Chapter Text
Crane watched from the observation room as Strange and the woman looked over him, staring at their nearest subject. They would need more test subjects before continuing.
He glanced at Strange, who had arrived just as they were planning the experiment. Strange had been frustrated after hearing that his warehouse had been broken into. It was Selina Kyle, a woman that Crane had crossed paths with previously.
The door to the observation room opened and a woman Jonathan had seen before stepped inside, projecting a sense of authority and entitlement that made his eyes narrow. She had curling auburn hair that fell to her shoulders and a doll-like face, with large eyes and full lips. She wore a long, expensive-looking camel-coloured coat with a green scarf draped around her neck, a large gold brooch pinned to her lapel.
"Ah, Ms Al Ghul," Strange greeted her, sounding pleased. "So good of you to join us."
Crane looked between the woman and Strange sharply.
"Al Ghul?" He demanded.
"Do not be so surprised, Dr Crane," Talia al Ghul drawled, shooting him an amused smirk. “Hugo has had several dealings with my sister in the past, Nyssa. I am simply here to carry on her legacy.”
Crane pressed his lips together, a sense of foreboding sweeping through him as Talia al Ghul stepped up to the observation room's viewing window, folding her arms as she watched the security footage of the cat burgular caught on the CCTV footage.
Before he could complain about being left in the dark, now the entire warehouse was burned to the ground. Only ash remained; no trace of what had happened and why. It left Crane worried, trying to figure out what to think about doing next.
“What happened next on the footage?” He demanded.
No one answered. Strange was watching passively, his eyebrows raised with interest while Talia had drawn so close to the glass she was nearly pressed against it. A few other orderlies that were on their payroll were in the room too, all of them staring at the screen through the observation window, enthralled.
But there were too many troublesome pawns plaguing the board, hindering the game. And one such pawn came in the hidden form of a broad silhouette dressed like a bat, visible only for a few milliseconds before the video went to a green screen with words jumping around in a spritely dance. His disappointment in being unable to see what she had taken returned.
Crane shoved Strange aside and eyed Talia who was standing in the center of the room.
“What now?” he asked. “Do we bring her in?”
”Loose ends must be tied up, Dr Crane,” Talia breathed, gazing at the screen through the glass.
Crane shot her a bewildered look before turning to Strange, who stroked his goatee thoughtfully as he viewed the rest of the security footage which had been damaged.
The audacity to break into his warehouse, burn it to the ground, likely steal everything of use—including the computer inside—and then taunting him about it, even inferring that he was the idiot, was enough to drive him close to blind rage.
Crane's eye twitched, just as it always did when Strange referred to him by his first name. Once meant as a slight and then to connote familiarity, he had learned early on to keep his complaints to himself, to mark them as they transpired for recompense.
And Crane would, there was no doubt in his mind about that, no matter how close they might have become. He thought about what exactly he'd like to do as he examined the man in the chair resting between them.
Once they reached Phase 3, however, they were not the same person; not mentally, anyhow.
No matter. Crane was determined to be gone in the coming weeks—and it would be before these experiments saw the light of day.
He would be out soon, before anything happened.
He knew what was coming, felt the stirring of his brain, the prick of scientific inquiry, the clench in his stomach as anticipation turned into anxiety, but he didn’t give anything away.
Strange’s original aims included cryptic allusions to an ancient bat-god and monologuing on curing the incurable using a journal written by a deranged man who had become a patient of his own asylum.
Those were moments that Crane didn’t entirely resent, sometimes he even actively sought them out, eager for the company and stimulation, and Strange was his only opportunity to even taste the remnants of the life he used to have.
What it was for Strange was something Crane had guessed at, and he still hadn't determined his feelings on the matter. There were animosity and bitterness on Crane’s end—it was his fault that he was in Arkham in the first place—but it was different for Strange.
His admiration ran deeper—that much became clear during their sessions with the Joker—and Crane knew an obsession when he saw one.
Yes, it was something they shared, but all of Strange’s talk of perfection, evolving into something greater—it lent to an eerie parallel with Victor Frankenstein, a figure Crane had admired in his youth.
“Well,” Strange observed jauntily. “We can draw her in somehow.”
Not wanting to be rude, he didn’t bother knocking. After all, visiting at 12:19 am for an impromptu housecall would just be impertinent.
“Breach,” Red Hood ordered.
Normally, he was one to work alone. Things tended to play out better that way—fewer chances of a colossal mix-up causing a chain-reaction he couldn’t control—but there were times when he needed the assistance of others, and he saw no better manner to use the miscreants he recruited from rival gangs. Unruly though they might be, all they needed were a few weeks of Red Hood’s brand of militaristic discipline to get into shape. And they followed orders like a dream.
The front door of Throne’s stash house smacked into the wall, wood splintering and cracking into chunks around the handle. They filed in, AR-15’s raised and shot the first dipshits in view as they rose from their seats, scrambling for their handguns—two even went for machetes.
Their opponents outmatched and outgunned, his men cleared the first floor quickly. Rapid bursts of fire—the sound barely muffled by the suppressors on the ends of the barrels—bodies dropping and men shouting was all he heard for the three minutes it took to sweep the second floor and basement. His men split off into two groups, silent and their leader’s orders in their heads. These were no longer the unorganized and impulsive gangbangers scrounging around Crime Alley like Jason Todd had once been as a teen. Red Hood had trained himself a small paramilitary group, and he almost smiled as he watched them in action.
A few more shots went off before things in the house went quiet. “Upstairs clear!” Sean Flannery shouted from the top of the stairs. Red Hood stood just enough in view to wave a hand in acknowledgement.
“What’s our haul lookin’ like?” he asked.
“Three cases of RPGs, HE and HEAT warheads, and custom-made automatic rifles, and some boxes with—with biohazard symbols on it.”
He laughed, catching Sean off guard. “Think he was a despot ruling a military state,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
Even for a house in the Narrows, Throne’s stash house was a piece of work. Mei Tzu gave it up easily after she joined ranks—he knew to expect drugs, but the rest were added bonuses. Red Hood was still surprised the house hadn’t fallen over years ago. Walls stained, an ugly floral-patterned couch—and he was certain that its original colour had not been brown—the floors covered in mud, dust, and rat shit were almost comical next to the plasma screen TV with stacks of heroin acting as its stand. Bodies on the ground and blood running between the grooves of the floorboards, Red Hood stepped over them as he took stock of his new inventory, tallying what exactly he’d keep and what he’d burn.
After the incident with The Bat in the bar almost a week prior, Throne was running out of places to store his goods, and Red Hood finally had found something that couldn’t be replaced—not easily. When “Lazarus” had had missions overseas toppling governments in countries they had no business being in, there was a formula for coup d’etat that they had hammered in his brain. The US Military may not have meant for their tactics to be used on their home soil, but it would work in Gotham all the same.
The first step was undercutting the head of state, convincing their supporters that they were on the wrong side: Get them to turn and half the battle was won. Cutting off resources, controlling both the people and the flow of information were vital. Ingraining the belief that he would win was paramount. Red Hood’s ascension to power wouldn’t be quiet—it would be bloody and violent—but he’d make it quick. Penguin and Throne would be dead and he’d be there to fill the void, circumvent the power vacuum and crush anyone who tried otherwise.
“Sir.”
Red Hood turned to find Tommy Quelling, his lieutenant and by far the most competent amongst his group, standing in the filthy kitchen. Filled to the brim with unwashed dishes and opened cans whose contents had long been consumed, the basement door open beside her.
Tommy was the good cop to Red Hood’s bad. She’d done some shady stuff in her life, but nothing Red Hood hadn’t done once himself. He didn’t have ‘proper’ soldiers under his command, but he had made do. From the furrowed brows and grim line of her mouth, Tommy had found something unexpected. His stomach knotted and twisted, but he forced himself forward.
“Report.”
“Think it’s best you see for yourself,” Tommy said, shifting her weight and gripping her rifle tight. With the only light streaming in weakly through the filthy windows, Tommy’s eyes seemed to float above the red line of her bandana as her black skin blended with the dark.
“Don’t like the sound of that.” His words were a truthful articulation of what he felt and a warning. Tommy didn’t blink, but Red Hood watched her throat dip as she swallowed.
Descending slowly, he kept one hand by his hip, ready to draw his pistol. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his own people, but he really didn’t trust his own people.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the blood drained from his face, hands dropping down and his body freezing in place.
“Sir? Intel didn’t say anything about this.”
Red Hood held up a hand, signalling the man to shut his ever-loving mouth as he kicked his brain back into gear.
Throne had taken the term “stash house” all too literally. The basement had nine people in it—young women, girls, and a couple of boys. They looked tired, beyond exhausted, some doped up—probably on the stuff upstairs—and hungry. Red Hood knew what their eyes were telling him. He’d seen it every day on the streets after he ran away from his last foster home, when he had done anything— anything —to make sure he didn’t go back, that he didn’t starve to death. The memories made him feel physically ill, like the world had spun off its axis.
The youngest girl looked no more than eight-years-old. They were all visibly terrified; no doubt they’d heard the gunfire. His stomach gave another twist.
“Go upstairs.”
“Wha—are you sure, sir?” one of his men asked, looking from Red Hood to the group of people cowering further together in the corner.
“Take your guts upstairs and the guns with you. Prepare the secondary vehicle—don’t load any of the haul in there. Make it fit in the moving van or it stays to burn.”
The modulator once again made his voice deeper, more threatening, but that meant that the terror the people on the floor already felt amplified and focused on him, on his words. His men didn’t question him again, running back up the stairs to carry out orders.
Once he was sure they were gone, he reached up to remove his faceguard and pulled back his hood. The domino mask was still in place, but they could see his face, know that he was human. His small white streak of hair might be enough for them to pick him out of a line-up, but he’d take the risk.
The basement was in worse shape than the rest of what he’d seen of the house, the air filled with stale sweat and fear, and he dropped down into a crouch. “How long have you been here?” He made sure his voice stayed soft, made no moves for his weapons and shifted his jacket to at least keep them from view. When no one answered, he rubbed a gloved hand through his hair and tried again. “I’m not gonna hurt you. No one here will.”
The women were the first to relax their shoulders, but the kids still saw a devil, and he couldn’t blame them—it took years for him to learn that not all people were monsters, but he knew to recognize them when he had been nine years old.
He kept his voice level, even as his heart hammered against his chest. “I just need to know where to take you—if you’ve been here for a while, I’ll take you to a hospital. Otherwise, I’m taking you to get help, a shelter that’ll make sure you’re safe.”
He had one in mind—it was one of the few places left in Gotham with any sort of funding independent from the city council. It meant they wouldn’t report them to get shipped off to Arkham or ICE. Calling the police didn’t enter his mind: He already began planning a very different sort of justice for the men who did this. One that wouldn’t end with any of the bastards being left alive. Gotham might’ve changed in the last eight years with Gordon and the National Guard and then again after No Man’s Land and Mayor James, but it wasn’t enough.
“Will you let me help you?” he asked after they didn’t reply. Some seemed apprehensive, and he knew the type of distrust, the kind that moulds misanthropy into your soul. Even though he knew it like the air he breathed, he didn’t know how to break through it, how to show that he wasn’t the same.
“Why should we believe you?” one of the women asked. She looked marginally older than the rest—still no more than twenty-five—and he saw the fire of hate when he looked at her.
He also knew words meant nothing, only actions did. Pulling out the Colt Mustang from his boot, he spun it around so the barrel faced his chest and stretched out for her to take it.
“You don’t have to but, if you think you need to, you can shoot me—or any other bastard up there—in the head. You don’t have anything to fear from me.” Never breaking eye contact, she grabbed the handle, knuckles quickly going white. “Safety’s off. Just be careful where you’re pointing it, alright?”
When she nodded, he rose slowly, making sure to keep his hands far away from the remaining guns on his person, and backed up toward the stairs. They followed suit, standing while staying huddled together as a group.
“I’m gonna tell them you’re coming and to back off. There’ll be a van you can get into. You’re gonna keep the gun on the driver until they drop you off—you’ll be long gone, the assholes keeping you here are dead upstairs, and I’ll make damn sure no one follows.” Still as slow as before, he put the facemask back in place before pulling up his hood. “That sound like a good plan to you?”
Several of them nodded and let the woman with the gun take the lead.
“We’re coming up. Keep your guns down,” he called up the stairs, taking two at a time to make sure none of the idiots suddenly lost more of the few brain cells they had left while his back was turned.
Tommy still stood in the kitchen, her rifle slung across her back, and her fingers twisting a dreadlock between them as her eyebrows screwed together.
“You’re taking them to Saint Mary’s Shelter. Make sure you’re not followed and leave the car with them. Call in your location and we’ll pick you up at 0300.” Motioning for her guns, Tommy picked up the cue and began handing them over, but he didn’t miss the stare she gave to the woman holding his Colt. “She’s keeping the gun.”
Being that most of his face was covered and he was wearing a mask, he couldn’t communicate that she didn’t have anything to worry about, but Tommy had followed orders without incident before and was still alive to talk about it. He liked to think that counted for something.
“Got it, sir,” she replied, nodding in deference.
He watched them file out, his remaining men looking on with either indifference or barely suppressed incredulity. Red Hood had given the spiel once, but it still seemed to shock most of them that he followed through with his rules—had deigned to expose a vulnerability—while unrelentingly punishing to the infractors, euthanizing the mad dogs that Throne employed and any other bastard running wild in the streets.
Dispersing the rest of his band of merry men with a tilt of his head, he gave one last look at the stash house, at its stained walls and dirty furniture, the bodies left behind. There was no point in cleaning up after themselves; cutting the oven's gas line open to leak into the air, Red Hood kicked over a jerry can and watched it mingle with the blood on the floor, giving it time to spread out before he lit a match and dropped it. Not bothering to watch the whole house go up in flame, he joined the rest of his men outside.
Just as he ducked into the cab of the moving truck, the main floor windows on the house burst out, and the inferno turned in on itself and curled upwards, lapping at the second floor despite the heavy rain. All it made Red Hood want was a cigarette.
“Move out, boys. We got ourselves a long night ahead.” The sound of the modulator still visibly disturbed them, it was incongruous with what they would see him do on any given night, and the unpredictability only worked in his favour. They jumped when it interrupted their trance as they watched the fire rise. Red Hood smirked. “You know what to do.”
His remaining men hopped into the back of the moving van, dropping the door and bolting it shut. Rolling up the window, his third, Elliot Li, climbed into the driver’s seat and sped off, passing three cop cars and two fire trucks by the time they were eight blocks away. They weren’t thinking to look at a U-Haul going the speed limit, and they passed without incident.
They’d have more than the GCPD coming after their asses when Throne found out, but that was the point.
“Take us back to base,” Red Hood said, pulling out an old flip phone from his pocket and dialling. Only seeing Elliot’s nod in the corner of his eye, he listened to the line ring.
“Hello?” a woman said, sounding bored.
Peyton Riley.
Red Hood had left no stone unturned with these punks, which they were gonna find out the hard way, but it was best they found that out later.
“Put your boss on the line.”
The unnatural pitch of his voice was enough. It wasn’t your everyday whack-job that sounded like a Darth Vader rip-off. The woman asked no questions, gave no gasps of surprise and her voice was calm. “One minute.”
Listening to the Muzak as Elliot left the Narrows for Crime Alley, Red Hood’s own territory, they headed for one of his many safe houses, the street lights dim and puddles deep as the rain tried its hardest to drown them with the downpour.
“Yeah?” came the voice of a man.
Oswald Cobblepot.
It was late, but Red Hood knew Oswald had been putting in a lot of long nights at the Iceberg Lounge. The police hadn’t busted him yet—probably hadn’t even identified him—but they were also hesitant to torture the mid-level pieces of crap they arrested. Red Hood had no such qualms. He knew Penguin didn’t either.
“Hello.” He sounded friendly, borderline chipper, and maybe he was. The blood humming in his veins told a different story than one of calm. It only got worse when he thought of the scared faces of the kids in the basement. The smell of terror. “Do you prefer I call you Penguin?... Mr. Cobblepot?…Ozzie?”
There was sighing on the other end of the line, and Red Hood was sure there were rolling eyes to accompany it. “Just talk. I’m listening. But when I say ‘I’m listening,’ that also means I’m thinking about killing you.”
He grinned, draping an arm over the back of the middle seat and pushing his hood back to brush a gloved hand through his hair. “That’s not really a great way to begin our relationship,” he said, keeping the glib tone.
“Out there, you need more than muscle and a criminal record if you think you can stop me.”
Despite his words, Penguin didn’t sound particularly angry or even frustrated. Red Hood’s smile grew, but it was all bared teeth.
“How you’d get this number anyway?” Cobblepot asked. Instead of waiting for the answer, more pertinent questions seemed to jump to mind. “Did you fry my shipment?”
He couldn’t blame Penguin’s line of thinking. He had set most of his other shipments on fire. Outside Oswald’s clubs, blowing up his operations like he had at the Gotham Docks, and now in his own damn stash houses. But that depended on the shipment Cobblepot was referring to.
“Nah, I went after Throne’s last night. But it looks like he took something from you.”
If Red Hood could have made a wish right at that moment, it would’ve been to peel Cobblepot’s face off with a damned spoon.
“I take it you took something.”
For his first time talking to the man on the phone, Red Hood had really expected Penguin to have more… fire. Vigour. Some goddamn emotion. Hatred, annoyance, vehemence—anything in the goddamn dictionary under royally-pissed-right--off, but he sounded like he was negotiating a laundry bill.
“I did. I think it’s the top-shelf items.”
“Which crate?”
“I don’t have the manifest, but…” Now Red Hood just felt like being coy. It could be more fun that way, and he needed some of that. “It’s the one filled with those canisters with the chimera viruses—you know, the biohazardous stuff. Oh, and the full shipment of RPGs.”
He didn’t believe Oswald was stupid enough to bomb and plague his own city—he wanted territory and people to rule over, after all—but the buyers he had overseas sure as hell would want what he was selling.
“Yeah… I’m gonna need that.”
“Oh, I bet you do. Be hard to maintain that little site of yours without it.”
A beat of silence passed.
“I suppose there’s just no persuading you to give it back?” Penguin inquired, voice still all calm and cool and fucking collected.
He scoffed. “Your definition of persuasion being what?”
Oswald chuckled, and he could hear shifting—a chair creaking—on the other end. “For one, I don’t kill you. For two, I don’t kill you.”
“How generous of you.”
“Three, you can have a job. Come work for me.”
Before Red Hood could even laugh, he was beaten to the punch. The woman—Peyton—sounded outraged and apparently didn’t have any hesitations of showing it. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me—”
“That’s enough, Miss Riley- remember who you’re dealing with-“
“I don’t want to work for you,” Red Hood interrupted. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to listen to their bickering. This call served a purpose, just like everything else.
The squabbling on the other end stopped with a growl that betrayed how Oswald was actually feeling about the situation. “What do you want?”
“A tremendous amount of money.”
Another beat of silence.
“How much?”
Now Red Hood was speaking his language. Money was all that people like Penguin understood, and he didn’t realize that what he thought was his greatest strength would be what undid him.
“Fifty million dollars.”
“Fifty? What, are you trying to budget a movie?” Cobblepot asked, sounding more and more riled up. That’s just what Red Hood wanted, too—harder to be rational when all you can think about is murder.
“Fifty?! Is he insane? Are you?!” Peyton interrupted again.
The sounds on the other end of the line muffled for a moment, but it didn’t cover up the heated barbs thrown between Peyton and Cobblepot. As entertaining as all this was for Red Hood, he grew tired.
“Believe it or not, I don’t have that kind of cash just lying about.”
“Do an e-transfer.”
The man on the other end growled. “That kind of traffic will send too many red flags. I can do four million cash today and you get a transfer of another ten.”
“I’m sure I can get buyers to meet my price.”
Red Hood didn’t want the money—he had no use for it. Sure, it could buy him a few more guns, maybe an armoured vehicle or two, but that missed the point. Men like Penguin couldn’t see beyond the profit line and the power he thought it bought them. Red Hood wasn’t playing to just take Oswald’s king, he wanted to dominate the whole board.
“You need to understand that this is the best course of action.”
Pretending to consider for a moment, he said, “Deal. I’ll call in an hour with a location.”
Not waiting for an answer, he clapped the phone shut as Elliot picked up speed. They were close. Once the cargo was unloaded, it would be time to engage. Red Hood would be able to start his tally again, ticking off how many pieces of crap offset the innocent he was avenging. Penguin wouldn’t know what hit him.
It had been almost a week since Ed had appeared at Cobblepot's doorstep. He was glad that Ed was back in town working for him, but Ed had become engrossed in his work. He barely allowed time for the occasional chat. When he went downstairs to simply talk with one of his only and oldest friends, he would either find him asleep in his chair at the strangest times or he would be quickly repelled with a "Not now, Oswald," "Just let me finish this thought," or an "I really need to focus right now." Oswald often felt like he was simply the landlord to Ed.
"Well it better be only a moment," he knew he was being snippy, but he felt that Ed deserved it.
Ed, who was standing near his workbench, simply smiled playfully as he turned around, "Oh? I've never known you for one to be turning down a gift."
Oswald realized that Ed was standing next to the table that housed the long object that he had questioned several days ago. He raised an eyebrow, "Gift?"
The Riddler yanked back a cloth to reveal the object underneath. He picked it up delicately and held it out to him like a sword. The lengthy black umbrella looked rather large in his hands.
"I just wanted to give you something of appreciation since I had come in so quickly and demanded a wager," he looked rather pleased with himself despite the simplicity of the gift he presented. "I remembered those puzzles that you sent me during my stay in Arkham. I've missed enough time to feel like I should repay you in some respects. So, I made you—"
"It's an umbrella, Ed," Oswald pursed his lip in disappointment. He grabbed it from Ed's hands and was surprised by the weight and the thickness of the stem. "Well, I can't say it's the worst gift I've ever—"
"Oswald," Ed added quickly as the umbrella was jerked away from him, "I wouldn't—"
Oswald's finger grazed the crook of the umbrella handle accidentally; he felt something like a little button there. Thinking it was to open the umbrella, he pushed it in.
There was a loud BANG! They both cringed and recoiled as the resounding sound echoed through the large, soundproof room. Oswald felt his hand kick up into the air with tremendous force and something like splinters graze his exposed skin. When he looked up, half expecting his hand to be blown completely off, he saw the damage. The wooden table that had been in front of the umbrella's tip had been blown to a splintery mess. It hardly looked like a table with the main structure fractured beyond repair.
"Ed," Oswald asked loudly; his ears still ringing with the sound of the shot. "What was that?"
Ed pushed his crooked glasses back onto his nose, "Well, I used a modified 12 gauge and—"
"English," Oswald had to stop him before he went on further.
"It's a shotgun in an umbrella."
"Really?" Oswald suddenly pointed it upward just in case it went off again.
"Don't worry," Ed nodded, "it only has one shot in it for now. The shot ruins the umbrella." He took the umbrella from the Penguin and pointed to the tip. The pointed tip was now blown off and the umbrella started to peel away in various directions like a wilted flower. "I'm working to fix that problem as well as find a cloth material for the umbrella that is bullet retardant and a better compact design. Fortunately," Ed tossed the umbrella to the side, went over to the bench again, and pulled out another umbrella identical to the last one, "I foresaw that something like this might happen."
Oswald was a bit flabbergasted as he took the spare umbrella from Edward. Ed started to ramble on about the modifications that he had implemented to make the concealed weapon and how it could act as a regular umbrella when needed. Oswald felt a swell of emotion; he hadn't received a gift that wasn't coerced out of someone in over ten years. That's what bothered him. He remained quiet and mulled over the implications of the gift. Ed was often obtuse about remembering social related events or customs—even to the point of forgetting his own birthday. He had rarely shown this much appreciation. The gift was touching, but Oswald felt the need to question it for safety's sake.
"Why did you do this for me?" Oswald asked finally.
"I was thinking about it for a while. Since you are a man of power, yet you need to keep up a good public appearance, I decided that you might require a concealed weapon since your bodyguards cannot be everywhere with you." He shrugged his shoulders, "Let's just say I had a lot of time to think in a Bialyan bunker."
Maybe he was overthinking it. Ed didn't seem to have any gain in betraying him. Oswald knew that he had to assume that there was someone he could at least trust. Otherwise, he would lose his mind. Prison had been a time when he didn't know who to trust, but he knew that Ed wouldn't let him down—or at least plan to kill him without provocation.
With a grin stretched across his face, Oswald nodded, "I guarantee it will be put to good use."
"I don't doubt it," Ed smiled back and suddenly checked his watch. "You'd better get going to see your—" he paused for a moment to think of the word "—meeting with this Red Hood character, right?”
"He’s going down for sure. You are most certainly right; I am late," Oswald snapped out of his thoughts. He thought to show his gratitude at least a little, "Thank you, Ed."
With that, he turned around and made his way to the stairs. Ed turned back to his corkboard and started adding new data.
After a few moments, Edward thought it would be good to call after him with a final note of warning, "Mind not to point that in the direction of your own men, the firing mechanism is a little touchy."
Night had just fallen over the city, it was the perfect time for the raid. Bruce was scouting out a warehouse by the Gotham docks. There appeared to be no human activity, but that was just a front like always. The location came courtesy of a lucky find. He had found one of Penguin's men drunkenly harassing people on the street for their cash. It only took dangling over a four-story drop to sober him up. He had gotten a good deal of information from him.
"So, Cobblepot has been planning a meeting for this Red Hood character tonight,” Alfred noted through the communicator. "Call me cautious, but it seems almost too good to be true."
"Exactly," Bruce nodded. The unwilling source was a bit too loose-tongued for someone working for Penguin.
"Just be ready for anything."
"I always am."
In a flash, he glided down to the roof of the abandoned warehouse. The old ceiling had given way in parts leaving small holes to see inside. Bruce crouched down and surveyed the inside. Below there was a group of four armed guards on duty. They were illuminated by generator-based standee floodlights, no way to shut it off. They seemed to be huddled in a group next to a metal shipping crate—where they probably stashed the guns—and taking advantage of their lighted situation.
Bruce quickly took to plotting out his situation. He wouldn't be able to use the cover of darkness to approach; he doubted that he would be able to lure one of them out into the darkness. He'd have to obstruct their vision another way in order to start his assault.
"Cobblepot says he can hit as early as tonight," One of the grunts said.
"He'd be stupid to do that."
"I dunno, man. Guy took down some crazy kidnappers in a matter of minutes. We got to keep our eyes open."
Suddenly, something clattered onto the floor in the middle of the group. There was a moment of surprise as they saw the small device simply fall from the sky. The shock turned into panic as the device exploded into a cloud of smoke. They were enveloped in a cloud of white in an instant.
"What the hell?" One of them spluttered.
"It's smoke!" Another declared.
Through the tear-inducing smog, one of them saw a figure descend from the ceiling, "Look out! It—" he was thrown to the ground as the figure slammed into him from above.
The next one got his head smashed into the side of the metal shipping car. The smoke was dissipating at this point. The second to last caught sight of the figure and aimed his gun. The gun was seized, and the butt was jammed into his face. The final guard aimed and fired, but the vigilante dodged to the side and threw a shuriken at him that caught him in the arm. The second of hesitation was enough for the dark figure to advance and slam the guard in the jaw, knocking him out.
In a manner of seconds, the six guards were knocked unconscious.
"That was a little too easy," Alfred commented.
"Exactly," the vigilante turned to look out into the darkness.
Suddenly, a bright flash of light covered the entire warehouse and the hum of electricity echoed through the warehouse. The vigilante had to shield his eyes for a moment at the sudden blinding light. After adjusting for a second, he lowered his hand and took in his surroundings. Hiding in the darkness, above, there was a line of hanging, supported scaffolding that had been concealed by darkness. On the scaffolding walkway, there were a handful of armed men; their guns were all trained on him. A slow clap echoed through the empty space.
"You are an impressive man," a voice carried through the warehouse with ease. He looked up on to the main scaffolding to see Oswald Cobblepot standing between two armed guards. He was dressed for the occasion with a black suit for hiding in the dark and carrying a rather large umbrella. "The way that you just pulverized my men, it was chillingly entertaining." He grinned as he looked down at the shadow-clad figure. "Don't think about escaping. From what a little anarchist told me, you like to work in the dark. I've taken care of that. So, no disappearing acts this time."
"Alfred," the vigilante muttered.
"On it," the butler returned.
"What do you want?" Bruce spoke up. The room was lit so that every corner was illuminated; he wouldn't escape without being shot at by the men with their automatic rifles. The suit could take a bullet from a handgun and maybe a rifle but not concentrated fire. He knew he wasn't going to be able to disappear, so, he just needed to buy Alfred some time. Oswald wanted something. He knew that if Cobblepot wanted him dead, he would have already fired.
Cobblepot made a playful expression, "I need to know some things. I don't know what I've done to you to make you want to ruin my business, but I intend to find out." He waved the umbrella around theatrically. "Who you're working for, why you chose me, what the hell compelled you to dress like Dracula reincarnated: basic stuff. Then I'll make an example of you for anyone else who thinks about crossing me again." He leaned forward on the railing. "So, how's about it. Who are you working for?"
"The people of Gotham City, the ones you've been building your empire on," He answered instinctually.
Oswald blinked with confusion, "Didn't think the people of Gotham had a big enough pocketbook to support a vigilante. Cut the lines please. I know that you work for someone. Who is it? Thorn? The Irish? The government? I wouldn't even be surprised if Gordon threw you in the mix."
There was a pause, so Oswald continued.
"Oh, come on! Someone has to pay for that getup! You're going to die in a couple of seconds. You might want to earn some extra heavenly reward points before you get there. Tell me the truth."
"I serve the people of Gotham when the night falls. I protect them from people like you."
"Almost there," Alfred's voice said. "Just a few more seconds."
Oswald realized that the vigilante was being brutally, honestly serious. He let out an exacerbated sigh and covered his face with his hand, "Oh great, just what I need: another nut trying to make his mark. You know what?" Oswald waved his hand. "Forget it. I've learned that your kind's reason is usually some sort of moralistic gobbledygook. No real interesting motive. Best to get rid of you now. You can kill—"
"I have to thank you," the vigilante's voice cut across the room like a knife.
Oswald paused, "Thank me for what?" Cobblepot asked falling hook, line, and sinker for the stall.
"Got it," the confirmation came through the COM.
"You just saved me the trouble of tying you to incriminating evidence," the vigilante spoke, then he whispered. "Cut the power."
The power went off suddenly. The entire facility went dark. Cobblepot inhaled a little at the surprising darkness. The only thing still illuminated was the small floodlights. The vigilante was nowhere to be seen in that spotlight. There was cursing from all around the warehouse as the once confident men started to cower.
"Get the power on, NOW!" Cobblepot screamed as he quickly thumbed the secret remote in his hand. Backup would arrive any second. Oswald knew it was only a matter of moments before—
The first scream came from the left. It was on the scaffolding though. How had he gotten up there in such a short time? Oswald started to grit his teeth to hide the panic as another man let out a cry. Someone started to fire wildly, only causing the bullets to ricochet off the metal walls around them.
"Stop it you IDIOT!" Oswald yelled.
He suddenly stopped, but Oswald doubted it was from taking orders. He knew that his men were being systematically taken down, but from the multiple directions of the screams, he couldn't pinpoint where the vigilante was at any time. He finally felt a rush of air and heard a scream to his left. One of his bodyguards went careening off the scaffolding. He whirled around to face the darkness.
A fist collided with Cobblepot's nose. His eyes watered and there was a SNAP. He tumbled back onto the metal deck. Through the tears and pain, he managed to spy a shadow standing over him. He was now engaged with one of his bodyguards, who was putting up a fight. Still, Oswald knew he was no match for the vigilante in the dark. It was only a matter of time before the masked man turned his attention back to him.
Suddenly, Oswald remembered something. The umbrella was still in his hand. Being sprawled back, he would have a hard time aiming it. He managed to tip his foot and prop the tip of the umbrella on his shoe. He could just barely make out the figure. He just needed to aim it right—one shot. The bodyguard was slammed into the railing and clattered to the ground. The vigilante turned to face Cobblepot again.
Bruce stepped forward with a sense of triumph, "You're coming with me Cobbl—"
BANG!
The deafening sound echoed through the warehouse. The vigilante reeled back for a moment; he suddenly felt an intense pain race through his right shoulder. His vision danced for a moment at the sudden shock of the impact. It felt like he had been hit by a train.
Oswald slowly started to sit up as he recovered from the kickback. A sneer crept across his face as he saw the vigilante stumble back and grip his shoulder. He took his chance. With a warrior-like blood-curdling scream, Penguin stepped forward and raised his half-destroyed umbrella to swing it. He got in a few ferocious slams before the sole of the vigilante's boot pushed him back and was sent sprawling into the railing.
In a complete daze, Oswald heard the sound of shouting and footsteps. It was about time the backup showed up! He pulled himself up using the railing.
"UP HERE!" He called immediately. "Don't let him get away!"
It was no use. In a whirl of wind, the vigilante was gone from Oswald's sight. Oswald let out a frustrated yell.
Bruce was still reeling from the shot as he recovered to the roof of the warehouse. Intense pain flashed through his shoulder. When he touched it, there was a distinct red coloration on his fingertips. He didn't know what kind of weapon had been used, but it was enough to pierce the armor. His mind was racing on trained survivor instincts. He barely registered that he had reached the car until he had entered and was speeding down the street. Suddenly, he was grabbed by a woman from behind. She sprang back up and fired into the crowd, exasperation roaring through her as she looked around for Penguin.
“Who are you?” Bruce asked, clutching his injured shoulder.
"Shiva," the assassin snapped back at him, pausing to kick a thug in the chest before she slashed his throat. She swung back around to the vigilante, looking irritable. "I can help you get out of here.”
Moving through the swaying crowd of gold bodies was a man wearing black, a hood covering his face. Two slits in his eyes, clutching a gun.
Red Hood.
Bruce stared back at him, shocked that Hood was there, that he’d tracked him down twice in one night. He couldn't understand it, and what was worse, he couldn't find the inspiration to fight—all Bruce could think to do was run.
Red Hood raised his gun, and Bruce took a faltering step back, clutching his bleeding shoulder out of pain before he threw himself behind a meaty looking goon for cover. Two bullets ripped through his chest, making Bruce gasp when they nearly caught him too in the knew.
Shiva, suddenly materialised at Bruce’s side, looking more irritable than before.
"You made me lose my hit on Penguin- you owe me,” She snapped!
"Fine!" Bruce snapped back at her. "Get me out of here!"
Selina stepped out onto the dark streets of Gotham. Her stealth suit and whip at her side signified that she was not just having a regular outing. She walked down the street to the tallest building on the block and entered the alleyway next to it. A wall kick and a hurdle later and she was climbing up the fire escape to the top. Once at the edge of the building, she felt her head start to clear as she surveyed the city below.
As the cooling summer night air hit her, she found herself muttering, "I said a couple of days to hide. If I fail again this time, I swear I'm going to. . ."
All she had to do, was figure out where. So many places to check for the chip- she certainly couldn't check them all. She needed to be smart, figure out who might have taken him and why. She set her jaw. There was only one place to start looking; to choose anywhere else would be to ignore basic logic. She sneered. Fate would just have to be cruel and bring them together. She certainly wasn't going to enjoy her visit.
Shiva waited as the vigilante stood behind her on the rooftop, holding his wound that was bleeding. They pulled into an ally in Chinatown, and parked in front of a chained up door that was half hidden behind a dumpster. Bruce shoved the dumpster aside and fumbled with the chains while they watched.
“Who was that?” Shiva raised an eyebrow.
”He calls himself the Red Hood,” Bruce decided, opting for the truth.
“The Red Hood?” Shiva raised a bemused eyebrow.
“An assassin,” the vigilante nodded. “Are you working with him?”
Shiva snorted and shook her head. "No."
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t work for anyone,” Shiva explained. “He wants to hunt you down.”
"And what about you? Where do you come from?"
"Nowhere," Shiva said evasively. "Or everywhere, depending on how you want to look at it."
"You're new to Gotham?" Bruce asked.
"Yes," Shiva nodded. "It's as corrupt as I was told it was. Which is perfect for someone like me. But I won't be staying long."
"Why's that?"
"An old colleague of mine," Shiva explained. "I didn't realize she was here and frankly, I want to be as far away from her as possible."
”Who is she?”
"Calls herself Talia al Ghul," Shiva laughed bitterly.
"Al Ghul?" Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. "As in Ra's al Ghul?"
Shiva's expression blanked immediately, making her impossible to read, and definitely hiding something. She looked simultaneously ready to bolt and interested enough to stay.
"What do you know of the League of Shadows?" She asked, and Bruce remained stoic. “I left when they gave up their sacred path and started worshipping Nyssa’s sister.”
"You were only in it for Gotham's destruction?"
"I was misguided to have ever joined Ra's al Ghul," Shiva countered. "But once Nyssa brought this woman to us she started… converting the members of the League of Shadows."
"Cults are tricky like that," Bruce nodded.
"No," Shiva shook her head. "No, this woman was influencing them, controlling them. She had a power that couldn't be explained."
"What kind of power?" Bruce asked quietly.
"I never saw her use it," Shiva shrugged. "But I could see what was happening and left. I had my own business to take care of."
"So Talia al Ghul is in Gotham? That can't be good."
"Hence why I'm getting out of town," Shiva dragged the duffle bag off the bar top and slung it over her shoulder. "She's posing as a wealthy investor if you want to do anything helpful about it— she goes by Miss Ducard." Shiva hung back a moment, looking like she wanted to say more as she caught Bruce’s eye.
“Bruce, Bruce! What happened?" Alfred called through the haze.
Bruce relayed the situation to Alfred quickly. His speech slurred a little as he tore through the city streets.
"You're going to need immediate care to stop the bleeding," Alfred emphasized.
"I can make it back," Bruce insisted. He quickly pulled off his armored glove of his left hand. He took his bare fingers and plugged the wound as best as he could through the armor.
"Lucius hasn't finished designing the auto-drive function to be that accurate. If you pass out on the way back, you're going to crash." As if to prove Alfred right, Bruce's vision went spotty and the car jerked from one lane to the next. "I don't know if I have the medical skills yet to operate on something that might have punctured an artery. You need proper medical attention now."
"Alfred, I can make it back," Neither of them believed it. Bruce was simply highlighting that getting back to the cave was the only option for him right now. Bruce couldn't exactly drive to Gotham General. "There's no other option.”
Alfred paused for a moment as he thought, "You're not going to like it, but there is one other option.“