Hello, folks, ShadowMajin and Anonymous Void are back with our latest installment of the reader-named ShadowVoid Universe. This one was a little slow to develop, but we're happy with where it's going to go, so strap in and get ready. We hope you enjoy.
Early morning had arrived, the sun peeking over the horizon. As rays of light began to shine upon the Gotham City Port, the port itself beginning to teem with activity, it was viewed from a pair of binoculars.
Aboard the approaching cargo ship, the large ship packed with countless metal containers of trade goods, word was sent up to the command room of an estimated arrival time. Crew member scurried about the deck, taking their positions as per their instructions.
Keeping his eyes on the city beyond, the captain of the ship issued orders to remain on course and to begin initiating docking procedures. His accent was very pronounced, but did not obscure any of his words. As soon as he was done, he turned to a larger man beside him who was focused on the city as well.
Unlike the captain, this man was studying the city, eyeing it like a predator with its prey. Analyzing it, seeking weaknesses and flaws to exploit. Heavily muscled arms were crossed over a defined chest, striking an imposing pose that warned anyone away from intruding on his space.
The most unnerving aspect was the mask this man wore. The majority was black, with the exception of the face in which a white "face" covered the man's actual face. Red, angled splotches substituted for eyes, forever blank and hiding the thoughts behind them. What lurked beneath that designed cloth was a mystery to all but those within the inner circle. The captain was no such individual, and preferred to remain in the dark for the time being.
The pattering of footsteps was followed by the arrival of a blond-haired man in a suit and tie. His pale skin made him stick out among the ship's crew and when he spoke with an American accent, it all but confirmed his outsider status.
"I haven't seen this sight in nearly ten years. Forgot how big it really is," the blond-haired man commented as he came up to the masked man's side. That he was permitted so close revealed that despite his obvious difference from the other men, he was a member of the inner circle.
"How long will it take for you to reestablish your old connections?" the masked man asked point blank without even looking at the small, thinner blond. A noticeable accent of the Latin American variety colored his deep voice.
"A few calls and I'll be up to date," the blond man answered without hesitation. "Trogg is getting the drones ready. They can be deployed once we dock, or whenever you're ready."
"And Zombie?"
"Double checking the supplies and the special equipment," the blond-haired man stated, light blue eyes flickering down to one of the masked man's arms, specifically the left arm.
To anyone first seeing it, it was an odd, rectangular contraption that was strapped to the masked man's muscled arm, a glove extension that reached halfway up the lower arm serving to separated it from the skin. A tube was connected to one end of the device and it stretched out and behind the masked man's back where it disappeared from sight. Should one look, they would see that the tube continued up to the man's head where it divided into four separate tubes and connected with the mask the large, muscled man wore.
No one needed to ask what it did; all of them knew to an extent what its purpose was.
"Tell Trogg to keep the drones at the ready, but do not launch yet. I want intel on this city before we engage," the masked man ordered. "I want a base of operations established first, on land. This ship is too confining, too obvious. Use your connections to find me a place that is discrete. I do not care if it is occupied, or not."
It need not be said that it did not matter if it was taken. They would force the tenants out and claim it for their own. Force was something none of the men here were strangers to. It was practically a language to them.
"I'll let him know. Anything else?" the blond-haired man questioned.
The masked man was silent for a moment. "I will handle anything else myself. All preparations are to be done within the next half hour," he said at last.
Without looking at the retreating blond, or to the lower grunts manning the ship, the masked man gazed at the city that would be his greatest prize. He had heard stories of it before, but had not thought he would ever set foot in it.
It was a place where crime was rampant, and lords ruled the streets, sometimes with fists stronger than steel. I was where the weak were crushed under a heel without a second thought. Yet, there was a guardian, one who struck fear into the mighty and revealed them for the spineless wretches they truly were. It elevated the meek, and encouraged them to take the place of the powerful—an idol of terror who conversely inspired hope.
He had heard of the one known as the Batman, even in the deepest pits of Hell.
About two years ago, he had received a contract from a lord of this city, one Rupert Thorne begging his services to eliminate the Batman once and for all. As payment, a briefcase of diamonds had been offered.
He had scoffed at it. Unlike most, he understood the value of a diamond, which was nothing. Though expensive to purchase, they were cheap to sell. That case would not fulfill his demand of full payment. Initially, he had dismissed the contract, and had felt that that decision had been the correct one once word of his would-be employer reached him.
The disappearance and later death of Thorne ended any possibility of full payment for the job ever being received.
But none of that was why he had eventually decided to come to Gotham, this city of filth and decay. With the paltry offer rotting in front of him, he had journeyed to this city anyway to scope it out, to see if he could observe the target in action. He had and impressed was one way to describe his reaction to his observations.
It hadn't been easy to do, but he had witnessed the Batman in action. Whether a man or a demon, this was a person who knew battle, who knew how to bring down the strongest of foes, who was constantly aware of his surroundings, appropriately paranoid for any unseen threat.
A few times, he had almost been seen, spotted during his surveillance. Eventually, he chose to leave Gotham instead of further pursuing the Batman's operations, but it was not with resolution in mind.
No, he was more intrigued than he had been when he set foot in this country. More investigation had been needed. The information he had found tended to contradict his observation though. The reign of Harvey Two-Face Dent revealed there were shortcomings with the vigilante, ones that undermined the example of preparedness and competency that had been witnessed.
Truth was somewhere in the middle. Only one thing was clear, though.
A full-frontal assault was not an option.
No, the Batman was one where finesse was required. A plan of attack that was meticulously laid out and implemented to the letter; one that was flexible as well as strict so as to take into account unforeseen elements.
Taking on lesser targets while working on this one helped supplement the income he needed to not only maintain current operations, but prepare for this one. Nearly a year of planning and plotting and recruiting had brought him to this point in time at long last.
He would need men, more than the competent abilities of his inner circle were capable of providing. They need not be warriors of unparalleled skill, just competent enough to follow orders—soldiers, in essence. Cannon fodder was another appropriate description. On the island of Santa Prisca, there were many men from which to pick, and the temptation of wealth was all the incentive required.
The diamonds, though worthless to him, were incentive enough for an army. They saw wealth with possessing the dazzling rocks and he would allow them to keep their illusion. They would be easier to control that way.
When everything fell into place, he would not need diamonds anymore to retain their services.
As the city drew closer by the minute, the masked man felt a thrill well up deep within him, even if he didn't move a muscle to show it. It had been a long time since he had a challenge worthy of himself and a new conquest of which the outcome was uncertain. He had conquered the prison that had been his home, the place where Hell itself was reality, and now like any conqueror of the past, this city would be next.
All that needed to be done first was to destroy its defenses. The rest would fall soon after.
Destroy the Batman and become his Bane.
Something was wrong.
A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of Cassandra's mouth. It ran down her chin, tickling her, though she did nothing to wipe it away. It wasn't the first time nor would it be the last such time the phenomenon would occur.
What was startling about it was that it came on the first hit.
Bruce stared at the girl, dressed in her white gi; it was the same as his, though hers was designed for a girl. They had sparred against each other many a time since she had arrived at his house. He would get his punches in, she would get hers, but it was usually an even fight.
That had changed lately and not for the better. Bruce kept his features blank as he watched Cassandra shift her weight on her feet, her back leg bending down to brace her. Her fists tightened just before she launched herself towards him, flying through the air as she swung her leg to deliver a kick to his head.
The dark-haired man blocked the blow easily, but he knew it was a feint. It was a go-to move for the girl when she came up against a challenging opponent. Using the momentum of her kick, she spun her body in midair, revolving around him until her back was to his.
Immediately, Bruce ducked, avoiding the swinging elbow that was aimed for the back of his head. This left Cassandra's body twisted awkwardly as her elbow sailed over his head.
And Bruce made her pay for it. With a quick jab, he delivered a backhand blow to her kidney, the force of the blow knocking the girl out of the air, where she landed on the mat hard. Her face was wincing as a hand pressed hard to her side. Undeterred, Bruce lunged towards her, swinging his foot up just as his opponent raised her head up from the mat.
The toe of his foot colliding beneath her chin caused her head to snap backwards, the back of her skull smacking back down on the mat.
Purposefully, Bruce brought his feet down next to the girl, one foot to her side, the other next to her head. Normally, he would've never put himself in this position; he wanted to see what Cassandra would do though.
Disappointingly, she did nothing. Face twisted in pain, she laid there, the older man staring down at her. He resisted the urge to sigh before he stepped away from her, placing himself a step away. "That's enough for tonight," he intoned.
Immediately, Cassandra's eyes flew open. "No!" she shouted as she forced herself up, her hands holding her upper body as her legs flailed about to get underneath her. Immediately, Bruce held a hand up, gesturing for her to stop, which she did. "I...can keep going," she insisted as she slowly got her feet beneath her, rising to stand up.
Her words were bittersweet. Ever since J'onn, the Martian Manhunter, had used his telepathy to enter her mind and reorganize her language center, Cassandra had made great strides in her ability to speak, read, and write. The dark-haired girl has been quite giddy as she plunged into her grammar books, a level of understanding coming to her she had never experienced before.
Unfortunately, she had paid an unexpected price. In learning how to speak, her incredible ability to read body language had been diminished greatly, if not eradicated completely. This explained why Bruce had been able to take the girl down so easily.
It was also why Batgirl had not been out in the streets of Gotham lately.
It was a side-effect he had not expected nor was he warned about. With her new handicap, there was no way Bruce was going to allow Cassandra out on the streets. While her fighting skills were probably more than enough for the street-level thugs, there was no way he would allow harm to come to her when he still felt hesitant. It was one thing when she was able to go head-to-head with him; now, she was practically at the level of a beginner.
He would be damned if he let her get hurt because of him discarding his concerns.
Of course, Cassandra hadn't taken her grounding all too well.
"We're done for the night," Bruce said, much to the girl's chagrin.
Defiantly, Cassandra shook her head. "No!" Without preamble, she launched herself at him, a fist drawn back, ready to be used against him.
Instantly, Bruce shot towards her, shooting a hand towards her flying fist. He caught the punch with his palm, his fingers wrapping over her knuckles. With his other hand, he swung it up and pressed it against the bottom of her upper arm. Turning his body as he began to crouch down, his shoulder pressed into her abdomen due to her momentum, stopping her. Pushing up against her arm while pulling her fist down, he leveraged the girl's arm against her and flipped her up over his head and then down to the mat on the other side of him. She landed with a loud smack, the girl gasping as the air was forced out of her lungs.
Keeping himself kneeling, Bruce moved one of his hands from her arm and curled his fingers back, his palm becoming prominent. He then forced it down, only stopping a hair's width above her face.
"This is over."
From where he loomed over her, Bruce saw the dismay on Cassandra's face before she reluctantly surrendered, slapping a hand down on the mat next to her the signal for surrender. Releasing his hold, Bruce stood up and backed away, moving his hands until one made a fist, which then pressed into the palm of his other hand. He watched as Cassandra slowly got back onto her own feet, mirroring his gesture. As one, they then bowed to each other.
Then Cassandra's legs buckled and she pressed both of her hands onto her knees, holding herself up. "What...is wrong...with me…?" she panted.
"It's not as easy as it used to be, is it?" Bruce questioned her as he straightened out his posture.
Reluctantly, she nodded her agreement. "I do not understand. It was never this hard. I have the same moves. They do not work anymore."
"Then learn new ones. Might I suggest some defense?"
A scowl appeared on Cassandra's face, one she directed at him as she tilted her head up. That was a source of strain between them. Earlier on in their spars, he had suggested that she learn some defensive maneuvers, but she had yet to do so. Her natural fighting style allowed her to not need any; after all, who needed defense when you could counter an opponent before they could attack? Without that ability, Cassandra's fighting skills had taken a sharp decline. She was slower with her attacks, hit with less force, and was wide open for attack and counterattack.
Her strength was starting to come back at the very least. Her speed was still a work in progress and it was pretty obvious about her technique.
"I will be fine if you let me out," she growled at him. "I am good enough."
"Good, most likely," Bruce admitted, "but you know better. Good enough doesn't cut it. Good enough isn't enough for the likes of Man-Bats, or insane maniacs. I will not let you loose until I'm positive you're ready. So long as I have breath in me, I will not let you get hurt because of pride."
"Then when?!" she shouted, her frustration evident. "When will I be ready?"
"When I say you are."
The girl glared at him before she spun around and stormed off. This wasn't the first time they had fought about this and Bruce doubted it would be the last. He was rather glad he had locked up her uniform and equipment, challenging her to break his locks. As expected, she had yet to crack the electrical locks and codes.
However, there was something deeper going on. In spite of his preparations with her, he could see Cassandra losing her motivation. Much like she had when he was trying to teach her basic words, her frustration was mounting to the point where she would throw her books across the room—though, in this case, it would be her gi belt. The dark-haired man wouldn't have an issue with Cassandra giving up the life of a vigilante, but he knew that eventually its siren song would call her back. Whether she wanted to be or not, she would be prepared.
That said, it wouldn't hurt to give her some encouragement.
Leaving the mat, Bruce made his way to the supercomputer, taking a seat in his chair. On the console was a large, yellow folder, placed there before their sparring match. He stared at it, questioning if now was the right time for this.
A beeping sound redirected his attention to the computer monitor. Glancing up, he saw a window on the screen, announcing an incoming call from the Watchtower.
The very message caused him to scowl. A week hadn't gone by where the Justice League didn't attempt to contact him. Scratched that, it was every few days now. It seemed the longer he was resigned from the League, the more frequent the calls came. Flash, Green Lantern, and Hawkgirl weren't the source of the calls, of that he was sure. Neither was the Martian Manhunter. Superman, on the other hand, had attempted to contact him earlier on, but it had been through channels other than the Watchtower.
That left only one person.
Immediately, he jammed the frequency with a press of a button, effectively ending the transmission before it was accepted. Whatever doubts he had about the contents of the folder were effectively squashed. Snatching up the folder, he then rotated in his chair, his eyes falling onto Cassandra, who was standing by the glass case that housed her Batgirl armor. Though he couldn't see her face, he had no doubt she was staring longingly at her alter ego.
"Cassandra," he called out softly, earning him her attention. "Come here."
"Why?" she asked petulantly.
He narrowed his eyes. "Come here, or go up to the house."
Instead of heeding him, Cassandra turned her head to regard her armor again, blatantly ignoring him. Bruce fought back the urge to growl. Once upon a time, the girl listened to him without question. It seemed she was developing into an angsty teenager with the addition of her voice. Deciding to defer to her this time, he stood up, folder in hand, and marched over to his charge, who didn't so much as look at him.
Standing behind her, he stared at the back of the girl's head as she continued to ignore him. "Cassandra," he rumbled gently before holding the folder out to her, where it hovered over her shoulder.
Tilting her head to a side, she eyed the folder before turning to fully face him. "What this?"
"Have a look." Uncertain, Cassandra took the envelope. "I was saving this for a couple more months, but I think you need this now."
Now she was confused, but nonetheless, she opened the envelope and pulled out its contents. A few sheets of paper came out, black lettering typed all over them. At the top of the top sheet were the words CONSENT TO ADOPTION.
Staring at the words, Cassandra looked to him and back, unsure what to make of these sheets. Faintly, Bruce wondered if the girl even knew what those sheets of paper meant. Then, with noticeable emotion in her words, she asked, "What these for?"
"I've been doing a lot of thinking lately," Bruce admitted to her. "And after these few years, we've become family. Not in the traditional sense, I suppose, but that doesn't matter. What does is between us. If you wish, I would like to take you in as my lawful and legal daughter."
That got her attention as her eyes widened. "Are...are you...sure?"
Bruce nodded. "I am."
"Then...I...I be?"
"If you wish, you can take on my namesake." At this, he reached to the papers and thumbed out a couple sheets at the back, which were name change request forms. "The choice is entirely yours if you would like to be Cassandra Cain, or Cassandra Wayne."
Cassandra stared at the papers numbly before looking back up to him. Then, she pushed herself towards him, wrapping her arms around his torso as she buried her face into his chest. Awkwardly, Bruce held his arms over her before slowly returning her embrace. He could feel her trembling against him, a cool, wet sensation building against his skin.
"I take it that's a yes?"
The booth was becoming too familiar.
Vicki Vale was starting to think it was time to change locales. For the last few meetings she had with her private investigator, they had met at the same diner, in the same booth. The familiarity was becoming comforting and that wasn't a good thing, especially considering the prey they were going after.
Before the reporter was table space, which was in stark contrast to the plate of meatloaf and gravy in front of Simon Belford, P.I. The man shoved forkful of meat into his mouth, oblivious to the gravy dribbling down his chin. It wasn't all that of an attractive sight.
"So, are you going to tell me why you wanted to meet here?" the redhead asked, put off by the entire thing. The main reason for this was that she was paying this man for his time and lately he hadn't been providing worthwhile info. It had been awhile since he had snapped a picture of a mysterious girl at Wayne Manor and scored the inaccurate inventory listings at various Wayne Enterprises storage buildings. He was a dry well that was milking her as best he could.
"Patience," the man replied, inadvertently spitting out small pieces of meatloaf, much to Vicki's disgust. "I got a hot tip for you."
Vicki raised a freshly trimmed eyebrow. "And what tip is that?"
Simon smirked. "Oh, just the mechanic that worked on the Batmobile."
The reporter perked up at that. Seriously, there was a mechanic for the Batmobile? An eyewitness to the car? They would've had access to everything! The parts, where they came from, even the damn keys. The possibilities were limitless!
"Who is it?" she asked greedily.
The detective continued to smirk at her. "I'm more than willing to make the introduction. He doesn't want his name getting out, ya know, since he'd basically put a bull's eye on his back from all the gangs. You don't exactly advertise you work on the Batmobile."
Vicki rolled her eyes. "So he'd prefer to be anonymous, no big deal. Just tell me where I need to go."
"It's not exactly the nicest place in town."
That caused the redhead to frown. Obtaining anonymity she could understand, what with criminals more than willing to take revenge on anyone willing to help Batman. Yet, Batman purposefully using a mechanic in a bad part of town for repairs was supposed to be believable? She snorted. Yeah, right, and she was the Pope.
She had suspected, but never really had the proof that she was being led on. Now she was certain she was. Now that she thought about it, she was positive the Batmobile had taken damage of the years, yet there never had been so much as a bystander stumbling onto the vehicle in an auto-garage. She had an actual photo of the car being damaged and anyone with eyes could see the Batmobile presently driving through the streets was unharmed.
"Yeah, right." Grabbing her purse, Vicki pulled the strap over her shoulder as she slid out of the booth. "Unless you get me a guarantee of this mechanic, I think I'll pass."
Simon stared at her agape, a piece of meatloaf falling from his mouth and onto the plate. "Wh-what? But—"
Vicki placed her hands on the table, leaning towards the man. "I'm not going to run a wild goose chase, Simon, and that's what this is: a goose chase. I need something a lot more concrete than you know some guy that claims he helps out the Bat."
That remark caused the P.I. to flush red with anger. "Hey, this is concrete! Since when have I given you a bad lead?"
The reported pretended to think on that one. "Oh, I don't know, how about that alleged shipment of ninja throwing stars? The ones that turned out to be toys? I'd say that was pretty bad."
Simon had the decency to look embarrassed by that. "That was only one time—"
"And what about the missing inventory from Wayne Enterprises?" she added. "You haven't gotten me anything with that. What happened to them, where they went—simple things like that."
"Now that isn't as easy as—"
"The point is," she interrupted, glaring at him heatedly, "is that I've paid you quite a bit of money and you really haven't earned any of it lately. You want to get paid? Get me something that'll stick. I refuse to throw money away just because you're not doing your job."
Ignoring the anger on Simon's face, Vicki straightened out her posture before turning away. "Don't bother calling me," she called out over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "I'll call you."
She was pretty sure Simon yelled something after her, but she didn't bother to listen, especially once the door swung shut behind her. Fool her once, shame on you; fool her twice, shame on her. There was no way she was going to let herself be taken advantage of again. Simon wasn't the only private investigator in the city; he was just the most willing to get his hands dirty.
For now she would focus on what she did have and see if she couldn't figure out some narrative, some forgotten piece of the puzzle that was her story. Surely there was something she had missed and just needed to revisit.
In the meantime, she needed to get back to her day job.