Bruce walked into the bar with a scowl on his face and a matchstick between his teeth like a toothpick. He had frequented a different bar at irregular intervals, three a night, for over a week. He had called bars he wasn't currently at, asking for Matches Malone regularly. He hustled pool, asked the bartenders for messages, and gave every outward appearance that he was killing time, waiting. As he walked in and sat at the bar, the bartender recognized him.
"Hey, Matches," he said, cleaning a mug and eying the billiards. "I gotta ask; what's your deal? You've been in here every night for almost two weeks."
Bruce grunted, culling the desire to correct him, continuing to play the part. He leaned on his elbows, conspiratorially, "I have a friend, see? He was talking to me about a job. He works odd jobs, in a no-names sorta way. He says that if he should ever get pinched or disappeared, I should hang out around these parts, wait for word from the circus."
"The circus?" asked the Bartender, loud in his surprise.
"Hey, hey," says Bruce, looking around as though afraid of being overheard. "Keep your voice down, will ya? I know, it don't make no kinda sense, but I know how to do like I'm told."
The bartender nodded, setting the glass in its rack, "I got you, Matches. You are a straight shooter, in pool shots and talk. I'll keep an ear out for you."
Bruce nodded too, "Much appreciated."
"Hey!" someone called over the noise of the bar. "I'm looking for a Matches Malone. He here?"
Bruce turned with an icy coolness to look at the newcomer. For a moment, he thought about his missing digital AR interface that would allow him to identify individuals by facial recognition, but he dismissed the feeling of dependence. He had to be prepared, whether he had the most cutting-edge digital arsenal or some makeup and a box of matches.
"Who wants to know?" he asked, his voice firm but not impetuous.
The newcomer had a long face with a longer nose, his cheekbones gaunt and pronounced. His eyes were large and his mussed hair under his hat was a mousey brown.
He walked closer and said in a voice that didn't carry, "I hear you think we should be looking for you."
Bruce furrowed his brow, "Should you? Are you from the circus?"
The man looked at him like he wasn't funny, "Who contacted you about us?"
Bruce raised his eyebrows, "I'm not in the habit of picking up names. Knowing names makes it easier not to drop them."
"You seem to drop yours easy enough," the man said. "It took me less than an hour to find you."
"Wasn't exactly hiding," said Bruce before his expression became incredulous and he said, "You think my first name is Matches?"
The man snorted, "Come with me."
Bruce stood, weary, "I ain't got no reason to follow you. My guy vanished. I had assurances he was on the level. I don't know you."
The man turned, his look hard, "Hey, buddy. I don't know you from Eve. You could be a cop for all I know. But we'll see. If you're on the up and up, maybe we have something you could do for us."
Bruce walked out with him. They turned down an alley and came out in a darkened parking lot. There was a gray van, without decals and unextraordinary, windows tinted. The side panel door opened, and two men got out. The first was a common thug. The other wouldn't have been about to fit anywhere but the back, only able to get through the largest door.
The man pushed himself out and stood more than seven feet tall. He loomed over Bruce, who did his best to look surprised and shaken. He had studied the Arkham files thoroughly, and it was hard to miss Waylon Jones.
"What do you think, Croc?" asked the first man. "You smelt him before."
Jones breathed deep, "You don't smell like a cop. You don't even own a gun. You sure smell like alcohol and fire though. Arsonist?"
Bruce smiled, a special little smile, "Yeah. That's me. Did he say you were a crock of?"
"Croc," said the first man. "As in crocodile."
Jones leaned forward out of the shadow made by the brim of the hat he had on. His eyes were unmistakable reptilian, his nose flat, his wide mouth jammed full of sharp undeniably inhuman teeth. Bruce rocked back mentally. This was not a simple skin disorder as his files claimed. Something else was going on here, something unusual.
"So, Malone," said Jones said, his raspy voice slithering around his mouth. "Why are you looking for us?"
"I'm not," said Bruce. "I was told you would be looking for me."
"Why?" asked Jones, his tone hard.
Bruce shrugged, "Didn't ask. I do a good trade and enjoy my work. Heard there might be a job, pro bono like. I got a little put away for a while, so it's no biggie. I like fun, and this sounds like fun."
"You don't want to know what this is about?" asked Jones.
"Again," Bruce shrugged, "So long as I get to do what I do, I don't rightly care."
Jones' snap was unbelievably fast. Bruce was faster. He managed to get his arm between the teeth and his throat. The minimal armor he wore was not enough to stop all the force, and he felt the sting of lacerations. Before Bruce could consider the best way to maintain his cover, he took a blow to his gut, using all the skill and training he had to soak as much of the force as he could into his muscles. The armor was able to do the rest. Still, he was thrown way back, his arm almost tearing, his body skipping and skidding across to a dark corner of the parking lot.
"Kill him!" Jones rasped, and the two men were joined by a third from the van. In time with Bruce, all four withdrew projectile weapons. As the bullets flew at Bruce, at least one being soaked by his armor, he fired the dart gun.
Jones sneered as he looked the small dart in his chest. Withdrawing it, he crushed it like it was of paper and cast the remains away. Bruce withdrew a grapple with his off hand and fired, sailing upward to the roof using his belt that was hidden beneath his shirt.
"How did you know he was a plant?" Bruce heard, using the small directional mic he pulled out once he was safely away.
"He was wearing latex on his face," said Jones, wiping his nose and smearing away what little blood was left from his mouth. "Besides, he kept saying he didn't care what the plan was. You don't keep saying that unless you really want to know."
Bruce had been ready to get away since Jones arrived. He wasn't sure it would be Jones, but having a dart on hand that administered a subdermal tracking device was likely going to be crucial to his mission.
"Did we get him?" said one of the men.
Bruce took out a small camera and snapped a few digital pictures. He would scan the images at the cave and see if he could work out identities and add them to the scanners.
"He ain't moving down there," said Jones. "Go check it out."
The men did as they were told.
"He's gone!" one finally called back. "We didn't hit him. No blood."
"It was him," said Jones. "Damn. At first, I thought it might be some new wannabe cop trying something screwy! Where did he go?!"
"Maybe he flew away," said one thug.
Jones snorted, "I'll believe he can fly when I see it. He's just a man."
They searched to area thoroughly, finding no sign of Bruce. Without a backward glance, they hopped into the van. Before they could drive away, Bruce fired one more tracker into the bumper, as insurance.
Once the scene was clear, he hugged the shadows, sliding over the edge of the building and down. Once on the ground, he surveyed the scene himself, carefully, until he finally found what he was looking for. Putting the needle that had punctured Jones, he placed it in the only vial he had on him. Then, using a mini black light and colored lens, he sprayed down all biological spills that might have been his blood in the area with ammonia before heading back to the economy class car he was driving and returned to the cave.
His first task was Jones' blood. Taking all that he could from the thick needle, he set up the sample for analysis before returning to the computer terminal.
Next, he tagged the two trackers, labeling their ID numbers with what they were, the van and Jones respectively, and the computer began drawing deductions and filing information about each, likely occurrence and explanation for changes and unexpected changes in the tracker's behavior over time.
And finally, he went back to his searching algorithms. To his surprise, the computer had been up to more than he had expected. It had made little progress in identifying individuals who were likely correspondents of The Joker, through no fault of its own, but it had autonomously followed a few unusual patterns, which had led it outside of Gotham, to Metropolis of all places. But after looking at the project's data, he went from annoyed to wary.
The activity that his computer had found was incredibly suspect. An entire fleet of disposable cellphones was being bought, not for their minutes, but their texting abilities. The texts that were being sent were odd, some form of encryption or code that was both simple enough that no computing power was necessary to form the code, yet complex enough that simple decrypts, such as a one to one cipher, were not enough to sort it out.
Bruce also found entire redundant and automated computer programs, sending and receiving identical information. However, the systems were outputting to a fairly large number of phones that were not disposable. They belonged to individuals with long rap sheets, everything from dealing to theft to vandalism to more sinister acts of violence.
Bruce frowned. He was missing something, and he wasn't sure what it was. He had never heard of a criminal organization using tactics like this within the US. He tried to reason why a criminal organization would radically shift tactics in such a way when it all clicked.
Superman. His abilities had never been disclosed to the public, but given Bruce's personal research and the patterns that Superman operated under, he likely had some sort of superhuman auditory sense. The notion of never speaking as a deterrent made complete sense.
Bruce realized that they were both facing the same issues; now that Batman and Superman were operating, criminals were escalating, trying to subvert them, match their influence or their ability by any means they had. He didn't know how to feel about being grouped together with the likes of Superman.
"Master Wayne," came Pennyworth's voice into the quiet cave. "Is everything alright, sir?"
Bruce turned in his chair so that he could speak over his shoulder, "Just sorting my thoughts, Alfred. I'm fine."
Pennyworth walked further into the open space, "With regards to what, sir?"
Bruce found himself put out with his keeper, but managed to suppress his grimace, instead replying, "It appears that Superman and I are facing opponents with similar characteristics."
Pennyworth paused as though waiting for more, then said, "I see, sir. What would you purpose doing about it?"
Bruce stood, pushing his chair back. Tapping a few buttons, his keyboards shifted up to the appropriate height to be typed on comfortably while standing. Hitting the proper keys, the clearest image of Superman filled the large monitor before Bruce. The man dressed in blue, cape billowing, was holding a car above his head.
"This is Superman, Alfred," Bruce said, his voice calm, even. "What do you see when you look at him?"
Pennyworth consider.
"I see," he said, "a man for whom the term human does and does not apply, a hero and symbol, but ultimately, an unknown commodity."
"I disagree," said Bruce. "If he truly is what he appears to be, he is the most powerful being currently in known existence. While his motives were suspect to some initially, he has proven himself more than capable of the responsibilities of a hero. But, every time I look at him, what I see is everything that he is that I lack."
"You mustn't look at it in that way, Master Wayne," Pennyworth said. "Your means and abilities are far greater than-"
"No, Alfred," said Bruce. "I do not mean it self-deprecatingly. I kind of wish that I did. At least that might be a problem I could solve with a little perspective. But this, how I see it; I see him as a tool, a means to an end. Meeting him, interacting with him, even possibly working beside him; I see the calculations, the machinations, the logic of it. I see him as an extension of my will, someone to influence, to use to my own ends, however noble. And while that in and of itself is merely worrying, the truly troubling fact is that it is the most direct and efficient method I know to do what is morally right and I see nothing wrong with doing so."
Pennyworth nodded, "You believe that you should find this perspective distasteful and you do not."
"Precisely," said Bruce. "I understand my methods. I have been through them time and time again. I have spent hours questioning every decision that I make, and in the end, I know what I am doing helps. Not noticeably within a narrow span of time, and not as much as I would like, but I am preventing crime, saving this city by inches. But if anyone was to simply consider my actions, how am I any more lawful and unselfish than any other criminal out there? I must be as ruthless and uncompromising as any of them in order to do what I do the best way I can conceive of. How can I associate myself with someone who is uncompromisingly moral in action as well as to deed? What right do I have to be grouped with someone who is the most humane person that I know of, and yet is viewed by me so impersonally? Who can say that what I do is worth as much as the actions of such a man?"
Pennyworth said nothing for a long moment, then as though making a choice that he had been putting off for far too long, he said, his voice echoing in the large chasm, "I can."
Bruce turned, looking briefly over Pennyworth, his eyes hidden behind the digital viewports of his cowl.
"I have watched you since the day you were born," said Pennyworth, "and watched over you since the day your parents charged me with your guardianship. Every step you have taken, you have done so as only you could, and with no other, no better alternative. You are a champion, Master Bruce, a hero if ever there was one. I have led a privileged life to be at your side, even if only in servitude. If your parents were here, I have no doubt that they would be proud of the man you have become. Of course, you have the right to stand with heroes. Where else would you stand, sir?"