Anatoli Knyazev, once code named "Beast", was not tried under his own name, because there was no official record that Anatoli Knyazev had ever existed. The KGB had erased him from the face of the earth during the Cold War and had provided him new names on an as needed basis. Moscow hadn't used him for years and certainly wouldn't care enough to set the record straight now, by releasing whatever records they had on him from way back when. The prosecutors decided to simply try him under the alias he had been using at the time of his arrest. Otherwise, his mob lawyer could get the case thrown out on the grounds that there was no proof his client actually was Mr. Knyazev.

Ironically, his phony IDs showing him to be John Grovenor were authentic enough that his lawyer couldn't argue that he wasn't his own alias.

So it was Grovenor, not Anatoli Knyazev, who took the rap for the first degree homicide of the two cops near Crime Alley. There were a slew of lesser offenses as well, including conspiracy to commit murder, possession of an illicit substance, possession of unlicensed firearms, and so on. The lawyers always slapped on as much as they could; if some bleeding heart jury lets him off the hook for the murders, they still had a good chance of getting him behind bars on the lesser crimes.

All told, he was looking at five consecutive life sentences, with no eligibility for parole.

Grovenor didn't care what name he was convicted under. He had no intention of serving even one life sentence, let alone five, and new identities were easy to come by.

He knew what his true crime was, for the dead cops had been nothing more than bait in a trap. His true crime was that when his trap was sprung against the Batman, Grovenor had failed to kill him. Failure is the only crime Grovenor recognized, apart from stupidity. And smart operators don't end up in prison hospital with a broken wrist.

The Bat had to die. That was the thought that wouldn't leave his mind. Even as the judge passed the sentence in the crowded courtroom, that was all he could think about. Grovenor had been hired by an old friend to murder the Batman, and he had failed. He was a professional. He did not leave jobs half done.

And God, how he hated to lose to a man in a fucking bat costume.

Grovenor's first day in prison went about as he expected. Grovenor had been out of the medical wing for no more than three hours when he was jumped by three other prisoners in the lunch line. They were tattooed Salvadorans, hardened veteranos of MS-13's turf wars in Gotham.

There were different types of fights in prison. There were prestige fights, where both parties just want to show everyone watching that they couldn't be fucked with- these usually didn't escalate very far. There were hate fights where someone was going to die. Then, there were pecking order fights, where the fresh fish found out exactly how low they sit on the totem pole.

Grovenor's problem was that he looked old and soft. He was fifty years old and could be mistaken for sixty, and his time recovering in the hospital with one wrist in a cast and the other cuffed to the bed had left him looking frail and weak. By his standards, he was frail and weak, but a few months in the prison's gym would get him back up to speed.

The Salvadorans crowded in conspicuously, pressing themselves into line before and after him, not even bothering to hold food trays as camouflage. The third slunk into position behind Grovenor's back. Even if Grovenor had somehow failed to spot them, the other prisoners suddenly finding urgent business on the opposite side of the room would have been a tip off.

Grovenor opted for premature self-defense and slammed the edge of his orange plastic tray into the face of the man behind him, bouncing it off the bridge of his nose. The tray didn't weigh enough to actually break it, but the placement would at least make his eyes water up.

Before anyone could react, Grovenor slipped his fingers into the eyes of the man in front of him. Blind, screaming, and off balance, the Salvadoran stumbled back trying to create space. Grovenor simply followed along and kicked his legs out from under him. He turned just in time for the third man to spear tackle him to the ground, driving the back of Grovenor's head into the stainless steel counter. This was a tactical mistake. In his past, Grovenor had been trained in the Russian martial art of Sambo, which emphasizes grappling. He hadn't practiced in years, but muscle memory was sufficient to deal with an amateur. Within seconds of his head banging off the metal, Grovenor had broken his opponent's shin bone with a leg lock.

He was still on his back when the Salvadoran he had smacked with the tray got to him and stomped a shoe into his face. Grovenor thrashed around and flailed his arms and legs to make a bad target, trying to work out which direction safety might lie so he could roll there. He got kicked twice more in the face before he found a wall to scrunch up to and propped himself to a knee. He took two more wild haymakers to the face before could shove his attacker off and create space. By this point, Grovenor was dripping great big splashes of sweat with every movement and was sucking hard for every breath. He was half blinded by blood dripping down from his forehead and the buzzing in his ears was deafening.

When the Salvadoran moved in to hit him again, Grovenor grabbed the wrist and dragged him into a sidekick that landed like artillery. Grovenor kicked his feet out from under him and finished the struggle with a well aimed strike to the face. The Salvadoran's head clunked into the black and white tile floor, and he went limp.

Beyond the buzzing drone in his ears, Grovenor realized that the dining facility was almost completely still. The prisoners were staring at him bug-eyed, unable to believe that the fragile old man was still alive. The only sounds came from the hissed curses of the man with the broken shin and the sobs from the blinded man.

Grovenor smiled like a saint on a stained glass window. He shifted his upper body to face every inmate at Blackgate, so every one of them could see him smiling. Then he turned and started kicking the one who had tackled him the ground, aiming directly for the broken shin. The screams echoed through the hall.

There was nothing personal about it. Grovenor didn't hate them, and he derived no kind of sick pleasure from the screams. In fact, if there hadn't been a crowd of potential problems watching them, he likely would've shrugged the attack off and called in the screws to get them over to the medical wing.

But that's life. Some days you get dealt a bad hand, and living with it is just part of the game.

The Blackgate guards were very professional about subduing Grovenor, which he appreciated. They didn't beat him any worse than they needed to when they took him down. They didn't even point their shotguns at anyone, preferring to use batons and riot shields in moderation.

The lights were out. By long habit, Grovenor got nervous.

Not scared. He would never admit that the darkness scared him. But he had a lot of bad memories that put him on edge whenever they oozed to the surface, and many of them took place on moonless nights. His first night in his new cell seemed enough to justify a little nervousness.

His was the top bunk. He laid on top of his blankets despite the chill air, worried that they might tangle him up if he got jumped again. Sleep wouldn't come. His body throbbed, demanding that he stay awake to feel the bruises and cuts.

"Yo, homes," a raspy voice below whispered. "You up?"

Grovenor shifted around on his side. He figured, worst case scenario, if his cellmate tried anything, he could swing a foot into the side of his head to buy some space. "Yeah."

"Listen, man. I saw you whup those guys today. I got two fucking weeks 'fore my parole board. I ain't looking to start shit."

"Ok."

"You just do you, man. You don't fuck with me, I don't fuck with you. I got two weeks. Thirteen days and ten hours. I don't wanna fuck this shit up."

"Ok."

"Aight, man. We cool. We cool."

"We're cool."

Grovenor heard the man below him shift around, scrapping the rough blankets together softly. "Them guys you fucked up were MS-13. I don't remember what that stands for. Maras Salvatruchean, or something. I don't speak Spanish. They some hardcore motherfuckers, man. They got friends."

"Jackals always do."

His cellmate wheezed a rich laugh. "Yeah. Yeah. What's your name again?"

"Grovenor. John Grovenor."

"I'm Walt. Walter Green. Please to meet you."

"Likewise."

"What you in for, Johnny?"

Grovenor shrugged, even though Walt couldn't see him. "Double homicide."

"Damn. You do it?"

"Yeah."

Walt whistled softly. "Damn."

"You?"

"Fucking cops set me up. Planted some coke on me after beating my ass for a day and a half."

"Yeah?" said Grovenor.

"I was only selling pot. I didn't have enough green on me when they busted me, so I couldn't get out of it. Now they got the weed and they took my ride. Man, you just know they sold them both even before the judge threw my ass in here. And now I'm up in here begging for parole like a sorry tax payer. Fuckin' cops, man. And they wonder why they can't drive through the ghetto without getting shot."

"That's Gotham for you."

Walt sighed. "Fuck it. Two weeks."

Grovenor relaxed back onto his blanket as Walt fell silent. He didn't feel that same edge of danger from before. Maybe he would get some sleep tonight.

"Hey, Johnny. I think I remember you. You were on TV last year, homes. You're the Russian dude that the Bat caught, right?"

Grovenor frowned, up top where Walt couldn't see his face. "Yeah."

"Is it true? There actually is a Bat out there?"

"Yes."

"Holy fucking shit. I thought that was just an urban legend."

"He is not an urban legend," Grovenor said. "But he's not some supernatural giant bat that carries off the wicked. Just a nut job in body armor, punching hoods every night. That's all."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"God damn," Walt said. "I don't know about that. Mo' like it's a vampire with a hard on for gangbangers, or something. No way it's just some dude in a batsuit."

Walt stopped talking then, and eventually his breathing told Grovenor he was fast asleep. That's when he allowed himself to slip away as well.

The next day found Grovenor pumping out pushups in the gym during recreation, sweat dripping in rivers onto the blue mats. He was disgusted with himself- only thirty and he was already trembling. His wrist, so newly freed from its cast, ached horribly, but Grovenor could tell the difference between an ache and an injury. He refused to let the pain stop him from continuing.

After his fourth set of thirty pushups, he bounced to his feet and started for the water fountain. That's when he read the room.

There were ten other prisoners in the gym, and not one was looking at him. Not one was closer than ten feet. He saw five Hispanics lounging around the only exit. One of them nodded his head at him in acknowledgement. Their hands were in their pockets clutching something. Grovenor couldn't read the tattoos on their faces from across the rooms but it seemed like a good bet they were more Maras.

Chyort. This was a bad room to fight five men. Heavy weights and metal frames everywhere. No chance of catching them by surprise like last time.

Grovenor sucked water slowly from the fountain, glancing at the clock. They had about a half hour left before rec time was up and they all had to return to their cells. Presumably they would jump him just before then unless he kicked it off first.

He returned to the mats and started stretching. Might as well do something productive while he tried to think of a way out of it. One by one the gym rats left the room, squeezing past the five Maras as softly and politely as they could.

Maybe if he grabbed a five pound weight in each hand. Made his stand in the row between the weight racks. Make them come at him one at a time. Hurt the first guy bad enough and maybe the others would give up. Hope springs eternal in the human heart.

Grovenor suspected he might become reacquainted with Blackgate medical wing in the near future. If he was lucky and the guards arrived before the Salvadorans had him down for too long.

Grovenor's planning was interrupted by an animal snort to his left, near the heaviest weights.

"Goddamn, but you're about to get fucked up good."

Grovenor jerked his head around to find the source of the voice.

He recognized the speaker as one of the group of black guys who had been body building earlier, who had stayed behind when the others left. The man standing with his armed crossed and grinning a snaggle toothed grin. Grovenor had pegged him as one of the dangerous ones, albeit one who was not interested in anything but working out in peace. Grovenor had noted that he was tall and wide when he had first entered the gym, but that was when the man had been on his back pumping iron. Now that he could see him standing, Grovenor saw that he was on a whole different level. He was easily six feet and eight inches of beefy muscle and fat shoved into orange jumpsuit- the sleeves were tied off at the waist and his torso was covered by a white tank top. His hair was curled tight into cornrows that ended in short dangling braids down the back of his neck. After the initial shock of his size had passed, Grovenor saw that his skin was- well, there wasn't really a word for what was wrong with his skin. It was like a craggy oak had developed eczema, at least on his shoulders, neck and arms.

"Uh," said Grovenor.

The weightlifter peeled his lips back to smile wider. Three of his teeth gleamed gold. The rest looked like they might have been inexpertly filed into points. "Those MS-13 pricks are going to fuck you up," he announced.

"They're going to try," said Grovenor.

"They gonna do it," the giant said. "Word is, those guys got shanks made special just for you. They just waiting for the guard to change, 'cause they already bribed the next shift to drag their heels coming to save your ass."

Well, shit, thought Grovenor.

"Yeah. That guy you smacked with the tray, he was Moreno's little brother. Alberto Moreno runs the Maras in here," he explained helpfully. "Moreno don't like you very much."

Grovenor shrugged. "Well, " he said. "I never expected to die peacefully in bed."

The giant laughed, a harsh coughing hack that sounded like a Doberman barking a warning. "I like you," he said, and he extended a large, calloused hand. "I'm Waylon."

Grovenor took it and tried to squeeze, but couldn't wrap his fingers around the palm. Waylon crushed his hand without mercy. "John Grovenor. Didn't I hear about you? Waylon Jones? You ran a crew in the Narrows two, three years back."

Waylon nodded, pleased to be recognized. "Yeah, that was me," he said. "Carjacking and stick ups. Even did a little muscle work for old Carmine Falcone back in the day, on contract. It was good times but there wasn't no money in it."

Grovenor nodded and glanced at the clock again. Twenty minutes till the bell. When was the guard changeover? Ten minutes from now? "I bet."

Waylon leaned in closed and whispered, "I can take care of those pricks for you. Make sure they don't come back, too. But it'll cost you."

"Cost me what, exactly?" Grovenor asked. He drew the words out slowly, cautiously.

"I don't know yet. Call it a favor. When I come to you looking for a hook up, you give it, no questions asked. The guards change in five minutes, and after that it's party time. And after that... there ain't gonna be no after that. So you gotta decide now."

Grovenor nodded, greatly relieved. The price was... lower than expected. "Deal."

Waylon Jones smiled his crocodile smile and turned to the Salvadorans. They went pale as one.

Waylon shook his head no. He pointed at Grovenor and shook his head again.

The Salvadorans got the message. They were gone before Waylon could even turn back to Grovenor.

"And that's that," said Waylon. "Once they tell Moreno, every guy in this cage gonna know you under my wing. That's if these crackers don't get the word out first," he said, indicating the other prisoners around them, who were still refusing to make eye contact.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank your attorney for getting you in here." He grabbed a white towel off the rack.

"How are you going to square this with Moreno?"

Waylon snorted. "I ain't. I tell a motherfucker to back down, he does it. Moreno knows that. Every guy up in here knows you don't fuck with Killah Croc."

"Was that was your street name or something?" Grovenor asked.

"Yeah." Waylon rubbed his grainy neck and flashed his teeth. "Can't imagine why. Must be my happy go lucky attitude."

"Alright. One favor, owed to you."

"Take care, cop killer." With that, Waylon Jones strode out of the gym, chuckling.

Grovenor pumped out another two sets before the bell rang to leave.