent a year dwelling on regrets, and it was time to move on.

Except, she realized as they reached the car, she didn’t know where to go. "Don’t supposed you know where the big guy is? We’re looking for your replacement.”

"Bruce is missing! You don't know that?!" Tim turned around with an annoyed glare. He then opened the Porsche's left door, getting in and starting the vehicle.
"As for the new Robin, what are you talking about?"

Tim was sure Bruce didn't find a new Robin yet, because of course, he was missing. He hooked his aux cord back to the car, and it started playing a song by Home, called Resonance or something like that.

Steph glared right back at Tim as he disappeared around the car. Obviously she hadn’t known, and no one had bothered to tell her either, but that was another to drag her over the coals for?
I don't think so buddy.

"How would I find out exactly? My Weekend-Wayne hasn’t been delivered lately.” She ducked into the car as he started it, and unplugged his music, she’d tried civility, and was now past it.
"I’m talking about the pre-teen kid dressed up in your gear stabbing people in the Narrows. Or maybe I just haven’t heard of the uniform’s colour change either?” It came out more hostile than she’d intended. But it was said, and if she started apologizing there would be no end to it, so she just scowled at the windshield.

Tim plugged the cord back, in, and started the car.
"You can hit me. You can hit my car. You can hate me. But do not touch my music." Tim then raised an eyebrow, hearing about a pre teen kid stabbing people.

"Well, that's obviously some kid who thinks he's Robin and decides killing is a great idea." He then starting driving. Tim sort of laughed, whether it was bitter or an actual laugh, he couldn't really tell.

"Stephanie, I'm sorry." Tim said plainly, while brushing his hair out of his face.
"I'm just... A bit different now then I was. Things happened. I've been an emotional wreck, and I'm taking it out on others."

"Right now, I just want have a nice little drive, calm down listening to music, and maybe... Maybe not. I'll talk rationally."

She couldn’t help herself. Steph punched Tim in the shoulder, hard. “We’re fine Tim.” Her expression softened.


"Ow! Do you know how many times I've been injured in that area?" Tim was starting to calm down, be less hostile, however, he couldn't force himself to smile. It felt alien to do so at the moment.


”Nice drive is going to have to wait though. I’m serious about this Robin, Leslie said he used shurikens, and took out four thugs on his own. It’s not just some kid in a costume. But I don’t know anyone that young with access to the cave.”

"Wait... Shurikens? Access to the cave..?" Tim stopped the car to the side of the road, and placed a finger on his chin.
"Could it be... No, he wouldn't. Then again I don't know him that well." Tim was talking to himself like he naturally did when trying to solve a puzzle, math equation, or anything of the matter.

Steph waited patiently, tapping her foot, for about seven seconds.
“Your one ‘maybe’ idea already trumps my 'no' idea so just spit it out”

"Damian Wayne." Tim bluntly said.
"I think it's Damian Wayne. But that's just a random thought."

Well that was another bombshell. Bruce had adopted again, and apparently disappeared. Poor kid.
“Doesn’t he make all of his strays Robin? I’d hardly call it random.”

"Damian is not a stray. Damian is Bruce's blood. An actual son. The kid might as well be an ninja or something. He's way too.... smart and agile at the age to have been trained by Bruce already."

Batman had an actual son. Steph considered the implications and shivered.
“Who…? No. Scratch that I really don’t want to know. Daddy-bats. Pappa-Bruce. A giggle slipped out, but she composed herself again quickly.

“Damian Wayne” She repeated the name, and no it brought back no memories. An early teen, maybe younger. Had Bruce kept him in the floorboards that whole time or something?

“Bruce doesn’t train to kill.”

"Wait a second, I'm not a stray." Tim looked at her, offended. "I don't think Bruce even trained him, like i said, Damian's too smart and strong and Bruce couldn't have trained him THIS quickly. He was trained to be deadly, almost. Which is why I think it's him,"

Tim started to car again, "We're heading to Wayne Manor. I bet he's there."

Something’s Fishy
The Iceberg Lounge, Off Limits
Gotham City, 0600


The Penguin’s thugs surrounded them. In an area of the lounge where only the truly rotten or those with a death wish would see, was the massive tank where Cobblepot kept and tended to all of his aquatic pets. There were mostly penguins. The chamber was cold. Most of the thugs were wearing winter coats with fur-lined hoods, while Joe and Stefano weren’t so lucky. They were freezing. Stefano had his arms crossed and was swaying a little, his head still not on right even after all the Motrin he had taken. Joe’s hands were clenched into tight trembling fists within his pants pockets. As much as he tried to put on a front that the cold didn’t bother him, he was mentally kicking himself for having not predicted this. It was The Penguin who they were going to see for crying out loud!

It was chilly, the air smelled of fish and salt, and standing around on glaciers in the blue pools surrounding the platform were chattering and squawking penguins. The platform was shaped like a drop of water that hadn’t quite pinched off. At the rounded end in a fancy wooden chair with plush, red polyester cushions was the plump bastard himself. He was wearing a fancy, wine-red robe and white, fuzzy slippers were at his feet. The back of the chair was facing Stefano and Joe, and so they couldn't see much of him.

One of the thugs walked over to The Penguin’s chair and leaned down to mutter what was probably the thug informing him that he and Stefano were there.

“Bring them here,” Cobblepot ominously demanded.

The thug straightened and waved his hand for the thugs to bring Joe and Stefano closer. The barrels of two Uzis painfully stabbed the two in the back, causing them to stumble forward. They walked over to The Penguin’s chair to round it and stand before the man. On first impression, the short round man looked like a creature from a fairytale - a troll or goblin with a beak-like nose. His lips were small and thin, gripping the lengthy cigarette holder as he stared the two down. He appeared to be trying to recognize them. Who knew how many faces he saw that day? Joe watched his beady eyes settle on Stefano. The Penguin’s dark feathery brows knitted over fierce eyes before he pointed with a thick claw of a finger at him.

“Yes...I remember you now. I had put you in charge of the Dixon operation. What happened?” He was losing his temper. His teeth ground on the end of his cigarette holder. “And don’t say Batman...last idiot who used that excuse swam with the fishes.”

The cigarette bobbed down and then up again as The Penguin’s nostrils flared as he gave an exaggerated sniff of the air. How he could smell anything besides aquarium was beyond them.

“You smell like gasoline.”

Stefano began to explain, “Well, what-”

The Penguin suddenly removed his cigarette holder from his mouth and tossed it at Stefano. Stefano lurched back with a terrified cry when the hot end struck his jacket. Joe’s face paled briefly and eyes widened as he lost all stoicism. The cigarette fizzled out and the holder clattered harmlessly on the floor. The Penguin grinned wickedly, cackling in delight. Joe internally sighed in relief. Thank God they had rinsed enough of the gasoline out of his clothes.

Stefano crouched and picked up the cigarette holder before shakily handing it back to The Penguin. Cobblepot snatched it from him and reached inside his robes to prepare another cigarette. Stefano drew his trembling hands back and stuck them between his arms and ribs.

“I-I had never seen them before, Sir. They-they tried to light me on fire,” Stefano began to explain.

“You think I care what they tried to do to you, Halfwit. Who? Who?! What did they look like?” The Penguin demanded.

Joe interjected, “I’m sorry, Sir. He might not remember much. They might have been Russians. I saw them take him, beat him, and douse him in gasoline.”

Cobblepot casually returned the cigarette holder to his lips, “And where were you? Who are you anyway? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

One of The Penguin’s thugs chimed in, which was unexpected to Joe, “He works for you, Boss. I seen’im. He’s a pretty smart guy.”

Joe looked over at the thug, and the thug winked at him. Did he think he was doing him a favor? Joe answered Cobblepot, “I followed them to the Tricorner to the old naval yard. I figured Stefano was valuable to you and that you might want him back.”

Cobblepot closed one eye and stared through his monocle at Stefano as he dragged on his cigarette. “Indeed.”

The Penguin reached his hand inside his robe to suddenly remove a magnum and before Stefano could even register the action, his forehead exploded with blood, gum, and bone fragments. The loud blam of the magnum going off made Joe jump and shout a frightened curse. Stefano’s body struck the floor and two of The Penguin’s thugs were immediately on Joe. Each grasped his arms and grasped a handful of his jacket collar in their fists. He felt their knuckles against the back of his neck, and Joe noticed the magnum was trained on him next.

“Search him,” Cobblepot ordered.

Joe tried to stifle his heavy and fast breaths through his nostrils. He tried to keep a nonchalant expression on his face as he was jostled by the thugs’ hands reaching into places all over his body.

“They were gonna burn him but they had to let him go,” Joe continued to explain. “I don’t know why. They might have had a message for him to give to you.”

The Penguin gnawed on his cigarette holder again. Was he nervous? He scowled down at Stefano’s corpse. No one had said anything about a message. He was pissed.

“Strip him!”

Joe’s brows shot upwards and before he knew it, the thugs were ripping his clothes off.

“Wait! I told you what you wanted. Why are you doing this?”

The thugs lifted Joe and slammed him face down on the floor as they started to jerk his pants off. They stripped him bare. Joe thought he had been cold before, but now all he could think of doing was curl into a ball on the cold floor.

“What was the message?” The Penguin asked.

Joe hid his privates behind his hands as he trembled on the floor. “I don’t know. I don’t know if there was a message. I was just guessin’ why they let him go!”

“I think he could use a refreshing dip, boys.”

“WHAT!?”

As the thugs reached down to grasp his shoulders, Joe shrugged them off and rolled onto his back to send both of his feet into the stomach of one of the thugs. The second one tried to kick him but Joe blocked the kick with his arm and grasped the thug’s ankle. He yanked it and the icy surface of the platform caused the thug’s other foot to slide out from under him. The thug fell on his back as Joe scrambled to his feet.

BANG!

The bullet struck the floor at Joe’s feet causing him to jump in fright.

“The next one is going in your head if you move again. I already lost 30 million!” His infuriated expression softened a little and he rubbed his chin in contemplation, “Actually, I didn’t lose anything, but my customers aren’t going to get their supply...it’s just more shit I’ll have to deal with, wah!”

The thugs managed to recover and grasped Joe’s arms and the back of his neck.

“I don’t know the message! Please, don’t do this!” He then looked at the thug who had vouched for him. “Tell him! Tell him I’m not a rat!”

“Sorry; boss’s orders. No hard feelins’.”

The thugs dragged Joe to the edge of the tank and shoved him in. The ice water was like knives dragging across his skin. As he sank into the water, he felt the air escape him in one breath. His muscles went numb, and in his sudden panic, he started flailing back to the surface. Joe emerged with a gasp and attempted to swim back to the edge of the pool only to get a shoe to his forehead that caused him to go under again. Joe surfaced again, screaming because he couldn't feel his limbs anymore.

“I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! FUUUCK!” Joe hysterically shrieked. He continued to scream and shout until The Penguin couldn’t stand it anymore.

BANG!

The bullet darted passed the thugs to strike Joe in the forehead. He immediately stopped flailing. The tank swallowed him up. A dark sanguine cloud billowed in the water as his body sank, freezing solid by the time it struck bottom. The thugs looked back at The Penguin in surprise.

“Boss, I t’ink he was tellin’ da truth,” one of the thugs said.

“If he doesn't know the message, then he’s useless to me.”

Cobblepot rose from his chair and crossing an arm behind his back, he started waddling in the direction of his quarters.

“That’s enough bloody entertainment for one night. Clean this place up.”

“Yes; Boss.”

Something’s Fishy
Tricorner, Decommissioned Naval Yard
Gotham City South, 0730

Dante and his crew were holed up in the cabin of an old rusted ship. It was hollowed out like a carcass - the ribs of the hull exposed. Dante was seated at a table, turned to the side in his chair with his left leg crossed over his right. He was drinking roscato from a Burgundy glass, while his men were scouting the area. A thug peering through binoculars noticed a group of fifteen other thugs wearing winter jackets entering the naval yard. They started to sweep the containers full of stoners and bums and blasted anyone who they believed could have been involved.

“They’re here as planned, Boss. There’s fifteen of them,” one of Dante’s thugs informed.

Dante swirled the dark liquid before his shaded eyes and grinned. A flip phone hummed and another thug answered it: “What’s up? What? Fuck…”

The thug closed the phone and apprehensively looked over at his boss.

“Stefano’s dead. The Penguin executed him,” the thug informed.

Dante uttered a short insensitive laugh. “Huh, I guess he wasn’t as useful as Joe thought. Tell Joe to-”

“Joe’s dead, Sir.”

Dante’s grin slowly shrank away at the news. His dark brows crashed together above his shades. Whatever conflict was happening in his brain might have been happening with the old Dante. The feelings he once had for the men who were loyal to him were raging. It couldn’t have been that simple. Joe probably tried to snitch.

“Tell me how he died,” Dante demanded clutching his forehead.

“The Penguin thought Stefano had a message but he had killed Stefano before he could find out. He then suspected Joe mighta’ known somethin’ and tortured him. They made him swim with the penguins. He never talked, Boss. The Penguin even believed Joe to be innocent, but still shot him.”

Dante’s hand was shaking as he slowly rose from his chair. He dashed his glass of wine on the cabin floor and grasped the table next. With a furious roar, he hefted the table, twisting and throwing it and the wine bottle across the room. The thug stood back against the wall of the cabin, and then glanced through the window at the advancing mob.

“Boss, the Penguin’s boys are comin’. You want us to take’em out?”

Dante, chest heaving from his tantrum, turned toward the door of the cabin. “I’ll go handle them myself!”

Dante’s thug didn’t even try to stop him. His boss had a fiery temper, and the last thing he wanted was to get burned. When Dante stormed onto the deck, he was handed a pistol and two magazine cartridges. He pulled back on the slide, readying one in the chamber before he slipped the pistol into his belt. He walked over to a rusted ladder and descended to the street below.

The shipyard was a labyrinth with several containers that looked the same and were scattered in odd angles, creating pathways that lead to continuations and dead ends. If one didn’t know the area well, then one would get lost and disoriented. Add a sudden firefight to the confusion, and there was chaos. The Penguin’s boys, Dante was anticipating, had never been to the shipyard—at least not for any special reasons.

“There ain’t nothin’ but crackheads in this bitch,” one member of the divided team griped.
“Yeah, well, the dead guys said the gang that hit the Dixon are here.”
“This place is confusin’ as fuck.”
“It’s given me a headache.”

The team of five turned into another container filled with toasted good-for-nothings slouched against the back wall, while a few bums were sleeping on cardboard mattresses. Aiming their submachine guns at the stoner heads too gone to even know their life was in danger, it happened quick and smooth before their dilated and unmoving eyes. The two thugs posted at the container entrance collapsed with a splattered trail of carnage leading from their skulls. The three who were in the container whirled around and didn’t get a chance to return fire before they were gunned down. Each shot was placed perfectly in each of the thugs’ skulls. The gunman stood by the entrance of the container, listening for the disturbance his fire might have caused. The stoner frowned as he attempted to focus on the man in red wine and black. The colors and shapes that swirled before his eyes warped into monstrous blotches, and at the center was the gunman, contorting into some nightmarish form. The stoner raised a hand and pointed at Dante, “Woah...you’re like...The Devil...is this for real?”

The mafioso kept his shoulder against the container wall as he peeked around the corner to check the path. From behind his shades, his cybernetic eyes gently whined as they twisted and dilated. His crimson pupils swelled to the size of golf balls as red, orange, yellow, green and blue silhouettes started to appear like phantoms before his eyes. The two remaining groups were converging and trying to navigate the maze of containers. He could see them one row of containers in front of him, acting in an erratic manner, which was different from the other colorful blobs lying around. The thugs twisted about as they tried to figure out which way to go. Their voices carried on echoes:

“Where the fuck did those shots come from?”
“Where’s Drake’s crew?”
“I dunno, he ain’t answerin’ his phone.”
“Shit; they probably got hit.”
“It didn’t sound like a group. It sounded like one dude.”
“It was over here, right?”
“Yeah.”

Dante was already walking. He paralleled the remaining ten gang members, reaching into his inner jacket pocket to touch the two magazines. As he continued to stride down the file of containers, he noticed an interesting phenomenon—silence. The Penguin’s boys had stopped being obnoxiously loud. He checked on their position and saw that five were going in the opposite direction. Dante deduced that the second group was to loop around the containers to the other side—the side Dante was currently trying to escape. They were trying to close him in, but they hadn’t a clue he was actually there.

On the ship, his men were carefully watching. From their position, they could see the groups moving about and their boss going to work.

“They’re trynna’ corner him.”
“The boss is like a fox. He’s already thinkin’ ahead. He’ll murder’em.”
“Why’s he down there anyway? Why aren’t we cleanin’em up?”
“The Penguin killed Joe. The boss is pissed.”
“Joe is dead? Shit!”

When Dante reached the end of the container row, he found lying curled up and frightened on the ground, a homeless man. Dante nudged the man with his foot and pointed his gun down at him.

“Get up and run,” he ordered.

The homeless man whimpered and slowly rose to his feet. Dante indicated the direction with a slight wave of his gun. The homeless man slowly stepped back and then darted from behind the containers running into the open. The second group of five were startled by the sudden bum racing across the path that they fired at him out of nervous habit. The man went down as one of the thugs leading the group ordered:

“Stop shootin’! It’s just a homeless motha’ fucka’ you wanna give away our position?”

Dante turned the corner and popped off three rounds that penetrated the skulls of three of the thugs before he turned back around the corner to change his magazine.

The two surviving thugs fled inside the container and took a knee.

“HE’S OVER HERE!” they shouted to alert the other team that started running toward their position.

Pulling back on the slide, Dante turned his head to his left, gazing through the walls at the approaching team.

“They got him pinned,” one of the Marconis noted as he lifted his rifle.
“The boss is gonna be mad you interfered.”
“Yeah, well I rather him be mad than dead.”

The rifleman rested the barrel of the Remington on the edge of the boat and peered through the scope at the five goons. He fired one shot that struck one of the goons in the chest. The third team halted briefly, eyes following the trajectory of the shot to the ship.

“HE’S ON THE BOAT!” they reported next.

Dante’s teeth were clenched in anger. He was pissed that his men decided to shoot. He, however, wasn’t going to let the opportunity be spoiled. He turned the corner to fire on the remaining four, while they were prepared to fire on the boat. The four folded like wet paper as Dante stepped on and kicked any limbs that were in his path. The two on the second team were taking pop shots at the boat. The Marconis were ducked with their backs to the steel wall, listening to the bullets that whizzed and bounced off the ship.

“Any minute now,” one of the Marconis muttered with a smirk.

Dante quietly rolled open the back hatch with enough space for his body to slide through. He closed it behind him and casually walked over to the two thugs who were still focused on the ship.

“So that’s where they were hidin’.”

“Shit; I dunno if we can tak’em.”

When the thug turned his head to ask his comrade a question, his eyes grew in size when he saw Dante’s silhouette behind him. Dante shot the one who noticed him first before his foot harshly kicked the side of the other thug’s head. The thug grunted as he collapsed on his side outside the container. He growled and pointed his gun at Dante, as Dante grasped the thug’s gunhand and directed his gun to the side as he fired. The mafioso’s grip increased on the thug’s hand, crushing it against the hard carbon of the pistol. The thug cried out in pain and desperately grasped Dante’s wrist, trying to hopelessly to loosen the boss’s grip. Dante jerked the thug’s hand to the side, slamming it against the side of the hatch with a resounding metallic dong and the snapping of several broken bones. The thug screamed and the banging didn’t stop as Dante hammered the thug’s hand into meat.

The Marconis on the ship were smirking in amusement as they heard the agonized screams.

“Aaa~nd it’s over.”

The Marconis peered over the wall to watch Dante break the guy’s face in with his fist.

“I don’t know what I’d rather be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dead or still alive with the hope I might escape.”
“Against the boss? I’d rather take one of his bullets. Let it be quick. That dude’s fucked!”
“Yeah; he ain’t gonna kill him so easily. He’s going to make it long and painful.”
“He gonna burn’im I bet.”
“After; probably.”