Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The best thing about being The Spoiler is –

Actually, there really isn't just one thing. There's, like, at least five things that are the best and a dozen more that are still pretty awesome.

Among the top five are the feeling of creeping over the city at night where no one can see her, the looks on guys faces when they realise she's lurking above them, the moment after that moment when everyone panics and she can disappear back into the darkness with a laugh and a smoke-bomb, and the sheer thrill of coming out on top at the end, knowing that the world is a slightly better place because of it.

But the best part has got to be doing it as a team. Sure, no lie, first putting on the hood and taking to the rooftops had been brilliant. As guilty as she'd felt about enjoying something as serious as ruining her dad's evil schemes, the truth was it had been exciting. In a way that nothing else in her life ever had been before. So when that guilt was taken away, after she and Batman took the Cluemaster down once and for all, and The Spoiler got to join with the rest of the clan –

No, that makes it sound like it's just the thrill. It's not. It's being part of something. It's knowing that there will always be someone who's got her back, that there will always be another shadow moving alongside her. It's being able to rely on other people, who'll help her without being asked. It's being able to back them up when they most need it. It's the laughter in the night, the rush of running as a pack, the feel of a hand gripped mid-climb.

The best thing about being The Spoiler is that she's never alone.

“Two guards on the east entrance.” Tim's voice is taut. Stephanie can picture the eagle-eyed stare he'll be aiming out of whatever hiding place he's found, that laser focus that he's so good at. “Pistols.”

“I got one guy with a semi-automatic.” Jason, almost drawling, like this is the most boring thing in the world.

“No flamethrower gloves?” Stephanie asks, unable to help a grin.

“How about you go down and find out?”

“Focus.” Just one word from Batman and she’s snapping back to the job at hand. Stephanie can't see the others but she knows they are too. That’s how The Batman Effect works.

“I'm seeing four guys, two with rifles,” she reports, “I think that's Piggy Johnson down there. He's not got a weapon out.”

And why would he? As far as he knows, this is just another secret arms delivery, pre-paid through lots of complicated back channels and all packaged up for distribution to whichever gangs raked it in this week. It's basically click-and-collect. That's another great thing HammerTech's doing for Gotham: bringing urban arms-dealing into the modern age.

“There's a truck approaching,” Tim breathes, “Plain grey, unmarked. Newer model than the last run. The guards are opening the gate.”

“Get ready,” Batman orders.

Leaning forward on her perch, Stephanie can see the headlights coming into view. Piggy and his boys turn to watch the truck’s approach. No doubt their hearts are all a-flutter at the thought of what ol' Hammer Claus has sent them this week.

The truck pulls sharply into the stretch of floodlit concrete between two stacks of shipping crates, where it’ll be safely hidden from prying eyes. Well, any prying eyes that aren't lurking in the cranes and the eaves of the warehouses all around. But, whatever, no one on the street or out in the harbour is going to be seeing what goes down tonight.

Piggy waves his arm about like he's some kind of military commander. The mooks saunter around to the back of the truck, body-language screaming indifference. The passenger door opens and another man hops out, crossing to Piggy at an easy swagger.

“Red.” Batman again, sharper now. “Take out the perimeter guard. Quietly. Robin. Spikes across the road as soon as the noise starts. Do not engage the guards.”

Piggy's people are hauling the back of the truck open. The man himself has put his head together with the passenger. They make no move to help the other guys with the heavy boxes.

“Spoiler. Noise.”

OK. Time to go to work. Breathe and think. Stephanie eases three bomblets from her belt and holds them ready in her right hand. Then she flicks the switch on the back of her glove.

The screamer had been her idea. Tim helped her build it and she handled the programming. It's a variation on something the Cluemaster once used to broadcast his ransom demands to the city at large: basically, it hijacks any phones in a set radius, slaving them to a single transmission. Dear old dad just used it to monologue at everyone. This version, on the other hand, does something a lot smarter.

The four men twitch when their phones start buzzing. They realise a second later that it's all of them and look around, slack-jawed. Piggy's the first to actually answer, closely followed by his new best pal. There's a second of nothing happening, that beat of silence you really need to get someone to listen closely –

And then the phones pump out an ear-splittingly high-pitched whine at the max volume their little speakers will allow.

Piggy actually falls over, clutching at his head. The passenger flings his phone away hard. At exactly the same time it hits the side of a shipping container, when the two mooks have just started to rush over to see what's going on, she lets the bomblets fly.

Black smoke billows up in the middle of the quartet. They all start shouting and coughing, drowning out the tone that is still screeching from Piggy's phone.

In Stephanie's ear, rapid thumps announce that Jason just took out his target and the soft clink of metal on asphalt tells her that Tim's got the spikes down across the road. Perfect timing.

Batman drops on Piggy and his guys like –

Well, like Batman.

He's everywhere at once, a blur, boiling out of the smoke and landing bone-shaking punches. The guns clatter to the ground. One guy, then the other drops after them. Piggy squawks as a kick flips him on to his back. The passenger decides the smartest thing to do about all this is lunge at Batman with a knife. The truck driver decides to start the engine. That dude is definitely the smarter of the two.

Not that it helps.

Using knife-man as a springboard, Batman rockets in through the passenger door and out the other side with the driver in his grip. They smash against a container and only Batman gets up again.

Looks like they don’t need those spikes after all.

Speaking of . . . Stephanie twists to look across the yard. No sign of the two guards running in. “Hey, Robin? You still got company over there?”

“Yep. Looks like they're debating the pros and cons of chasing a strange noise into a dockyard in the middle of the night.”

“Huh. They’ve seen that movie too.”

“Seems like – uh oh. Horror buffs coming your way.”

Stephanie reaches for more bomblets. Down below, Batman is the last man standing. Everyone else is moaning on the floor, trussed up in zip-ties. That's the way it goes. Sometimes it feels like the rest of them are just there to watch his back. Sometimes it feels like he's taking all the danger on himself.

But the Spoiler doesn't just stick to the sidelines. “I'll cut them off. Going high.”

“Watch your footing,” Batman orders, a bigger warning behind his words.

Stephanie is already moving, padding quickly along the gantry to the point where she can jump easily to a nearby stack of containers, one that'll put her in the ideal position to blind the gate guards. Above the sounds of her own movement, she catches the distant whine of a jet engine. Which, she notes vaguely, is funny because they're on the other side of the city from the airport. Maybe Iron Man's flying tonight?

Her muscles sing and she launches herself from the guardrail. There's a second of exhilaration, the wind rushing in her ears, nothing under her but air. Then her feet touch the top of the container and she's rolling with the landing, coming up at the far end with the bomblets held ready to throw. She just has to fix a bead on the thugs and –

There's just one second for her to wonder why the air is still howling.

Something hits her hard between the shoulder blades. Two vices lock around her upper arms and lift her into the sky on a scream of turbines. She can't breathe. She tries to struggle but that just makes the talons bite harder and already the ground is too far below her for a safe landing. She twists, trying to get a look at what has her in its grip and all she can see are wings, huge and dark, stretching out behind her.

The world jerks. The engine noise changes suddenly, painfully. In the second before they pitch downwards, Stephanie looks down to see a thin black line cutting across the glow of the floodlights. A grappling hook! It seems to be tangled around the wing on her left and –

The ground rushes up towards them. She can feel the jets trying to pull up. A boot kicks the back of her leg, a toecap landing with bruising force. They start to turn over again –

BAM.

They skid along concrete. One of the claws lets go. Something snaps close to Stephanie's ear. Brain-splitting pain bursts in her head like a popped balloon. She barely registers the skin on her arm ripping. Her foot bends.

The great screaming bird comes down heavily on top of her only to lift away again almost at once. The other claw goes with it and she flops like a beached dolphin. Her body feels like jelly.

There's another burst of howling, a wash of hot air and a bust of gunfire. Stephanie squeezes her eyes tight shut, not wanting to feel what comes next. Then the shooting recedes like a runaway popcorn stand and while the bullets zing and ping in all directions, the engine wavers, swoops then shoots up. In seconds it's just a whine in the distance, no trouble to anyone.

Everything hurts and the city seems to be spinning and she's pretty sure she's ruined another cape. Her head pounds and her heart is trying to get out of her chest and she tries to roll over but nothing seems to do what she tells it and there's a firm, gentle hand on her stinging shoulder and a voice at her ear telling her to stay still, that she's hurt but they've got her.

“We've got you Spoiler. We'll get you home.”

And all she can think is that the best thing about being The Spoiler is that The Batman knows her name.

Tim feels completely useless. He's standing there, still in his fighting clothes, mask pinched between limp fingers, watching Alfred shine a light in Steph's unfocused eyes, and there doesn't seem to be a damn thing he can practically do.

It isn't a way he likes feeling. Timothy Drake is not a helpless person. Ever. There's always something to be done, some way he can use his mind or his body to deal with the problems in front of him. Even if you don't get the solution you want, nothing is inherently unsolvable. It's a maxim he lives by. And one that's falling to pieces in the face of a concussed and injured friend.

In his mind, he keeps seeing her dragged through the air by that weird winged figure, lit from below, her cape flapping madly in the down-draft. If Batman and Red hadn't managed to snag them with a grappling hook, if they had come down that bit harder . . .

He can't help thinking about the worst possible outcomes. Major brain injury. Spinal trauma. Shattered bones and destroyed nerves and internal bleeding. How fast was she going when she struck the ground? How heavy had that jet-pack been? What were the angles of the impact? He can't remember clearly. It all happened so fast. It has become a series of images, seared into his brain without the connecting tissue to join them into a sane narrative. He cannot make sense of it, the flying man who swooped down and carried Steph off into the sky, Batman and Red jumping into action, grappling hooks swinging, then the awful sound as Spoiler and the jet-pack crashed to earth in a mass of flailing arms and flapping wings –

“Master Timothy.”

Alfred's tone is cool, business-like. He's right in front of Tim, who somehow managed to miss the part where he left Steph's bedside. “Miss Stephanie has a concussion and a severely twisted ankle, as well as a great many cuts and bruises. She is not in any immediate danger, however I would prefer that she not be left alone at the moment. Please keep her company while I check Master Bruce and Master Jason have sufficiently attended to any injuries of their own.”

“Y-yes, of course.”

“Thank you.”

PG Wodehouse described Jeeves as moving about on casters and Tim sometimes thinks that there's something of that about Alfred. He glides about almost soundlessly, leaving calmness and order in his wake. And the burning desire in everyone he passes to fit themselves promptly into that order without complaint. No one likes the thought that they've let Alfred down.

The thought that Tim has let Steph down fills his head as he walks up to her bedside. He'd hung back when she was up in the air, like he always does, trying to work out exactly what was going on before he took action. And this time, that had meant not doing anything to help. Bruce and Jason had leapt into action and Tim had just . . . stood there. Useless.

He sits down slowly beside Steph, who smiles at him with slightly unfocussed eyes. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself,” she says back, “How're you doing?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“Yeah, but I'm all floatie. You look miserable. Also, I asked first.”

“I . . . I'm fine. I'm upset that you got hurt.”

“Only when I laugh. So don't tell anything funny.” Steph giggles and winces. “Did I really just fight a giant bird-man?”

“It . . . was something like that. A jet-pack of some sort. Crazy advanced, given how it was moving.”

“I think something broke off when . . . you know, wham. Maybe it was important?”

“Yeah, you –” Tim stops himself from completing the sentence. Telling Steph she already said that same thing three times at the docks was not going to help anyone. “You're right. I picked up the bits so we could study them.”

“Smart guy. You're totally Donnie.”

He blinks rapidly, trying to work out if this is a factual statement or concussion-induced nonsense. “What?”

With a grin, she prods him in the chest. “You're Donnie. Like, we're the Ninja Turtles and you're totally Donnie. You're smart and you've got the staff and everything.”

“Oh, right. Obviously. That'd . . . make Jason, Raphael, I guess?”

“He is red and angry. He’d be stabby too but he’s not allowed sharp objects.”

“Who’s Leo then?”

“Well, Dick’s costume’s got blue on it . . . and he is the oldest.”

“Is Leo older than the others?”

“I dunno. I think they’re supposed to be the same age. How do you tell with turtles?”

“How do you tell with mutant ninja turtles?”

“Good point. Huh. I dunno, maybe Cassie would be better as Leo. She’s the best fighter. And the best ninja.”

“That is true.”

“Oo, oo, I want to be Mikey! Can I be Mikey?”

“I think asking that means you’ve answered your own question.”

“Question? Oh yeah . . . that was a question . . . huh . . . ?”

Steph yawns enormously and her head flops back against the pillow. Her eyes flutter shut for a few seconds, then a few seconds more. Her breathing is becoming deeper, but it's still regular so Tim's not especially worried. He opens his mouth to say something – soothing? Apologetic? He's not sure and once again, he feels completely at sea, knowing there are things that need to be done without the first clue how to do them. This is not how it's supposed to be, he thinks bitterly. They're not supposed to get blind-sided like this –

“Yo, squirt.” A hand lands heavily on his shoulder and he looks up to see a solemn-faced Jason. “Dad wants you to look at that junk you brought home. I'll sit with Blondie.”

“Hey . . .” Steph protests weakly, “I heard that . . . Carrot-top . . .”

“OK.” Tim gets up,

Jason leans in slightly to peer into his face. “Though maybe you want to go clean up and get a mug of coffee first or something.”

“Yeah . . . that'd be nice.”

But right now, Batman is waiting and that puts everything else on hold.

The analysis bench is on the level down from the infirmary. Gotham architects never did anything by halves and the vaulted chamber is tall enough to fit in pretty much everything they need. Tim's boots thump on the steps that go from what should have been a waiting-room across to the brightly-lit platform built on stilts above, well, the actual station platform. It's a well-equipped lab, kept sterile in an enclosure of plastic panels.

Batman is standing with his arms folded, looking down at the little collection spread out before him. Surprisingly, he is alone in there. Tim would have expected this to be a golden opportunity for Eddie to show off how clever is. He's not let a single chance go by yet.

“Alfred insisted that Eddie be given the chance to sleep,” Batman says, probably not actually reading Tim's mind, “I want you to take a closer look at these things before you do the same. Did you get a chance to study them on the way back?”

Stepping closer to the bench, Tim shrugs. “A little.” It's not a great deal of evidence to be going on. A few scraps of metal, purpose unrecognisable now they were no longer part of a whole. A panel made of some sort of carbon fibre composite, the covering for part of a wing, maybe? And a heavy plastic/rubber band, wide enough to fit around someone's wrist, wires trailing from one side and a ragged gash breaking the strap.

He picks up the band, turning it over in his hands so he can see the joins on the inside. “This looks like it'd be the most useful. I think we can open this up and take a look inside to see if there's any traceable components. If it's meant to be networked to something, we might be able to connect to it as well. Were there any fingerprints?”

Batman shakes his head, moving aside to let Tim sit down. “There's nothing but a few smears of grease that could have come from any hardware store in the city. No logos or serial numbers on these pieces either.”

“I suppose we can at least guess that the person using the jet-pack is working for the Penguin.”

“It's a starting hypothesis.”

It takes just a couple of minutes studying the band under the big magnifying lens to determine that dismantling it is not the way to go. The circuitry inside is just too delicate and too tightly packed to take apart safely, and since just staring at the little he can see doesn't immediately reveal what the thing is for, he moves on to hooking it into one of their sacrificial laptops.

The world narrows as he works, the task at hand pushing any other thoughts or feelings safely out of the way. He's aware of Batman working at the microscope off to his left – other than that, there's nothing but the softly glowing screen and the sense that for the first time that night, he's doing something helpful.

“Ahem.”

Tim starts at the cough. So does Batman. They look around together to see Alfred standing right behind them.

“It is nearly four o'clock in the morning,” he says sternly, “Miss Stephanie and Master Jason are soundly asleep. The assorted weapons you recovered from Mr Cobblepot's latest purchase have been disposed of as instructed. Might I enquire if either of you have made sufficient progress that you feel you should not follow their example?”

Suddenly deprived of electronic stimulus, Tim feels his eyelids begin to fall. He turns back to the screen only to slump with disappointment. “It can send and receive signals, there's a whole lot of sensors I can ping but . . . I haven't got anything out of it that tells us where it came from. I mean, the jet-pack's got to be Stark or HammerTech and this has got to be something to do with monitoring the pilot but there isn't anything here to really narrow it down more than that. Maybe there's something in the files Eddie stole from Hammer. We could search through them see if we can get a match but I don't know how long that'd take. There definitely isn't anything in there headed 'jet-pack project'. And even if there were, I don't know what good that does us –”

“Tim.” Batman fixes him with a serious stare. “Go home. Get some rest. We can come back to this tomorrow.”

The way he says it, Tim is pretty damn sure he has no intention of stopping his own investigations. That almost makes arguing the moral thing to do. However, arguing with the Batman is one thing. Arguing with Alfred is quite another, and Tim knows he's not about to win this, especially with his own body turning traitor and deciding that feeling tired is the in thing.

He pushes himself upright. “Yeah, sure. There are a few more things I can try tomorrow.”

“I believe the correct phrase is, 'later today'. Come along, young man. I'll drive you home.”

“Can I look in on Steph before we go.”

“Of course. Master Bruce, I'm sure that I will find you still hunched over that microscope when I return but on the off chance that it will tempt you out, I have laid out your customary early-morning repast in the kitchen.”

“Thanks Alfred. I think I'll head straight up there.”

Tim stumbles mid-step. Alfred raises an eyebrow in shock. Batman looks between them and snorts softly. “I've got an idea for how we might be able to find out where this came from that bit more quickly and it's going to mean looking my best.”

“Bruce!” Her smile is warm and genuine and she hurries across the foyer in a chatter of high-powered heels. If she had been anyone else, the speed might have made her look flustered. But this is Pepper Potts so instead it simply looks like she is moving exactly as fast as she needs to and it’s the rest of the world that is going too slow.

Bruce Wayne grips the hand she offers. “It’s been too long.”

“Always seems that way. But what are you doing here? I didn’t think we had anything scheduled.” There’s an edge to this statement that could only come from the person who has the final word on what does or does not go into the schedule. “Are we behind on our contributions to the Foundation?”

“No, absolutely not! Trust me, I’d have let you know I was coming if it was that serious. No, actually . . . I was hoping to get Tony’s help with something.”

Pepper steps back and gives him a long, hard look. When she is finally satisfied that he isn’t an imposter or a pod-person, she gestures towards the elevators with the air of a woman who sees pigs fly every other Tuesday. “He’s up in the workshop on one of his ‘my latest obsession is ten times more important than running my company’ play-days. If you can break him away from that long enough that he forgets what he was doing and I can nab him for some actual work, you’ll be doing me a favour.”

Bruce grins. “Always happy to help.”

“How’s the family?” she asks as the elevator doors close.

“Fine. Dick’s swamped with college work, so it feels like I haven’t seen much of him recently. Cassie and Jason are both well. Cabin fever might be setting in now summer break’s starting to drag but I’ve got a few things on that’ll get them out of the house.”

“There are times when I wonder if you didn’t adopt those kids just to have your own private army to help out with the good work.”

“Hah! No, just a happy coincidence. What about you? How are things here?”

A shadow or two pass over Pepper’s face. “Oh, you know. Superheroics and Tony-wrangling. The usual. At least no one's tried to blow us up or drop me off a building this week.”

“Ah.”

“Oh, no sympathy please. If I couldn't handle a little collateral damage, I'd have left years ago. And speaking of leaving, what happened between you and the lovely Miss Vale? She was here for a product launch last month and looked murderous when I asked how you were.”

“There were . . . things said about keeping appointments and placing the work above maintaining a relationship.” Shuffling his feet, Bruce clears his throat to cover an unexpected flush of guilt. “Vicky deserves someone who’ll put her first more than once in a while.”

“Her words?”

“More or less.”

The elevator chimes to a stop and the doors swish open to let in a waft of ozone, burning plastic and dead coffee. Not unfamiliar smells, just unusually intense. Which can also be said of the music, an obnoxious kind of heavy metal that would rattle teeth at a reasonable volume and currently constitutes a kind of sustained sonic attack. Pepper throws back her head and bawls at the ceiling. “JARVIS! CANCEL ROCK OUT PROTOCOL!”

The music cuts out with a comedy record scratch.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Ms Potts,” says a cool, disembodied voice from hidden speakers that Bruce has never yet been able to locate, “Mr Stark is in the Hall of Armour.”

“Of course he is,” Pepper mutters.

The gently sloping corridor widens quickly into a sweeping lounge with panoramic views over Gotham on one side and windows on the heart of Tony’s empire on the other. Bruce glimpses a constellation of lights and gleaming surfaces, and walls lined with crimson and gold.

Pepper ushers him through the lounge and down a flight of steps. There is another glass wall at the bottom, this one containing a door. She knocks, waits a few seconds, then pushes to no effect. “JARVIS . . .”

“Mr Stark expressed a wish not to be disturbed by – I quote – 'any of that corporate garbage that Pepper’s always trying to push on me.'” The voice hesitates then adds, “So if you don’t have any of that, I would be happy to open the door for you.”

“I definitely don’t have any garbage here,” Pepper agrees, brandishing her Stark-Pad menacingly, “Also, Mr Stark has a guest.”

“Then please step this way. Good morning, Mr Wayne.”

“Good morning to you too, JARVIS.”

The door swings open of its own accord. The smells of a genius playboy billionaire at work triple in intensity.

The Hall of Armour is a huge, slightly conical chamber packed full of steel and glass. Bruce cannot help but wonder what Tony was planning on using the space for before he invented functional superheroism. Most of the room is given over to heavy-duty workbenches, a truly mind-boggling array of industrial equipment and more computer screens than can be strictly healthy. Around the walls, heavy-duty metal boxes stand open to show off the suits of armour inside. There are more of them than Bruce realised.

They find the Iron Man himself hunched at one of the workbenches, a soldering iron in one hand and a half-dismantled pauldron in the other. He looks up at their approach and his eyes fix on Pepper in an irritated squint. He puts the soldering iron down and yanks headphones from his ears. “I thought I said I didn’t want to be disturbed. JARVIS! I said I wasn’t to be disturbed!”

“Ms Potts said she didn’t have any corporate garbage with her.”

“And you –” Tony redirects his glare at a monitor on the end of the bench. “I definitely made you smart enough to see through that kind of cheap trick, so this is collusion, pure and simple.”

“Trust me,” Pepper tells him, “if there’s anything that doesn’t absolutely definitely need you to read and sign it, I filter it out way before it gets anywhere near you.”

“Why do you need me to sign things? Dummy can do my signature, get him to sign them.” He jerks a thumb at a free-standing robotic arm that twitches and bends towards him.

“Read and sign. And don’t say JARVIS can do the reading bit. He already does, but he’s not the CEO so it doesn’t count. Anyway, you have a visitor.”

Tony watches her sweep away to a desk off to the side of the room before noticing Bruce for the first time. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hi Tony.” Bruce puts his hands in his pockets and nods at the collection of disconnected armour pieces spread over the workbench. “Hard at work, I see.”

“Well, you know. The world won’t save itself. What about you? Opened any good soup kitchens lately?”

The one thing that everyone needs when talking to Tony Stark is the ability to cultivate inner peace and Bruce is momentarily grateful for all the teachers who hammered the importance of that virtue into him. “Well, we’ve put in a lot of work on a couple of new community centres recently.”

“Right. That why you’re here? Want a few quarters for the collecting tin? JARVIS, set aside ten thousand for the Wayne Foundation’s latest Help the Orphans campaign or whatever. Is that all? ‘Cos I should probably let you get back to trying to improve everyone’s lives one city block at a time or something . . .”

“Actually.” Bruce plants his feet and does his best impression of an immovable object. “I wanted to ask your advice about something.”

The look of shock on Tony’s face almost makes the trip worthwhile on its own. He puts down the pauldron and pushes his chair back by about a foot and a half. “My advice?” he repeats in a way that suggests he hasn’t decided if the concept represents Christmas or Armageddon.

“More like your professional opinion.” Bruce digs a clear plastic bag out of his pocket and drops it on the workbench. The broken wristband looks flat and grey under the spot-lamps. “Someone I trust to know about this kind of thing tells me they found this after some kind of fight at the wrong end of the Narrows a couple of nights ago. He thought it was a fancy watch and was worried that someone might have gotten hurt for it.”

“Nice guy.” Tony leans forward to hook a finger into the bag and slide it towards him. “Don’t rate his observational skills. No way is this a watch.”

“That’s what I thought. But it certainly looks expensive, whatever it is, not the kind of thing you’d just find lying around on the street.”

“And you thought I'd know what it is? Or, what, that it was mine?”

“If it is, that’s a lot of work you just saved me. But no, actually . . . don’t take this the wrong way but the design . . . I don’t know anything like as much about technology as the Incredible Iron Man, obviously, but it looks kind of military to me. And if there’s one thing that part of Gotham doesn’t need, it’s surplus military gear ending up on the streets.”

“So you came to me because I’d know what military tech looks like.”

“Well . . .”

There’s a moment – just a moment – where Bruce thinks that he has misjudged his approach and Tony’s just going to throw him out on his ear. But it passes and instead Tony picks the wristband up properly and turns it over in his hands. “It’s ‘The Invincible’ Iron Man, by the way. Invincible. Not incredible. Huh. You’re right, this does looks like it was speced for the military. Or at least to military grade. OK, let’s do some analysis.”

Springing up, he strides across the room and shoves the wristband, bag and all, into a slot in a large cylindrical device. “JARVIS, gimme a full breakdown.” Snatching a screwdriver from a nearby table, Tony drums it against his thigh. “The works, top to bottom. Why not?”

“That will take a few minutes, sir.”

“Eh, no rush. We can . . . chat. While we wait.” He glances over at Pepper, who is engrossed in her work, pulls a face, then looks over at Bruce with a slightly pleading expression. “So . . . aside from picking up random bits of advanced military tech in the slums, what’s new with you? Really, I mean.”

Bruce wanders around the workbench, making a show of examining the components strewn in all directions. He can trace the function and design of some of the armour pieces that Tony’s been working on but most of it is, of course, well over his head. As is whatever system is being used to sort it all.

“The usual,” he says casually, “I’m helping a group of community leaders set up a meeting with Senator Willis to discuss recent cases of police brutality. There’s a march on Saturday to protest the latest round of aggressive gentrification in the Narrows. Oh, and there’s the Six Bridges Marathon in a couple of months, so I'm training hard.”

“Already? Doesn't seem like a year since we last got a bunch of magazines plastered with pictures of Bruce Wayne looking sweaty and . . . alluring in a running vest. What’s the lucky cause this time?”

“Homes for Gotham, and a couple of landmine clearance campaigns. You should run. I bet the Iron Man would draw a hell of a lot more donations than, well, me.”

Tony, who’s face froze up for a couple of seconds at the mention of landmines, makes a disgusted noise. “Yeah, no, I don’t do running. I’m not so . . .” He makes gestures that imply inhuman width and height. “. . . as you.”

“Come on, Tony! It’s not as if you’d have to win. Show up in the armour! That would get people’s attention.”

Another, more derisive noise. “It’s a publicity stunt! So, you get a few thousand dollars and a couple extra people on your mailing list. So what? That’s nothing.”

Bruce shrugs. “That’s two more people who might help save the world. And a few thousand goes a long way in some places.”

“Sure. Buy a few more rats and sticks or however they’re clearing minefields these days. Look, why don’t I save everyone some time and come up with a way of dealing with landmines for you?”

“Why don’t you?”

Tony opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again. Before he can actually come out with a reply, JARVIS pipes up. “Scan completed.”

“Great!” Grabbing one of the many, many monitors that surround him, Tony peers at the screen. “OK, OK, what've we got – no, this is too small.” Snapping his fingers and clapping his hands, he makes a few gestures in the air in front of him. A whole group of monitors move of their own accord, extending and swivelling to form one big screen across which the readout from the scanner starts to spool.

Bruce steps closer. The data is flowing quickly but not so fast that he can't memorise chunks of it. At first glance, it confirms a lot of his original suspicions about the wristband's manufacture. That said, there are some elements in there that he did not expect. And it looks as if the whole thing is –

“Wow, this is aggressively anonymous,” Tony comments, rubbing a finger against his jaw, “I mean, whoever made this definitely doesn't want to advertise. The components aren't branded, everything seems to be custom made . . . pick-ups on the strap, looks like a bunch of sensors . . . yeah, I think this is for collecting telemetry. Or telemetry for bodies, whatever you call that.”

“Vital signs,” Pepper calls from the other side of the room, not looking up.

“Yeah, those too. Not just those. I think this is probably meant to connect into a bigger system. There are ports for that. Ports for connecting it to something anyway. This is . . .”

He trails off uncertainly. “This is what?” Bruce prompts.

“JARVIS, run a cross-check through all blueprints and projects on the database. Government contracts, military, everything. Tell me I’m not imagining what I think this is.”

“Yes sir.”

An image of the wristband slides across the big display and a second window opens up beside it, running through a rapid-fire parade of wireframes and schematics. Every few seconds, these slow down as JARVIS finds something similar to the object in question. It must, Bruce reflects, be nice to have an all-powerful computer that can just search through the world’s secret files like that. He also can’t help but notice a couple of items with HammerTech codes attached – ones he is sure correspond to some of the off-the-books projects that Eddie has been scraping details for . . .

“Analysis complete,” JARVIS announces, rearranging the windows on the screen again, “The device bears some similarities to prototypes developed as part of the Advanced Flight Initiative. There are also parts that correspond to proposed Stark Industries remote piloting systems and next-generation spacesuits.”

Affecting an expression of confusion, even though he is pretty sure he knows the implications, Bruce looks askance at Tony.

“It’s part of a feedback system. Not just for recording information on the person wearing it but for using that data to control something else. Like . . . changing the performance on a car to match how hard you were gripping the wheel.”

“I get the idea,” Bruce says, choosing to ignore how far Tony thinks he needs it dumbing down, “Definitely not a watch then. And this is something Stark Industries is working on?”

“Like something we're working on. Biiiig difference. Though not as big as I'd like – JARVIS, tag this for the security boys to take a look at. Just in case. Anyway, this kind of tech belongs in a fighter jet or . . .” Tony's eyes dart sideways and he turns to stare at a particularly gold suit of armour. “Yeah, anyway, not a sidewalk in the Narrows.”

For a few seconds, Bruce keeps quiet and examines the screen intently. He can rely on Tony's moment of abstraction to give him the time he needs to commit the results of JARVIS' investigation to memory. That done, he asks the obvious question. “So can you tell who made it?”

“Nuh uh. But this isn't a radio-shack job. This is cutting edge.” Tony stops and pulls a face. “Well, not my cutting edge. We're not talking bleeding edge here. Maybe slightly scabbed over edge, actually. Blunt edged. Look, I passed this a couple of years back but if you wanted to see something catching up, well, this is running a close fifth. Maybe fourth. Eh, sixth.”

He wanders over to the scanner and tugs the wristband out of the slot. “Can I keep this?”

“You want to take it apart? If it's blunt edged, it can't be all that interesting for you.”

“Yeah, but you've got me all intrigued now! Who made it, why aren't they selling it on the open market, what was it doing bust-up in a Gotham back-alley? I don't suppose you could tell me a bit more about the guy who found it? No, never mind, I know that inscrutable 'protect the innocents' expression. But I want to know!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce sees Pepper shoot him a frustrated glare, recognising that far from breaking Tony out of his 'play-date', he's just added in another thing to side-track the CEO of Stark Industries from an honest day's work.

Then again, why would Bruce Wayne say no?

“Sure,” he agrees with an easy shrug, “Just let me know if you work out where it came from. If someone's taken to flying fighter jets through the back streets, I'd appreciate the heads-up.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anything else you want while you're here? Hey, tell you what, since I got JARVIS to put the money aside, I'll sponsor you for the whole 'running 'til your legs fall off' thing.”

“That's extremely generous of you, Tony –”

“OK, just don't do the whole humbly accepting thing. The Foundation probably needs the cash more than I need a new sports car, right?”

“If you say so. But look, I'm not joking about putting yourself in the marathon – well, putting Iron Man in. You'd be a big draw.”

Tony's lips fumble with a smile. “Yeah, I guess so. Eh, I'll think about it. Now is that it? I've got a load of corporate garbage to sign before Pepper runs out of patience.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “You wouldn't like her when she's mad.”

“You won't like it when you turn up to the next shareholder's meeting without knowing what they expect you to discuss,” Pepper points out, standing up.

“In that case, I'd better be going.” Bruce almost puts out his hand but stops the reflex.

“Right. See you around. JARVIS'll show you out.” Tony waves airily.

The workshop door opens again. “If you'll step this way, Mr Wayne?”

“Thanks JARVIS. Great seeing you again, Pepper.”

“You too. Don't make it so long until next time.”

As Bruce reaches the door, he takes one last look back. Tony is leaning close to Pepper, half a grin on his face, his fingers fluttering in the air. “So do they want to hear about the new direction for our free internet plan,” he is saying, “or about the future of sustainable energy? Also, do you think it would be too much to turn up at the press conference in the armour? It'll probably have dried out by then – oh, oh, I've finished the waterproofing, come and see! That can go down as a new innovation for when Dollege tells me I'm not working hard enough of mass-marketable products again. Hey, JARVIS? Open a new project, would you? I'm going to need a database of anti-personnel devices from the last hundred years –”

The door closes and Bruce leaves the world of the superhero behind. He takes a breath then lets it out. It's time, he thinks, to see a man about a bird.

Chapter Text

Matches Malone saunters into the bar, just like he saunters everywhere. It is not the saunter of a man who owns the world – that would have gotten him kicked on his ass faster than a Meteor’s fan at a Wildcats home game. Instead, it is the unhurried walk of someone who looks at the world around him and takes it entirely as it is. Morality and legality are abstractions to Matches. He knows they exist but down in the real world, what matters are things like need and want and what you have to do for your friends.

That attitude is why there are lots of people who think Matches is a good guy. And if it's not the definition of ‘good’ that most lawmakers would recognise, well, screw those pigs.

He glances lazily around the bar, eyes moving slowly behind those sunglasses he insists on wearing whatever the season. When people ask, he says some chick once told him they made him look like a rock star. Most people laugh.

Franky didn’t. Franky grimaced sympathetically and assured him that that particular chick probably did think that, but opinion was a subjective thing. Can’t expect everything to be universilizable, know what he was saying? That’s the way Franky talks, because he believes in improving himself and that’s one of the reasons he gets on so well with his boss. Not that he’d dare claim he was close to the big bird. “Yah don’t put on airs, he don’t like it.” But Franky appreciates the boss’s attempts to educate his crew in the finer things and that means he is appreciated back, if and when he’s noticed.

Right now, he’s not looking like a man who’s been appreciated recently. He’s slumped at a corner table, staring at his beer with a morose expression. The company probably doesn’t help: Big Fabio isn’t known for having a sympathetic ear.

“Eyyyy! Franky!” Matches slides into the booth with oblivious cheerfulness. “Ain’t seen you for ages. How’s life treatin’ you?”

Sudden, wary tension relaxes out of both men as they see who the intruder is.

“Hey Matches.” Franky drains his beer dissolutely. “Can’t say life’s treating me miraculously right now, no I cannot.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. Lemme get you another drink –”

Matches makes signals at a waitress to bring them three fresh beers – Lee’s is a place for people who don’t like walking out in the open if they can help it, so at-table service is a must – then he turns a sympathetic gaze on his friend. “So what’sre matter?” A moment of horror. “Your boss isn’t – you’ve not – he’s not gunning for you is he?”

“Hell no! Not for me, anyway. Nah, that’s all cool. It’s just – lots of other phenomenons causing a fracas.”

“Oh, right.” Matches nods like someone not entirely sure what a ‘fraka’ is supposed to be. “Good, so long as you’ve not pissed off the Penguin.”

Fabio smirks, which makes his whole face twist like unset concrete. “Franky don’t need to piss off Penguin right now. Penguin’s managing that all by himself.”

“Eh, shuddup. It’s not the boss’s fault if things stink right now.”

The drinks arrive and are welcomed with open lips. “I hear things got a bit rough on him after that big bust last month,” Matches mentions.

“Eh, that's old news.” Franky puts his glass down and taps the table. “Wasn't as big as the papers made it out anyway.”

“When is it ever?” He doesn't ask what the problem really is. Matches is never that inquisitive.

“Deke told me Penguin lost it at the Lounge last night,” Fabio murmurs, clearly happy to be sharing such a juicy tit-bit, “Threw a buncha people out 'cos they were yacking about the Bat.”

“Yeah, well, can you blame him?” Franky asks loyally.

They drink in silence for a minute, then Fabio wonders what Matches has been doing with his time since he was last in the neighbourhood. Matches spends some time going through all the things he's been up to out of state, talking in generalities and hinting at the occasional big score that he just missed. Matches only rarely gives specifics on anything. He knows how to keep his mouth shut, does Matches.

“Must be nice to work out where there's no Bat to fuck you over.” Franky's observation is greeted with enthusiastic agreement from Fabio. “It's not right, to have a self-appointed champion of vigilante justice swooping in and bashing your brains in. And his fucking brats too.”

“That's livin' in Gotham, ain't it?” offers Fabio, “Can't complain about the crazies if you ain't gonna get out.”

“Who the hell lives in Gotham that can afford to get out?”

“Tony Stark.”

“Fuck him. He lives in Miami half the time anyway. In his highly desirable beach-front residence with en-suite everything and a fucking suit of flying armour.”

“Hey, maybe now we can get us some flying suits too, yeah?”

“Oh, sure, 'cos that worked out so well for pretty boy at the docks!”

“He didn' fly away when he saw it was the Bat, did he?”

Much agreement is shared about how dumb it is not to back off from a confrontation with the Bat if you have the chance. Franky and Fabio had both had the chance to learn this the hard way in their role as muscle on various jobs that ended with a dark shape rushing out of the night. Standing up to the Bat means you either have some serious guts or a serious lack of smarts. The Penguin falls into the first category, naturally, and he ain't wanting for smarts either. Apparently his new favourite henchman isn't so blessed.

“Looks like a fucking queer too,” Franky grumbles, “Should send him out to dance like the girls at the Lounge. Looks like he'd enjoy that. Who the hell grows their hair that long if they want to wear a helmet and breathing apparatuses and all that?”

“Why don't Penguin get more of 'em suits and hand them out?” Fabio's mouth droops mournfully. “Why don't we get a jet-pack too?”

“You'd just drive it into the side of a bridge. Even if it coulda liftya.”

“Fuck you. I could flya jet-pack better'n you.”

“An' I could fly it better than fucking Pretty Boy Maddicks. So he's the fucking worst. That's just logycal.”

“Bet I could take out the Bat with a jet-pack. One'a the Bat's brats, anyway.”

“Would actually do my damn job and fly the jet-pack, not sit around the Lounge bullying the girls. Who the fuck does that? He's not even one of us. The boss just brought him in because he has the aero-nautic expertees. And he ain't even got that, does he?”

“Maybe not the psycho one. Or the other psycho one. Maybe the one who jumps around a lot.”

“Boss should do something about that. Know he will, just sick of waiting for him to.”

“Could totally take the Spoiler if I had a jet-pack.”

Sometime after one in the morning, Matches settles the bar-tab for them all and sees to it that Franky and Fabio are handed off to another member of Penguin's gang. “Always looking out for people, ain't yah, Matches?” the guy asks with a wry grin that shows off his missing teeth.

“What goes around comes around, right?” Matches replies offhandedly as Fabio starts snoring loudly from his temporary seat in the gutter, “Anyhows, I gotta bounce. See you around, Brakes. You too, Franky!”

Franky gives an uneven wave over his shoulder, busy as he is with a matter of nature.

Matches turns on his heel and begins to head off, patting his jacket for a cigarette. “Oh – anyone gotta –”

“Here!” Brakes hurls a lighter at Matches' head, which he fields neatly. “Now get lost 'fore I charge yah for it!”

Giving one last easy smile, Matches straightens his glasses and strolls off into the night, with only the spark of the lighter for company.

Twenty-six hours later, Batman settles on a roof overlooking the Iceberg Lounge. There are sentries posted around the building but in the middle of the night, with his cape wrapped around him, there is little chance of them spotting him until he gets much closer.

The club is locked up, the doors barred and all the patrons sent on their way. Only the lights still blaze with life, brazenly declaring their owner's wealth and status at all times of the day. Oswald Cobblepot is a man who wants the world to know his name more than he cares about his electricity bill.

Batman takes binoculars from his belt and surveys the street below, the frontage of the Lounge, all the nooks that could be hiding snipers. An infrared filter is enough to tell a tale of smartly placed but bored watchdogs. As loyal as the Penguin's men are, they're only human. The more serious issue will be the CCTV and Batman spends a long while searching for any cameras newly added since the last time he was here.

“So I've looked up this Maddicks guy,” a voice buzzes in his ear, “And he's not exactly got a glowing record.”

Scowling behind his cowl, Batman returns the binoculars to storage and slips along the rooftop to where he can get a better angle on the Lounge's third-storey colonnade. “You should be in bed,” he breathes.

“I am.” Stephanie sounds overly chipper and cheery for three-thirty AM. “Bluetooth's great, isn't it?”

“You should be asleep. You're still recovering.”

“I feel fine! And I want to nail the creep who gave me a concussion. So, I was looking him up after I got Tim to tell me the name you found out? And I think our guy has got to be Simon Maddicks, pilot, worked for Roxxon for years then got fired and wound up as a test subject for a HammerTech subsidiary's flight suit project. By which I mean 'flying suit'. By the way, isn't it amazing having all these files Eddie pulled from the Hammer servers? Saves so much time just being able to look this stuff up in a database.”

“Do those files also say how he wound up working for Cobblepot?” Batman steps to the edge and looks down, judging the distance.

“Well, no. But it's obvious, isn't it? We know Hammer's selling guns to the Penguin. He's started selling pilots too. Well, pilots and special bird-themed jet-packs. Who'd have thought that was a real thing?”

“Spoiler,” Batman says in a warning whisper, “Go to sleep.” He will be having words with Robin later about when it is and isn't appropriate to share information with an injured team-mate.

“. . . all right. But . . . be careful in there, OK?”

A smile that no one will ever see crosses Batman's face. “I will. Sweet dreams.”

And without hesitation, he leaps into the void.

The jump carries him a good few metres out above the street, so that when he spreads the cape out he is well clear of any obstacles. The fabric curves as it catches the air and he feels it lift him. His fall becomes a glide, carrying him to the Lounge's edifice. He seizes hand-holds, pulling himself up and over a parapet. For a few seconds, he crouches in the shadows, listening for any cries from above or below, any signs that he's been spotted. When he's satisfied none will come, he begins to climb.

In the end, it really is true: it isn't what you know, it's who you know. The people that 'Matches' knows on the streets, the people Bruce knows in the corporate sphere, the people desperate enough to talk to the Batman, all the people Dick Grayson and Jason Todd and Stephanie Brown know in clubs and bars and colleges across Gotham, every stranger Tim Drake knows online – put them all together and the sky's the limit.

Or, in this case, the architect's plans for the Iceberg Lounge and the technical specifications for the various alarm systems the Penguin has installed over the years.

The old ventilator gives way with a strained groan that no one hears because it's in a part of the building no one has any cause to be in. Batman slips silently through a dingy storeroom stacked high with boxes of party decorations. From there, it is easy to pry open the service elevator and swarm up a couple of floors. He takes a detour over the lighting rig that crosses the stage at the back of the lounge. The curtains are shut for the night but there are still a couple of cleaners working down below, clearing up after the management's latest theatrical extravaganza. He wonders why they work for Penguin. Do they turn a blind eye to what he does? Or is the pay simply too good to pass up? There has never been any shortage of desperation in Gotham and really, there are worse offers out there. If nothing else, Cobblepot has always cultivated an air of generosity and if that means a few extra dollars a week for the hired help . . .

The Penguin's nest is at the top of the building beneath a bomb-proof skylight. Paranoia runs deep among the underworld elite and there will be no sneaking in through the roof. The office door is locked with a key-card and an old-fashioned lock to which Penguin has the only key. It is guarded at all times by a trusted lieutenant with orders to shoot anyone trying to enter without permission. The only other way in is the back-door through to the suite of rooms in which Cobblepot actually lives, also locked, with another actual key. The living quarters have windows looking out over the garden at the rear – another aristocratic affectation. The windows are fitted with the most modern alarm system available. And they are in a sheer wall, free of climbing aids. There is another door to the suite, locked and guarded in the same way as that to the office. That opens on to a staircase that comes out somewhere underground behind extremely heavy shutters.

From the outside, there is no way into the Penguin's office. There simply isn't. But all those defences are not quite so geared towards stopping someone getting into the rest of the building. Or finding one of the windows on the floor below the penthouse and sliding it open from the inside. Or slinging a grappling hook from there to the parapet on a roof that is far too high to be reached from ground level and far too far to be reached from the surrounding buildings. The motion sensors on the penthouse window should have gone off when that same someone climbed up and pried it open. But they stopped working ten minutes ago when their power-lines were carefully severed at the junction box.

After all that, picking the lock on the door to the office is a trivial matter.

Cobblepot is sitting at his desk, pouring over a ledger in the light of a laptop screen. From behind, he could be just another overweight accountant. The room is stuffed to bursting with trinkets and objet d'art. A royal display for the king of crime, enough to dazzle anyone who sets foot into his inner sanctum. Most of it is legally bought. The rest will have been 'donated'. There will be nothing here to link the Penguin to a crime. He's far too careful for that.

Batman did not come here for evidence.

Whether it is feeling a sudden draft or seeing the reflection in the screen, it's only a second or two before Cobblepot notices the intruder looming behind him. He twists in his chair with a 'waark!' of shock. Batman does not give him time to recover. He grabs the little man by the shirt-front and hauls him from his seat. Another 'waark,' slightly strangled. But that's all right. The room is sound-proofed.

“Unhand me!” Cobblepot orders, imperious even as he half-chokes on Batman's grip, “How – dare you – !”

Batman yanks him forward, bringing their faces closer together. The Penguin's patent leather shoes flap uselessly against thin air. “I want Maddicks.”

Cobblepot's face goes still for a second. He sneers. “I haven't the slightest notion what you are talking about.”

Batman shakes him, once, hard. “I'm not here to play games, Oswald.”

“And yet you clearly have such a fondness for dressing-up. We have an arrangement, Dark Knight, and it certainly does not involve you breaking into my personal abode.”

“Any arrangement we have doesn't involve you bringing high-tech assassins on to the streets. I want Simon Maddicks and I want his gear and I want them both out of Gotham tonight.”

“You are in no position to make demands, you ridiculous rodent! And even if you were, what makes you think I have any inkling as to what you are referring?”

Narrowing his eyes to slits, Batman reaches out with his free hand and grabs one of the figurines adorning the fireplace behind Cobblepot's desk. He weighs it in his hand, an abstract sculpture of Minerva hoisting aloft her owl. In one swift motion, he shatters it against the edge of the desk.

“Vandalism now? I always said you were a philistine. Now I have the pro – waaruk!”

“All of it. I. Will. Break. All. Of. It. All your trinkets. All your art. Your precious club. If you allow that kind of weapon on my streets – if you let Hammer turn Gotham into his own private testing range – I will break you.”

“Empty threats, Batman! We both know what will happen if I'm gone! The chaos that will result! You wouldn't risk that.”

“Try me.”

They are a tableau, the Batman, tall and furious, fists clenched and jaw set, and the Penguin, short and sneering, tottering on tiptoes in his grip.

Then Cobblepot drops his arms to his sides and starts to chuckle. “I'm almost tempted to discover what would happen if you really went so far. Any other day, I might indulge my curiosity.” His smirk fades. “Fortunately for you, however, I have spent an extremely tedious week dealing with unexpected drops in profit and inexplicable staff shortages. Therefore, my curiosity is currently tempered by extreme irritation, to which young Mr Maddicks has only been adding. He is definitely not the sort of person I care to have in my Lounge. Quite frankly, you are welcome to – him!”

Batman realises the attack is coming just in time to twist out of the way. The knife that would have gone between his ribs instead glances off his armour. Undaunted, the Penguin tries again, stabbing viciously for his arm. He makes a grab for the blade but the little man suddenly brings his legs up and kicks out, bracing himself against Batman's hips. It's a choice between holding on or catching the knife.

Cobblepot goes down with a thump, blade spinning from his hands. Batman slams his boot down, trying to land a kick before –

But it's too late. Fast as a snake, Penguin reaches up underneath the desk and slams his palm against a panic button built into the frame. There are no alarms but the main door unlocks immediately and the armed men are a second behind, charging in, bringing their guns to bear.

Batman is already running. He's through the inner door before the Penguin's finished ordering his death. The gas grenades he primed before entering the office go off as he passes, one on either side of the doorway. A thick, stinging cloud covers his dash to the window and the bullets go wide.

He's over the edge before they can follow him. As he passes through the window, he taps his belt, triggering the extra grenades he glued to the brickwork before climbing inside. They go off, creating another smoke-screen to billow up into the faces of the guards on the roof.

Spreading the cape again, he rides the air far enough to get him to the fire-escape on the building across the garden. He swarms up the metalwork, hand over hand, as fast as he can go. He makes the top in under thirty seconds, long before the Penguin's men can get line of sight on him. In one swift motion he mounts the parapet, twists and lands in a crouch, looking back the way he came.

Commotion reigns on top of the Iceberg Lounge. Men run about, shouting, waving their guns. Cobblepot's distinctive silhouette is yelling from the broken window.

And, as expected, a steadily rising whine of miniature jet engines announces a dark shape cutting across the sky above.

He gambles that Maddicks' vision is being enhanced by his helmet. Possibly night vision, definitely magnification. Without that, he would never have been able to pounce on Spoiler so accurately. That means that it is highly likely he will be able to detect an adult male running full-pelt across an open roof-top while wearing a bat-themed costume and a long cape. This is almost immediately confirmed by a change in the engine pitch and an increase in their volume.

Batman times his first duck-and-roll to carry him under Maddicks' dive and up into a leap across to the next building. The jet-pack rises quickly back into the air. Maddicks banks around to take another shot but by then, Batman is in the shadow of a ventilator, crouched so that it will keep him concealed for the precious seconds it takes him to snatch a batarang from his belt. Not to throw – not yet – but now that he's got Maddicks to follow him, he'll need to be ready.

The whining jets loop overhead then scream into a dive.

A flat-out jump carries Batman clear the second before Maddicks slams against the ventilator, talons nearly ripping it clean off the roof. He rights himself and thunders over Batman's head, missing by inches. The next instant, they both run out of roof and as Batman skids to a stop right on the edge, Maddicks slows to a hover and turns to face him. In the spill-over from the street-lights, they get their first proper look at one another.

Black against the cloud-choked sky, with control surfaces feathering their edges, the wings are almost twice as wide as Maddicks is tall. He hangs from them, flight-suit overlapped with heavy straps and breathing apparatus. There are rods and joints stretching down the arms: some kind of exoskeleton. The crested helmet leaves his chin visible and covers his eyes with a bulbous visor. That makes him look more insect than bird, but it would be hard to mistake the metal claws extending around his clenched hands for anything other than talons. The gun barrels on his wrists are just as obvious.

“So you're the famous Bat-man.” Maddicks' voice booms out, amplified above the constant drone of his jets. “Gotta say, you're pretty lame for a super-scary urban legend. Your mom sow that costume for you?”

Batman can immediately see why Cobblepot is so fed up with the man. He says nothing, just plants his feet and stares unflinchingly up at Maddicks. In the shadow of his cape, he eases the batarang into a firmer, downward-pointing grip.

Keeping his gauntlet guns aimed, Maddicks drifts closer, the slightest motion enough to adjust his aerodynamics. “Nothing to say, big guy? Not going to fly up here and take me down, huh? Whatsamatter? I thought bats had wings?!” Closer and closer he comes, bringing the smell of burning air with him. The jets roar with the effort of keeping him aloft. How much fuel is he getting through hovering there? What kind of fuel could he even be using that would make a jet-pack feasible? Batman wonders if it might be possible simply to wait him out until he exhausted his reserves. But that's a plan that requires time and a space far away from bystanders. Right now, neither of those qualities are on the table. So instead, something a bit riskier is called for.

Maddicks is barely a couple of feet from the edge of the roof now. Close enough.

The thing about Gotham is that no two streets are the same. Even if you spend your entire life with your eyes fixed on the ground, it is possible to reliably navigate from one side of the city to the other. The same thing can be said for the roof-tops. Plotting a path from the Iceberg Lounge to one particular point is simple enough. Getting there . . . less so, but possible. Behind Maddicks, the lights of the Bowery stretch away into the distance, flanked by tenement buildings. It's rare to find two sides of a street at even heights, which makes this intersection easy to identify. It also provides two excellent vantage points with a clear line of sight on the point directly opposite the junction.

A point current occupied by Simon Maddicks.

“Now.” Two voices answer Batman and the harpoons strike home, one in each wing. The cables go taught and Maddicks jerks back, his aim swinging wildly as he struggles to free himself. Robin and Red have done their jobs well and the lines hold firm. At least for now. And that's already long enough.

Batman easily clears the two feet separating them and crashes into Maddicks. He gets a firm grip on the chest harness and before the astonished pilot can do more than yell in surprise, he slashes downwards with the batarang.

The sleeve of Maddicks' flight suit parts easily before the blade. The thick material flaps open to reveal white flesh crossed with grey plastic bands. Wires are threaded between the bands, carrying signals to the exoskeleton and up to the control systems for the jet-pack. It's a delicate web of electronics and Batman can easily imagine how the crash on the docks could have –

He leans quickly aside as Maddicks swings his other arm. The blade clips the side of the cowl, jarring Batman's head. For a perilous second, he is wide open. But that move nearly pitches Maddicks into a spin and caught between following through or regaining control, he freezes.

Without the time or space to be gentle, Batman's next cut draws a long scratch down Maddick's skin. More importantly, it breaks cleanly through the wires. Another cut, then another, quick and as precise as possible. In seconds, Maddicks' arm is a mass of red lines and broken connections.

The effect is immediate. All the control surfaces on the right wing lock up and Maddicks starts to turn helplessly. He waves about frantically but it's no use. Batman lets momentum roll them around and stabs upwards, this time aiming for the side of Maddicks' helmet. Even if the batarang isn't quite sharp enough to break through, the force of the blow is enough to make the man inside yelp. With his opponent distracted, Batman quickly switches his grip on the harness from one hand to the other.

Maddick's right claw slams into Batman's back. He knows it's gone through the cape but it glances off the armour underneath. The gun won't be a problem either, since the angle is now completely wrong. Maddicks could shoot him with the one on his other wrist, only right now he needs his left arm to keep control of his wings.

For a second they are an absurd aerial sculpture. Then Maddicks regains enough composure to try a brute force solution to the trap he's been caught in. The jets' shriek grows deafening. They rise as far as the cables will let them before jerking to a stop. The wings flare, the engines scream. The cables strain.

And it's the jet-pack that gives first.

The entire right wing tears clean off its mounting points. Suddenly half-free, they rocket upwards, arcing over the rooftops. At the zenith of their flight, Batman jumps. A clear stretch of roof rushes to meet him and he rolls over and over with the landing, grateful again for Alfred's attention to detail in the design of his body armour.

Maddicks is not so lucky. Perhaps realising that he is seconds from dying in a blaze of glory, he cuts his power just as his remaining wing rips. Momentum carries him in a hundred-foot arc before an air-con box brings him to a crashing stop.

Red is at Batman's side before he's finished getting up. “Love it when a plan comes together,” he quips, offering a helping hand, “You reckon this is why the Penguin was buying fucking harpoons?”

“Maybe. He does like keeping the upper hand.”

They make their way towards Maddicks wearily, ready to duck for cover at a moment's notice. But the ex-pilot is too busy fighting his way out of the wreckage to open fire on them. He finally breaks loose it as they get close and springs up, guns at the ready.

His ankle twists out from under him and it's over before he's finished his first yell of pain.

“JARVIS. I need all the coffee.”

Tony isn't sure what time it is. He doesn't want to check in case it is actually as awfully early as he suspects it is.

“Certainly sir. Would that be all the coffee in the building, in the city or in the state?”

“Just keep it coming 'til I tell you to stop.”

The percolator whirs into life and Tony wanders around his break room, picking things up and putting them down without paying much attention to what they are. It's been a productive night. He's run all the tests he needed to on the waterproofed armour, he's double-checked the power calculations R&D put together and he's made good headway on the outline of an AI-run drone to detect and disable certain kinds of anti-personnel mines. There's a group over in Germany working in a similar area, so he's put out some feelers to see if they could use some extra funding or do some development on a prototype. If nothing else, it's something to explore as another way to get the board off his back about real-world applications. He could sell a version to the army and pour some of the proceeds into a cheaper model for those charities Bruce Wayne is so hot on –

It's while he's thinking this that the TV catches his eye. Perhaps it's just the logical conjunction of Bruce Wayne/TV but whatever, he actually starts paying attention to the rolling news that GCN is pumping out to the city's early-risers and insomniacs. He catches the tail-end of a fluff piece about some new park development and then it's into a gratifyingly flattering story about the arrangements for keeping Victor Fries in custody pending his trial. Stark Industries is handling that of course, with the full backing of the GCPD. It's just getting into the sound-byte opinions on 'Mister Freeze' when a big breaking news sign flashes up and the image switches to showing a graffiti-covered fountain and –

Squinting, Tony leans closer to the screen, trying to work out what he's looking at. It's a guy in what looks like pilot's gear, only he also seems to have bits of machinery sticking out of him and –

Are those wings?

“. . . strange scenes in the Bowery” the newsreader is saying, “where police have been called in to free a man tied to the Dickinson Monument in the remains of what appears to be some kind of jet-pack. An anonymous tip was sent to GCN in the early hours of this morning identifying him as Simon Maddicks, an ex-employee of HammerTech who has been operating as a hired flying gun. While it's too early to confirm any of that, sources close to the GCPD have admitted that there have been multiple sightings of a low flying object buzzing buildings last night.”

The voice drones on into various shades of 'we have no idea what the hell' but Tony's already tuned it out. His eyes are fixed on the jerky image of the tied-up guy and the wrecked wings, his brain whirling.

HammerTech. Jet-pack. Flying man.

“Your coffee, sir,” JARVIS says as the percolator produces a cup brimming with magic liquid wakefulness. Tony picks it up, still watching the TV. He drinks without really noticing the taste, his attention so completely absorbed that he actually forgets how tired he is.

Still, he waits until he's finished the cup before saying anything. “Well, I guess now we know where that thing Bruce Wayne found came from.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Wonder if Jim's gonna call to ask if it's one of ours.”

“Miss Potts is already in conversation with a GCPD officer.”

Tony makes a face. “Tell her it isn't mine.”

“I believe she is already well aware of that fact.”

Of course she is. It's Pepper. She's aware of pretty much everything. “Better question – if this guy had a jet-pack and I didn't take him down . . . who tied him to that fountain?”

As if in reply, the GCN anchor chooses that moment to ask the question everyone does when something weird happens in Gotham and Iron Man isn't on the scene: “Is this the work of the so-called Bat-man?”

“Yeah right.” Rolling his eyes, Tony puts his cup in to refill. “JARVIS, open a file on this flying man person and record everything you can on him. Just the facts though. You can filter out all the wild speculation about mythical animal-themed vigilantes.”

“Filter engaged. Would you like me to alert Mr Wayne to this development now or should we wait for actual confirmation of your hunch?”

“Nah. He can watch it on the news like everyone else.”

The rule in the Wayne Foundation café is that you put your phone away at the door. That applies even to the private – and sound-proofed – room off the side where volunteers can hold meetings. It's about strengthening immediate community, encouraging everyone to see and talk to the people directly in front of them. Not one of Bruce's ideas, but one he supports and Stephanie can see why, even if it means cutting off the GCN feed when it's getting to the good bit. So she pockets the video of Simon Maddicks dropping the last few feet to the ground - after the GCPD cuts through the ropes a little bit quicker than they meant – and pushes open the door.

Bruce is sitting on the far side of the oval table, elbows propped up and chin sunk on top of his hands. It's obvious he's pretty exhausted and probably hurting a fair bit, though of course he's not going to come out and admit it. Jason lounges next to him, munching on a bagel and trying to look like he's not hovering protectively. Tim sits around on the right, scribbling in a notebook and making his way through a bowl of cereal. He glances up as Stephanie comes in and his face brightens, which he tries to hide at once and that would be cute if he were doing it because of her.

Shifting her weight on the crutch, she meets Bruce's best 'patrician's glare' with her most disarming grin. “Surprise.”

“Does your mom know you're here?”

Which, OK, is not the worst question in the world. “Of course! Look, I asked Mr Banerjee – you know, the taxi driver who lives next door? – to bring me in on his way into the city and I promised mom I'd come home if I felt bad. It's all fine!”

Bruce's stern eyebrows speak volumes about how not-fine he thinks it is. Jason frowns and swallows. “How'd you even know we'd be here?” His eyes flick to Tim. “Oh, wait . . .”

“We can discuss that later,” Bruce says, voice heavy with threats of disapproval to come, “In the meantime you should sit down and eat something. Unless I'm wrong and you ate before coming out?”

Not wanting to say anything that might incriminate her, Stephanie sits down next to Tim and helps herself to some toast. “So, I saw the news.”

The smug is strong with Jason as he smirks at her. “Pretty cool, huh? I gave him an extra kick for you.”

“Gee, thanks. Because I really needed a macho act of revenge to feel better. The harpoons worked out OK then?”

“I kinda . . . told her what we doing,” Tim admits before ploughing on, “Yeah, they worked perfectly.”

“Little boy bird here even hit the target first time.”

“Jason . . .”

Quelled by Bruce’s gentle warning, Carrot-top goes back to eating his bagel in silence. Stephanie takes a bite of her toast then says, “It’s lucky the Penguin was buying something like that, huh? You think he wanted something that could take down a jet-pack too?”

“That’s what I said,” Jason mumbles around a full mouth.

Tim has his thinking face on. “Cobblepot would make contingency plans for something like that even if he was the one paying the man using it. He doesn’t like anyone having an advantage over him. He’d definitely want to know how to take someone like Maddicks out.”

“Pretty cold to have someone protect the thing that’s going to take them out.” Which, she thinks as she says it, does sound exactly like something the Penguin would do. “Risky too.”

“No reason to suppose that Maddicks would ever have seen what was being bought.”

“I guess. But he’d have heard about it, right? I mean, someone’s gonna blab about that. Like, ‘harpoons? What’s up with that, man?’ Unless they were hidden?”

“No, just in the same boxes as the guns. Someone would have seen them.”

“Hmm.”

Bruce stirs and reaches for the coffeepot. “I’m not convinced this was an attempt to control Maddicks in particular. From the sounds of it, Cobblepot had ample opportunity to deal with him separated from the jet-pack. More likely he was guarding against the possibility of Hammer sharing the tech with another gang. Or the harpoons are completely unrelated. Just because we thought of using them like that doesn’t mean he did.”

“So, what? He was going to go whaling in Gotham River?”

“Maybe he was going to go after the monster in the sewers?” Tim grins.

“Whatever the case, we don't have enough evidence to speculate.” Cradling his mug, Bruce gives the very slightest of bat-shrugs. “For now, it's a moot point. The harpoons are safely out of Penguin's hands and the police have Maddicks and the jet-pack.”

“What happened to the guns?” Steph asks, “I may have missed that due to, you know, head trauma.”

“Safely put out of action.”

“And do we actually expect any of this whole thing to lead the cops back to Hammer?”

Everyone's quiet for a while. Then Tim clears his throat. “We-ell . . . I mean, theoretically if HammerTech was working on something like that jet-pack and it turns up crashed in the middle of a built-up area, someone's going to ask the right questions. I know you said Tony Stark told you the bit he saw was very anonymous but the rest of it can't all be like that. I'm sure he could figure it out . . .”

Shaking his head, Bruce leans back in his chair. “Even if he could, he's in direct competition with Hammer. That's enough for Hammer's lawyers to run rings around him. It's the same old problem. Even if we know for sure that Hammer is benefiting from something, he's very good at making it impossible to prove. The same with the evidence we have thanks to Eddie. Since it was obtained illegally, it'll never get the right systems moving.”

“So we smash up his stuff and cost him money that way.” Jason's mouth twitches. “Can't say I don't enjoy that but it's not long-term. Couldn't we have done anything else? There's gotta be something in all that stuff of Eddie's that'd get us a stronger connection.”

“The important thing was getting it out of commission. Even if it wasn't a threat to everyone on the ground, it would have been a direct threat to us. To you.”

The look Bruce gives Stephanie as he says that underlines his point. They aren't used to threats from the sky. Though maybe they should get used to it. Probably a conversation for another time. “Hey, take any victory you can, right? It's not going to be a great advert for Hammer's bird-man suit if you guys took it down so quickly.”

“I think that was mostly user error.” Tim digs his pen into the page. “If Maddicks hadn't been so arrogant and actually thought about what he was doing rather than just assuming he was invincible, things could have gone very differently.”

“And now you're just being a wet blanket.”

“But he's not wrong,” Bruce cautions, “We're going to have to keep our eyes open. Between Maddicks and this Firebrand character, it looks like Hammer's stepping things up.”

“Hey, that's an opportunity as well as a problem.”

He purses his lips then nods. “You're not wrong. But,” he adds, laying the flat of his hand on the table, “let's not get ahead of ourselves. And speaking of which, if you're all going to insist on being here today, have you all got things to do?”

“I was going to talk over some of those ideas I had for the youth offenders group with Angie.” Jason speaks at a rush, as if he's been bottling the information up, “She said she'd have some time early today so . . . yeah. She said she'd been thinking about ways to improve the reach-out programs too.”

“Good. You'll have to let me know what you come up with.”

“I was just going to be doing my normal job.” Steph shrugs. “It's not like sorting through funding applications is physically intensive.”

“It does require concentration though. You start feeling bad, you go straight home, yes? For the applications' sake as well as yours.”

“Yes boss.”

“Hm. I'll be checking.” He glances at the clock. “Ah. I should be going. I'll be in a Skype conference with our London office for the next couple of hours. Sorry to leave you with the clearing up –”

“We'll cope. Go save the world.”

With a slightly pained expression, he gets up and walks out, leaving the three of them to finish eating. Jason jerks his chin in Tim's general direction. “You didn't say what you're doing. I guess dad already knows, right?”

“Right. It's . . . well, he's asked me to take a look at some of WF's green energy projects and also about employment rights for power plant workers. It's something to do with Stark Industries though he's not said exactly what. You know how he is . . . I'm supposed to work it out for myself.”

“You'd think he'd use all this –” Stephanie waves to indicate the whole building and by extension the entire Wayne Foundation “ – to get close to Hammer. It's got to be one way of getting dirt on him.”

“He doesn't want to risk the Foundation's name,” Jason says, “Can't really blame him. The slime would rub off.” He looks across at the door, frowning. His voice drops. “He's worried.”

“You could see that too?”

“You mean about the stuff Hammer could be sending our way?” Tim spreads his hands. “That's not really a surprise, is it? You already got hurt, Jason nearly got toasted. He does care about what happens to us, you know.”

“I know, but it's not just that, is it?”

He looks slightly lost and it's left to Jason to point out the obvious. “Think about it, birdy. Penguin's run his part of town for years by being smart and doing things a certain way. He's reliable, people respect that. So what's he got to gain from suddenly sending out someone like Maddicks?”

Tim's mouth drops open. “Oh. You mean, whatever reason the Penguin has for wanting to change things up –”

“Is not going to be good news for us,” Steph completes, “For anyone.”

Which is a scary thought. As bad as things are, they can always get worse. She learned that the hard way. They all have, to one degree or another. And the horrible thing is, in many ways each of them has gotten off easy. After all, the Batman has their backs. That can balance a lot. So many other people aren't so lucky.

Which is the whole point of putting on the mask.

“We'll handle it,” she says with complete confidence, “It's what we do.”

Because the absolute best thing about being the Spoiler is being part of a team that really can handle anything.