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There's someone on the fire escape outside Tarik's window.
At first he's frozen, his stomach clenched into a frightened knot. The thunk outside had been heavy - maybe it's a rogue out for revenge on his emaye after she got half her goon squad caught. Or maybe it's some thief or kidnapper. Anything's possible.
He rolls over, holding his breath, and then he lets it out in relief. One of the best things about his new bedroom is that it faces south, right toward downtown Gotham. The Batsignal is in the sky, so bright that it's almost solid against the clouds, and that can only mean one thing.
Batman is on the hunt. Batman is on the hunt, and you'd have to be really stupid to try anything tonight.
That reassurance is enough to make all his fear melt away into pure curiosity. Tarik slips out of bed and over to the window, opening both the glass and the screen so he can stick his head out. He twists around, trying to see if - there! Up on the platform of the fire escape is the unmistakable silhouette of Batman, a pair of bulky, teched-out binoculars pressed to his mask.
"Holy shit," Tarik breathes. The outline of Batman's ears shift slightly in his direction, and that's all the permission Tarik needs to scramble out the window and start up the stairs.
Batman doesn't actually acknowledge him, but that's alright. This whole thing is cool enough already.
"You're Batman," Tarik says when he makes it to the platform. Batman grunts, and Tarik flops down onto the grating, letting his legs dangle from the fire escape. "Why's the Batsignal up?"
"Shouldn't you be asleep?" Batman sounds all low and gravelly, like some kind of action hero in a movie.
"Was there another breakout from Arkham or the prison? Or is it mob shit?"
"It's none of your concern."
"The Batsignal's up for a reason." Batman grunts again. "Come on. I just want to know if it's a gas mask situation or a-"
"How old are you?"
"Eleven," Tarik says. Batman mutters something under his breath. "I'm not stupid, though. My emaye- My mom used to do hench work before she got caught, so I know all about that."
"And your abat?" Tarik's breath catches in his throat - he had not expected Batman to know even basic shit in Amharic. Batman's, like, a white guy, and he definitely sounds like he grew up in Gotham.
"He ditched," Tarik says with a shrug. Batman let out a grim sort of hum.
"You with family?" he said. "Foster parents?"
"Foster," Tarik says. "Luz and Rick are alright, though. They're not assholes like at the last place, at least."
Tarik almost jumps out of his skin when a gloved hand settles on his shoulder, heavy and firm and... weirdly reassuring. Batman squeezes, just slightly, and Tarik suddenly knows, he knows that if he'd been back with his old foster parents Batman would have picked him right off that fire escape and gotten him away.
It's like the superhero stories that get passed around - not the big ones, not the battles with Joker and Scarecrow and all those assholes, but the ones that get talked about in yelling debates on the news and hopeful whispers on the streets.
"I wound up with a... family friend, an uncle of sorts," Batman says, "after my parents-" He pauses. "It isn't the same, of course, but I understand. I understand how... painful and complicated it can be." And it makes sense, it makes so much sense that Batman would get it, that Gotham fucked him up the way it had fucked up Tarik.
"Was he one of the good ones?" Tarik says. Batman lets out a slight huff.
"He tried," he says. "I wasn't a particularly... easy child to help, and he had never expected to be a parent. We both tried, I suppose." There's a slight shift in Batman's posture, almost a shrug. "Turned out alright."
"Yeah," Tarik says quietly. The hand disappears from his shoulder, and Tarik looks up just in time to see Batman tuck away the binoculars and reach for his grapple. "Did you find the bad guy?"
"I found a lead," Batman says. And then he's just gone, flying away on a wire in a whirl of fabric and darkness.
"So badass," Tarik says. He'd lost sight of him almost immediately, but that's alright. The signal's still in the sky, and Batman is on the case.
Joe had just wanted a smoke.
It's been a long week, drinking hasn't made the sight of that poor kid he'd found in that dumpster leave his head, and he'd just wanted a goddamn smoke. Never mind that Liz thought he'd quit. He deserved it after all that.
What he hadn't expected when he'd stepped behind the bar and lit up was the goddamn Batman to come out of goddamn nowhere.
"Jesus Christ!" Joe yelps, jumping so hard that his cigarette falls into the piss-soaked alley.
"Joseph Hill," Batman says. Joe tries to back away, but his back hits the side of the building rather than the bar door. "I heard that you found something interesting on your route Thursday morning."
"I didn't have nothing to do with that, I swear," Joe says. Those freaky reflective eyes narrow, and Joe is so dead. 43 years of avoiding every gang and henching opportunity, and he's gonna get killed because he called in a dead body. "I'm just a garbage guy. I'd never even seen that kid before."
"You're not in trouble, Hill," Batman says.
"Then why're you-" Batman comes towards him fast, way too fast, and Joe practically screams. The Bat pauses, drawing back slightly. "I swear to God, man, I had nothing to do with her. I've never even been a getaway driver, never mind a - a murderer."
"Hmm," Batman says. Joe tries to slide towards the door, but Batman fixes him with another fucking glare and he freezes in place. "The Gotham police haven't drawn a connection yet."
"I swear- Please-"
"Didn't I say you weren't in trouble?" Batman sounds annoyed, which can only be a bad thing. "I have access to your statement, Hill. I know that you had nothing to do with this. I know that you have a teenage daughter that you compared to the victim multiple times in that statement."
"You think I'd hurt Stella?" Joe blurts out. The Bat blinks at him, and for the first time Joe realizes that, shit, this might not be a beatdown after all. Batman doesn't look pissed off anymore. He just looks confused.
"Of course not," Batman says. "But you are the sort of man who notices the right details when confronted with a dead body. You are also the sort of man who talks to his colleagues."
"What do you mean?"
"As I said, the Gotham police haven't connected the victim you found to other open homicide cases," Batman says, "but I know that there have been at least twelve other bodies with a similar MO found in dumpsters across Gotham in the last month. There's a serial killer loose in Gotham, Hill, a process killer with a taste for torture. And you-" Joe gulps, his mouth going completely dry. "-are just the sort of man who learns about what the garbage trucks of Gotham pick up." The Bat's eyes narrow. "Now, talk."
Joe takes several deep breaths, trying to calm himself down and think. Alright, so the Bat didn't think he'd done it. That's good - everyone knows that if you fucked with Gotham, the Bat would come down on you worse than any mobster. The Bat wants his help figuring out some serial killer. That's - That's also good, probably. Provided he actually knows what the Bat wants.
"Three months, actually," Joe says.
"Three?"
"I mean, maybe it's been going on longer, I don't know, but the first b-body that showed up looking like that was three months ago. Trey found it down in Otisburg, but the rest have been all over the Narrows. Becky says her cousin swears there's been some dumped in the harbor, but I don't think it's the same guy. I mean, the harbor's for mob shit, not dead prostitutes. Unless this is Black Mask's new icing method, but-"
"Not his style," Batman says. "How many?"
"How- Like 20-something in the dumpsters. That's what we think anyways. Some of them might not be the same guy - there was this one week where there were, like, five in three nights, and that seems a bit much, but-"
"Understood." The Bat turns away from him, and Joe can finally breath normally again. Jesus, how the hell does Gotham have so much crime when that guy is skulking around? "I appreciate your cooperation, Hill."
"No problem, man," Joe says. "Hey, have you ever considered not dropping down in alleys and scaring the shit out of people?" One of those creepy fucking lenses shifts slightly, and Joe has the distinct impression that Batman is mentally laughing at him under the mask.
"No," Batman says before disappearing into the sky.
It's 3 a.m. and Tracy is so done.
The post-work guys left ages ago, the gangs and teenage hooligans have cleared out, and now she's left with the usual late late night clientele. Homeless assholes and hookers. She's not getting a fucking cent in tips for the rest of the night.
The bell on the door jangles and Tracy sighs. One glance tells her all she needs to know - more fucking hookers, five of them all in a group, talking bright and loud like they aren't coming in to trash the place an hour before closing. They cram themselves into a booth without waiting to be seated, and Tracy wishes she could just ignore them.
She can't, of course. It's not like she has the excuse of a rush.
"What do you want?" she grumbles as she walks up to the booth, not bothering to put on her customer service smile. She jots down the orders - pancakes, French toast, two orders of eggs and sausage, one of eggs and bacon.
"Oh, and bring out the coffee pot," one of the hookers says. "And six mugs."
"Six? Don't you dare be setting up an orgy or some shit at the Iceberg Lounge or whatever," Tracy says. The hooker laughs loudly.
"What do you take me for?" she says. The bell on the door goes off again. "I'm a goddamn professional, not some-"
"Fucking whore?" Tracy says. She turns to see who just came though the door, and then she lets out a squeak. Holy shit.
It's. It's the Batman. It's the Batman in her goddamn diner. And he's coming right toward her. Shit.
Then Batman - fucking Batman - walks right past her and slides into the booth like he belongs there. What the actual fuck? Tracy lets out another squeak, and Batman gives her a look that's distinctly unimpressed.
"Is there a problem?" he growls. Tracy abruptly realizes that fucking Batman probably heard the tail end of her conversation with the hookers. She also realizes that if Batman is here and the hookers aren't freaking out like she is, something is definitely up. She squeaks a third and final time.
"I'll just... get you that coffee. Right away. Yeah." She practically runs to the back, bee-lining for the coffee machine and trying hard not to hyperventilate.
"What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck," she mutters. Then, realizing that she still has a job to do, Tracy slaps the order up on the board above the line.
"What's got your panties in a twist, Trace?" Frank grunts. Most of Tracy's co-workers don't like Frank - he's quiet and weird and definitely on something a solid 80% of the time - but Tracy gets on with him just fine. If it was anyone else in the kitchen she definitely wouldn't let herself freak out like this.
"Batman just walked in," she says.
"Fucking who?" Frank says.
"Batman." Tracy knows she sounds slightly hysterical. She thinks she has a good enough excuse. "He just walked in and sat down with that table. Oh my God, do you think Batman's planning an orgy?"
"I don't think Batman's planning an orgy."
"He's a freak dressed in a gimp suit with animal ears. Of course he's planning an orgy."
"He's probably looking for information or something," Frank says.
"He's hanging out with the fucking whores. They asked for an extra coffee cup for him. He is not looking for information." Frank just shrugs. "You're no help." Tracy grabs the coffee and the mugs and goes back out to the front.
"-can't be sure whether he's going after new faces on purpose, to conceal the disappearances, or if he has a specific age range that happens to be inconvenient for tracking him down," Batman was saying. There's yellow file folders and sheets of paper and photos spread over the table. Tracy sets the coffee pot and mugs right in the middle of them, which earns her a glare from Batman.
"Sorry," she says quickly. "I'll just- The food'll be out in a minute."
"Thanks, doll," one of the hookers says before turning back to Batman. "I recognize a couple of them you've got here. That one's Paris; her pimp was Big Mike but he didn't do nothing to keep non-affiliated girls outta his territory. Didn't do much else but knock her around, too. I thought she got outta Gotham - she had family in Central City, I think, and she was always talkin' about buying a bus ticket and getting the fuck outta dodge."
"Hmm," Batman says. Tracy abruptly realizes that she's just standing there awkwardly, eavesdropping on what apparently was an information pump, so she goes back to the kitchen as quickly as she can.
"He actually is getting information," she hisses at Frank. Frank just gives the grill a self-satisfied nod.
"Told you," he says. "Table 4's food is ready."
"Shit," Tracy says. She does not want to go back out to The Batman Table again, but she doesn't really have a choice at this point. "Do you think he's cracking down on the hookers?"
"Does he sound like he's cracking down on the hookers?" Frank says. Tracy shakes her head. "Yeah, that sounds like the Bat. I saw the guy, like, three weeks ago."
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah," Frank says. He's infuriatingly calm. It must be the downers, Tracy thinks sourly. "I was selling- Well, y'know, I was selling. Thought I was gonna get a beat-down. But the Bat doesn't give a shit about the small stuff."
"He put that kid in the hospital. You know the one, Andrea's nephew or whatever-"
"That's different," Frank says firmly. "Kid was going around mugging people, walking around with a gun bigger than his dick. The Bat doesn't like shit like that." He shrugs. "Kid got his wrist broken 'cause he tried to shoot the guy. Can't blame no one for that. But hookers and dumbass dealers, that's below him."
"Whatever you say, man," Tracy says. She isn't buying it, of course she isn't buying it. Table 4 still needs their food, though.
"-hung around Dez, right?" another one of the hookers is saying as Tracy enters the front again.
"Oh, sure," says the first hooker. "Yeah, she was new, trying to work her way onto 3rd Street. She was crashing with Ruby, I think."
"Hmm," Batman says. "Would Ruby be willing to talk?"
"About this? Maybe. She's got a kid, though, so you'd better not do your whole creepy window thing, B-man."
Tracy's about to hand out the food when it happens.
One of the hookers reaches out to grab a photo. Batman twitches, he looks like he wants to snatch the picture back, but it's too late. The sheet of paper covering everything but the face falls away, revealing-
Well, Tracy wouldn't feel like eating pancakes after seeing shit like that. The - The body had been cut all over, long, almost surgical incisions, and both the boobs had been chopped right off. The hooker drops the photo with a gasp, and Batman quickly covers it with one of the folders.
"Apologies. I- You shouldn't have had to see that," Batman says.
"Holy shit," Tracy breathes. The Bat's mask twitches in her direction.
"Oh, hey! Food!" The hooker is still too loud, but Tracy can't bring herself to care as much.
"I'll just- I'll just leave this here," Tracy says, putting the entire goddamn serving tray over the folders and police reports and photos, so many photos, how the fuck hadn't she noticed how many photos there were?
"You do that," Batman growls, and Tracy retreats.
Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck. Frank had been right. Batman isn't cracking down on the hookers, and this is anything but small-time.
Tank likes to think of himself as ice fucking cold.
You've gotta be to run a gang like his in Otisburg. It's not the Narrows, it's definitely not Crime Alley, but it's one of the toughest neighborhoods in Gotham, and that's tough enough for anyone. He's been through gang wars and police interrogations, the kind from before they started cracking down on bribery and random violence, and never lost his cool.
So when Tank sees the shadow of the Bat at the foot of his bed, he doesn't freak out. He grabs the handgun from his bedside table and starts shooting.
Batman moves fast, faster than anyone Tank's seen, and suddenly his right hand is burning. He drops the gun with a strangled scream, clutching his hand to his stomach, and he can already feel the blood soaking his tank top.
"What the fuck, man?" he gasps out. The Bat looms, eyes glinting in the faint light from the window, and Tank has the distinct impression that he's completely fucked. "What the fuck? You don't got nothing on me, man, I know you don't. You can't just be-"
"Andrew Romero," the Bat growls. Tank blinks up at the Bat. It takes him a solid 10 seconds to realize who the fuck the guy is talking about.
"Bug? You're looking for Bug?" The Bat glides closer, and Tank tries to scramble away but there's the wall behind him. His pillow bunches up uncomfortably at the small of his back. "The hell do you need Bug for?"
"A car registered to Romero has been connected to multiple crime scenes," the Bat says.
"I don't know nothing about that," Tank says. "Sure, I run with him, but I run with a lotta guys. If he's doing shit on the side-"
"Not those crimes," the Bat says. "Your activities are so limited that they are of little interest to me." Tank doesn't know whether to be offended or relieved by that. "Romero's address is not available through more official sources, but I am aware that you know where he can be found."
"I ain't talking to a freak like you." The Bat reaches into his cape and brings out- it looks like a blade. Tank can't see it clearly, but the streetlight outside hits it at the right angle to see that it's sharp.
"23 murders," the Bat says. "All of them were tortured pre-mortem. All of them died in horrific pain. Care to feel a fraction of what they felt?"
Batman won't kill him. Tank knows that; he's heard the stories like fucking everyone has. But the Bat isn't opposed to beating the shit out of people, and that blade-
"I ain't seen Bug in weeks," Tank says.
"But you know a location," Batman says. He flips the blade in his hand casually. This fucking guy- He's comfortable with that knife. He's used it before, and if he's used it before Tank knows he'll use it again. "You're a thug, Micah, but you're not a monster. You don't have the stomach for cold-blooded murder."
"You don't know me, Bat. I'll fucking take you out-"
"I don't think so," Batman says. He darts forward, and pain slices down Tank's upper arm. Tank flinches. It's not the pain. He's had worse; hell, it's nothing compared to whatever's happened to his hand. But the knife had been quick, precise, almost fucking surgical. It was just the start and he knows it. The Bat will keep going, keep doing whatever the fuck Bug had been doing, and there wasn't a damn thing Tank could do to stop him.
Fucking torture. 23 murders. Tank's cold, but he ain't that kind of cold.
"He's got a place on 8th Street," Tank blurts out.
"Where?"
"Some apartment, man, I don't fucking know. Uh, he's on the third floor, it's like... 1015 or 1017 or some shit. One of those ugly dumps Wayne wants demolished."
"Hmm," Batman says. It's a weird sound, but at least the knife's disappeared back under the Bat's cape.
"I swear to God I don't know anything else," Tank says. "Dude's a getaway driver mostly. I've only been there, like, twice."
"Hmm," Batman says again, then he turns toward the window. "Your cooperation is wise."
"Don't fucking threaten me, you-" Tank blinks and the Bat is gone, disappeared like he wasn't there in the first place. Tank's pretty sure demon's aren't real, but he could believe that the rumors about the Bat are true.
Tank pokes at his arm gingerly. He tries the wrap his bleeding hand more securely. If that's the fucking Bat, Tank's just glad he's going after Bug and not him.
If it was any other night, Janet would be having fun right now.
Unfortunately, that isn't an option. Unfortunately, her manager mysteriously managed to forget that she doesn't open - not just because the coffee shop opens stupid early, not just because her first class starts literally half an hour after opening shift usually ends, but because Janet is young and hot and should be sleeping off vodka lemonades or seeing off a one night stand. Not waking up at five in the morning so she can catch the first bus for her stupid job.
She should've become a stripper. Sure, her mom would freak out, but at least it would pay better than the stupid fucking coffee shop.
Janet's pulling on her shoes and double-checking her purse when she hears it. Her apartment building's shit enough that fights aren't uncommon, so she doesn't think much of it at first - she's annoyed, because there's always a chance that some asshole will take a swing at the chick who's just trying to go to work, but it's no big deal.
Then she opens the door to the hallway, turns off the light inside, and freezes in place as some asshole is absolutely chucked down the hallway.
"Shit!" she yelps. She turns the direction the flying asshole came from - though what she's gonna do about that she has no idea - and sees fucking Batman running full-tilt toward her. "Shit!"
It's over before she can do more than back up against her front door. Batman's raced past her, slammed the random guy's face into floor, and started tying him up in the space of, like, a couple seconds. It's only when the guy's secured and being hauled down the hallway that Batman seems to notice her at all.
"Hmm," Batman says. Janet belatedly reaches for the pepper spray in her purse, but then she stops. What's the point when this when the whole... whatever seems to be over already?
"I- Um-" she stutters. "Uh, I guess that's a bad guy?"
"Yes," Batman says. "Very."
"Cool," Janet says. "I'll just, um, let you do your thing, I guess." Batman gives her a nod and continues down the hallway, disappearing around the corner that leads to the stairs.
Jesus Christ. Janet should so become a stripper. If her neighbors are getting thrown around by the actual Batman, the coffee shop must be paying worse than she thought.