Hello, hello, this is ShadowMajin bring on the next entry into Anonymous Void and my's Batman series. For this go around, AV didn't participate, so this is the first Batman story that only one of us has worked on. I did take quite a bit of influence from the Bruce Wayne: Murderer? storyline, so if anyone is familiar with that, then you know what's in store for Gotham's protectors. It'll be a little slow starting, I think, but things will pick up, I promise.
With that said, AV isn't just sitting on the sidelines. Next Tuesday will be his release of the latest Teen Titan story, Dawn of Generation Lost, so for a while going forward, you'll be getting two stories for the price of one.
Now, without further ado, I hope you enjoy this latest entry into the SMAV universe.
He had stood in this office a number of times. Usually it was as the right-hand man of Blackgate's warden. While Warden Zarbatos handled the big wig issues, he ran the day-to-day operations. It had worked; for a number of years it had worked.
Now he was in this office for an entirely different reason.
Lyle Bolton stood at attention. Zorbatos was seated behind her desk. Two men were seated in chairs, ones moved to one side of the Warden's desk. They must have been auditors or something. Neither one had made an introduction for themselves nor did Zorbatos do it for them.
Visible to all parties was a rolling cart, a television set on top of it. The screen was on, video footage being played. A timestamp was in the bottom right corner; because of that, Lyle knew exactly what the footage was.
The scene was of the cold storage unit, the one belonging to Inmate Fries, Victor. Currently, the mobile refrigeration unit was present, rolling away from the cell with four of his men surrounding it.
"I want to know how it was that these four men were able to get this close to Victor Fries and not raise your suspicions," Zorbatos said, glaring at the screen from her one eye, the other covered with a patch.
"All four men had proven themselves reliable," Lyle responded. Even now, those words sounded hollow.
"Clearly their performance was a trick to get close to Fries so that they could bust him out," the Warden retorted. "In all the time they were employed, how was it possible that their sympathies towards the Iceman weren't discovered? They weren't exactly keeping it quiet."
Lyle had to admit, he had overheard some of those officers' conversations. It always reflected a state of frustration, especially with their current prison population. The disrespect and hostility they faced from the inmates were constant; at some point, a man needed to vent and wondering if killing those men during their crimes was preferable.
"I had overheard them speaking of their…beliefs, but had only caulked it up to frustrations with the job," the imposing man replied.
"So you assumed," Zorbatos snapped. "That's a pretty goddamn big mistake to make and its something we can't afford in this job, Bolton."
The auditors were writing on clipboards, the scratching of their pens on paper filling the room. "And this isn't the worst of it either," the Warden added as she picked up a television remote and pressed a button. The security footage of Fries sped up, lines of static slowly rolling up the screen until the image changed completely. Zorbatos hit the play button and normal speed returned.
Lyle stared at the screen and he could already feel the collar of his shirt tightening. This cell was in the restricted area, solitary to be exact. However, the prisoner involved wasn't there for his behavior, but for the safety of the rest of the prison.
For a couple of minutes, the feed just showed an angle of the cell door, nothing more. Then a figure appeared. They were thin, disguised in a dark coat and wide-brimmed hat. One hand was raised, visibly twirling a ring of keys. The man stopped in front of the cell, rummaged through the keyring, and shoved one of the keys into the lock. With a twist, the door was opened and the man entered the room.
A few more minutes passed. Then the man exited the cell, Inmate Jones, Waylon following behind. Zorbatos hit the pause button just as the pale face of the mysterious man appeared.
"How do you explain this?" the Warden asked.
In all honestly, Lyle had no answer. He had built Blackgate's security system using the most advanced and proven methods available. He had even improved on designs. After running diagnostic after diagnostic, even hiring someone to break into the prison to see if it could be done, and he was still in the dark as to how the Joker strolled into the solitary confinement area and freed one of the most fearsome inmates they had.
Even worse was the fact the two men left without leaving a trace, their exit point still unknown.
So he remained silent, which certainly didn't help his boss' mood. "Well?" she pressed irritably. "Don't you have an answer?"
Reluctantly, Lyle shook his head. "I have run simulations of the break-in and break-out and we…I still do not know how this escape was performed."
Zorbatos simmered with anger at the answer. "That is unacceptable. It's been three months since those maniacs tore Gotham a new asshole and we still don't have any answers? Completely unacceptable."
Lyle just stood at attention. There was going to be punishment and the buck stopped with him on this one.
Zorbatos sighed, an action at odds with her irritable demeanor. "It was one thing when Bane laid siege to the prison. Blackgate wasn't designed to keep people out. It was, however, designed to keep them in. In the span of less than a week, we had an unauthorized breach and escape that didn't so much as sound an alarm, and then our own men were involved in the break-out of one of the most infamous men in Gotham. That isn't what is supposed to happen at Blackgate.
"Sergeant Lyle Bolton: you are the officer in charge of Blackgate's security system. Each and every facet of its design is yours. Because of that, you are the one that must assume responsibility."
"I understand," Lyle said, bracing himself for the expected punishment.
"Effective immediately, you will no longer be employed by Blackgate Prison."
Lyle felt as if the wind was kicked out of him. Terminated? He was terminated? He had expected a suspension, at worse without pay, but this? "You're firing me?" he asked bewilderedly.
Zorbatos nodded. She raised her hands up in front of her face, entwining her fingers together as her elbows rested on her desk, propping them up. "What we've witnessed is a level of incompetence I simply cannot have in my prison. If we do this job wrong, people are going to get hurt—hell, people have already been hurt."
"This is my first failure with you, Warden," Lyle protested. "Have I not performed well prior to these incidents?"
"You have," Zorbatos acknowledged, "but you know as well as I do that we can't afford for these incidents to happen. City Hall is calling for heads because Gotham's people are calling for theirs."
"That's not what's happening," one of the auditors interjected.
"Lipstick on a pig," Zorbatos brushed aside the protest. "I call it as I see it."
Lyle stared at the auditor. Both of them were dressed in suits—suits that were of finer material than was warranted for this meeting. "Who are you?" he questioned.
Zorbatos untangled her fingers and gestured to one of the men with a hand. "To the left is Erick Pense, Blackgate's liaison to the City Council. To the right is your Union rep, John Michaels."
"As unfortunate as this situation is," Michaels spoke up, "all of our hands are tied. It was either one man versus the entire security force here. Do not worry, we did arrange for a severance package for you."
Lyle didn't care about a severance package. All he wanted was his job, to run the best prison system in the country. These…these people were taking that from him. He could feel his anger rising.
Even worse, he knew what was going on. He was being thrown under the bus. He may have looked a brute, but he was well-versed in what it took for union members to be removed from duty. Hell, there were a number of officers that were on paid suspension, receiving paychecks to stay at home while Blackgate and the Union wrestled with termination proceedings. That this was going so quickly…
"Bolton," Zorbatos said, interrupting his inner thoughts. "Take the package and move on. That is your only move because Pense's buddies at City Hall will be gunning for blood. Either way, one person is leaving Blackgate, or everyone is."
Pressing one hand down on top of her desk, Lyle soon realized her hand was resting on a small pile of papers. She shoved them across her desk. "Sign here to acknowledge your termination." She stared directly at him with that piercing eye of hers. "And Bolton, I highly suggest you do."
Three months following the destruction of the Black Hole Generator…
"I can't believe what I'm hearing."
"Tell me about it," Barbara Gordon groused. Her fingers danced over her keyboard, her various computer monitors changing what they were displaying.
"We busted our butts for how long?" Dick was on the line and it was quite clear he felt the same way she did. "And now, when none of us are even there…"
The redhead sighed. "The Batclan becomes official."
Perhaps official wasn't the right word, but it would do for now. It was another life and another pair of legs ago that the Batclan had been formed, rejected, split apart, reformed, then broken up for what everyone thought was for good. It stood in stark contrast to the Birds of Prey, who were given begrudged acceptance and came into their own.
Perhaps it helped that an actual protege of Batman's was running things now.
It had come as a shock to her when she heard it. Out of nowhere, Batgirl went to Bluebird and Spoiler and recruited them to restart the old group. To Harper and Stephanie's credit, they had kept it on the downlow until Barbara had decided to check on them, see how they were doing. It had been an innocent comment that would have been overlooked, but had set off alarms in Barbara's head. A little investigating later and…
…well, let's just say it had been a sour pill to learn of it.
"This is freaking bullshit," Dick muttered.
Yeah, it felt like that.
"There's not much we can do about it," Barbara said, her typing slowing down as she muddled with her own feelings about it. "It's not like we can sue for copyright infringement or anything."
"The least they could do is change the name."
"Would it hurt any less if they did?"
Silence. "What is it they have that we don't?"
Why did it feel like she was protecting this reformation? She didn't like it, even if they were the facts. "Probably a Batgirl that was trained by Batman himself and not someone just calling themselves that."
Again, silence. "Aside from that."
Barbara shrugged her shoulders. "Why are you complaining? You were included in that Network reunion when Luthor was making himself a nuisance. I was the one left behind in Gotham. In a roundabout way, you could say Batman recruiting you for that shows his acceptance."
"All it took was for me to move to a different city. Isn't that funny? We all found some sort of acceptance when we couldn't be in the Batclan any longer."
Huh, now wasn't that irony. With Dick in Bludhaven, Tim on the West Coast, and her behind a computer…in a wheelchair…all the original members couldn't enjoy being finally approved by the Bat, that glory instead going to two teenage girls that were literally dumped into their laps.
It was almost absurd if it wasn't so completely unfair.
Apparently, she had been quiet for awhile as Dick suddenly asked, "Have you heard how they're doing?"
Hmmm, now that she thought about it, even though the Batclan was revived, she hadn't heard of any cases they were on. There had been little to no activity on their part, which was strange. Harper and Stephanie had been chomping on the bit to get back into costume not that long ago, so for them to not be reporting busting heads was odd.
She wondered what they were up to.
A fist raised up along with the open palm of the other hand. Each moved to each other, the fist pressing into the palm. The same gesture was performed by two others.
The three girls bowed, the sign this session was to begin. Each of them wore a cotton gi, white belts on each of them. Though the color of the belts normally indicated their rank and progress through the journey of martial arts, in this case it was all they could get their hands on from a local gym. In that respect, the belts were not signifying that they were equals.
Trust her father to cut a corner somewhere.
Cassandra calmly gazed at her students, Harper Row and Stephanie Brown. Their gis were ill-fitting, or so they complained. She didn't really understand the explanation, but it had something to do with the cut of the gi? Maybe? She wasn't entirely sure.
Honestly, they should be more concerned with their hair, or so she thought. In a fight, there were no rules aside from not getting killed. Grabbing a fistful of hair could change the dynamic of a fight at the wrong time. Harper's blue hair was spiked upward with some sort of hair product; Stephanie had her blonde hair in a ponytail.
As for Cassandra, her shoulder-length black hair was pulled back into a bun behind her head. Unlike the other two, she had a domino mask on her face. Why the other two didn't wear one, she wasn't certain. It seemed wrong to her.
Pulling her hands apart, she made fists with both of them and held them at her sides, her students copying her stance. Then she threw a fist, receiving mirrored responses. Then she threw her other fist, drawing her first one back to her side, hovering by her hip.
Next she took a step forward, throwing another punch with the fist of the same side, drawing back her other arm. With her extended arm, she slashed it downward to perform a low block, turning her body in the same direction. Her other arm raised up, performing a high block, then was followed by a step forward and another punch.
This was a warm-up kata, something the three of them performed before the start of each training session. It was a combination of steps, punches, and blocks, finished with a kick. They had been slowly adding to it over their time here, where it had started as a minute exercise that now lasted well over three minutes.
As for where here was, it was what her father called a refurbished grain silo. At one time in Gotham's ancient history, it had been a small village with farms as far as the eye could see. This silo had been part of that landscape, only to fall into disrepair, buried, and then forgotten. It had been rediscovered during the construction of a subway line, causing the subway to alter its plan as the city didn't feel like tearing it apart…or something like that.
From the ceiling hung metal chains. A catwalk circled around it, forming a second level where a large supercomputer was placed. The bottom level was where Cassandra and the girls were, a mess of practice mats, punching dummies, and several cases of supplies stacked against a wall.
It was their BatCave, or so the girls had been calling it.
It lacked the feel that the original had. It wasn't as imposing for one. It didn't feel like home either. But seeing as this was their base of operations, it would have to grow on her.
As their kata came to an end, they finished it with a front kick, their feet slamming down on the mat with a thud that echoed throughout the BatCave. Cassandra held this pose, her eyes staring at Harper and Stephanie, who watched her like a hawk. They couldn't move into the final stance until she did.
Some days she did it quickly, others she waited to test their patience.
Today, she did not feel like torturing them.
Sliding her leg back, Cassandra stood up straight and raised her hands up, fist meeting with open palm. Her students quickly copied her stance. As one, they bowed to each other.
"Now that the preliminaries are done," Harper said, "mind telling us what torture you want to put us under today?"
Cassandra answered that by taking a seat on the mat, crossing her legs in front of her. She placed her hands on her bent knees and looked expectantly at her students.
"More meditation," the blue-haired girl muttered as she followed suit. "Can I ask you something and you actually answer me truthfully?"
"Truthfully?" Cassandra repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"You know what I mean. Don't give me that coy look you do before you invent some new training exercise that makes us question our very existence. My legs are still killing me from that marathon wall squat you had us do."
Stephanie shuddered upon hearing that.
Cassandra had to hide the smile at that memory. She had the girls press their backs against a wall and squat, holding that position for well longer than she probably should have. The complaining she heard from them had been hysterical.
"Would you prefer planking instead?" she asked.
Both Harper and Stephanie shot their hands up, gesturing for her to stop. "No!" they both cried out. "Just…no…" the former trailed off.
"We just want to know when we'll be out on the streets," Stephanie then said, picking up from her partner-in-crime. "I know you said training comes first, but it's been months now."
"A lot longer than that," Harper groused.
"We will do patrol when I feel we are ready," Cassandra answered simply.
"And when will that be?" Harper pressed. "You keep saying that and we're no closer to doing what we actually set out to do."
"When you can last longer than a minute in a spar."
Both of her students grimaced upon hearing those words. The spar in question was the two of them fighting against her. The first time had gone…poorly, to say the least. Improvement had been noticeable, but they were a long way from that.
"C'mon, you know we're good," the blue-haired girl began to wheedle. "You wouldn't have joined us if you didn't think so. We have to be good enough by now."
"Good…perhaps." An old memory popped into Cassandra's head, and she refused to see the irony as she continued, "But good isn't good enough. Good isn't enough against the worst Gotham has to offer. We must be better."
"I don't think we're going to be fighting people like the Joker and the Iceman," Stephanie pointed out. "We're primarily going after low-level thugs, aren't we?"
Cassandra glanced to the blonde. "Batman started against low-level thugs. Now look at who he fights."
Stephanie stared at her for a moment. Then, "Good point."
"He also wasn't planning to fight people like that when he started too. They didn't exist then; they do now. So we need to be ready to fight them. We can't just say they are too much for us, not when they are threatening innocent people."
"Alright, alright!" Harper exploded, her shoulder sagging. She then propped an arm on her knee, her hand pressed into her cheek. "I get it, we get it. It's just frustrating to be locked away when we could actually be doing something positive."
"I am doing exactly what Batman did to me when I trained under him," the dark-haired girl told them. "Safety is our first objective."
"Didn't you just pop up out of nowhere?" Stephanie asked. "I mean, one day you were just with him on patrol, and you were kicking all kinds of butt."
"And then he grounded me to relearn the basics," Cassandra replied. "I know what you are going through, but it is for the best."
Harper had been looking away from her, perhaps pouting. Her eyes now turned back to her. "Is that why you came to our dojo back then?"
Cassandra wasn't sure what that meant. "Back then?
"Yeah." The blue-haired girl dropped her hand from her face, maneuvering her arm so that she could place the hand on her knee. "We were training with Nightwing and you showed up out of the blue and kicked our collective asses." A smile bloomed on her face. "I kinda liked it when you wiped Jason's ass all over the mat."
Cassandra vaguely recalled that. As she remembered it, it was the moment she realized her father's unfair rules were working, she just hadn't seen any progress.
"That's right," Stephanie chimed in. "And we saw your face then too. So…why do you keep a mask on now?"
Oh…crap. Cassandra felt her stomach sinking. They had already seen her face. How had she forgotten that? No wonder they had been giving her odd looks…
"Yeah, we're all friends here," Harper added. She leaned back, placing her hands on the mat behind her, holding herself up that way. "I think it would go a long way to show your trust if you took that thing off."
Cassandra frowned at this. She could understand the argument, but something in her felt wrong for not keeping her identity secret. Yet, these two had clearly explained that the effort was useless. They had their own identities, so it wasn't like they were going to spill the beans or anything.
Hesitantly, she raised a hand up. Her fingers gripped onto the domino mask where it rested on her nose. Why did this feel so wrong? With reluctance, she took it off.
"There, much better," Harper approved, Stephanie offering a friendly smile. "How does it feel?"
"I don't like it," Cassandra deadpanned. "I feel naked."
"I think you've been wearing a mask for too long."
"It'll take awhile to get used to it," Stephanie said reassuringly.
Cassandra couldn't help but squirm. "Can…can we do the meditation now?"
Harper sent her a cheeky smile. "When we're making actual progress? No, I don't think we can."
The dark-haired girl gave her impetuous student a sour look. "Would you prefer we spar then? I have the need to hit someone hard."
The look vanished from Harper's face. "I think we can meditate now."
Bruce stared at the glass. He didn't imbibe all that often, personal preference, and alcohol didn't help his performance at night. However, there were times in which it was warranted.
Like in a bar.
As a Wayne, he didn't frequent places like this. There were places much more comfortable to enjoy oneself. This place was just one step short of being a dive, a place he would have seen wearing a mask, not to mention punching a few teeth out. Why he was here, well, it wasn't his idea.
The glass wasn't clean. It looked as if it had been through a quick rinse and dry before its current use. Picking it up with one hand, he maneuvered the glass so that its bottom rested in his palm, his fingers pressed on the sides. He held it up at eye level, staring into the amber liquid within. The dim light gave it a glow, a nice one, but the glass…nearly ruined it.
Did he want to drink this?
A sharp thud diverted his attention down to the bar. A tablet that clearly didn't belong in this hazy dive bar was placed just to his left. The screen was on, displaying a news article.
"Don't say I never did anything nice for you."
Bruce turned his head to find Vesper Fairchild giving him a coy smirk. Her auburn locks framed her face nicely, flowing over the fluffy collar of her overcoat.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Read it," she told him.
Bruce lowered his class to the wooden bartop. He then picked up the tablet and glanced at the text. Wayne Enterprises…charity gala…large donation…children's hospital…praise…more praise…need more money…
It seemed Vesper was being true to her word after their dustup during her radio show. Reading the article, he didn't see anything too outlandish. There was definitely a sense of urgency for more people—i.e. Gotham's wealthy—to raise more funds for the just cause his company was donating to.
"Well done," he finally said before he set the tablet down.
Vesper joined him on the stool next to him. "I want you to know I hate writing puff pieces like that." She turned her upper body so that she was facing him. She leaned against the bar, an elbow on the bar with her head resting in her hand. Despite her words, her humor never left.
"But it's for a good cause," the dark-haired man said, absently reaching for his untouched drink. Perhaps he could muster the courage to take a sip.
"Oh, certainly. The problem is that these pieces get buried in favor of tragedy, sorrow, and political blustering. Most of the time, all three."
"Well, they don't report all of the safe landings airplanes make."
"Point." Vesper spun around on her stool to face the bar. "So what's good here?"
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You were the one to suggest this place."
"And you are a connoisseur of alcohol, if your reputation is anything to go by." She glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "I, on the other hand, am inexperienced outside of a plethora of wine."
"I'm certain they have a wine list—not a long one, but a bottle or two."
"Then I shall sample their stock and go from there."
Finally mustering the courage, Bruce raised his glass, blatantly trying not to look at it lest he lose his nerve, and downed his entire drink. There was a bitter burn that ran down his throat, causing him to wince, slamming his glass down on the bar.
"That didn't look like it tasted good."
"Most whiskey doesn't," he retorted.
"Isn't it strange? There isn't anything to account for taste when it comes to alcohol, yet we spend so much money trying to destroy our livers. If that doesn't speak to some psychosis, I don't know what does."
"Perhaps that should be the subject of your next puff piece."
Vesper shot him an annoyed look. "Alright, this makes us even, doesn't it? I'm starting to get a reputation for being in your pocket."
Bruce shrugged his shoulders, raising a hand to flag the bartender. "Most women don't complain about that part."
"I'm pretty certain that's because they're in your pants rather than the pocket."
"You act like there's a difference."
"Perhaps the old you," she countered. "You're now an upstanding man of society now. Not much time for your late-night exploits as you once did. The price of running a multi-billion-dollar company no doubt."
Hmm, that was a point in her favor. He hadn't been going on too many dates; in fact, it probably had been a couple years. He was going to have to fix that before too long.
When he didn't answer her, Vesper continued, "It also has to have something to do with today's socialite not understanding your responsibilities when you could be out partying, dropping a cool million dollars on them, showering them with gifts…" She trailed off. "Does that speak to their vapidity, or is that a reflection of our society?"
"Were you going somewhere with this?" Bruce asked.
"All I'm saying is that there are very few women out there that would understand that you can't spend every waking moment with them. It's those women that would be compatible with the current you." Vesper raised a hand up to brush some strands of her hair away from her face. "And with all of the research I've had to do on your company, I have come to understand this."
Bruce turned his head to look at her just as the bartender showed up. "A couple glasses of wine," he quickly ordered.
"Which one?" the barkeep grunted.
"Whatever's red."
The man walked off. "So what are you trying to say?" Bruce inquired. "Are you wanting a date?"
"All I'm saying is that I know you're not always available, so I won't get offended if something comes up last minute."
Bruce continued to stare at the auburn-haired woman. Perhaps it was the booze talking, but he really couldn't see a reason to say no. "What the hell, I'm game."
Vesper actually snapped her head towards him. "Really? You sure?"
"I'm certain I have some charity gala coming up that I'm dateless. I can take you if that's what you want."
A smirk appeared on her face. "You have my number; call me with the details."
At that point, the bartender returned, placing two glasses of red wine in front of them. Thankfully, these glasses were cleaner than the liquor glass he had been studying for far too long. They both picked up their glass and clinked them against each other. "Here's to the start of a beautiful partnership," Vesper said.
"I don't think that's the quote," Bruce pointed out.
"In this day and age, relationships are so passé."