Notes: This is a (loose) sequel to "Visited", which is a sequel to "Strays", which has prequels (why not?) in the form of "Of the Rest of Your Life" and "Lost and Found". I'd suggest reading them all first to avoid those brow-furrowing moments of confusion where you're all like, "Did I miss something?" (Yes, you have: four fics of something.)

But that's just my suggestion. :)

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No one is compelled to choose the profession of a police officer,
but having chosen it,
everyone is obliged to live up to the standard of its requirements.

Calvin Coolidge

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It's 90 percent boredom and 10 percent sheer terror.

John Casey, police officer

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Renee Montoya grew up wanting to be a cop. A detective, just like the ones on TV – cool and tough and always busting the bad guys in the end.

Three years on the force in Gotham, and it hasn't been what she imagined. Not a minute of it. But she still wants to be a cop. She still wants to be a detective. She wants to be on the Major Crimes Unit, and she's going to get there come hell or high water.

Or come night shifts on patrol in the heart of the mean city.

"Chinese?" her partner suggests.

She makes a face. "Nothing worth eating east of Harlow."

"True." Wilkes thinks. "That place on 14th?"

Renee brakes for a red light and gives him a good hard glare. "How about we do our job instead of eat every ten minutes? How about that?"

He glowers but looks away after a moment. She's had his number since their first patrol together – looks tough, is actually a pushover – and she's steamrollered him into agreeing with pretty much everything she wants. Renee grew up in a house full of brothers; she's used to it.

"Fine," he mumbles.

She returns her attention to the street as the light turns green. What a baby. Can't go a few hours without snacks. As if there's so little crime in Gotham that patrol officers are blessed with an abundance of leisure time.

But. She'll be stuck in a car with this guy for the rest of their shift, and every night after that for who-knows-how-long – she's going up for her detective's exams next week, so cross your fingers – anyway, she'll be stuck with him for a while, and having your partner pissed at you is a bad idea regardless.

Wilkes, after all, is the officer who is most likely to save her ass in a shootout.

Renee tosses out an olive branch. "Look, when we get off, I'll buy you breakfast, okay? Denny's, wherever you want."

He continues to glower, then shrugs. "There's a diner on the river, you know, near Fleeting, that's open all night. Killer eggs."

"Okay," she says, determined to sound pleasant. Before she can say anything else, Dispatch squawks to life and tells them that there's a burglary in progress. Some swanky store in the so-called Diamond District, only a few blocks away from their current location. All available units in the area requested. And then the magic words:

"Batman reported on scene."

Renee puts on the lights and the siren and floors it. This part is exactly like the cop shows, and it's a hell of a kick every single time. It's one of the reasons she insists on driving.

"Jesus Christ, Montoya!" Wilkes swears, grabbing for handholds as she takes a corner too fast. They're coming up on the location and she doesn't want to slow down.

She flicks an annoyed glance at him – and looks back at the street just in time for a solid black shape to come slinging out of the night and slam into her windshield.

"¡Mierda!" She stomps on the brakes automatically and the squad car fishtails to a squealing stop, slewed sideways across the lanes. The black shape – it's not a person, it's not Batman – slides across the hood and then drops to the asphalt.

The windshield is a ruined map of fractures. She can't see anything through it, so she hustles out of the car and pulls her weapon from her belt, holding it ready while she frantically scans the buildings for any sign of –

Overhead she sees a dark winged figure. Batman. It's the first time she's ever gotten a glimpse of him, despite her unabashed cheerleading of the man around the precinct, and she's a little awestruck. He's moving at an angle, up the street towards them, in pursuit of something. Or someone.

"Jesus Christ," her partner gasps. He lifts his gun to aim at the vigilante and Renee barks, unthinking, "Don't shoot!"

Wilkes looks at her, startled, angry, suspicious, but his weapon has lowered and Batman is out of range, out of sight… and who the hell is he chasing after? What did they already miss?

Renee ignores her partner and turns her attention to the thing that impacted her car. It's a plain black duffel bag, small, the kind you might take as airplane carry-on, and she crouches to unzip it.

"Dios," she says on a sharp intake of breath. She shines her flashlight on the bag's contents, just to be sure she's seeing what she's seeing, and is almost blinded by the reflected light.

Jewels. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, watches, objects d'art, ropes of stones, loose gems, cut, uncut, heaps and heaps of jewels and precious metals. It's a store's entire inventory, dumped into a bag and then dropped into her lap.

"Look at this," she calls to Wilkes, but instead of a response she hears a grunt and then a muffled noise, like a body falling.

Renee draws her weapon again and goes to stand, goes to investigate what's happening with her partner. She gets no farther than half-rising from her crouch when she feels her partner's gun barrel dig into the back of her neck.

"I'd like that back," a woman's voice says. She sounds balanced between furious and amused. "You wouldn't believe what I had to do to get it."

Renee goes very still. This is not part of her plan. This is not how her life is supposed to end.

She becomes fiercely aware of the bulletproof vest beneath her uniform, and the tiny bat-shaped bit of metal tucked into its fabric lining – a holy relic from the patron saint of urban justice.

She says, hearing herself from a distance, "Batman's after you."

"Gun, please," the woman says, ignoring her, and Renee hesitates before she turns her weapon over. "Close up the bag."

Renee leans down, slowly, carefully, and zips the bag shut again.

"Now pick it up."

She hefts the bag and stands straight – slowly – and holds it out in one arm. It weighs a lot more than she expected and her muscles strain to keep it steady.

Then an arm wrapped in dark leather reaches around and takes the weight from her. "Thanks," the woman says. The balance has tipped towards amused: "Have a nice night, officer."

The pressure at the back of her neck eases and before the woman can shoot her or pistol-whip her, Renee swings around and lashes out with a move that's more instinctive than trained. The woman dodges it – she's fast – and Renee finds herself sprawled flat on the pavement with a ringing noise in her ears and a stunned sensation in her side.

The woman casually shifts the bag over her shoulder and sketches a mocking salute in Batman's last direction. Then she turns and runs, quick and silent, heading the opposite way. She's gone in moments, lost in the shadows.

Renee groans and pushes herself up. Goes to check on her partner; he's out, but breathing. Sirens are coming closer – other units responding to the robbery call. She radios Dispatch anyway and tells them she needs backup.

She retrieves her weapon and sits, still a little dazed, in the passenger seat of her smashed squad car, watching over Wilkes and wondering how badly she's screwed up her chances to make detective.

Wondering what the hell is wrong with this city, that the cat burglars are now dressing like cats.