Chapter Text
He's the Judge, the Jury, and the Executioner as he brings the fist down on the man's skull.
It's the ethmoid that gives away first, then the maxilla , then the temporal, giving away to spurts of red and grimy viscera.
The frontal. The orbital. The nasal. Brain matter splatters on his front .The man is long since dead. The mandible gives away. Sounds of tungsten hitting flesh and bone reverbate in the alley.
It's the soft sound of beads that make him snap out of his hysteria.
The man's dead. He died the moment Thomas' hand had grabbed his throat to pluck him off the kid. Ruptured brainstem. He's been beating a dead corpse.
He pulls away.
His gloves are slathered with bits of scum. They're sullied now. But he's no stranger to dirtying his hands for the greater good.
Blood doesn't wash out of Kevlar.
The gloves will be incinerated. The alloy reprocessed.
He still wipes them off as he makes his way towards the cardboard box the sound emanated from.
The kid's curled in there. Barely discernible from the shadows.
"It's alright, son, you can come out now.", his voice comes out gravelly. Without meaning to.
The kid doesn't much as crawl as he leaps onto latch Thomas' hulking form. It's only ages of training that allow him to twist so that the kid can't see the filth smeared all over the concrete.
The streetlight illuminates the skin on his legs. It's starting to bruise. In the distinct shape of a handprint.
The man is dead. But it isn't enough.
"What's your name, sweetheart?” Gravel crunches under his heavy stride.
"Taylor.", the kid's voice is a whisper. But it's steady. Resilient kid.
No kid should have to find that out in the first place.
"You've been so brave, Taylor”. The GCPD has been notified. ETA 3 minutes.
"Would you like a small gift?"
The kid follows his hand as it reaches for the utility belt. Paying no mind to the carnage behind him.
He pulls out a piece of candy. The kid grabs it immediately. He feels his lips tug upwards.
He can hear the sirens distantly.
"Taylor, I need you to promise me one thing—" the kid looks up at him. Pupils contracted under the bright lights. No preliminary signs of shock."—you need to stay here. The cops are on their way."
Taylor nods solemnly. Chewing on the candy.
The sirens are just a block away.
He puts the kid down. The toy rattles again. It's a capybara, filled with beads.
He's about to fire the grapple line when he feels a tug on his cape. The kid's looking back at him.
"Thank you, Mr. Batman".
Something stirs underneath his ribs. He nods.
He's only released the trigger when he sees it.
Shapes shifting. Someone's on the rooftops. He has a shadow.
He twists and directs his momentum towards the shadow. Turning on the infrared vision to maximize visibility. The rain masks any sound that his boots might’ve made.
He barely has the time to brace himself against the rush of metal footsteps when something heavy slams into him. He keeps his footing. The metal grates against the concrete as he grabs the assailant by the arms and releases them to the side. So as to let the momentum knock them over.
But their center of gravity doesn't as much as shift. Metal screeches as they halt. Just a few feet away. Enhanced.
They pause for a moment. Just long enough for Thomas to catch a glimpse of their armor.
It doesn’t give off much of a heat signature. It's been lined with insulating gear. Minimizing visibility. The night vision is useless in the downpour. UVV is useless for long-range. He’s running half-blind. The assailant is uncharacteristically competent.
Despite the heavy torrent of rain obscuring his view. He can tell they're in militaristic gear.
There’s the Arkham insignia painted across their chest. The antennae of the helmet are fashioned in a mocking parody of the Bat. Personal vendetta.
It confirms his theory. He’s dealing with a fanatic.
Their person is unexpectedly devoid of weapons. It screams of unpreparedness. This confrontation wasn’t pre-planned. Disorganized behavior.
That's the only chance he gets before there's a flash of blue, bright and mesmerizing, as the attacker takes another lunge at him. Knowing their unclear form of advantage, he decides to dodge, unsure of just how powerful their enhancement might be.
But he can bring them down a notch, he realizes, getting a good look at their armor. He takes a breath and goes for the head.
The metal strikes metal. The helmet's dense. But can't withstand the force. It cracks. The enhanced stumbles.
That's when he sees it. A minuscule shift to the right foot. But overshot. Before the plating shifts —stabilizing the center of balance. Lack of instinctual adjustment. Old injury.
Potential weakness.
The display flickers. They lunge at him. He twists to dodge before a right hook catches him in the chest. Over his manubrium. Right where the chest pieces meet. The soles absorb most of the inertia. It makes something in him prickle uncomfortably.
“Got nothing to say? Old man.” the Rogue's voice is raspy. It nags at him but he doesn't pause. Old men are a wide demographic.
The assailant wasn't expecting the offense. But the moment of weakness is fleeting. And they return the blow. Aiming right where the shoulder plate meets the thoracic. He's retaliating when he realizes.
It's the areas he's reinforced. After an enlightening confrontation with Killer Croc. The chinks in his armor.
Whoever the assailant is. They have clearly done their research. Albeit outdated. But their intent is clear. They intend to bring down the Bat. Chipping away the already crumbling foundations of his city.
They cannot be allowed into Gotham.
He strikes the helmet again. The shards dig into the enhanced's face. Blood starts pouring immediately. Intermingling with rain. Painting their face red. Their eyes are dazed.
The moment of disorientation is all he needs as he strikes the right foot. Breaking the plating into several pieces. There's a single resounding scream.
Thomas grabs their neck as soon as they stumble. And brings his fist down on the helmet. It shatters further. He brings it down again. And then again.
His Gotham. His city. He wasn't going to let a rogue defile her streets. As damaged as she already was.
The helmet gives away. And it's just their vulnerable — very fragile head. He's raised a spiked fist to carry out the verdict when he hears them whisper.
"Br'ce, st'p."
For the first time in years. He falters.
He shrugs the cognitive dissonance off.
He shakes the Rogue by the throat. "What the hell did you just say."
The last man to appear out of nowhere and speak of his dead son hadn't been native to his world.
He's could be dealing with a possible anomaly. Displaced. A potential threat to his son. In a world he didn't fail to protect him.
He wasn't going to let himself fail now. Not again.
He shakes the enhanced again. In an attempt to get them to be somewhat cognizant.
Their head rolls. And Thomas' breath catches in his throat.
The rain has washed away most of the blood. So the assailant's face is visible. Their face is disfigured. But it's a boy. Painfully, undeniably young. Barely out of his teens.
He was about to kill a child.
"Br'ce, please." The voice cuts off at the end. His body goes lax.
He's passed out. Concussed . But Thomas is too shaken to do anything other than lower the kid. His extensors strain as he cradles the kid's injured head. Painstakingly gentle. Only the tremor in his hands give away that he had been about to crush his cranium a few moments ago. The metal makes a muted thud. The kid doesn't move.
What had he done?