"Why do you take these jobs?"

It was a genuine question he was asking himself, one he didn't have a real answer to. Paulie Byrne took this gig at the recommendation of an old friend—one of many in the line of work he kept telling himself he was going to leave but never did. The money was good. Real good. He could make more at this job in six months than in the two years he'd sunk in as a low-level lieutenant with the Chechen. And then there was the bonus of the diminished risk of going to prison—this job looked to be as legit as any he'd taken before.

He reminded himself of that, but it didn't ring true as he stood in the loading bay of Janus Cosmetics.

"Hey."

Turning, he saw the man who hired him, Bryan Gross. Wearing a tailored Versace suit, hair slicked back and gold watch gleaming on his wrist, Bryan gave Paulie a nod of greeting as he approached. Paulie's hands were sweating, but he didn't know what to do with them—wipe them on the pant legs of the new suit he couldn't afford or stick them in pockets that weren't meant to have one's meaty hands shoved in. He was saved having to decide; Bryan wasn't interested in shaking hands.

"Good, you're early. Boss likes punctual."

Paulie nodded, trailing along behind Bryan as he walked across the concrete expanse, weaving past large pallets stacked high with wood boxes marked with the company emblem—two faces back to back, one of a young man and the other old, their visages painted black. Paulie had learned a long time ago that staring too long at anything he wasn't directly ordered to was a bad idea, so he stopped looking at the crates, at the hints of cargo that didn't look anything like cosmetics that he could see—limited as that was—peeking from inside the packing peanuts.

"Another thing the boss likes…" Bryan trailed off, swiping a keycard and calling an elevator when they reached a back hall, the walls tall, narrow, and a white so bright that Paulie had to squint, eyes watering. "Don't stare too long. He ain't paying you to be an equal—just stare ahead unless directly spoken to, got it?"

Paulie nodded, squaring his shoulders and widening his stance. Head-honchos acting like uptight, pretentious pricks wasn't something he was unused to. In this line of work, getting treated like the shit on the bottom of someone's shoe came up with the job description. He might be dressing better and be in nicer buildings, but nothing was different from any other time in Paulie's life since he'd turned twenty-three.

He was getting paid to be the hired muscle, letting no one who wasn't supposed to get too close. He'd done it before, but never for someone so high profile.

But no less crooked, he thought.

Not like he was one to talk, making a living acting as a human meat-wall and beating—sometimes shooting—anyone his employer pointed a finger at. It wasn't a job he was bad at.

When the elevator doors opened, Paulie found himself in the middle of a large lobby, decorated with black marble broken up by blinding white, just like it was in the hall, the contrast so sharp it hurt his eyes. It was difficult to look at anything.

Hope no one takes a shot in here. Ain't no way I'd see shit.

But Bryan seemed immune to it, walking ahead unaffected. Paulie followed close behind, approaching a double set of black doors. An uncharacteristic spasm made his heart skip for a moment at the sound of voices on the other side.

"I think you should reconsider."

It was a woman's voice, calm and measured. And, if Paulie's previous experience with his ex-girlfriends was anything to go by, annoyed.

"If you mean my special order, then you can go fuck yourself, Brenda."

Bryan knocked softly before opening the door, revealing an extravagant office bordering on gaudy with five others inside.

"No, I'm talking about—"

Three other men in suits were positioned around the room, each with small plastic earpieces. Even wearing the nicest suit Paulie had ever owned, he was still under-dressed. The woman—he assumed the aforementioned Brenda, as she was the only woman in the room—was short, with dark skin and tight, brown curly hair, and stood next to a large ebony desk. Holding a large tablet and stylus, she didn't even look at Paulie and Bryan as they entered, keeping her attention focused on the man sitting, an entire wall of glass illuminated by Gotham's highrises framing him, behind the desk.

Roman Sionis definitely had a different presence in person than what Paulie had read of him in the papers.

"Oh, my—Christ. We've talked about this. If it works, it works." Roman was good-looking and lean, and his suit looked too big, almost purposely so. It was a white that boarded on silver, the shirt underneath a matte black. Paulie was starting to pick out a theme. "God, it's like working for my mother."

Brenda's laugh was loud and clear, but Paulie didn't see any trace of humour on her face, even as her smile stayed in place. "I think you'd be listening to me more if I was."

"Heh, don't count on that." It was Roman's turn to laugh, but he actually seemed to mean it. Paulie felt a chill go down his spine. "I understand where you're coming from, I really do. Put simply, he's an asset. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, eh? Or, er—the… the previous friend of my enemy is my friend." He trailed off in thought, pushing back his brown hair and knocking his knuckles against the desk.

"Was that even a real sentence?"

"Don't be rude. You're supposed to agree with me."

Bryan made no move to introduce him, so Paulie stood back, mimicking Bryan's posture. He was beginning to feel very awkward—too unsure. Listening in on conversations before being properly introduced to the boss seemed backwards to him, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

"That's not what you pay me for, though, is it?" she said, leaning on one of the leather chairs next to the desk, her foot tapping against the red rug to an unheard beat. "I'm just not keen on adding a few more psychotics into the mix. Too many variables, don't you think?"

Roman shrugged, his grin widening even as his gray eyes went cold. "Know what they say, 'when in Rome'." It wasn't until he cocked his head to the side that he saw the new addition and gave Paulie a quick once over before addressing Brenda. "Who's this?"

Brenda only afforded Paulie one quick look over her shoulder before turning her attention back to Roman. "The new addition to your personal detail. Bumping up security in light of recent developments is never a bad thing. Not like you can't afford it."

For reasons he shouldn't have, Paulie felt slighted. He'd been in the game for years and managed to keep a good rep, and that was more than could be said about his new employer. For a new guy rising through the ranks in Gotham, this guy was arrogant. He might've come from Chicago, but Paulie didn't know how long a weasel like this would last.

Not the greatest way to think about the cash cow you're expected to bleed for.

He shook his head. Best to get the mutinous thoughts out early, sink into a routine where he acted and didn't think.

"You'd know. Up in the books like you live there." Roman turned his attention back to Paulie. He met Roman's eyes briefly before remembering what Bryan had told him, and his face went hot as he cast his eyes over Roman's shoulder. "What's your name? C'mon, what's your name?" he asked, waving his hand at Paulie to step forward.

He did as he was told, fixing his gaze just past Roman's ear and onto his own reflection in the glass. "Paulie. Paulie Byrne, sir."

"Paulie? Paulie?" Roman looked around, incredulous for reasons Paulie couldn't name. He started to sweat. "Fuck me half-way to Chicago—bunch of walkin' fucking clichés. Am I stuck in Goodfellas? Jesus Christ, have mercy on me."

Being embarrassed of his own name wasn't something Paulie had experienced before, and he quickly attempted to swallow his pride and his rejoinders. He settled for nodding and stepping back in deference, chewing on his tongue to kill the words sitting on it.

"Got some news on Red Hood," Bryan said, stepping forward and producing a tablet. The name rang a bell with Paulie. Waiting for Roman to give a nod of approval, he continued, "He stole another shipment."

"What was it this time?" Roman asked; exasperated, it seemed, more than anything.

But Bryan still hesitated, and it wasn't until Roman levelled a glare piercing enough that Paulie's skin crawled just from being in the presence of it that Bryan spoke. "The new shipment of product—it's gone."

"Gone meaning in use or gone as in—"

"He set them on fire. Just outside the Rabbit Hole."

The two hands slamming onto the table palms down was a surprise for Paulie, who flinched but didn't jerk back. Roman's face—which was comparatively calm before—was now a carving of wrath.

"Son of a goddamn bitch," he growled, fists curling. Roman didn't look so handsome anymore. "Bunch of bastards probably got high for free, too. What a waste. That was some quality shit, Brenda."

His voice went light, almost jovial, but his expression undermined everything. Roman looked about ready to unleash his anger onto some unlucky bastard.

Don't let it be me, Paulie thought.

"But we'll find him—"

Roman cut him off with a glance, and Bryan returned to being a silent statue just like Paulie was. "I'm ahead of you there, at least. I know where he is. At the moment, anyway. Fuckin' rat that he is," he mumbled.

Producing a tablet from a drawer, Roman stared at it intensely, everyone else in the room seemingly forgotten. Paulie couldn't see what was on the other side, but he had a good idea about what it was by the targeted look of malice Roman was directing at it.

This job just got a lot harder than I thought it'd be.

After all the shit that went down a year and a half ago, Paulie thought he was done dealing with high-stakes pissing matches. But it seemed he was wrong.

"Why didn't you say anything, Roman?" Brenda asked, glaring and coming around the desk to stare at the screen with him. She was admonishing him, immune to the power his aura gave off that cowed the rest of them.

Maybe it is like working with his mother, he thought.

She might've been small, but Paulie couldn't underestimate her, either.

"He's a goddamn nuisance and a thieving bitch, but I'm not too worried yet. He's just a gnat biting my side. That's what I pay you for," Roman said, pointing at the five men in turn. "I like to keep the lights on, see where the roaches run—no surprises that way."

Setting down the tablet, Roman barked an address at them and laid down the terms of engagement. Paulie was grateful that he'd been smart enough to be packing heat that night. Whereas Paulie would've been expecting rabid energy from the men running in the Chechen's crew, the men in Roman's employ stayed calm, professional. And Paulie was eager to prove that he was on their level, that he didn't have a bad feeling growing in his gut.

"So crush him—poison him, something—I don't care. I want him dead, capiche?" Roman asked, leaning so far back in his chair Paulie thought he was going to tip over. The men nodded and turned to leave when Roman smacked a palm against his forehead. "God, now I sound like a cliché. Goddamn contagious. Jesus."

Looking around the room, Paulie started to second guess himself again.

Too late now.

It might've been his first night, but Paulie was going hunting for the Red Hood.


The night was cold and the wind biting, but Red Hood was glad for the reprieve from the rain. Meant he could see better and didn't have to wipe at his domino mask every five goddamn seconds. Even all this time later, the shipping yards of Gotham were no more patrolled than they were a year and a half ago. He wasn't sure if that was because of blatant stupidity or remnants of the pervasive police corruption that ate away at Gotham like rotting teeth, but it didn't matter in the end. It was just a place and time like any other, and this was just more convenient: A good hosting spot for the main event.

Red Hood knew who was coming—and watching—and the men below were definitely expecting him, but they weren't counting on the guest that would inevitably be barrelling down soon. Watching how the pissants ran their day-to-day operations wasn't easy and it took time—sometimes more than he had—but the payoff was worth it. There wasn't much about who and what ran Gotham that Red Hood didn't know, and he intended on keeping the advantage.

You'd think experience would make them less blind, but it doesn't.

He adjusted the position of his binoculars, scanning the horizon and accounting for how many dumb bastards Black Mask bothered to post for the delivery. Tapping the comm piece in his ear, Red Hood kept his eyes alert as he spoke.

"They lookin' at the feed, Eddie?" he asked.

There was a short pause, an angry exhale. Red Hood smirked and was disappointed his little friend couldn't see it. "Told you not to call me that," was the reply.

Red Hood's smirk grew. "Are they or not?"

Another angry exhale, a small growl of annoyance. It was too easy to get a reaction out of him. "Yeah, they're watching."

If Eddie wasn't lying—and Red Hood was sure he wasn't, the guy seemed to have a compulsion to tell the truth even if he hid them in brain teasers—then Black Mask thought he was on the roof half a click across the yard. And Eddie would make sure they kept thinking he was there.

"Good." Red Hood slid the binoculars into an inside pocket of his leather jacket, crouching down into position as he pulled out his M24 from the bag at the edge of the rooftop he'd been occupying for the last three hours. "Make sure that doesn't change for me, will ya?"

Eddie scoffed, "Oh yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Boss Man."

He was still feeling resentful, but Red Hood had no sympathy for him. Edward Nigma served a purpose, just like everything else. He'd get over it or he'd be down one kneecap, Red Hood wasn't picky.

Or be dead. That was an option, too.

But Eddie was smart, pragmatic—and mutual interests would win out.

"Mr. Boss Man to you, Edward."

If it wasn't for the faint sound of fingers hitting a keyboard, Red Hood would have thought the line was dead. "I liked Eddie better," came the eventual answer.

"Make up your fucking mind then," Red Hood said, the voice modifier taking away the playful edge and making it menacing. "Send out the signal. I'll call to confirm at 0200."

"What smells bad when alive and good when dead?" Eddie asked just before he ended the call.

Another riddle.

The guy was fond of them, that was clear. Red Hood sighed, deciding to play along.

"Bacon."

"Wrong answer!" No it wasn't, Red Hood had heard this one before, but Eddie didn't give him a chance to give a rejoinder. "It's you."

Eddie hung up just as Red Hood started laughing so hard that the modifier couldn't totally change the sound, letting some of his natural voice peek through.

He's bitter alright. But he'll get over it.

Eddie had better if he knew what was good for him.

Roman was in his cushy seat up in his highrise, thinking he had the Red Hood in the crosshairs. It was too bad that Roman didn't have the brains to think outside the box. He'd be sending his men into a deathtrap, not even aware that the man they were after wouldn't be where they thought he was and that they'd be losing more than a little bit of product. The bastards really made it too easy sometimes.

It's what happens when they underestimate one man.

That's what they'd done to the Batman when his blight came to Gotham almost three years ago. It's what they had done to the Joker before he nearly tore the city apart. And they were doing it again, and Red Hood was all too willing to take advantage of the show of stupidity.

He flexed his hands every so often as the next twenty minutes wore on, keeping the blood flowing as he maintained a static position. His breaths were deep and even, his head calm and clear. That's how he needed to be when he showed up, when Red Hood would finally get to test the man he'd been watching for so long, restraining himself to learn through observation rather than through practice.

But the time for that was over. It was time for them to engage, for Red Hood to find out exactly what Batman could dish out when he had the advantage of surprise. Red Hood would be the one to set the terms of engagement, dictate the rules Batman would follow even if he didn't realize it yet.

And he didn't need to wait long. Hearing the vehicle before seeing it come into view, Batman arrived with his souped-up Bat-Tank, as Red Hood had been calling it, and parked on the perimetre before killing the engine. Just like he had so many nights before, he watched Batman through the scope of his rifle as he climbed and vaulted across the shipping containers, heading right for the broadcast that would lead to the night's fireworks.

Black Mask wouldn't be expecting it.

Neither would Batman.

He might not die that night, but Batman would be in his grave soon enough. And Red Hood would be the one to put him there.


His face hurt more than usual. Whether it was because of the burns needing another round of treatment to stave off the lingering infection he couldn't seem to kick for any length of time, or because of the stares directed at the bad side of his face was unclear to him. He wouldn't be able to tell who was staring unless he turned his head, and Two-Face was unwilling to appear self-conscious.

Need to see that doctor again, he thought.

It was a begrudging relationship, one with interactions that he avoided, but dying of sepsis wasn't how he wanted to go out after getting two bullets in his shoulder and being burned half-way to hell. The doctor had lost his license, but Two-Face could hardly go anywhere else without worrying about being recognized. And he was permanently branded, unable to enjoy the benefits of anonymity. Harvey Dent was dead, but Two-Face had survived.

Barely.

Anger came with the memory of Jim Gordon's face. Anger and guilt. One emotion was much more preferable to the other. Fate might not have been kind, but Chance had been on his side for all this time; questioning it wasn't an option.

The man sitting in front of him also made Two-Face angry. It was the look about him—his handsome, unmarked skin and grin as he stared at Two-Face's own disfigured visage. Roman Sionis hadn't been a player back when Harvey Dent was District Attorney, but his type had been exactly like all the others Dent had worked to take down.

Two-Face realized what it was that bothered him the most—Roman reminded him too much of Salvator Maroni.

They'd interacted a few times in the past, mostly with Two-Face negotiating deals to stay off the police radar in exchange for information, but this… position was a new development. One Two-Face didn't like but accepted anyway. Chance had made her decision, passed the verdict down through his coin, and to ignore it wasn't an option. He was there for a reason, and Chance would guide him the rest of the way.

Despite that decision, Two-Face refused to speak first, prolonging the uneasy silence between the two. A woman—Two-Face thought her name was Brenda but wasn't sure—sat a small distance from them, typing away on a tablet. One thing that hadn't eroded over the last eighteen months, while Two-Face struggled to survive and evade arrest, was his resolve and abject stubbornness, and he wasn't about to let go of it now.

It paid off—Roman cracked first.

"Look, excuse me if I'm being, well, presumptuous, to think you and I have a lot in common—"

"No, we don't," Two-Face interrupted. But Roman was far too eager to keep hearing the sound of his own voice.

"We try to show our true faces to the world and it just doesn't work out, does it?" he finished.

The severe contracture scarring that twisted the entire left side of his head kept him from turning it in disbelief, so Two-Face settled for narrowing his remaining eye and glaring. "Once your face looks like mine, then we can talk. You wear a mask. That's not showing your face at all," he growled.

Roman wasn't wearing the mask now—Two-Face knew he liked to keep it for special occasions, every half-wit crawling through the underside of Gotham knew that—but the reference to any sort of kinship between them was incensing. The hypocrisy and arrogance in the comment just demonstrated how little Roman really knew, that he was playing at things he didn't understand.

Guess that's why he wants to pay you to understand.

Two-Face was lucky in that his mouth was already twisted up in a permanent sneer; one perk in a sea of suffering that marked his everyday reality. Roman wore gimp masks and thought it enhanced his philosophy, but, to Two-Face, it demonstrated just how much the people in this city were clamouring to be crowned King of the Insane.

You're not much different, though, are you?

Two-Face shook the thought away. Voices of doubt that lingered on the outskirts of his mind were getting louder, putting him at risk of being weak. He shoved them back, just like he always did.

Roman threw his hands up, trying to avoid offense and failing anyway. "Agree to disagree, hey?" he said, to which Two-Face gave no reply. Roman didn't stop smiling, his voice dripping with the same sort of oiliness that kept his hair slicked back. "All business? That's fine. Professional. I like that."

Two-Face didn't give a damn what Roman did or didn't like, but necessity as much as chance drove him here. Rather than totally kill the deal based on resentment and impulse, he remained silent. Roman seemed to like that—it gave him a chance to keep talking.

"Gotham's a new town because of you. The pool of workers is no less diminished, what with the whole collapse of that whole RICO thing you had goin'. The same names—well, what's left—are still around, and you know them better than anyone, don't you? Now, the type of work I need—"

"I don't work for you," Two-Face interrupted again. He didn't like where Roman was going with this. He wouldn't be a lackey for anyone.

Roman leaned back in his chair, throwing up his hands again and his eyebrows shooting up in a false expression of innocence. "No. Never said you did—or would be."

Oh, but that is exactly what he was going to say.

"Maybe I misunderstood," Two-Face said, taking his gaze away and reaching inside his suit jacket pocket. His voice was still level as he felt the familiar weight, the smooth shape of his coin, but it was close to changing—tipping over into the familiar territory of rage. Drawing it, he started flipping the two-sided coin across his fingers.

"Honestly, Harvey, your expertise is invaluable. There's a lot to be gained in knowledge. I know that. I consider our endeavours to be more of a… partnership than anything."

The entire side of his face spasmed at Roman's lies, contracting further into a painful knot that made his bones ache. If he had let it be treated sooner, he knew it would have healed well enough to reduce the physical pain he was in every day. But he deserved the agony his face brought. It was an early penance he'd willingly pay for what he'd done, what he wouldn't stop doing.

"Don't patronize me," Two-Face scoffed, stopping the progress of the coin and flipping it, going a little higher each time. He wasn't looking at the results, hadn't asked the questions that would necessitate an answer just yet.

"He wasn't," one of Roman's men at his side said, stepping forward like a lapdog to remind Two-Face about the concept of respect. Roman had done nothing to deserve it, and so he would get none. A relationship of mutual benefit was different than one of mutual aims for collaboration. Two-Face's glare wasn't enough, the yuppie kept speaking, "He was being professional, and that's all that we ask of you—"

Two-Face finally looked at the coin after he tossed it in the air, catching it with one hand and slapping it on the armrest of his chair before pulling out his side revolver and shooting the idiot in front of him in the leg. The man fell to the ground, holding the limb and screaming. Two-Face slid the gun back in its place as the other men in the room drew theirs and levelled the barrels at him. His expression never changed, and as he looked up, he saw Roman's hadn't either.

"I get it. You're unpredictable. I can work with that," Roman said, cocking his head to the side and considering Two-Face, neutral even as the man on the ground was dragged out of the room by the remaining guards, the long streaks of blood signalling that Two-Face had managed to hit a major artery.

Two-Face went back to rolling his coin over his fingers. Roman was wrong. Chance had a pattern, a way to predict—a set of rules that allowed for a narrow set of outcomes. And, if he wasn't careful, Two-Face would have no qualms with showing Roman exactly what those rules were.

"What do you want to know, Roman? Your little empire isn't enough for you, so you have to start poking the hornet's nest?" Two-Face asked. Roman's face was still deadpan, eyes dark and black. "If you're not careful, you'll have more to worry about than the GCPD."

Like Homeland Security. The FBI. Or the Department of Defense. It didn't especially matter to Two-Face whether those investigations ever manifested; his life only had one outcome and it was only a matter of when it would happen and not if.

For the first time, Roman smiled widely, showing all his teeth and reclining back in his chair as he looked at Two-Face from down his nose.

"I want to know everything."

Two-Face reached for the glass of scotch on the small table beside him, taking a swig even as it burned like liquid fire down his throat. When he had thought of potential career paths as a young man, he had never considered information broker and criminal-consultant would have ever been in the cards for himself.

And yet here we are.

He didn't remember what it felt like to smile—not since the last time he saw Rachel—but the small curling of the remaining corner of his lip was enough to make Roman break out in laughter.


"Whaddya mean you're not sending a unit?!" Harvey Bullock shouted, nearly kicking over one of the small chairs in front of Jim Gordon's desk.

Not flinching, Gordon leaned forward onto his desk, resting heavily on his elbows. He wasn't surprised at Bullock's reaction—just bone-tired. Being Commissioner hadn't curbed the late nights and the stress that followed him everywhere. But being yelled at in his office by his subordinates was still better than going home. That was a larger problem that didn't have a clear path to untangle.

"Exactly what I said, Detective," Gordon said at last, picking up a report on the desk and pretending to read it over, even though his eyes weren't taking in any of the details. He just wanted Harvey to leave him alone.

But Bullock was never one for reading social cues.

"That's bullshit and you know it. You know where that rat in tights is goin' and if there's trouble comin', we need to be there for—"

"I decide what we need to be there for. The call is unsubstantiated. I'm not sending a lone unit to that part of Gotham without backup. It'll have to wait."

His tone was meant to indicate that the matter was finished; Harvey wouldn't get what he wanted. Batman's armoured tank had been spotted zooming towards the East End, but Gordon hoped that it was to follow up leads on the murders.

Or any other major case that's giving me an aneurysm.

That was an exaggeration, but Gordon's heart rate hadn't exactly been good since the night his life had both exploded and imploded in on itself.

Bullock shook his head, scowling. "Nah, say whatever you want, but you're soft on him. That freak mocks our jobs on a nightly basis and you just let him—"

"Watch your tone, Bullock," Gordon interrupted, his own voice creeping towards the edge of hostility. But he found his calm once again, keeping up the mask of pragmatism that he wanted to drown in bourbon. "You can be angry, you can be unhappy with the calls I make, but keep it to yourself and follow orders."

Bullock's face went red, making his five o'clock shadow seem darker than it already was. He'd already clocked in ten hours of work that day, and Gordon was eager to send him home to get him out of his office if nothing else.

"Just—"

"Commissioner Gordon?"

Both men turned toward the door at the sound of the knock, and Gordon was relieved to see the receptionist standing there. She looked hesitant, hand still held up and half-way through the doorframe.

"Yes, Patricia?"

Gordon tried to smile, but even that took too much energy and it translated into his moustache twitching slightly.

"Mayor Hill is here to see you," she said, giving him a nod before standing back from the door.

Bullock moved to leave, but Gordon held up his hand. Dealing with the mayor alone was never his favourite activity and one he'd grown to attempt to avoid. It was a part of the job description that he hated the most, and doing it alone seemed less preferable than having someone to at least bear the experience with.

"No, stay, Bullock," he said, quiet enough just for Bullock to hear. Looking surprised, Bullock didn't go to leave but took position against the wall to Gordon's left.

The woman who walked through the door looked harmless enough—her hair blonde like wheatgrass, dress suit gray and unwrinkled and wearing makeup that looked painted on with a fine hand. Her smile was disarming, but her eyes were cold and the lines of her face severe.

"Mayor Hill," Gordon said in greeting, rising to wave to one of the empty chairs that took on a whole new meaning of inadequacy in her presence.

"James, how many times do I have to say 'call me Arianna'? No need to be so formal."

"Right." Gordon tried not to wince. The only people who had called him James were his grandparents, and he had hated it then as much as he did now. He wondered if she could tell, and whether she did it just for that reason. "What can I help you with? Awfully late for a visit."

"The work that needs to be done in Gotham doesn't stop after five o'clock, does it?" she said, taking a seat and ignoring Bullock's presence entirely. Gordon tensed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Always how it is with her.

It started with increased patrols and stop-and-searches in the East End, upping the bounty on Batman and adding new charges to the warrant for his arrest, using new tactical measures against the remaining gangs, pressuring Gordon to emphasize the use of deadly force and acting with extreme prejudice against suspects. She was going to add something else to the list, and there were only so many ways that he could keep sidestepping and working around it. Gordon resisted the urge to pull at the collar of his dress shirt that had seen better days.

"I wanted to check in with you. I've been hearing about some movement in the East End. Anything I should be worried about?" she asked, picking a stray ball of fuzz off her pencil skirt with the tips of her fingernails and dropping it onto the office carpet.

"What do you mean?"

Hill smiled, tight-lipped and more of a straight line that slashed across her face in a thin streak of pink. "I had assurances from you twelve weeks ago that those miscreants would be dealt with. There doesn't seem to be much improvement at all. In fact, crime is on the rise, is it not?"

Gordon couldn't deny that. Taking control of Gotham back was part of a war built upon the battered corpses of the battles Gordon was fighting—some that he won and others that were bitter losses. They were still up to their necks trying to prosecute over three hundred people for criminal incitement, accessory to murder, actual murder for some, as well as mass indictments for assault and every charge under the sun related to the riots that had lasted for nearly a week.

Then there the mess Homeland Security and the Department of Defense were investigating. He was still waiting to be briefed, but he did know that it had to do with the massive amounts of heroin and arms flooding in from overseas. It was supposed to be a joint operation—he had been assured as much—but Gordon knew better; no one wanted to trust the GCPD with much of anything. Keeping track of and going after the constantly revolving heads of the new gangs was another mess, and they were often on the wrong end of receiving active information, and acting on it when it was too late.

But Gordon didn't need to elaborate on that to Hill. She knew, didn't care, and wanted the results she'd been aiming for since she took over for Anthony Garcia. Smoothing this over was still in his best interest. He couldn't run his unit with so much interference. Not from his subordinates and one of the few people he had to answer to.

"Well, yes. As with any power vacuum, there can be periods of unrest with this many competing groups—"

"I want them out of my city, James. Either in prison jumpsuits or locked away in Arkham where they belong. Especially that menace. He still has an outstanding arrest warrant. Why he hasn't been caught yet is beyond me."

Gordon sat up straighter, not entirely expecting the force behind her words or the crack in the smile on her face. "Arianna—"

"Have you even made headway with those vile murders?" she asked, her fingers tapping against the armrest of her chair.

Gordon began to have déjà vu of a time many years ago when he was a street cop getting orders beaten into him from a superior. It wasn't a feeling he enjoyed.

"We're still working through the caseloads and leads. With the prosecution of the individuals from the Siege, we just don't have the manpower. We need more funding and support."

It was true, and it was the simplest solution to the GCPD's problems. Money and men who ran straight were what he needed. Hill disagreed.

"We've already talked about this, haven't we, James? If you can't work with the ample resources you have now, maybe I need to find a new leader who can give me—and the deserving citizens of Gotham—results."

The threat was clear, and it made Gordon freeze in place. He didn't blink, didn't twitch as to give anything away. But Hill knew, she had to, that her threat was a good one. Gordon might be the general leading the forces in the war he couldn't see the end of, but Hill would find others to do what she asked, what she was implying. And Gordon didn't want to leave any of that in the hands of someone else.

Even after eighteen months, the only person Gordon could trust was himself.

Or, so he thought.

"With all due respect, Mayor, but you won't find anyone better than Gordon."

Gordon started, almost forgetting himself that Bullock was still in the room. He was a large man, but he knew how to be quiet when he wanted to be. Hill seemed to notice him for the first time, appraising him and arching an eyebrow.

"Is that so?" she asked, sounding bored.

"Can't clean up a city overnight. Not if you wanna do it the right way," Bullock said. He didn't look at Gordon, and he was trying very hard not to look pleasantly surprised that someone was in his corner—especially since that person had appeared to be another barrier.

He still could be.

"Hmm, yes. 'The right way'." Hill smiled, but it barely made her face shift, like it was made out of stiff clay—smooth but close to immovable. "Time is something I'm afraid you've squandered, James. I need tangible results, something to show the people that order is returning for a permanent stay in this madhouse of a city."

Gordon could hardly disagree with her—Gotham was still broken and afraid. They hadn't recovered entirely from what happened, and they wanted a strong show of how things were changing. But Gordon knew that trust would take a long time to recuperate.

Just like with almost everything else, Hill didn't agree.

"Yes, of course—"

"If you can't, then I'll find someone who will." Hill stood up, smoothing out her skirt as she kept the smile in place. She'd only been there for a few minutes, but Gordon could almost swear he felt more hairs on his head turning white. "Five weeks, James. That's all I can give you."

Hill didn't wait for a reply. Giving a posh wave with the smile still carved onto her face, she was gone as quickly as she had arrived. Gordon started to breathe again, taking off his glasses to wipe at his tired eyes.

That's not enough time.

But, somehow, Gordon would have to pull off a miracle. And, in a place like Gotham City, those just didn't happen.

"She's a right piece of work, isn't she?" Bullock said from beside him, coming closer to the desk.

Gordon sighed in agreement, now pinching the bridge of his nose as the tension headache starting at the back of his neck intensified. He was getting too tired to stay at work, and that meant he would have to go home to face Barbara. "You didn't have to say that—no need to lie on my account."

Bullock scoffed. "Wasn't lying." Gordon's head snapped up, looking at the larger man with doubt. Bullock chuckled, looking everywhere around the office except at Gordon. "Might be more stubborn than a mule and blind to reason, but that's why you have schmucks like me."

Gordon laughed for the first time in what felt like a week. "Is that what I have you for?"

Bullock grinned. "Yeah, when your head's too far up your own ass, someone's gotta tell ya where to go—feed ya some sense."

Gordon laughed again, his eyes crinkling as it transformed his face. Bullock wasn't wrong, and as much as his brain wanted to sink into a place where he could joke about the current situation, the familiar weight and pressure on his shoulders increased. He felt like he was holding up the world, and he didn't know how long he'd last until he crumbled.

But, if Bullock was an ally, then maybe Gordon wouldn't have to face it all alone on this front. He silently prayed that he was right, just for once.


His footsteps were light as he jumped across the metal shipping containers, staying low and sticking to the shadows. Batman's Tumbler was parked on the outskirts of the shipping yard, too large to manoeuvre well while remaining undetected. He had already taken out four, tying them up and placing their unconscious bodies opposite a payphone for the police to pick them up when he radioed in after taking out the others.

He was glad for the distraction, for having a clear task to set his mind to that didn't revolve around the problems without simple solutions. The sight of the empty cans of beer and wine in Miriam's apartment flashed up, the look of hurt and anger and hate on her face searing through his mind. There wasn't any method that he could think of that would make what had broken between them better. He had no way of helping Miriam, only making it worse instead, and he tried to put aside the place of ache and hurt and pain in his chest that sat next to where the memories of his parents rested.

Focus on what's in front of you. You have an objective.

Reminding himself of his mission—that's what he could hold onto. So, he did. Tenuous and shaky as it might be, that's what Batman did so that he could get through the night. Divorcing his feelings from his actions was what Ra's taught him, and it remained one of the few teachings Batman strived to embody.

Overlooking from his perch above, Batman saw eight more men below. All were carrying assault rifles—some of which were held with fingers by the triggers and others slung across their backs as they hauled large boxes out of a large red container twenty feet away. If Batman had to guess—and Batman never did that if he could help it, preferring to work with certainties instead—it was Black Mask who had his men out in force that night, and Batman needed to know why. The GCPD had a file on the happenings in the shipping yards, scant as it might be. Actually doing something about it was another matter. Corruption was still a problem bleeding through the lower ranks, worming its way back through to places Batman and Gordon still needed to uncover. And Batman knew better than anyone how busy Gordon was. He checked his sensor again.

This is where the signal is coming from. But they don't seem to be aware of it. Or, at least, they don't seem to care.

It was a very particular signature, one that usually indicated the presence of large arms with tech that required satellite feeds to go online. After what happened a year and a half ago, Batman took no chances when it came to monitoring and checking every potential anomaly coming through Gotham. But, from what he could see, nothing was in the process of being operated.

Strange.

Batman didn't need his comms to hear what the men were saying, and as he edged closer, he listened.

"Start loading it in with the rest. Boss says the crates at the back go to Burnley," said a taller man—likely an overseer—near the container. He held a clipboard, appearing to take thorough notes.

Grabbing that will certainly be helpful.

"Why there? Ain't that gangland territory?" asked another man, shorter than the overseer, sniffling constantly and rubbing his nose on the sleeve of his plaid jacket.

"That's exactly why, dipshit."

Burnley was disputed territory between Black Mask and the rising threat that was Red Hood. If it was indeed arms that they had stored away in the back of the container, Batman had to make sure it never reached its destination. The man with the clipboard would be the first person Batman would take out, but assessing the situation in its entirety was still necessary.

"Fuckin' hell, man—just askin' a question," said the smaller man, picking up another box.

"Keep it to yourself then."

The smaller man gave a withering glare but kept moving on. Shaking his head, Batman heard him utter "asshat" before continuing down a long alley between the shipping containers, heading to a boat tied to the edge of the concrete pier. Batman tried not to think too hard about the last time he had been in a shipping yard, how that had ended.

Focus on the objective and potential threats.

He snapped back to focus in time to see a line of six more men coming down to the open container. All of them were heavily armed, dressed in suits, and looking above as they kept their guns in a position where they would be ready to fire. Batman edged back, blending in with the dark.

Need to be careful. Either they need to split up or…

Or Batman could try out the electro-pulse grenade that Lucius had developed. That, coupled with a smokescreen, could give him the advantage to take them out without getting shot.

Still risky.

"Hey—Bryan. What the hell are you doin' here?" asked the overseer to the man coming out ahead of the oncoming pack.

"Making sure the shipment goes out. Got company coming." This man was broad-shouldered and tall, hair styled in a crew cut.

"Fuckin' hell—who?" asked the smaller man, wiping his nose on his sleeve. A beat of silence passed and Batman didn't miss the look levelled at the man from everyone present. Some meaning must have dawned on him because his eyes went wide in understanding. "Shit."

"Yeah. Him. Get your fat ass in gear. Got a team going after him, best not to be around when shit gets messy."

Batman narrowed his eyes. He believed he knew who they were alluding to; Black Mask only had one serious rival as competition for the reigning seat as Gotham's kingpin. Both men would be in prison if he could help it, but he had more pressing concerns. But there was no guarantee as to who they meant, and he needed confirmation—he needed to end the fight before it even began.

Jumping down, quiet except for his cape disturbing the surface of a large puddle behind him and his feet grinding against the gravel, Batman stalked along the walls. One of the new arrivals, a lanky blond man showing his nervousness by his shaking hands and wild looks around corners and at vantage points above, wandered forward. For everywhere he was looking, he wasn't checking behind him.

His vigilance wasn't enough. Batman was behind him in seconds, a hand going over the man's mouth as he kicked out his legs. His hands tore at Batman's, reaching to grab onto anything and failing because of Batman's positioning behind him. Dropping him to the ground, he found the pressure points against the man's neck that would make him pass out and squeezed, waiting until he stopped pulling at his hands and kicking out. Checking his pulse before moving on, Batman stayed low, listening for the movements of the others and planning his route.

It didn't take him long to get to the shipping container; taking out the men he encountered along his way, he silenced them before they had the opportunity to shout or fired their weapons. Batman wasn't feeling tired—rather, his blood began to hum with that familiar rush, the life that made his mind sharp.

He was adjacent to the man with the clipboard, muscles tight with energy. The man stepped in front of the container, his back to Batman as he crept up behind. It was by chance that he looked over the man's shoulder and inside where the cargo they were guarding sat in their damp boxes. It took a moment to register the blinking light of red in the corner, the pulse against his belt that told him another signal was being picked up.

But, by then, it was already too late.

Only having enough time to duck and roll to the side, attempting to grab the man and just managing to knock him down, a deafening boom! and a shower of flaming shrapnel shot out as the shipping container—and whatever was left inside it—went up in flames. The singeing heat was intense and familiar, a callback to memories that brought more pain. His cape had barely come up in time to cover his face, and he was glad for the many puddles to roll in as he put out the small fires that ate their way through his suit.

Get up. Find the one who set it off.

Jumping to his feet, Batman saw that the man he managed to knock to the ground was badly burned, his clothes melding with his skin. More memories almost made him forget where he was—and he had to remind himself that the man on the ground wasn't Harvey Dent. Checking for a pulse and finding none, he looked up to see the large plume of smoke in the distance—down the alley where the men had been taking the boxes. The small commercial boat they had been loading—it was up in flames. From where he could see, there were men on the ground, their bodies illuminated by the flames that grew higher.

Shots rang out next, powerful and loud. They were met with bursts of rapid-fire, shouted orders and screams that meant people were dying.

Abandoning the dead man on the ground, shaking off the disequilibrium ringing in his ears that made his head spin from the blast, Batman ran. Sprinting and pulling himself up, he started running across the tops of the other containers still intact, heading for where the sound of gunfire intensified.

He passed over trails of blood below him on the filthy concrete, men bleeding out on the ground as he narrowed in on the source of the shots, going fast and varying his movements to lessen the chance of being hit himself. If he had to guess what kind of gun it was by sound alone, it was a high calibre one—probably a sniper rifle—that was winning out over the semi-automatics.

By the time he got to the end of the lines of containers to where the boat was, Batman only saw the dead bodies. His vision went red, his anger taking over for the briefest of moments before he shut it down. Someone had done this on purpose, set these men up to die.

And almost killed me in the process.

It was a trap and Batman hadn't accounted for that possibility. He should have—the distractions in Bruce Wayne's life were impeding him again, putting him in danger: himself and everyone around him.

A flurry of movement caught his attention, made his focus zero in and away from the scene of carnage. Someone was running along the rooftop.

Batman didn't think.

There were only so many paths the man could take, and it looked like he was heading for the warehouse district across the yard. If he reached there before Batman intercepted him, then he was in for a long night. And he couldn't afford to have one more problem wreaking havoc in Gotham.

Shooting his grappling gun, Batman launched himself upward, clearing the edge of the rooftop and landing on his shoulder before rolling into a crouch. Batman saw all he needed to confirm who the man was and, by extension, his aims.

The man had a red hood.

It was pulled over his head, and the black and gray leather jacket blended in with the dark as he vaulted over exhaust vents, keeping Batman from examining him closely.

Batman made himself run faster.

He's quick.

Gaining on him, Batman threw a series of batarangs as he cleared the obstacles in his path, jumping high and springing off the brick outcroppings. Almost like he had eyes on the back of his head, Red Hood dodged right and somersaulted off the edge of the roof.

Not just fast—agile.

Sprinting, Batman propelled himself off the ledge, activating his cape to glide. Just when he thought he was going to tackle him to the ground, Red Hood made another feint to the left, jumping off another ledge, arms out to get his balance. The sound of glass breaking rang out in the still night air.

He's not thinking about his next move; he's just making it.

Batman was playing catch up. He needed to be faster. Better.

This man's had training.

The thought was unsettling, and he regretted not focusing more on taking down Red Hood sooner.

Prioritize. Act; don't think.

Recovering quickly, Batman followed after, diving off the edge and wrapping himself in his cape to slow the fall and protect his eyes from the glass.

He landed in a dark expanse among steel vats and pipes onto a catwalk. It shook and groaned but held his weight. Mildew and rust were the first things he smelled as his eyes adjusted, but something overtook that—something strong and familiar.

Hydrochloric acid.

They had landed in a steelwork warehouse—an old one, out of regular use. But there were clearly remnants left behind that were never disposed of. Batman made his way forward after switching his cowl to night vision, the smell growing the further in he went. Everywhere he looked, he couldn't find his target.

Faster. Can't let him get away.

He was listening for any sounds—boots crushing broken glass, shuffling against the dirt, metal creaking or even the sound of breathing. But Batman could hear nothing.

Passing over an open vat, the smell was pungent enough that it made Batman's eyes water. Rounding a corner, he heard what had been absent too late. Something heavy and hard smacked into the side of his head. It was powerful enough to knock him off his feet, make his sight go black, send a jolt of pain down his spine, and fall over the railing of the catwalk.

Batman barely managed to grab onto the platform, reeling from the blow and trying to pull himself up. A heavy boot crashed down on his fingers, digging in as Batman tried to get his sight to line up, to dispel the afterimages following his gaze with his damaged vision gear. Everything blurred together, keeping him from focusing on anything except shifting shadows. His damaged lenses turned everything into fazing static.

"You're getting slow."

The voice was artificial, deep and almost robotic. As he leaned into the light, Batman looked up into the 'face' of Red Hood, his eyes only marginally focusing on the bright crimson of the man's mask.

"Gonna have to do better than that. Was kinda hoping you'd put up a better fight."

Before he could hook a line into the metal, grab his grappling gun, Red Hood stomped on his hand and knocked away his fingers' tenuous grip. He fell, smacking into a pipe on the way down. Before he could fall into the open vat filled with what was likely acid, his stomach hit the lip of it, winding him and adding to the existing bruises along his ribs.

But he pushed through, grabbing whatever he could to keep from falling in even though he was certain at least one finger was fractured, if not outright broken. There was nowhere to go but down. He landed on his back against the cold concrete, straining to get to his feet and knowing already that Red Hood would be gone. The thought of giving chase despite the new injuries occurred to him, but then he remembered the dead men left behind.

He didn't want to, but Batman had to call it in. Just as one solution came, three new problems appeared, and he had to keep fighting alone to make sure the tide didn't become one that would swallow Gotham again. He would bounce back, but he knew there would come a day when he would be too tired to save Gotham from herself.

And he was beginning to see that day might come sooner than he'd planned for.


AN: Hey everyone! I meant to get this out sooner, but some health problems and it being a holiday weekend here in Canada (Happy Turkey Day, by the way!) has kept me from writing as much as I'd like to. I know this chapter has a lot going on, but it's all build-up for important stuff that happens later!

Thank you to everyone whose been so kind with their reviews and have been following along! I appreciate all of you, and I'll be back again in a couple of weeks ❤.

Also, another big thank you to Khaosprinz for her patience and help and to Boag for her advice!